You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 18

  “Sounds like something she would say,” Dad says with a smile, looking up at me.

  “You have so much of your mother in you it’s scary. Her strength, her courage. Her stubbornness and negotiating skills.”

  We both laugh and Dad kisses my hand again, holding it against his cheek for a long time. I feel the inside of his hands. They’re still rough from all of his years on the RT squad, but they’ve softened a little, with less calluses, less wear and tear.

  “I can’t be selfish anymore,” he says, looking down at our interwoven fingers and nodding his head. “If this is what you really want to do, I should be the last person standing in your way. Even when I was holding you back, I always believed in you. I hope you know that.”

  “Thank you, Dad,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

  “I’m proud of you, Reagan,” he says, patting me on the face before letting me go. “You’re clearly here for all the right reasons. That video proved it to me. You’re going to help make the world a better place.”

  A ragged lump unexpectedly gathers at the base of my throat, filled with an emotion I can’t quite place.

  “I won’t let you down. I promise,” I say and the emotional tumor thickens, making the words come out serrated. I clear my throat but the lump refuses to budge.

  My body backs up toward the door, almost waiting for Dad to change his mind, grab me by my shoulders, and escort me to the exit. When I reach the massive doors, he gives me a small, sad smile. And that persistent lump hardens into an agonizing rock.

  I grab on to the handle, push the door open, and escape into the dimly lit hallway. The overhead light above me buzzes, its irritating sound burrowing into my ear canals and curling around my brain. My legs suddenly take off running down the hall to get away from the sound, away from the Tribunal, away from whatever is causing this bulge to swell and restrict my air. Once I get around the intel center, I turn down the hallway and lean my warm body up against the cool cinder block.

  Why do I feel like this?

  I grab at my knees, trying to place the emotion rubbing my throat raw. And then I know. It isn’t sadness or anger or fear. It’s guilt.

  Is my father right? Am I doing all of this because I care about saving people? Or am I only here for revenge? Am I only fighting for a spot in the training academy to end one life? Something that will undoubtedly kill my career. My father’s belief in me, his parental pride, will be based on the lies of a manipulative girl with an ember at her core, a darkening heart and soot in her soul. He may not be the father he was before. But I’m certainly not the girl I was a year ago either. And I never will be.

  Bury it, my mind instructs. Play the pretender until Torres is dead.

  I place my scalding hands against the cold walls and take in a breath. I force the guilt away and allow the numbness to wrap around me like a blanket. The lump drops and disappears, my mind quiets with an emotionless fog, and I welcome back the feeling of being half dead. Something I always hated. But what other choice do I have?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Go, go, go,” Michael screams, his voice bouncing off the cement floors and concrete block walls in the training facility. I’m in full RT gear, from the bulletproof vest to the heavy black helmet, crawling my way through a timed obstacle course. I have one last obstacle: climb through a broken door frame to reach my target, a two-hundred-pound dummy lying in the corner of this makeshift hostage bunker. I push my body through, sweep my gun from side to side scanning the room for attackers, and then race toward the dummy, picking up the body and throwing it over my shoulders.

  “Come on, Reagan,” Michael hollers again, looking down at his stopwatch. “Thirty seconds and the bomb is going to go off.”

  My eyes search the room, looking for a better exit. I see a back window and decide to use that as my out instead of going back the way I came in. I carefully lower the body onto the ground outside the window and then jump through, somersaulting on the unforgiving floor.

  Mother of Jesus, my mind and muscles are screaming as I pick up the two hundred pounds of deadweight and throw it over my shoulder again.

  “Now get as far away as you can, Reagan,” Michael screams, and I take off running. “Ten seconds.”

  I sprint toward the far side of the gym as Michael counts down. “Five, four, three, two, one.” The alarm signal sounds with an obnoxious, high-pitched shrill that irritates my already throbbing spine.

  I push the body off of my shoulders, dropping it down onto the floor. Beads of sweat drip down my forehead and I want to join the dummy facedown on the cool ground too. Lucky stiff.

  “Fantastic job, Reagan,” Michael hollers, jogging to my side of the gym and holding out his hand for a high five. I slap his hand and can’t help but smile, despite being completely out of breath and kind of wishing for sweet death so this pain will cease. Running this obstacle course five times will knock out even the most in-shape trainee. He marks my final spot with a piece of blue tape and points to the others, several yards away. “Look at you. Best of the group. You’re getting stronger and stronger.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice thin, my lungs still fighting for air. “I had good trainers.”

  “Yeah,” Michael answers, his mouth falling a bit. “Nobody better, right?”

  I shake my head and begin walking back toward the course and the rest of our team. “Nobody.”

  Michael puts his hand on my back and squeezes my shoulder for a second before jogging toward the starting position where Matthew DeVillers is waiting for his last timed run-through of the day.

  My legs are wobbly as I make my way back toward the rest of the waiting group. My friends are smiling. Lex Morgan is scowling. But the annoying part about Lex is she’s so gorgeous, even when her face is twisted with anger or annoyance, she’s still obnoxiously pleasant-looking. If only her disgusting, rotting corpse of a personality could match her outside.

  “So awesome, Hillis,” Cam says, pounding his fist into mine.

  “You just obliterate it every time,” Luke says, holding out his hand for a high five.

  “You two sure look cozy,” Lex says, her head tipping toward Michael on the other side of the obstacle course, ready to count down Matthew. “Why don’t you just suck his dick? Then you’ll really be guaranteed a spot on the RT.”

  The start buzzer sounds and like a gunshot, Anusha shoots up from the steel bench, grabs Lex by the collar, and pushes her hard against the makeshift hostage bunker wall where Michael cannot see us.

  “Go screw yourself, Lex,” Anusha hisses, little droplets of spit hitting Lex’s perfect face. Luke and I jump in between them, pulling them apart. I grab Anusha by the arms and hold her back but she still squirms under my grasp.

  “Stop, stop, stop,” I say calmly in Anusha’s ear. “I love you for protecting me but please do not get yourself into trouble. She’s trying to start a fight and get us kicked out of here.”

  “What is it, Reagan?” Lex exclaims, struggling against Luke’s grip. “Too much of a pussy to fight your own battles?”

  “Lex, shut up,” Luke answers, pulling her to the other side of the wall. “You know Reagan would have you on the ground in two seconds.”

  “Yeah, right,” Lex answers, spitting her words and lunging toward me. “I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.”

  “To quote Happy Gilmore,” I begin. “You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?”

  With that, Anusha bursts into laughter, her muscles finally relaxed enough for me to let go.

  “Well played, Reagan,” Anusha says, nudging me with her hip. “Well played.”

  “That was too easy,” I answer, shaking my head.

  “God, I really hate her,” Anusha answers, glaring at Lex, who has been forced by Luke across the gym. He’s let her go and I can tell he’s trying to reason with her. Only Luke would have the heart to try to reason with someone like Lex.

  “Yeah, me too,” I answer.

  “No, but I mean I really hate her,
” Anusha says, squinting her eyes and pinching her fingertips in the air for extra emphasis. “You probably have PG-level fantasies about filling her shampoo bottle with Nair or giving her Ex-Lax-laced brownies or something. But I lie in our bunk at night and dream of ways I could accidentally-on-purpose dislocate both her kneecaps.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say, waving her off. “She is just trying to start a big fight with me so that I’ll hit her or something and they’ll kick me out. All part of her strategy to nab one of the RT spots. I’m not stupid.”

  Lex Morgan has not let up on her efforts to get me cut from Qualifiers. But so far, I’ve refused to give her the satisfaction of playing into her manipulative little games. I want my spot because of my talent, not because I play dirty. And she can just cry her pretty green eyes out and scream about how it’s not fair when I get it and she doesn’t.

  The buzzer sounds and I turn around to see how far Matthew got. Not bad. About twenty yards away from my mark. “Nice going, Mattie,” I yell across the cavernous space. He throws down his dummy and gives me a thumbs-up before doubling over and grabbing at his knees to regain his breath.

  “You know, you guys all got your targets out of the hostage bunker,” Michael says, marking Matthew’s spot on the floor. “They’d be alive, so that’s good. But you all just throw them down on the ground.”

  “Hey, what’s a few shattered bones versus death?” Anusha questions, her hand out in the air and a smile on her face.

  “True,” Michael answers, pointing in her direction. “Okay, guys. Good job today. You’ve improved so much in the last few weeks. Another couple weeks of training at CORE, and then we’ll be taking half the group to an RT camp in Indonesia, the other half to Russia.”

  “Awesome,” Cam answers. He’s the perfect tech intel operative, but he’s been enjoying RT drills more than I think he thought he would.

  “Okay, Reagan, Luke, and Matt,” Michael says, pointing at each one of us. “I need you three to stay for a second. Rest of you can hit the showers. Lights-out in an hour.”

  Lex saunters past, her arms tight across her chest. She raises her eyebrows at me, a small, satisfied smile tickling the corners of her mouth, before turning toward the door.

  The three of us move closer to Michael, anxiously waiting to hear why he wanted us to stay behind. Michael looks over his shoulder, waiting for the room to clear out before explaining. Cam is the last one to file out of the training room and the door slams shut behind him.

  “Congratulations,” Michael says, turning back to us, a wide smile spreading across his face. “The three of you have been selected to go on an overseas mission with the RT squad.”

  “Really?” I say, my voice soaring several octaves higher than its normal range.

  “Yup,” Michael answers and nods his head. “We think the three of you show the most promise out of all the trainees and we want to see what you can do on a real mission.”

  “That’s awesome,” Luke says, nodding his head, and I beam at him. He’s trained so hard the last few weeks. He’s mastered every take-down move I taught him, he’s spent late nights working with Cam on hacking, and he’s killing it in the gun range.

  “The team leaves the compound at zero-six-hundred hours,” Michael says, glancing at the clock over the double doors. “So take a shower, get some rest, and be dressed and ready to go then. You’ll be escorted to the plane and receive your full assignment there. It’s a real honor to be asked to go on a mission, but this is a dangerous one. Do not take either the honor or the danger lightly. You will be active participants on this, so don’t blow it. All eyes will be on you.”

  “We won’t,” I answer, adrenaline and anxiety already surging through my body. This is my chance. My very best opportunity to show the Black Angels that I deserve to be in the training academy. That I deserve to be on the RT squad. Make a mistake on this mission, and I’ll lose everything.

  This mission is do or die. Not just for the people we’re saving. But for Torres as well.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Salty wind whips at strands of my hair as our small boat silently approaches the Agenia Princess, a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht owned by technology tycoon Mark Williams. Inside the luxury mega-boat are Mark; his wife, Cynthia; their two young children; and a small crew. Oh … and three pirates who stormed the ship a few miles away from the Philippines. The Gulf of Aden off the coast of Somalia used to be the most dangerous area in the world for piracy. But the pirates in the dark oceans around Indonesia have stolen their criminal crown.

  Mark’s two biggest clients? The US Department of Defense and the CIA. So this ransom and hostage situation has been kept out of the press, and the rescue mission went straight up the chain of command to the very best: us.

  “All right, team, we’re approaching the stern of the ship,” Richard Turton, the RT mission leader, says quietly in my earpiece from a second small boat thirty yards ahead of us. We are approaching the yacht in the dead of night at a pace that’s barely causing waves or making a sound, but still I push the small earpiece deeper in my ear. My stomach bubbles with a hasty rush of adrenaline and fear as I think about the family and crew trapped on that ship in the middle of an endless ocean. My job is to enter the ship with Luke and Matthew after the pirates are secure and bring the hostages to safety.

  “Ropes ready?” Richard asks in my earpiece, addressing someone on the first team, but I grab at the yellow ropes in our tiny boat, ready to tie up once we reach the ship.

  I can see the first boat reach a dark spot on the boat’s stern and tie their rope around a shining metal post.

  “Tied up,” a member of team one says quietly in my ear. My skin suddenly spasms with nauseating familiarity, a million pins pricking at my spine, and I know something is wrong. I scan the back of the boat and in the shadow, I see a figure.

  “Possible shooter, twelve o’clock, third-floor balcony,” I say in my earpiece, lifting team one’s heads and guns, but before their eyes can find him, the shadow fires the first shot.

  A staccato spray of bullets from our team answers his first shot and I watch the figure retreat back into the darkness.

  “He’s not down,” I say into my ear. “But he’s gone.”

  “Go, go, go,” I hear Richard say in my ear, ushering his team of six off the small dinghy and onto the yacht.

  “Good eye,” Luke remarks quietly next to me in the darkness. I’m still scanning the boat, looking for a second gunman or any sign of the hostages.

  “I hate that we can’t see what’s happening in there,” I remark, tightening the chin strap of my helmet. “We’re so blind here.”

  “I know,” Luke answers. “That’s why we’re not allowed to go in until they give us the all clear.”

  My skin bristles again, my body preparing for the maniacal chaos that is about to come. And as if on cue, the eerie silence of the night is shattered by round after round of bullets. I listen closely, trying to pick up the sound and speed of each weapon, identify who is shooting who. But the pirates are most likely armed with semiautomatic weapons too. All I can hear is the jackhammer of piercing metal.

  “Sam, what’s going on?” I demand in my earpiece, knowing Sam is watching this all unfold from team one’s camera helmets back on our larger boat.

  “Pirates attacked us first once we got inside,” Sam yells over the gunfire that is ringing in all of our ears. Someone’s mic is on. “One pirate down, two of our guys are down. Our final four are still fighting.”

  “Shit,” I say and turn to Matthew, who is running the boat. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Absolutely not,” Luke says, holding his hand out to stop Matthew. “They said to stay out of there until we got the all clear.”

  “Yeah, but our guys are down,” I say, trying to reason with Luke but he shakes his head. “Orders are orders, Reagan.”

  “He’s right,” Sam says in my ear. “Stay back, Reagan. If you guys get in there and get hurt, there’s n
o way we’ll get these hostages off the ship alive. Follow. Orders.”

  Sam’s tongue wraps around every single syllable of those last two words, verbally slapping me in the face. My spine curves, my body sinking into itself, my nails digging into the plastic seat of the boat, ashamed of how quickly I want to throw out the rule book on missions. I always just want to act. I don’t think. And it’s that impulsive rush of fearlessness that will get me in trouble, or even killed, every time.

  The gunfire has fallen silent, and I pray that means good news for our team and the family on board. I grab for the M4 carbine on my lap, its steel slick with droplets of salt water and humidity.

  “Sam…” I say in my ear.

  “Looks like pirates are down,” she answers, her voice calm. “Standby for the all clear from team one.”

  “Team one copies,” I hear Richard say in my ear, his breath heavy. “Pirates down. Two dead. One secured. All clear. Team two, come aboard.”

  Matthew turns the motor on full speed and I ready myself to tie our line around the yacht to keep our boat in place. Once we reach the stern, Luke jumps on deck and quickly takes the yellow rope out of my hand, wrapping it in a perfect, secure knot (being a Boy Scout clearly paid off) before taking my hand and pulling me aboard.

  “We’re on,” I say into my earpiece once Matthew is secure and standing on the back of the yacht with us. “Please state the hostage location.”

  “Second-floor bedroom suites. Come through the main salon and up the stairs,” Richard says. “We untied the two little girls so they’re ready for you. We’re moving through the other bedrooms to untie the rest of the family and the crew now.”

  “Any injuries?” I ask as we walk toward the interior of the yacht.

  “Just our guys,” Richard answers. “Multiple shots, but luckily the bullets hit their vests. So they went down but will be fine.”

  Civilians think that bulletproof vests completely protect you from injury but that’s not true. While it stops the bullet from piercing your body, being shot, even in a bulletproof vest, can feel like being hit with a baseball bat. So being shot multiple times will knock even the strongest person to their knees.