Sara strung an extension cord into the unused corridor, which was in the darkest
Sara strung an extension cord into the unused corridor, which was in the darkest part of the room and just big enough for her and her equipment. She enlarged a hole in the raggedy curtain and checked to be sure she could shoot the room without being seen. Marita and I moved furniture around, with Sara calling out instructions through the curtain. “You’re off camera. Can you move that chair to the right a couple of feet? Zen, we’ll want plenty of light on the face of whoever the FBI sends. Angle that couch so . . . that’s good.” Sara tested the livestream; she was sending the film to Zeke and Nikko at the hotel using a portable hotspot so that there would be an offsite copy if her camera was confiscated.
Once everything was in place, I made a fresh batch of coffee, needing to sharpen my brain before the show. When I checked the time on my phone, I remembered that picture I’d taken of Simon. The wall I’d built to keep it in a dark corner of my brain crumbled for a moment, but even though it made me feel a little sick and shaky, I was glad because I realized there was a good chance I would get arrested. I quickly composed an email to Charlie from my Secret Avenger account, warning her the photo I had attached could be triggering, but Simon had been unmasked and his days of attacking women were over. I pressed send. No matter what she did with it, there would be a copy in the Secret Avenger’s encrypted email account in case my phone got confiscated by the cops and the photo accidentally-on-purpose deleted.
All that was left to do was chill until the FBI showed up.
Which turned out to be no wait at all because they came an hour early.
Sara barely had time to dart back behind the curtain when we heard steps on the front porch. Marita stood frozen for a moment, like it was dawning on her that this was actually happening. She scooped the baby up off the floor protectively. I went to the door and turned the latch.
There were two of them. One looked like a college student. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a scruffy beard and wore a keffiyeh around his neck, like Simon. The other one looked big and bald and threatening, like a bad guy who had access to explosives.
“Danny around?” the skinny one with the backpack asked. He remembered to smile, but he was staring at me, like “what are you doing here?”
“Still in bed,” Marita said shakily. “He told me he was expecting some people at noon.”
“Guess we got our wires crossed. Cute baby.”
“Would you get in here and close the door, already?” she said, snapping into character. “You’re letting the cold in. I don’t want the kid to get another earache.”
The two men pulled their caps off, as if politeness was drilled into them even though they were disguised as dangerous dissidents. “And you are . . .” The skinny guy who looked like a student knew who I was, but he pretended he didn’t.
“I’m Zen. My brother is one of the Minneapolis Nine. I’m here for the meeting, too.”
No, you’re not, Big Guy’s face said as