You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 10

Jules’s strong arm stretches out and points toward the door that leads to the North Hall and the rest of the training rooms.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lex responds and puts her arms behind her back. She bows her head and her ivory cheeks streak crimson. But I’ve been around Lex long enough to know that flush isn’t from embarrassment, but anger.

  “Next. Reagan Hillis.” Jules makes her way toward me and my dummy. She looks it over, her hands penetrating the gaping wound at the target’s chest. “As close to perfect as you can get. Anybody who needs extra help, talk to this one.”

  Jules pats me on the shoulder and I wince under the weight of her compliment. I started out more than mediocre when it came to my strength and endurance but my shooting skills have always been at the top of the group. Just another reason for some of these people to dislike me. Especially Lex.

  “All right, that’s enough for today,” Jules announces, looking down at the watch on her wrist. “One last thing: I know tomorrow is your one free day and some of you have requested to go into DC for the day but Director Browning wanted me to pass along that all of those requests have been denied and we need you to stay put.”

  “Why?” one of the male trainees asks.

  “I don’t need to give you a reason why,” Jules answers curtly and turns back to the rest of the group. “If any of you need to refuel before bed, kitchen is open for another hour, so make your way there. Otherwise, hit the showers. Lights-out at midnight. Except for you, Lex. I better not see you leave the range until one a.m.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lex mutters.

  Jules claps her hands two times, signaling the end of training, and walks toward the exit. I want to follow her out, grab some food, and hide. But before I can make my way toward the door, my friends are gathering around my target.

  “Holy crap,” Anusha says, sticking her fist through the hole in the chest. “You really tore the hell out of this guy.”

  “Way to go, Hillis,” Cam says and gives me a high five.

  “Yeah, you’re showing us how it’s done,” Luke adds, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and squeezing me closer to him.

  “And she’s so humble about it too,” Lex says under her breath, but loud enough for us all to hear her.

  “What did you just say?” Anusha asks, whipping around to face Lex.

  “Nothing,” Lex responds, her so-sweet-I-might-puke smile crawling up her face. “Congrats, Reagan. You make the rest of us look like total amateurs.”

  “That’s your problem, Lex,” Anusha snaps, always quick to defend me. “It’s called work harder and get better. This is a competition, you know.”

  “Oh wow! I didn’t realize that,” Lex says, bringing both hands to her cheeks. “Thanks so much for letting me know how the Black Angels work, Anusha. Especially since you’ve been here a whole five minutes and all. Enjoy it. You’ll be cut and back flying your little planes in no time.”

  With that, Lex heads toward the weapons room to grab more ammunition.

  “What is wrong with that girl?” Anusha says, spinning back around to us, her thumb pointing over her shoulder at Lex. “Why does she think it’s okay to talk like that to people in a room full of guns? I seriously just want to—”

  “Screw her, Anusha,” Luke says, gently grabbing on to Anusha’s wrist to stop her from running after Lex. “She’s not worth it. Come on, let’s go get something to eat.”

  Cam takes over from Luke, pulling at Anusha’s arm to quell the brewing confrontation. Anusha, like Lex, likes to have the last word. Luke and I follow a few steps behind them, our pace set at “Luke and Reagan” speed so we can have a few minutes to ourselves.

  After a few silent steps, I say what I’ve been thinking all week. “Everybody hates me.”

  “Everybody does not hate you,” Luke replies quickly, his fingertips gently wrapping around my forearm. My skin pulses and he pulls away. “People are in awe of you. You’re finally getting back your strength and catching up and everyone is starting to see what you can really do.”

  “I’m not even close to where I should be,” I answer firmly. “We did intervals the other day. I’m still middle of the pack. Granted, I’m at the front of the middle now, but still the middle. I just don’t know if the trainers will think I’m field material after seeing my performance. Definitely not Rescue/Take-down material, that’s for sure. You’ve got to actually … you know … run and stuff. Kick in doors. Lift heavy objects.”

  “You’ll get there.”

  “It took me years of training to get there,” I answer and shake my head, disappointment continuing to bankrupt my meager stash of hope and faith. “It’s hard to get that back after just a couple months.”

  “But you’re doing awesome at shooting,” Luke counters. “And all the strategy tests, you’re killing it. You’ve come in first in all of them.”

  “I guess,” I answer and shrug my shoulders. “It’s good I’m doing well in those tests to make up for my poor standings in strength and endurance testing but kind of bad news as well.”

  “Why?” Luke says as we walk slowly around the intel center and make our way down the West Hall toward the cafeteria.

  “Because it just gives Lex more of a reason to hate me. Admit it. Lex and her little friends would rip my throat out while I was sleeping if they thought it would help them get ahead. Hell, they’d probably do it just for shits and giggles if they thought they could remove my body without getting caught.”

  “Don’t let her get under your skin,” Luke says, shaking his head. “That’s all she’s trying to do. She’s trying to get in your head so you’ll screw up.”

  “I know it,” I answer. “Only three spots on the RT squad. You know I want one of them. But she’s a shoo-in between her skills and the Morgan family legacy.”

  “You’ve got just as good a chance as she does. Just watch your back. She strikes me as someone who plays dirty,” Luke says, placing his hand between my shoulder blades, the warmth of his hand seeping into my cool, exposed skin. I adjust the strap of my tank top, forcing his hand to slide down my spine and return to his side.

  “I will,” I say and look up into Luke’s kind eyes. My body leans into his, inviting him to put his arm back around my shoulder. He smiles at me, slips his hand along my skin, and tightens me in his grip. “But even when I can’t, you’ve got my six, right?”

  “I like it when you talk military to me.” Luke’s dimples crease deeper as I use the military term for back. He squeezes my shoulder and says, “I’ve got your six. Always.”

  And I know he does.

  FIFTEEN

  My hair smells different. I stare at myself in the tiny, cheap mirror over one of the sinks in the girls’ dorm bathroom. I pull my wet locks to my nose and sniff. Yup, fruity notes of apple that remind me of fall. My shampoo is cleaner with a hint of lavender. I shrug my shoulders at my reflection and pull my robe tighter around my waist as I towel off my dripping dark tresses. I’m so exhausted right now I must have grabbed someone else’s shower stuff by mistake.

  “Reagan,” I hear a familiar voice say from behind me.

  My body turns around slowly, half convinced I imagined it. I haven’t even heard from her since the Tribunal over three months ago. But there she is, dressed in black leggings and a gray zip-up, her blond hair in a messy bun on top of her head. I study Sam’s face. She’s pale with graying circles cradling her blue eyes. She must have just gotten off a plane.

  “Hi, stranger,” I say, my voice softer than I thought it’d be. The mournful knot lodged beneath my sternum flares as our eyes lock. My pseudo-aunt. My mother’s best friend. I wonder if she feels the twin ache in her chest when she sees me, a reminder of what we’ve lost.

  Mom’s disappeared a little bit at a time. It’s like she’s made of sand, and every day I watch as pieces of her get picked up and swept away, stolen by the wind. I used to call her cell to hear her voice, but the Black Angels disconnected her number in December. When I’d hear a creak in the safe
house, I stopped mistaking it for her around Valentine’s Day. The worst was when her clothes lost her scent, a mixture of Olay face cream and the perfume Dad bought her every Christmas. Once a week, I’d rifle through her go-bag and greedily smell her favorite sweater. Each time, it grew fainter and fainter and fainter until one March day, it was gone. She is all but gone, a face in a photograph, a series of tattered memories. No grave site to visit or ashes to hold on to. All that remains are the people who loved her. And that will never, ever be enough to fill the gaping wound that has wrecked us all.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, re-cinching my robe around my waist. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. I thought you were deep in the trenches or something.”

  “I was,” she answers and walks into the empty dorm bathroom, the door squeaking shut behind her. “Sorry I haven’t been allowed to reach out. I’ve missed you.”

  “It’s okay,” I answer. I’ve grown accustomed to her going radio silent on me when she’s on intense missions. Dad, too. “I know how it is. So how long are you back for?”

  “I’m … I’m not sure yet,” Sam answers, her tired eyes shifting anxiously around the bathroom, avoiding mine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Despite her decades of training, I know Sam too well. We read each other like few can.

  “Sam, what’s going on?” I ask, reaching out for her arm. I know this look. She’s trying to hide it, but I’ve seen this restrained terror before. I saw it on my parents’ faces, heard it in their words, after the mission that killed Torres’s son. Something is wrong. “Did something happen on your mission?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. I’m just exhausted,” she answers quickly, rubbing her face into clusters of stress lines and wrinkles. She glances down at her watch. “I’ve been up for like thirty-eight hours straight. I just wanted to see you before I crashed. How is it going here?”

  “Okay, I guess,” I respond, pushing my lips into a pensive pout, my mind filtering through the last two months of Qualifiers. “My strength is still not where it was before. So I’m definitely not blowing anyone away with the endurance testing. But I’m getting better every day. Doing really well on the strategy, operations, and intel side. So I think that’s promising.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Sam says softly. Her eyes finally lock back up with mine, tinted a shade darker. She bites down on her lip, but brick by brick her walls begin to fall.

  “Sam, what is it?” I ask gently, reaching out for her again. Before I can touch her, she pulls away, her face cast down. She steadies herself, both hands drawn to her hips, and takes in a weighty breath.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Sam finally utters, her voice quiet, her eyes fixed on the chipping floor tile and flaking beige grout.

  My body bends backward, thrown off by Sam’s sudden declaration.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice uncharacteristically wispy.

  “You can still have a normal life. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Weren’t you ready to choose that before Colombia?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re saying this,” I reply, shaking my head. “After what, like five solid years of pushing me to go to the academy, now you don’t want me here? You don’t think I’m good enough to be a Black Angel?”

  “No. That’s not it at all,” Sam answers, looking back up at me and furiously shaking her head. “Things are just … Look, I know your strength and your mind and your talent and what you could do for this agency. The Black Angel in me wants you here. But the part of me that loves you like a daughter is absolutely terrified right now.”

  Right now. Right now. Those two words echo inside me, like they were screamed into a canyon, and the knot of fear pulsing in my stomach pulls more taut.

  Sam takes a step closer to me and grabs my hand, threading her fingers through mine.

  “Your mother was my … my…” Sam’s eyes gleam as she sniffs back unexplained tears, threatening to fall. “I promised her I’d always protect you. So the thought of you doing this job and something happening to you too … I hate to say it, but I just want you to be normal now.”

  “But why now, Sam?” I press her again, narrowing my eyes and squeezing her hand. “Something must have happened. Why are you saying all of this now and not months ago?”

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while…” Sam’s voice trails off; she stares at the wall behind me, a memory or scene or moment playing out against the white cinder block. She shakes her head, erasing its projection. “But just … an alarm has been ringing in me for days saying run, run, run.”

  Torres. It has to be Torres.

  I let go of Sam’s hand and grab her by the shoulders. Her eyes turn back to me, wild with worry. “What aren’t you telling me?” I say, my voice tight. “I know you. I know something is wrong.”

  Sam’s shoulders lift with another heavy sigh and she slowly shakes her head. “Nothing is wrong—”

  “You’re lying.” I cut her off and squeeze her shoulders tighter. “I know when you’re hiding something from me. Tell me. Is it Torres? Have they found him?”

  Sam’s face stays stoic, but I can feel her shoulders flinch in my palms at the sound of his name. She pulls away from my strong grasp. “No, it’s not Torres. I told you, I’m exhausted and I’ve just been worrying about you is all. The things you see in the field…” Sam looks through me, her mind still replaying a movie she doesn’t want to see. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “It changes you. And I guess sometimes I just want a different life for you.”

  “Don’t you think with all I’ve already seen, if I didn’t want to be here, I’d have left by now?” I reply. Before I can stop it, I hear the weighty clank of rusted chains. The dark blood on her clothes. The smell of gunfire. And my body goes numb.

  Sam nods slowly, unconvincingly, her hands smoothing out the bumps and stray hairs along the crown of her head. “Just … promise me you’ll be careful, Reagan. Follow the trainers’ every instruction. You’re still a … wanted woman.”

  The muscles in my back constrict. That pause. The way her mouth almost formed another word, then stopped before it could escape her throat. She wasn’t going to say wanted. She was going to say hunted. I’m a still a hunted woman.

  “I know,” I answer, shaking off the panic I can feel thickening my throat, restricting my breath. I stick out my chin and give her my most confident nod. “I’ll be okay, Sam. Promise.”

  Sam holds my gaze and thinks, a sad smile tickling the corners of her lips. “Okay,” she finally utters. “Please. Stay safe, Reagan.”

  With that, Sam turns and walks out of the dorm bathroom in search of a free single bedroom to rest her weary body. As the heavy door whines closed, a chill races through me, like a thousand tiny spiders under my skin. And that black cloud of dread camouflages itself as air, a Trojan horse ushered back inside with my next breath. It tightens my lungs, releases its poison.

  Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

  SIXTEEN

  Despite several minutes of trying to deep breathe my way out of a panic attack behind a closed bathroom stall door, I still can’t pull in a full breath. My lungs sag, like a half-filled balloon, the dark cloud refusing to let go. And if not being able to properly breathe wasn’t bad enough, the muscles in my back rebuff every effort to untangle them. Carrying my empty tray down the breakfast line takes a considerable amount of effort.

  “Rough training week?” Simon, CORE’s head chef, asks me as he loads my plate with the soft and creamy scrambled eggs he knows I like.

  “Oh … yeah,” I lie, rolling my shoulders and stretching my back, trying in vain to find relief that just won’t come.

  “Take a hot shower,” Simon answers. “And pop ibuprofen like Skittles. You’ll be all right.”

  “Thanks, Simon,” I respond with a strained smile as he hands me my plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. “I’ll give that a try.”

  I grab
a couple packets of jam from the breadbasket at the end of the line and snake my way through the cafeteria toward our table in the far right corner where Cam and Anusha are already eating. It’s not just us who have a self-assigned seat. Everyone does. CORE senior leaders always eat at tables toward the front, operatives in the middle, Black Angel trainers in the left-hand corner in the back, and trainees to their right. It’s almost like we know our positions, our rank in the powerful chain of command. And we are the lowest of the low. That’s why we sit by the trash cans.

  When I reach our table, Anusha’s and Cam’s shoulders are angled sharply toward each other; their tones are hushed.

  “Where’s Luke?” I ask, nodding toward his empty seat.

  “Already ate,” Anusha answers. “Had an early meeting with his adviser.”

  “Maybe Reagan knows why,” Cam says softly as I take my seat.

  “Maybe I know why what?” I reply and open my packet of jelly.

  “They canceled our training exercise in Georgetown today again,” Anusha answers, her large eyes narrowing. “Don’t you think that’s weird? That’s like the third or fourth time they’ve done that in the last few weeks. And I got special permission to meet my parents in DC tomorrow night, but this morning Browning told me the request has been denied even though it was approved two weeks ago.”

  The pain in my shoulder deepens and I have to force my body to stay upright.

  “Something is going on,” I reply, my voice dropping along with my stomach.

  “How do you know?” Cam asks, his face tightening with shared worry.

  “Sam’s back.”

  “Your pseudo-aunt slash watcher lady?” Anusha asks. They’ve heard me talk about her ad nauseam but have yet to meet her face-to-face.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “She’s back and she’s acting super weird and emotional and just … something is wrong. I know it. I have this feeling it has something to do with Torres. And that we’re in danger. All of us.”

  “Why? Did she say something?” Cam probes.

  “No, but … I just know,” I reply, my body leaning in closer to them. “I can’t explain it. When I brought up his name, she said no, but I could feel it. Cam, you’ve been around Black Angels long enough to know when something is wrong, am I right?”