Target Zero. Джек Марс
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round building adorned in purple and red lights, with well-dressed young people coming and going from its doors. He did not know it by its name; he knew only that it looked like a beacon, attracting opulent sinners as a flame attracts moths. It gave him strength to sit before it, reinforcing his belief so that he would be able to do what must come next.
Omar carefully took the glass vial from his pocket. It did not look like there was anything inside it, or perhaps whatever was in it was invisible, like air or gas. It didn’t matter. He knew well what he was supposed to do with it. The first step was complete: enter the city. The second step he performed on the bench in the shadow of the Raval.
He pinched the conical glass tip of the vial between two fingers and, in a small but swift movement, snapped it off.
A tiny shard of glass stuck in his finger. He watched as a bead of blood formed, but resisted the urge to stick the finger in his mouth. Instead, he did as he was told to do—he put the vial to one nostril and inhaled deeply.
As soon as he did, a knot of panic gripped his gut. Khalil had not told him anything specific about what to expect after that. He had simply been told to wait a short while, so he waited and did his best to remain calm. He watched more people enter and leave the hotel, each dressed in lavish, ostentatious clothing. He was very much aware of his humble garb; his threadbare sweater, his patchy cheeks, his hair that was growing too long, unruly. He reminded himself that vanity was a sin.
Omar sat and he waited for something to happen, to feel it working its way inside him, whatever “it” was.
He felt nothing. There was no difference.
A full hour went by on the bench, and then at last he rose and walked at a leisurely pace northwestward, away from the purple cylindrical hotel and further into the city proper. He took the stairs down to the first subway station he found. He certainly could not read Spanish, but he didn’t need to know where he was going.
He bought a ticket using the euros Khalil had given him and stood on the platform idly until a train came. Still he did not feel any different. Perhaps he had misjudged the nature of the delivery. Still, there was one last thing for him to do.
The doors whooshed open and he stepped inside, moving nearly elbow to elbow with the boarding crowd. The subway train was quite busy; all of the seats were taken, so Omar stood and held onto one of the metal bars that ran parallel to the train’s length, just over his head.
His final instruction was the simplest of all, though also the most confusing to him. Khalil had told him to board a train and “ride it until you cannot anymore.” That was all.
At the time Omar was unsure of what that meant. But as his head began to prickle with sweat, his body temperature rising, and nausea rose in his stomach, he began to have a suspicion.
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