You Won't Know I'm Gone Read online

  Matthew pushes a button and the salon doors slide open. I walk quickly across the plush carpeting, past enormous white couches, a dark mahogany wood bar with a blue marble top, and the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. The salon is nicer than any living room I’ve ever been in. And I’ve known some pretty wealthy people.

  I race up the spiral staircase with Matthew and Luke close behind. Once I reach the second floor, I can hear a child crying somewhere toward the front of the ship and I follow the sound of her voice. When I arrive at the master cabin doorway, I see two little girls, probably no older than four and six, dressed in matching pink pj’s and clinging to each other. The younger sister is sobbing, her dark hair being smoothed by her older blond sister. They are untied, but ropes and remnants of their days of terror are still at their feet.

  “It’s okay, girls,” I say, and carefully put my gun down and out of sight next to the bed. I reach for them and at first they flinch. “It’s okay. My name is Reagan and this is Luke and Matthew. We’re here to bring you home. You’re safe now.”

  “I want. To go. Home,” the little one forces out through heaving sobs. I reach down and pick her up, carrying her in my arms while Luke picks up her older sister.

  “I’m going to get you home,” I say calmly in her ear, and her tiny arms clutch my neck so tightly, I lose my breath. “You’re okay, sweetie. You’re okay. I promise. You’re safe with me.”

  “I’m going to go find the others,” Matthew calls after us as Luke and I carry the girls out of the master bedroom and down the spiral stairs.

  “Reagan and I have the two girls,” Luke says in his earpiece as we make our way through the main salon and onto the back deck.

  “Great. Get them on the boat and wait for Matthew to bring down their parents,” Richard says, his voice losing breath as he quickly works to release everyone. “Then get them back to our main boat. They’ve had one hell of a trip.”

  “Copy,” Luke answers in my ear and I tighten my grip on the little girl in my arms, her tears finding patches of my flesh and soaking into my skin.

  “I want. My. Mommy,” she cries, each word a struggle to push out of her still hysterical throat.

  “Your mommy is right behind us,” I answer, smoothing the back of her hair like her sister did. “She’s okay. And so are you. You’re going to be just fine. I promise. You’re safe. Take a couple deep breaths. Okay?”

  “Okay,” the little girl says, sniffing back some of her tears. She’s crying but starting to calm down.

  Luke and I carefully climb on board our waiting boat and sit down next to each other so that the sisters can be close. The older sister is crying now too. Luke holds on to her and gently rubs her back. He looks over at me, a tiny smile creasing his dimples. Unanticipated tears well in my eyes and as I grab on tighter to the four-year-old in my arms, I suddenly understand. I bite down at my lip and stare up at the starless sky.

  Now I get it, Mom. Now I get it.

  * * *

  My eyes slowly open from their forced rest. The cabin lights are off and everyone around me is sleeping. Just hours after the rescue, we’re aboard one of the Black Angels’ private jets on the long flight back to DC.

  I’ve gotten maybe a total of four hours of sleep in the last two days, but I can’t fall asleep. My mind is racing, the adrenaline still pumping through every part of me. To be able to rescue that entire boat, to hold that little girl (who I later found out was named Charlotte) in my arms and bring her to safety. I’ll never forget it. Now I know, I am here for the right reasons. It’s not just Torres that makes me want to be a Black Angel. It’s Charlotte and the hundreds of others I could save after her.

  By Black Angel mission standards, this was a very happy ending. But my mind still roils with the “what next” of it all. What’s next for that crew? That family? Charlotte and her sister? The horrors they witnessed. Their father and mother being hit. Guns shoved in their young faces. The wounds on their wrists and feet where they were tied together will eventually fade, but the nightmares will not.

  I pull my body up and slip past Sam sleeping on the reclined leather seat next to me. I follow the lower lights to the galley kitchen in the back, craving something sweet.

  When I reach the kitchen, I see a shadow on the floor. I’d know that tall figure anywhere. I peer around the door frame and smile.

  “Midnight snack?” I ask as Luke crunches down on an enormous handful of popcorn. “Hey, leave some for me.”

  I jokingly grab the bag out of his hand and he smiles sheepishly, his cheeks puffy with kernels. “Sorry,” he says as soon as he’s able to swallow half of it down. “I didn’t know anyone was up. Can’t sleep?”

  “Can I ever really?” I say softly back and enter the galley that’s just big enough for the two of us. A luxury for the largest of the Black Angel private jets. The other jets, you can barely fit one person inside.

  “Want me to make you something?” Luke asks quietly and I rifle through the cupboards as silently as I can, careful not to wake everyone else up. Finally, I find a powder mix for hot chocolate in one of the bottom cupboards.

  “Yes!” I hand it over to Luke and hop on the tiny granite countertop. “Hot chocolate, please.”

  “Oh, that sounds good,” Luke says, looking in the miniature fridge. He pulls out milk and a can of whipped cream. “I’ll have one too.”

  Luke opens cabinets, looking for mugs, but can’t find any. He then reaches for the cabinet door behind me. I catch his scent as his body presses against me in the tiny space. Cinnamon and soap fill me, and suddenly, I’m flushed and dizzy.

  “Found them,” he says, tugging two mugs past my head, his body and heat pulling away from me. And as the pressure of his torso and chest leaves me, I have the overwhelming, irresponsible urge to pull him back.

  Breathe, Reagan. Breathe. I have to coach myself into pulling air back in through my open mouth. My mind constantly lies to me. My body will betray me every time. The truth is, Luke still catches me. As much as I don’t want him to, as much as I try to avoid it, Luke catches me in these breathless moments that blur the corners of my mind, the lines I’ve drawn, the strict rules the Black Angels have created.

  I shake out my arms, trying to force that buzz out of my veins, grateful Luke is too busy heating the mugs of milk in the microwave to notice that my cheeks are painted cherry red. He opens the microwave door before the alarm can sound and stirs in two scoops of hot chocolate mix. He hands me a mug and the steam licks my face.

  “Thank you,” I say, blowing into the dark chocolate liquid. “It’s perfect.”

  “Wait. Not yet.” Luke shakes the can of whipped cream and squirts a perfect snowy peak into my mug before squirting one into his. “That summer I spent at the New Albany coffee shop really paid off.”

  “Cheers,” I say, holding up my mug, and he clinks his against mine. I take a sip even though it’s still a little bit too hot. The liquid coats my tongue and I swear I can feel the chocolate releasing endorphins. For a moment, I’m as blissful as I’ve been in over a year.

  “I wonder how the girls are doing,” Luke says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

  “I know. I can’t stop thinking about them either,” I answer, swinging my legs slightly in the tiny, enclosed space.

  “You did really good today,” Luke says. “You saw that shooter. You warned the team. I didn’t see him at all.”

  “You did great too.” I take another sip. “You’re sort of just what I need sometimes. You remind me what I need to do right when I want to just follow my instincts and sprint past all those rules.”

  “I know it’s hard for you,” he replies. “But rules are there to keep you safe.”

  My hands cradle the warm mug and I smile before quietly saying, “You keep me safe.”

  “Always,” his hushed voice answers, his face folding into a smile.

  I take a long sip of my hot chocolate, and when I pull my mug away, Luke’s smile expands until he cannot contain h
imself.

  “What?” I ask, unable to stop myself from mirroring his grin.

  “You have whipped cream on your nose,” he says and begins to laugh. I reach up, touch my nose, and feel the wet and sticky remnants of canned cream. I put down my mug, grab the can off the counter, and spray a large dollop on Luke’s face.

  “Well, now you do too,” I say and bite down on my lips, not wanting to laugh and wake the others.

  Luke sets his mug on the counter and shakes his head, still smiling, the whipped cream dripping down his cheeks. “Oh, it’s on,” he announces, trying to pry the whipped cream out of my hand. I squirm and squeal and try to hide the whipped cream behind my back. When Luke can’t pry the can out of my hands, he takes a glob of whipped cream off his face and dollops me again on the nose.

  “Luke,” I say, faking my annoyance, and pulling the can from around my back, ready to attack.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Luke says, pressing his body against mine on the counter and grabbing me by both arms. And there it is again. Our eyes lock and the heat surges. We stare at each other, our smiles falling. Our breath rises in unplanned unison. Before I can say a word or break our precarious embrace, his mouth has found mine. And just like that, all of my self-control, all of the emotions and feelings I’ve been holding back crash through my body like a broken dam. A rush of warmth fills every corner of me as I grab him by the neck and pull his body closer. His mouth, his hands, his chest, his stomach are pressed against mine but it’s not quite close enough. I feel his lips part my unsteady mouth and I taste him. Cinnamon and chocolate and whipped cream and something so distinctively Luke, it has no other identity. His hands twist through my hair and my body goes limp, the world spinning me into a darkness that’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. And suddenly, two feelings enter my mind as one thought, impossible to untangle: This has to stop. And I never want this to end.

  My hands push at Luke’s chest even though my lips struggle to break free. “Wait, wait, wait,” I whisper and shake my head. “We’ve got to stop. We’re going to get caught.”

  Luke turns around and closes the galley door. “No, we won’t,” he says, his body pushing me against the cabinets, his lips back on mine, kissing me with an aching sweetness until I wrap my legs around his waist, giving him permission to kiss me harder and as hungry as I feel. My hands knot at his shirt as his fingertips gently trace the length of my jaw. My heart pounds in my ear, changing its beat from rejoice to warning. Stop this. Stop this. Stop this, it pulses. And I obey.

  My lips reluctantly pull away from Luke’s and I take a breath, looking down at the ground. “No. We can’t, Luke. You know we can’t.”

  My eyes finally find his two pools of pale blue, his face falling with frustration, but he quickly nods his head, backs up, and opens the kitchen door.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. “Won’t happen again.”

  He backs out of the galley and disappears into the main cabin, leaving me still sitting on the countertop, my back against the cabinets, my lips blissfully stinging from our kiss, wondering if his words were a promise or a threat.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  I squeeze the trigger on my Glock 22, trying my hand at a difficult target. But the bullets hit exactly where they’re supposed to.

  We already had our ninety minutes of mandated shooting practice, but I went back to the range right after dinner. Yes, I could always get extra practice in, but the truth is I’m hiding. In the two days since our in-flight kitchen encounter, I’ve been a ball of awkwardness around Luke, stumbling over every word, not quite sure what to say. Because I’m not quite sure how I feel.

  That kiss. The feeling I get when I’m with him, it’s every cliché in the book. Shaking limbs, trembling lips, liquefied insides. But it’s more than that. I’ll never stop missing my mother. I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never not feel the heat of revenge for Torres. But when I’m with Luke, there’s hope for some type of life. Some type of happiness. I don’t want to push him away, but it’s too risky. If we get caught, we’re out of here. And there go our chances for the training academy and RT squad. My chance to track down Torres. And as much as I want to be with him, that’s too great a penalty to pay.

  “Reagan.” I hear my muffled name from behind me through my bulky earphones. I turn around to see Sam standing behind me, dressed in black training gear, sweat from a workout still on her forehead.

  “What’s up?” I say as I remove my earphones.

  “Can we chat?”

  “Of course,” I answer and walk to the nearby weapons shelf to return my empty gun and earphones. When I turn back around, Sam’s lips are pressed into a purposeful, thin line, her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything is fine,” she answers, putting her hand on my back to reassure me, but I’m not quite sure if I believe her. “Just want to chat with you.”

  Sam leads me to one of the smaller, empty training rooms meant for private martial arts practice. She flips on the overhead lights and closes the door behind her.

  “Take a seat,” she says, pointing to the blue mat in the middle of the small room. My anxious nerves fire, my arms and legs suddenly heavy. A small, private room and a closed door mean this can’t be good.

  “What is it?” I ask as we settle in on the floor. Sam looks at me for a second, running her hand down her smooth, blond ponytail.

  “Look, I could get in trouble talking to you about this,” she answers quietly, looking around the room, as if there might be someone hiding in the corner, ready to catch a snippet of our conversation. “So you have to keep this between us, okay?”

  “Of course,” I answer. “It always is.”

  “I know,” she says with a strained smile. She touches me lightly on my hand with her fingertips. “First, I’m really proud of you. You have really improved these last few months. You are strong and focused and determined. You have put your head down and worked hard, and we have all taken notice.”

  “But?” I ask, cocking my head to one side, sensing what’s on the other side of this compliment.

  “But,” Sam repeats, lowering her head and lacing her fingers together. “The cracks in your talent are really starting to show.”

  Okay. I was expecting criticism, but I wasn’t expecting that. I try to swallow but can’t. I take a breath and choke out, “How so?”

  “No one can deny that you see things others can’t see,” Sam says, glancing down at her threaded fingers. “On the mission, you saw the shooter before anyone else. Even those thirty yards in front of you. It’s like you have a sixth sense or something. Your mom had it too. And you scored really high at the end of your assessment period. You’re emerging as a superstar. But there has been talk among the leaders and trainers that you’re not the best teammate.”

  My fingers dig into the dry piece of skin between my index finger and thumb. I’ve been meaning to lotion it for weeks but there’s never any time. I push down harder, until I can feel little lightning bolts of pain.

  “That RT mission was a test. And while you excelled in some areas, again you were ready to disobey orders.”

  “I thought our guys were getting shot,” I answer, trying to curb the defensive stab in my voice. “I heard gunshots, I heard commotion. I wanted to help.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t even want to check with us,” Sam answers. “You always want to act first, ask questions later. You think your way is the right way. And I know why that is.”

  “Why?”

  “You were trained solo your entire life,” Sam answers, a layer of sadness in her tone. “Luke. Now he’s a strong team player because he’s actually been on a team. He was raised to be in the military. He’s been trained his whole life to think like a group while your parents … I hate to say this … they brought you up to think you’re special and that you should trust yourself first. And while you are speci
al, they did you a disservice by keeping you in a bubble like that.”

  My chest walls feel like they’re caving in, pushed closer and closer together by the fearful question on my tongue. Finally, it breaks free. “So does this mean I run the risk of not making the academy? Not making the RT squad?”

  Sam looks down again at her hands, threading and rethreading them in different configurations. She tilts her head back up at me. “I know how badly you want this. That’s why I’m telling you. So you can fix it. Before it’s too late. Before they give the spot I know you deserve to someone like Lex Morgan.”

  “Lex is the worst team player of them all,” I say, my body suddenly searing with the idea of Lex stealing my spot. “She’s a total bitch, Sam.”

  “She may be,” Sam says, shrugging. “But she knows how to play the game.”

  “You mean manipulate the system,” I say, my voice punchy.

  “You deserve to be in the academy. You deserve to be on the RT squad,” Sam says. “But Lex has shown us she’s a team player and that’s what we have to go off of. So I’m not telling you to stop being you or be fake or anything like that. But you need to learn from Luke. Obey every command. Follow every single rule, no matter how stupid you think it is. Be a leader, but not so bossy. There is no room for selfishness on an elite Black Angel team, especially not the RT squad.”

  “I know,” I say, slowly nodding. “I do know it.”

  “Good,” Sam answers, her lips pursed to one side, examining my face. “You are brilliant on your own. On a solo mission, I’d trust you with my life. But you need to learn to trust other people. You need to learn that you don’t always know best.”

  “Okay,” I answer, my voice barely audible, emotion threatening at the base of my throat. “Thank you for telling me.”