In the Name of God. Stephen J. Gordon

old?”

      “No, I know you’re old,” she smiled again. “Are you sure you have to go back?” She kissed me once more.

      “No, I’m not sure.”

      She kissed me again.

      “I’m really not sure.”

      If I stayed and we ended up where I knew we would, it might give her the wrong impression. Was that a problem?

      I pulled away a little more, probably an entire millimeter. My right hand stayed on the curve of her lower back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

      “It is tomorrow.” It must’ve been after midnight.

      “Even better. I’ll call you later. Dinner?”

      “If you insist.”

      “I do.”

      I kissed her again and then waited for her to retrieve her keys from her small handbag. She unlocked her front door, then stepped inside. “Goodnight.”

      “Goodnight,” I smiled. She closed the door softly.

      I turned and scanned the street. All was quiet. I let out a breath and went over to my Jeep. I was excited to be with Alli, no doubt about it, but the relationship left me exhausted if I dwelled on it too much. Alli was fun and eager, and I was just...I don’t know what. I got into my Jeep and headed back uptown.

      My modest house was tucked away behind Charles Street, just north of the Johns Hopkins Homewood campus. I made it in ten minutes due to nearly empty streets. The Homewood area was almost park-like and, thanks to the University, had an energy unique to college life: vibrant foot traffic, student activities, eateries, sporting events, and more. As it was after midnight, that energy was dormant for now, but would awaken with the day in six hours.

      Once inside my house, I headed to the first floor office, pulling off my tie and opening my collar. I went over to my desk and flicked on the desk light. It cast the room in a shadowed aura that partially hid its periphery. The desk was a mess as usual with papers scattered all over. After digging out the phone and its base from a mound of magazines and catalogs, I flicked on the message system. As it cycled, I looked around the partially darkened study. An M.C. Escher print hung on one wall, a bookcase against another, an oversized chair — a chair and a half the saleswoman had called it — against a third. My scan came to rest on a long, scroll-length parchment hanging on the wall next to my desk. On the parchment was a hand-drawn Chinese poem that had been given to me more than a few years ago. In the flowing brush style of classical Chinese calligraphy with its thick and thin black characters, the poem told of dragons’ wings and the creation of heaven and earth.

      The answering system clicked to the first message: “Sifu, this is Jon. The ten gis you ordered came today. Mr. Kenshi brought them himself. He sends his regards. He said the broadswords are on back-order, but he’ll make some calls.”

      I smiled, envisioning the middle-aged Japanese importer who ran a small martial arts supply business out of his clothing store not far away. He didn’t need to come by, but he often did. I was honored he felt that way. Mr. Kenshi loved to sit in my office, share a story or two or three, and laugh his deep abdominal laugh.

      “Oh,” Jon went on, “I think we may have a new student. She’s tall, has long blonde hair and an amazing smile...a junior at Hopkins. And let’s just say that if you need help teaching her, I’ll be there for you. No problem. She saw our demonstration at the student union. About teaching her, really, I can give the intermediate students to someone else, and I can help her get started. She’ll probably be by tomorrow.” There was a pause, then, “That’s it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Did you get her phone number?” I asked the machine.

      “Oh,” Jon’s voice came back on, “her name is Evy, and I got her number. Bye.”

      Click.

      The second and final message was from the 7th grade teacher whose class I was covering. She just wanted to remind me about class and where she was leaving her lesson plans.

      I turned off the machine, then gathered my material for tomorrow’s class. I had some notes, a copy of the 7th Grade text — a two-inch thick hardcover volume called The American Nation — and a game of Monopoly. I knew the teacher; she wouldn’t mind if I digressed from her plans, as long as I covered her material. I was glad she was flexible that way.

      Finally, after I procrastinated enough, I took a final look around the room, turned off the light, and headed upstairs.

      3

      The lone sentry, dressed in army fatigues and a checkered kaffiyah, walked along the edge of the roof, easily drifting into the crosshairs of my nightscope. The early morning hour was black, moonless...perfect for what we had to do.

      I shifted slightly. I was lying on my belly amidst the rubble of a demolished building, waiting for the little signal that would go from my brain to my right index finger, now lightly caressing the trigger guard. I thought about it, but didn’t think about it. Not yet. Not yet. The moment wasn’t right.

      The sentry, I could see through the telescopic sight, was clean-shaven and had a strong jawline. Though I couldn’t discern his eyes, I imagined they were hard with a fair amount of anger and hate in them. He stood atop a three story building, one of two structures still intact in a neighborhood filled with mounds of broken concrete and protruding rods of reinforcing iron. Between where we had taken cover and the sentry’s stronghold lay 100 yards of flat, open street, illuminated by the stark white glow of halogen floodlights.

      I had expected more guards, considering what was inside. There’d be plenty, I knew, just on the other side of the ground-level door facing us. My Sayeret Matkal team would deal with those men soon enough.

      The night air was completely still and totally silent. A cool Mediterranean breeze would have been welcome, but that was fine. I didn’t want even the hint of a breeze altering a millimeter of my shot’s trajectory.

      As I watched, the sentry up on the roof reached the end of his walk, turned around and moved back the way he had come. The crosshairs in my sight stayed on his head every second. He stopped about halfway to the other side and scanned the deserted street below him, looking first to his right, then taking a long look to his left. After he was satisfied nothing was amiss, he continued his circuit.

      He had taken just one step when it happened — the entire neighborhood went dark. One moment there was light and then... nothing. There were no streetlights, no lights inside buildings, no floodlights. Just blackness. The building itself seemed to vanish into a void.

      But not the guard in my sights.

      I took a breath, let it out slightly, then squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled puff, but there was no sound as the guard was knocked off his feet. He wouldn’t be getting up. As I emerged from between two broken cinderblock walls, three men stood up to either side of me. Kadima, I thought. Forward. We began to run toward the building.

      Our footfalls barely made a sound on the old paved road. As we ran, I quickly looked right and left beyond my men. No enemy soldiers, no pedestrians, no one was there. In five seconds we were halfway to the building, crossing the center of a street that had been ablaze with white light just moments ago. The block-like structure ahead grew larger.

      A figure appeared at the door in front of us. To my left there was a muffled burst of weapons fire, and the figure at the entranceway was thrown backwards, a cluster of dark spots blooming over his chest.

      Another figure appeared at the door and then, before anyone could react, the entire area exploded with light.

      The building’s lights had come back on, and with them every floodlight in creation suddenly turned the street scene to daylight. We were totally exposed — seven figures in black in the center of a barren, white no-man’s land. They weren’t supposed to have generators.

      Oh God.

      Automatic weapons opened up from every window