Free Zero Game by Brad Meltzer Page A

Cutlass, and the
No Parking
sign takes away the last of my hiding spots. As I enter the underpass, I look up toward the shadows and tell myself no one’s there. The buzz of traffic whizzes by overhead. As each car hits the overpass, it’s a swarm of bees buzzing above. But I’m still all alone underneath. I look back down the block, retracing my steps. No one’s there. No one but me. In a sketchy neighborhood. Without anyone knowing where I am.
    What am I, insane? I spin around and walk away. He can keep the money, for all I care; it’s not worth my li—
    There’s a muffled clacking in the distance. Like dice on a gameboard. I twist back to follow the sound. Further down. On the other side of the overpass. I don’t see it at first. Then I hear it again. I dart behind one of the enormous concrete pillars that hold the highway overpass in place. Above my head, the bees continue to buzz. But down here, I focus on the sound of the dice, downhill from where I’m standing. From my angle, it’s still obscured. Heading deeper into the overpass, I rush from my pillar to one directly ahead. Another die moves across the board. Angling my head around the concrete column, I take my first full look. Outside the overpass, cars once again line the street. But what I’m looking for isn’t directly in front of me. It’s off to the left.
    Up the block, a dip in the sidewalk leads to a gravel driveway. In the driveway, there’s a rusted old industrial Dumpster. And right next to the Dumpster is the source of the noise. Dice against a gameboard. Or tiny stones being kicked by someone’s feet.
    Dead ahead, the page makes his way up the gravel driveway—and in one quick movement, takes off his suit jacket, yanks off his tie, and skyhooks both items up and into the open Dumpster. Without even a pause, he heads back to the sidewalk, looking happy to be free of the monkey suit. It doesn’t make sense.
    My Adam’s apple now feels like a softball in my throat. The page steps out of the driveway, once again kicking the stones at his feet. As he fades up the block, he’s still tapping the envelope against his thigh. And for the first time, I wonder if I’m even looking at a page.
    How could I be so stupid? I didn’t even get his name . . .
    . . . tag. His nametag. On his jacket.
    My eyes zip toward the Dumpster, then back to the page. At the end of the block, he makes a hard left and vanishes from sight. I give him a solid few seconds to double back. He doesn’t. That’s my cue. Even with his head start, there’s still time to catch up with him, but before I do . . .
    I spring out from behind the pillar, dash down the sidewalk, and leave the overpass behind. Rushing across the gravel driveway, I go straight for the Dumpster. It’s too tall to see inside. Even for me. On the side, there’s a groove that’s just deep enough to get a toehold. My suit’s already ruined. Up and over . . .
    With a sharp yank, I tug myself up to the top of the Dumpster. Scootching around, I let my feet dangle inside. It’s like the edge of a swimming pool. But scummier. And with a nauseating acidic stench. Taking one last look around, I spot a pink building with a neon sign that reads,
Platinum Gentleman’s Club.
No one else is in sight. In this neighborhood, all the action’s at night.
    I stare back down at the pool of Hefty bags and push off with a soft nudge.
    My feet pound through the plastic. I expect a crunch. Instead, I get a squish. My dress shoes fill with liquid. My socks suck it up like a sponge. Waist-deep in garbage, I tell myself it’s just beer.
    Wading toward the back corner of the Dumpster, I keep my arms above my shoulders, careful not to touch anything. Lunging forward, I snag the navy suit jacket, hold it above the trash, and go straight for the blue nametag.
    Senate Page
    Viv Parker
    What’s a girl’s name doing on a guy’s jacket?
    Unhooking the nametag from the lapel, I check to see if there’re any other markings on it.