You Won't Know I'm Gone Read online

  “I always want what’s best for you,” Sam says, reaching out and grabbing me by both hands. “And if this is what you want, this is what you’ve got to do to get in. You’ve still got some time left before the last round of cuts. So prove the doubters wrong. You hear me?”

  My eyes close for a moment and I nod. I feel Sam squeeze my hands in hers, then feel her lips on my cheek. When I open my eyes again, she’s standing up and walking toward the door.

  I only have a few more months to prove I belong here. Or all of this will be for nothing. Without access to the RT’s high-security clearance, I’ll never find Torres. And that murderer will walk free forever, my mother’s blood always on his hands.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “My calves are so sore from that run, I’m having serious problems moving.”

  “Who stole the latest US Weekly out of the library? You know that’s my guilty pleasure and I cannot live without it.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from them in weeks. They must be deep undercover on something.”

  “If we have to do one more hacking exercise, I’m going to die.”

  “I miss my grandma’s banana bread. I wonder when I’ll get to see her again.”

  I lean forward on the blue mat and grab at my toes, stretching my aching legs, surrounded by the seventeen remaining trainees. Their fragmented conversations swirl around me and I try to take them all in at once, like an insufferable poem that makes no sense.

  I look up from my stretch just as her daunting shape fills in the doorway. Director Browning stands at the entrance to the large training room, dressed in a gray pantsuit, a sapphire scarf draped around her neck. She almost never shows up in the middle of our training sessions. I know she watches us. But probably on camera or at the end of the day on digital playback with the other senior leaders. They’re always evaluating us, but rarely do they make their presence known.

  Her thin lips press together as she scans the room, looking for someone. Looking for one of us. My warm skin chills, bristling with alarm. Because I know whatever words are waiting on the other side of her tiny mouth are not good.

  Dad. My heart pulses wild beats against my chest. My father left on a new mission a few days ago. He wouldn’t say where he was going or when he’d be back. Just kissed me on the forehead and instructed me to “Be good.”

  The sag in her posture and the uncharacteristic concern in her gray eyes makes every cell pulse. Someone is about to receive some very bad news.

  Browning walks farther into the training room, her high heels echo against the polished cement floor, finally alerting the rest of the chattering trainees to her presence. Everyone quiets and swivels their head toward the sound we’ve all grown accustomed to fearing.

  Browning scans the room again, her eyes finally fixing on the center of the pack. On me.

  Please God. Please God. Please don’t say Reagan.

  “Cameron Conley,” her voice booms against the high ceilings.

  The tendons in my muscles relax and I’m immediately disgusted with my selfish sense of relief. My head turns to face my friend. Cam’s dark eyes widen, his chest rises but refuses to fall, a fearful breath trapped in his lungs. I reach out and touch his hand, just inches away from my own. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t feel it. My touch glides off of his skin as he pushes himself off the ground and makes his way through the crowd of twisted, stretching bodies.

  The other trainees turn toward one another, their lips forced together, their eyebrows raised, eyes wide and wild. Each face silently asking the same questions, expressing the same concerns. What’s going on? What happened? Poor Cam.

  Cam walks slowly across the gym, delaying whatever news is waiting for him, knowing his life will soon be divided by this moment in time. The life he knew before Browning said his name and the life that came after. I want to follow him. I want to hold his hand through whatever he’s about to hear. As Cam finally reaches Director Browning, she gives him a tight, forced smile and makes a sweeping motion toward the door. As they walk together in silence, she gingerly reaches up and touches him on the shoulder. That all but confirms it. She never touches us. Someone is either hurt or dead.

  * * *

  “Where do you think they took him?” Anusha says, leaning across my body to look at one of the digital alarm clocks on a metal nightstand in the boys’ dorm room. It’s 12:32. The three of us are huddled on Cam’s bed, skipping lunch to wait for any news. It’s been over an hour since Director Browning escorted him out of the training room and with each passing minute, I grow more fearful about this news’s degree of horror.

  “I don’t know,” I answer and shake my head. “Probably a secure conference room or something.”

  “Do we even know where his parents are at right now?” Luke asks on the other side of me, his knees bouncing anxiously. “I know we don’t know the mission, but do we even know where in the world they are? Does Cam even know?”

  “They could be anywhere,” I answer, pulling my arms closer to my body, suddenly cold. “They groom foreign targets into foreign agents and then meet with them periodically for briefings. They’ve got sources all over the world.”

  “Their agent could have turned on them. Been working for the other side all along,” Luke surmises, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the tops of his bouncing knees. The weight does nothing to tether their restless pulses.

  “Absolutely,” I answer and nod my head. “There’s always the danger of a double agent.”

  “Shit, I can’t stand this,” Anusha interjects and jumps off the bed. She rests her hands on the top of her head and paces in staggered lines in front of the row of bunk beds. “The not knowing is killing me. If something is wrong, I want us to be with him.”

  “Something is wrong,” a voice says from the doorway. Cam stands frozen, his body slumped against the door frame, his eyes glassy and staring past us. Luke and I stand up so quickly, we almost hit our heads on the metal bar of the bunk bed.

  “Cam, what’s going on?” I ask, my body moving swiftly across the room. In just a few steps, I reach him and grab his arm.

  “It’s my parents,” Cam says and shakes his head, still staring at nothing.

  “What happened?” Luke asks calmly next to me, grabbing on to Cam’s other arm, and together we shuffle him toward one of the beds.

  “They were in Ecuador,” Cam answers, his eyes still unfocused, his voice monotone and far away. “After they met their source, they were gunned down in an alley near their hotel.”

  “Are they alive?” Anusha asks quietly, kneeling at Cam’s feet, carefully touching his left kneecap.

  “Barely,” Cam answers, his eyes filling with tears. “Mom’s in an induced coma while they try to get some swelling down in her brain. We’ll know more about her in twenty-four hours. They say the doctors are cautiously hopeful. But Dad … he … he…”

  “What is it?” Luke asks, still holding on to Cam’s forearm.

  “He was shot in the back,” Cam answers, sucking in his full bottom lip, a tear breaking free from his eye. “Severed spine. He’ll never walk again. Never work again. Never be able to feed himself again. I know him. He’d rather be dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cam,” I offer, my throat thickening with familiar grief. “Do they have any idea who did this? Have they told you?”

  “They won’t tell me,” Cam says and shakes his head, his neck slowly swiveling toward me, his tears retreating and his eyes finally focused. “But I know who did this to them.”

  “Who?” I ask, the question escaping my lips in a thin whisper. That dark cloud of dread fills my body with my next breath, coiling around my lungs, because I already know the answer.

  “Torres,” Cam confirms through gritted teeth, anger burning behind his now tearless eyes. “I hacked into the files after they told me because I knew it was him. He has to be stopped, Reagan. That monster has to be stopped.”

  The ember at my core bursts into a series of tiny flames and m
y skin radiates heat.

  He has to be stopped. He has to be stopped.

  Cam’s words rattle against my brain as that fire pulses through my veins, scalding me from the inside out.

  This must end.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “You’ve got this,” Michael says, leaning over the treadmill and checking my time. “Keep that pace. And when you’re ready to sprint, tell me.”

  Every week, we have a timed mile run, and this week, I want to break 5:30. And with a quarter mile left to go, I think I might just do it.

  “Okay,” I squeak out, my breath strained by my quick pace. I look at my time on the treadmill: 4:25. I look back at Michael and give him the thumbs-up, the signal to increase my speed to a sprint. He increases my speed and the treadmill whines beneath me, moving faster and faster and faster.

  My tendons burn and want to tear apart but I keep sprinting. My heart is pumping so hard against my ribs I’m surprised Michael cannot hear it. My lungs struggle for breath as my feet pound and pound and pound. But I’m one of those lucky runners who gets a sick high from the pain. And as the endorphins in me surge, a smile crosses my face for the first time in days.

  “You’re gonna do it, Reagan.” Michael’s deep voice rises, bordering on giddy. “You’re gonna do it!”

  I pump my arms, careful to make sure they stay at my sides and don’t waste energy by crossing in front of my chest. I cannot feel my legs anymore, but at the last hundred meters, I sprint faster than I’ve ever sprinted before, my body cutting through the training room’s dense air, my lungs burning, my face scalding. I push my body through the last meter until I hit the one-mile mark. I glance at the time: 5:27.

  “Holy shit,” Michael exclaims, decreasing my speed before holding up his hand and giving me a high five. “You crushed it, Hillis!”

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice breathy, but my face still smiling. I take over the controls on the treadmill and lower the pace to a walking speed. “Thank you for cheering me on.”

  “Of course,” Michael replies, putting his hand on my sweaty shoulder. “Wow, 5:27. I’m gonna mark it down. The other trainers will be super impressed. I think that’s one of the lowest female trainee times ever. Now cool down and be sure to stretch.”

  “I will,” I call after Michael as he walks toward the far side of the room to jot down my time in the log book.

  “Nice job, Reagan.” Cam appears at my side, holding out his elbow to give me an elbow bump, which I return.

  “Thanks, man,” I say, hitting the stop button on the treadmill. “I never thought I’d hit that time.”

  I glance up at the clock. It’s already past ten p.m. and the training room is empty. I just want to sit and stretch and grab a shower before bed. But I can tell Cam wants to talk. He’s been scary quiet the last few days. Understandably. So if he wants to talk, I’m more than happy to listen.

  “So … how are you? What’s the latest?” I ask, taking a seat on the mat in the corner. Cam has told me bits and pieces since the attack. He all but begged for the Black Angels to let him fly down to South America to be with his parents but they said it was too dangerous. That they needed time to recover. That he still needed this important time to train. So it’s been business as usual for him. Through a fog of anger and helplessness, Cam’s completed every test that is asked of him. He’s showed up to every drill. He’s kept his head down and so we’ve tried to do the same. But we can’t help but keep an extra eye on him, handle our strong, ridiculously smart friend with kid gloves.

  “Mom’s awake and getting better,” Cam answers, easing his body down next to me. He leans his back against the wall, his eyes cautiously scanning the empty room. “The swelling in her brain has gone down significantly. Thank God the swelling was just from her hitting her head and not from a bullet. They expect her to be fine.”

  “And your dad?” I ask, biting at the inside of my lip.

  Cam takes a deep breath, processing all he’s been told. “Same. Once a bullet severs the spinal cord, there’s really not a whole hell of a lot that can be done. Browning told me they’re already looking for a full-time caregiver for him. He’s going to hate that.”

  Cam looks away from me, his fingers pinching at the insides of his palms, redirecting pain, swallowing the grief lodged in his throat. Over the last year, I’ve become more than a student in sadness. I’ve become an expert. I’ve come to know the subtleties and nuances of sorrow. The way a pair of caring eyes can sometimes make you feel worse. The way physical pain can momentarily relieve emotional pain. The old saying that time heals all wounds is bullshit. When you lose someone, or even lose a piece of them like Cam, your heart breaks and never truly heals. You carry the person you lost in those cracks. But in the other fractures, darkness can slip in, and sometimes, it refuses to let go.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, which I know will do nothing to diminish the anguish he carries in his gut, a twin to my own. But sometimes, those three words are the only ones you can say.

  “Thank you,” he replies, a solid standard answer that I came to adopt myself from the pitying comments and questions about my mom.

  “What’s going on with Torres?” I ask, trying to redirect his angst. “Anything new in the files?”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Cam says, his eyes turning up toward me. “Alone.”

  My body winces, prepping for what can only be horrible news. I glance around the room, making certain we are truly alone. “Okay. What is it?” I ask, lowering my voice.

  Cam pushes his lips together, staring down at the blue mat, like he hasn’t already practiced what he’s about to say to me in his head at least a dozen times. “I know you’re trying so hard to follow the rules and stay in line. I’ve debated all day even telling you this.”

  “What is it?” I ask, my body heated, fresh sweat pricking at the glands under my arms.

  “I accessed the Torres files last night,” Cam confesses and closes his eyes for a moment. “And I found a folder I had never seen before. One that was hidden the last time we hacked in. Something the Black Angels really, really don’t want anyone else to see.”

  My pulse pounds painfully against my neck, and my chest heaves, sucking in greedy breaths. My lips begin to tingle and go numb. I bite down on my bottom lip to stop them from becoming paralyzed.

  “Do you want to know?” Cam asks quietly. “I almost don’t want to tell you and get you involved or in trouble or anything, but I want to at least give you the option to say yes or no.”

  My heart constricts under the strain of conflicted emotions. I’ve been so obedient, so focused. Especially after my talk with Sam. I’ve been the perfect trainee. The ultimate team player. And I want to stay that way. I need that spot in the academy. Part of me wants to stand up, shake my head, tell Cam I don’t want to know. But that rage has never died. It’s been smothered out time and time again. I’ve held it down, pleaded for it to disappear. But still, its smoke rises. I have to know. Walking away feels like a betrayal. And I’d never betray my mother.

  “Tell me,” I finally say, moving my body closer to Cam’s.

  “Okay,” Cam says, inhaling the deep breath needed to pull out the heavy information. “A rival drug lord of Torres and his entire family in Peru were killed two weeks ago. The files show that the Black Angels knew about it, thought it could be Torres, but wanted to get a small team on the ground to confirm their suspicions before sending a proper team down there to apprehend him. And of course, they got confirmation too late. By that time, he was long gone.”

  “Wait, you mean he was actually on the ground with his little army?” I ask, leaning in closer to Cam. “He wasn’t in hiding. He was there and they let him get away?”

  “It’s not the first time it’s happened either,” Cam replies, his voice almost a whisper. His anxious eyes scan the room again. “Twice this year already, there have been rival killings that they suspected he was involved in. And each time, they reacted way too late and missed
him.”

  “What the hell?” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. Cam puts his finger to his lips, trying to quiet me, and I lower my voice. “God, this is so typical. I knew something like this would happen. This happened last year when my parents were kidnapped. They’re so concerned with following procedures and Directives, and they ignore their guts and their target gets away. This is bullshit.”

  My hands push my furious, shaking body off the ground and Cam’s hand reaches cautiously for my wrist.

  “Reagan, you cannot go to Sam or your father or any of the others,” he says, his eyes now worried. “They cannot know we hacked into these files. Because then that will be the end. For both of us.”

  “I’d never, ever do that to you,” I answer, my voice softening for a moment. “Never. I’m just sick of this garbage. Following the rules allows Torres to do whatever the hell he wants. How many Black Angels have to die or get injured before they actually do something about him? How many gallons of blood need to be spilled before they put an end to his lunacy?”

  “I don’t know,” Cam answers, shaking his head. “I just … I don’t want anyone else to go through what I’m going through right now. What you’ve gone through. This has to end. I don’t know how but we have to do something, Reagan.”

  Cam stares up at me, his dark eyes pleading. Take him down. Take him down.

  “We will.” As the promise leaves my mouth, my tongue feels cold because I fear the promise is an empty one. I’m desperate to find Torres. Desperate to put a gun to his skull and pull the trigger, watch the blood cascade down his face. Desperation can give you superhuman strength. But even so, I don’t know how to properly track him, how to end this now. I’m tired of waiting to become an agent. I can’t stand to watch another person die, to hear that someone else’s mother or father has been paralyzed at Torres’s hand. Cam is right. This must end.

  The ember at my core flares, scorching my blackened lungs.

  I can’t breathe with him alive. I can’t live with him alive.