Fear City by F. Paul Wilson

onslaught of that magnitude, but the PA prevailed. The blocks were razed and a huge hole seventy-five feet deep was dug in their place to serve as the foundation of the center.
    The Order had failed, but why had it objected in the first place?
    Nasser realized he must push the buzzing questions aside and focus on the moment. He’d learn the truth once he achieved actuator status. After reaching that, all the Order’s secrets would open to him. The downside was that, once on that path, he would not be allowed to turn back. Once you cross a certain line in the Order, you are committed for life. You cannot change your mind and leave. And even when you reach the point where you can no longer discharge your duties, no retirement is offered. At least not in the usual sense. Retirement was a cyanide capsule. Each actuator kept one handy at all times to guarantee that no secrets would be revealed under duress. If unused during his career, it became the simultaneous beginning and end of his retirement. The Order did not offer a pension.
    Nasser rose and faced the two actuators.
    â€œDivert them from their course, you say. They’ll never agree to not building a bomb. Nor can I say the World Trade Center is off-limits because they’ll want to know why. I can’t think of a single plausible reason why they shouldn’t want to bring down the skyline’s most visible structures.”
    Drexler gave him a challenging look. “A man worthy of the designation ‘actuator’ will find one.”
    And there it was: a thrown gauntlet. Prove yourself.
    Well, he would do just that. He’d drive over to Jersey City and meet with Kadir immediately. He’d set him and the rest of his gamaii straight … somehow.
    â€œIf you don’t succeed,” Drexler added, “I might have to call on Reggie to practice his archery skills on your jihadists.”
    â€¦ your jihadists …
    They used to be our jihadists, he thought. When did they become mine ?

 
    4
    â€œMight as well work for fucking UPS,” Reggie muttered as he stalked into the big stone building. His gaze was drawn, as usual, to the seal of the Septimus Order carved high into the rear wall of the central hall.

    He gave it the finger and continued upstairs to his quarters on the sec ond floor.
    His life sucked. He still had this free room from the Order, and he got a weekly cash envelope. In return he was expected to be at their beck and call for all sorts of piddly shit. Mostly deliveries. Like just now: Take a cab to a downtown office, pick up an envelope and cab it uptown. Save the receipts and get reimbursed.
    Shit, man, he had more talents than that. He could be useful in so many ways if they’d just give him a shot.
    Yeah, he knew he’d lost a lot of credibility with that Tony thing. But goddamn it, he had seen him in the back of that cab. Trouble was, he could never find him again. The only explanation was that Tony must have been on his way out of town and never came back.
    Reggie went to the closet and pulled out his small, lightweight compound bow and a quiver of arrows. He carried them to the long hallway outside his room. The Order owned this old stone building off Allen Street on the Lower East Side. It had been built to house a bunch of people back in the old days but he was the only one who lived here now.
    Last year he’d made a man-sized target—really just an orange, one-piece coverall stuffed with rags—and tacked it to the wall at the far end of the hall. He nocked an arrow. The wheels and cams at either end of the bow did their job as he pulled the string back to his chin and took aim along the shaft. No wind or elevation to take into account, just a straight shot.
    He imagined it was Lonnie. Not his real name, Reggie was sure, but that was all he had to go on. The guy had gone all crazy on him when Reggie suggested sinking the truck with the girls in it. Drive it into the harbor and