“Are you sure this is a good idea, Riley?”

I pretend it doesn’t bother me that it’s the fifth time Scott has asked the same question in less than five minutes.

“I told you. You’re free to back out if you have second thoughts.”

What I want to tell him is that I’d rather he does back out. There’s no room for wimps on the team. If he’s just going to chicken out at the last minute, he’ll make us look like weak, lame losers. We need to put on a strong front if Alexander Industries will ever listen to us.

Scott has a thing for me, though, and he may be here because he doesn’t want to look like a wimp. “No, no, I’m in,” he insists. You know I’m as committed to this as you are.”

No one is as committed to the cause as I am, but it isn’t the time to argue semantics. I smile and nod reassuringly, then I return to our review of today’s plan.

“We’ll get to the building entrance at three o’clock. Jeannie, you’ll have the spray paint. Scott has the chains. I have the bullhorn. Everybody else has a sign.”

I look each member of the group in the eye. There are twelve of us in all—not a huge number by any means, but a larger number of random passersby will attract too much attention. It’s clear to me now that I’m not dealing with a group of people who are highly skilled in subterfuge. We’ll be lucky if we get into the front courtyard without being spotted and physically ejected from the property.

“Are there any questions?” I look around the group, huddled in the living room of my tiny off-campus apartment. “Are we all clear on this?”

Trevor raises his hand. I have to smile to hide my irritation. Nothing about this plan is exactly D-Day level stuff, so why am I locking eyes with so many confused, anxious expressions?

“What if they tear gas us?” Trevor asks, and a few worried murmurs rise up among the rest of the group.

“Guys, is that what you’re worried about? No one is going to hurt us. We aren’t a large enough crowd and we won’t be causing a large enough disruption for tear gas. We don’t pose a physical threat to anyone inside or outside the building. And we’ll be chained together, so the building security won’t be able to immediately force us to disperse. That’s the only reason to they would escalate to that level. Besides, we’ll be too close to the building entrance. They would never release something that can injure the building tenants, or anyone who happens to be using the main floor bank or just standing in the lobby taking pictures under their world-renowned Christmas tree.”

I’m making it all up as I go, and my reasoning sounds pretty good to me. There’s no point for the authorities to go all out for a handful of peaceful protestors. Alexander Industries is a pretty cutthroat bunch of rich jerks, but they aren’t stupid. Ordering the cops to manhandle a few protesters is overkill. It would make for some seriously negative PR at this time of year.

I look around. It brings me some comfort to see slightly more excitement on the faces of my crew. I can only hope the police don’t prove me wrong.

“All right,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Let’s head out. Backpacks at the ready?”

Eleven bags raise skyward. I did my best to make sure they were all different styles and patterns. The sight of a dozen identical backpacks approaching the New York headquarters of one of the world’s biggest oil companies would set off alarm bells from miles away. Especially as we’re taking public transit.

I ask Steve to go over the plan from top to bottom. Just to be sure that I’m not the only one who has the bird’s eye view of how today will play out.

“Well,” he starts, scratching the side of his blond cropped head of hair. “You, Jeannie and I go first. We sit in the courtyard with our smoothies. Trevor comes in next with his book. Miko, Nadia, Brad, you’re next. Then the rest. Only around ten minutes should stretch between the arrival of the first three of us and everyone else.” He turns back to me. “Did I get it all?”

I nod, and I have to admit, I’m feeling like a proud mom. “That was perfect,” I tell him. “We’ll spread out our arrival to avoid drawing any unwanted attention.”

They all nod their agreement, but I don’t see the courage or passion that I saw two weeks ago when this plan was formed. As I take in their less than enthusiastic faces, I’m hoping they are better at following through than putting on a brave face. What is wrong with people? When I first broached the idea of organizing this protest against Alexander Industries, everyone was on board. Ideas flew. There was passion and excitement in the air. I even slept with Steve that night. That’s how carried away we all were.

The day is finally here. Yes now that it’s time to carry out the plan, passion is replaced with anxiety. I realize I’m dealing with a bunch of silver spoon kids with spotless records. Today, they look afraid of what Mommy and Daddy would say when they find out their little snowflake got arrested for staging a protest—even though the company we’re about to demonstrate against is one of the vilest blights on the environmental wellbeing of the entire planet.

It’s one thing to say you care about something, and quite another to promise to do something about it and follow through.

I follow through.

Like I did last night with Malcolm Alexander.

No one else knows about what I did. As much as it bothers me to use my body that way, the idea of some good old fashioned psychological warfare is right up my alley. The only problem is that I didn’t expect to enjoy my role that much. Now that my mind is on it, I have to stop myself from biting down on my bottom lip every time I picture myself going down on him, or the way he took me hard against that wall. My core clenches just from the image, and I have to press my legs together to focus again.

Following through can have some unexpected payoffs and drawbacks.

Still, my commitment to the task at hand had not wavered even a little bit. I want our voices heard. I need the world to know what Alexander Industries has been doing under our noses. They can’t keep getting away with bulldozing through the forests, farms, and lives of the little people.

We wrap up our meeting and split up to independently make our way downtown using various subway and bus routes. As the leader, I take the direct route—south from Columbia U on the number one South Ferry Loop train. I’m so pumped up and angry that my fists clench as I sit on the train. It’s carrying me like a bullet through the tunnels beneath New York’s streets, taking me to fulfill another piece of my destiny. I’m about to set the record straight today, and whether they listen or not, at least I’ll get to say my piece on behalf of my entire family, and perhaps for my home town too.

Once the public hears what’s going on, I will have played a part in starting the tiniest snowball which hopefully will turn into the avalanche that crushes Alexander Industries for good. I’m also counting on the fact that we live in a world where a fifteen-second soundbite can echo on ad infinitum, with a twenty-four-hour news cycle on TV, social media and online channels.

I get off the train at Penn Station and head east on Thirty-Fourth Street for the three-block walk. It’s a beautiful day to be outdoors around the holidays. It’s bright, the air is crisp, and I’m walking on sunshine. Pulling my long, wavy red hair out of my face, I find a hair band and put it into a ponytail. If Malcolm ends up seeing this demonstration in person or on TV, I want him to recognize me. I want him to lose sleep trying to figure out what I may have done to him, and what I’m likely to do.

Within five minutes of making it to our rendezvous point, Steve and Jeanie show up. They take their positions about fifty feet away from me as we wait. I’m impressed. Steve hasn’t chickened out.

Yet.

I start to feel an unsettling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

The closer I get to the building, the heavier this bullhorn in my backpack gets. Standing a few feet from Alexander Industries, I look up at the gleaming, imposing structure. Glass and metal loom up in front of us, seeming to stand out from the rest of the neighboring skyscrapers. Perhaps that’s just my inner awareness because of what it represents.

“I’m just gonna ask you again,” Steve begins to say to me. Does he realize he has left his post and is now jeopardizing everything we’ve planned?

I act like I don’t know him, but the novice puts a hand on my elbow.

“We’re not supposed to communicate here,” I remind him.

“I understand that. I’m just asking if the information you have is one hundred percent accurate. Like, we’re not committing libel against them, right?”

“You mean slander,” I correct him. I’m the freaking law school student with a specialization in environmental law and a minor in journalism, for crying out loud. I’m also scripted today, to make sure I don’t go off half-cocked in front of the media. “Libel relates to the printed word. Slander pertains to what we say. And believe me, I have the evidence. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t go through with this.”

That seems to satisfy Steve again. He’s been so twitchy all day. And what’s worse is, because I slept with him that one time, he seems to think we have a thing. It’s almost as though he believes he can influence me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that for me, fucking is fucking and nothing more. I’m not the kind of girl that gets all emotional after I sleep with a guy. It’s an activity, a damn pleasurable one, right up there with skydiving, zip lining and hiking the Grand Canyon.

At least it was until I let Malcolm touch me. His skin was hot to the touch, and everywhere we made contact felt like he burned his invisible mark into me. Just like last night, I dismiss the ridiculous thought. I felt something because it’s personal, because I despise him. Nothing more.

Shaking my head physically to snap out of it, I tell Steve to get back to his station at the smoothie stand. While he and Jeannie orders for the three of us, I find a free table close to where we’ll kick off the action. Jeannie sits a few tables away, and Steve walks past me to drop off my drink before joining her again. Except he doesn’t join her. No, he sits with me.

“Would you please do your best to go according to plan?” I murmur out of the side of my mouth. “Stay wat your post until I give the signal. And try to look a little more relaxed.” I nod over at Jeannie, who is pulling off the ruse pretty well. She giggled into her phone, pretending she’s in the middle of a lighthearted conversation when in reality, she’s checking in with Trevor so that we time our movements precisely.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “This is new to me. I’m not an old pro like you. I just care about the environment.” He takes a sip of his smoothie and remains seated.

“Who said that I’m an old pro?” I ask. “This is my first protest too.”

Damn, I shouldn’t have said that. I should have let him keep thinking I have experience putting these protest events together. With that single statement, the concern he expressed before turns to terror.

“Are you serious? You’ve never done this?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve. We’re not bombing the place,” I hiss under my breath. “We’re standing out front. It’s not as big a deal as you’re making it out to be.”

Trevor arrives, and sits three tables over in the opposite direction, book in hand. He is a damned good actor, completely natural. Slowly, the rest of the group trickles in. I check the time. Almost ten minutes has passed. No one seems to pay us any mind. The guards inside the front door are easy to see from here. They’re not even looking our way.

Trevor glances at me from over the top of his book, and I nod. He exaggerates slapping the book shut, which is the signal for the others to get themselves ready.

I get to my feet. Everything moves quickly from that point on.

The twelve of us rush toward the build entrance. Before the security guards know what’s happening, Steve threads a thick, heavy duty chain through the handles of the doors, and secures it with a padlock. Trevor moves through the revolving door. He places a wedge opposite to its turning direction to stop it. Jeannie uses the black spray paint to write the word ‘murder’ across the glass in large capital letters.

The security guards inside fight against the chain and the blocker revolving door, but of course, the doors won’t budge. One of them grabs his radio, which tells me we need to work fast. There must be guards at the other exits. They’ll be here soon enough.

I give Steve the nod and he pulls out the longer chain, he tucks it in the through the other locked chain at the door, and loops it through each of our waist harnesses. He locks it down tight and I smile. We’re even positioned in the right order so every other person has a placard with our prewritten messaging. The guys at Kinkos will be happy to see he did a good job with these, even if he did think I was nuts when I put in the print order.

Each poster is also written on a full color background, each with oversized images of the sort of environmental destruction that Alexander Industries has been perpetrating for years. Animals covered in oil. Once-lush forests reduced to paths for pipelines. Sandy beaches studded with massive tar balls. Post-fracking wastelands.

Pulling the megaphone from my backpack, I clear my throat, and begin to speak. I deliver my fifteen-second soundbite, pause for thirty second, and repeat. An afternoon crowd starts to assemble. Many are carrying gift-wrapped boxes and colorful shopping bags. They probably work in the area and took an extended lunch to do some last minute Christmas shopping. We’re just in time for the crews that get deployed to find content for the six o’clock news.

“Alexander Industries has been fined hundreds of millions of dollars for their environmentally irresponsible behavior, and they won’t stop. We have a message for this polluting giant. Stop sacrificing the natural landscape and wildlife in the name of greed. Citizens of the planet, help us preserve what we can for our great grandchildren. Give your future generations a Merry Christmas. Stop Alexander Industries!”

Uniformed security guards come running over to us from both sides of the building.

One man stops in front of me. “The police are on their way,” he shouts, trying to intimidate me.

Like I’m supposed to be surprised that they’d call in the cavalry.

I lift my bullhorn to his face and repeat my spiel. He doesn’t like that too much. He tries to yank the megaphone from my hand. At least three or four dozen people are gathered around now, and more are approaching by the minute. Some cheer, some shout profanity, and others just stand and watch, waiting to see if anything escalates. They are the ones with smartphones raised in the air, capturing the action.

I didn’t expect this guard to try and pry the megaphone from my hands, but I’m not too disappointed at the optics of this big, ripped man imposing his will on the little, seemingly innocent redhead. The bullhorn falls out of my hands when the guard gets tired of trying and pushes me to the ground out of frustration. My tailbone hits the concrete. My fall brings down the entire group in one cascading wave of human dominoes. I yowl in pain but inside, I’m doing cartwheels. It’s going better than I thought, thanks to Biff the Rent-a-Cop.

Too bad someone has the police on speed-dial. Either that, or crime in Manhattan is at an all-time low and the men in blue just don’t have anything else to do this afternoon. Four cruisers and a prisoner transport van roll up. The supportive section of the crowd boos as the cops push their way through to us. One man with them—I presume he’s a serviceman and not a cop—quickly uses a pair of bolt cutters to remove the chain on the doors. More booing and jeers erupt.

Several cops push the onlookers aside, ordering them to disperse. The guy with the bolt cutters begins to work on our chains. An officer reaches down and helps me to my feet. He could have been rougher, but I’m satisfied that we made our point in the eight or nine minutes of airtime we’re given.

I’m carted off down the steps to the paddy wagon, and almost at the same time, a stretch limousine drives up. For a split second, as the officer motions for me to step up into the back of the van, I’m face to face with him.

Malcolm Alexander.