You Won't Know I'm Gone Read online

  My legs carry me past the closed doors of the boys-only dorm room, the tiny single bedrooms of high-ranking CORE officers, and the gender-divided bathrooms. The communal bathrooms at CORE look exactly like the ones I saw during my college tour at Templeton except for one luxury. Next to the row of shower stalls is a large sauna. After hours in the compound’s martial arts studios, weight rooms, and training circles, a sore body needs some heat and steam.

  When I reach the girls’ dorm at the end of the hallway, it’s dark and empty. My hand feels along the cinder block wall for the light switch and flips it on. Twelve neatly made beds are lined up, ready for the influx of trainees for Qualifiers in June. As I scan the room, I’m surprised to see two duffel bags at the bottom of one of the bunk beds. Hmm. Who else is here?

  I cross over to the bottom bunk bed in the corner where I slept next to Sam before the Tribunal. My heavy bags fall to the floor with a duo of loud thumps as I collapse onto the mattress. The bed whines beneath my weight and the sense memory of that sound brings me back to my testimony in that chamber, the fight with my father. All the emotions I’ve clubbed and dragged and buried seep from that hollow spot in my stomach, and my head pounds as I push away the sorrow tickling at the back of my throat.

  “Well, hi there, roomie,” a voice greets me from the doorway. I look up to see a girl wrapped in a thick white bathrobe, her wet black ringlets cascading down both of her shoulders. I clear my throat and sit up on my bed as she crosses the room, holding out her hand to greet me. “I’m Anusha Venkataraman. I wasn’t expecting to see another trainee for at least a month.”

  “Hi, I’m Reagan Hillis,” I reply, sitting up straighter on the bed and shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, her palm calloused, but as she pulls away, I’m surprised by the elegant shape of her hands. Long fingers, short, smooth, manicured nails. My hands are nothing to write home about. Enormous palms and tiny, short, wrinkly fingers with cracking skin and jagged, picked fingernails. I instinctively pull them into the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

  Anusha sits down on the bed across from me, bringing a white towel up to her long hair. “So, what’s your story? I thought I’d have the room all to myself until June.”

  “Sorry to intrude on your seclusion,” I reply.

  “Oh no, I’m happy you’re here,” Anusha answers, rubbing her hair in between the terry cloth. “I got here late last night and was already a little afraid of being lonely. I got used to sharing a room in the air force.”

  “Air force?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  “Oh,” Anusha says, pointing her chin toward me. “You must be a Black Angel Legacy, right?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “My parents are … were … they’re on the Rescue/Take-down team. So, you’re not a legacy?”

  “I’m an EOP,” Anusha replies, switching the towel to the other shoulder of raven hair. A small smile parts her lips as my brows cinch together with continued confusion. “I can tell by your face you haven’t been briefed yet on the program.”

  My head nods in agreement and Anusha fills me in on a program I didn’t know existed. One the Black Angels started after 9/11. The trainee classes were dwindling as Black Angel couples (along with the rest of the nation) had fewer children. And with the rising tension and possibility of more terrorist attacks on US soil, the Black Angels instituted the EOP; the Exemplary Outsider Program. The leaders at CORE track the progress of cadets in each of the top military academies: the Air Force Academy, the United States Naval Academy, and, of course, West Point. Every year, CORE selects at least one promising student from each top school to join the Black Angel Qualifiers and try out for a spot in the training academy.

  “You must have been top of your class in the air force,” I reply.

  “I was doing pretty well,” Anusha says with a shrug. “Scored really high on all the exams. Beat out the rest of the cadets across all our skills testing. My dream has always been to be in the CIA. The EOP lets me bypass all of those steps, so the offer was hard to resist. Still, I had to think about it. Took me a few days to process it all.”

  “It’s a lot to give up,” I reply.

  “Yeah, it is,” Anusha says, throwing her towel over the side of the bed. “My mom and dad were both in the air force. That’s where they met. I always thought I’d follow in their footsteps, you know?”

  Anusha pulls herself off the bed and crosses the room toward a wall of dressers to get changed. I stare down at my duffels at the edge of the bed, my life now confined to this bunker and whatever fit inside those black bags. The center of my chest expands as I think about Harper and Malika. I wonder what they’re doing, what I’d be doing, in my former life. Dress shopping for the prom. Stressing over graduation parties. Getting excited for college. I lean my cheek up against the cool cinder block as my skin ignites, aching with memories I know I’ll never have.

  “So, you never told me why you’re here early,” Anusha says, pulling on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She turns back toward me as she knots her wet hair into a messy bun. “I thought legacies don’t arrive until June.”

  “Anusha, am I kicking your ass in pool or what?” a familiar voice calls from the doorway. I look up and see Cam leaning against the threshold. His face turns and finds my own, my body tucked away in the dorm’s farthest corner. “Oh, hey, Reagan. You’re back.”

  “You two know each other?” Anusha says, pointing back and forth between us.

  “We go way back,” Cam replies, giving me a wink. “Been in the trenches together, so to speak. Glad to see we both made it.”

  I nod, a silent understanding passing between us. Cam saw me at the edge of my most broken. A small, sad smile separates his lips and I know he won’t ask me again why I’m here or what I’ve done. Not until I’m ready.

  “Reagan, want to join us for a game of pool?” Cam says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. “I hear you’re good with a gun, but what can you do with a pool cue?”

  “I should probably get unpacked,” I reply, leaning forward to unzip one of my bulging duffel bags.

  “You sure?” Anusha asks, crossing the room and hanging her bathrobe on a wall hook between our beds. “I hear the chefs whip up some mean late-night snacks.”

  “No. I’m good.” I busy myself with pulling out sports bras, pajamas, and training gear. “Thanks. You guys have fun.”

  “Okay, but don’t fall asleep,” Anusha says, pointing toward me, her lips parting into a wide, easy smile. “We need to stay up and exchange life stories when I get back. I want to hear all about you.”

  “Sure,” I lie, wishing I had one of Sam’s hexagon sleeping pills to cast its thick fog over my bed before Anusha returns.

  “See you later, Hillis,” Anusha calls over her shoulder as she and Cam head down the hall.

  I stare at the empty doorway as I realize that’s the first time anyone has called me by my real last name. The first time someone has asked to get to know me. The real me. Easy lies no longer need to be prepared on the tip of my tongue. I don’t have to stare up at my bedroom ceiling on sleepless nights, imagining scenarios, planning out the falsehood I’d spin and story I’d create.

  Unexpected panic balloons first in my chest, then crawls up the back of my throat until its long, dark fingers rattle against my brain. The lies, the cover stories, the manufactured version of me is all I’ve ever known. The pretender was my shield, my security blanket. Without her, I’m just Reagan Hillis. And I have no idea who the hell that girl is.

  SEVEN

  Strong fingers grip at my neck. I attempt to suck in a breath but they clamp down harder, digging into my flesh. I try to pull away, but they claw into my skin, leaving behind flames in the form of fingerprints.

  A sense memory flashes. Black room. Angry eyes. Blood and death.

  Stop. Stop. Stop. I close my eyes and stifle the panic attack that haunts the hollow of my chest. My eyes flick open. Several faces stare back, waiting for me to make a move.

  An
usha’s fingers tighten and I don’t resist. I let gravity pull us closer together. It’s been months since I trained properly, but the robotic Reagan knows what to do. With one hand I punch her in the groin. With the other, I pull her head backward. Under normal circumstances, I should easily be able to slam her body onto the mat. But instead, it’s my back that echoes against the plastic, the contact forcing out every last pocket of air. My eyes widen and my mouth gapes open as I gulp a noisy breath into my burning lungs.

  “I’m so sorry, Reagan,” Anusha declares, rushing to my side and extending a hand down to me. I can feel my eyes narrowing, flashing frustration and annoyance, far more at myself than the air force cadet who laid me flat on my back in a room full of Black Angel operatives. My hand falls to my stomach instead of reaching for Anusha’s as I take in another desperate breath. I roll away from the disappointed faces, wishing I could curl up into the fetal position, go to sleep, disappear. After a moment and another breath, I pick myself up off the floor.

  “It’s okay,” I finally answer, my voice shaky and at half strength. Anusha touches me on my exposed shoulder and I have to fight the urge to roll it off. She’s been excessively kind to me over the last week since we both arrived for pre-training, while I’ve kept our conversations sparse and to the point. She must think I’m a total bitch, but she doesn’t show it. Maybe she’s been filled in on my mother, on the Tribunal. Perhaps her kindness is out of pity. Either way, she doesn’t deserve me pulling away, closing her out. But after living alone for six months, I’m not quite sure how to function. How to be human. Let alone be the real Reagan I so desperately wanted to be. For years, all I wanted was to stop hiding, to come out of the shadows. But now, I wear that darkness like a cloak. I wish for invisibility.

  Five foot eight and solid muscle, Anusha is as strong as they come. Even without the years of Black Angel training, she’s been kicking my ass during every workout. I’ve lost so much muscle mass since Colombia, I have yet to take her down. Break free of her grasp, yes, but slam her 165-pound body to the mat? No.

  Anusha and I join the semicircle of a dozen Black Angels around the mat and let another group take their turn in the middle. Weak and thin and unfocused, I’ve found myself flat on my back at least a dozen times this week. When our turn is over, I can’t help but hang my head, slink back to the circle, avoiding the agents’ stares. I know what they’re thinking. This is Reagan Hillis? What a disaster. Today I make the mistake of looking up. Each face reads the same. Grossly unimpressed.

  My eyes find the floor once again and stare into the cracking blue plastic. I follow the spidery veins up and down the mat’s weathered seams until I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” Cam says quietly next to me. “You’re getting better.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I answer with a snort. “I look like shit. I’m performing like shit.”

  “No,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Your technique is there. Your muscle memory is there. You just need to build up your strength.”

  “I’m worse off than I thought,” I reply, my voice hovering near annoyance, as I turn away from the two men practicing choke holds at the center of the mat. I walk toward the free weights, out of the operatives’ earshot, Cam and Anusha following a step behind me.

  “You’re getting stronger,” Anusha says as I reach for two twenty-pound dumbbells to begin my circuit training. “You really are. I see a difference already. You just need more training. We’ll help you.”

  “Yeah, we’ll train extra with you,” Cam agrees. “Really. We could use the extra workouts. We want to make the academy as much as you do.”

  Doubtful. If these two don’t make the academy, they’ll both be placed somewhere in the military or CIA or FBI. Their lives will go on. This is my one shot. My only way. If I miss my chance and Torres lives, I sometimes wonder how I still can.

  I watch myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as my biceps crunch the heavy weights toward my chest. My skin is definitely less gray, my cheeks are a little bit fuller (thanks to CORE’s chefs’ high-calorie, high-carb diet), and my body is beginning to regain a little of its shape following my unintended Despair Diet. But if I don’t get stronger soon, I’m screwed.

  “Thanks for the encouragement, you guys,” I say. “I’m just pissed that I let myself get like this.”

  “Tragedy will do that to you,” Anusha replies softly before quickly sucking her full lips in between her teeth. My eyes dart toward her face in the enormous mirror behind me as her brown eyes expand. They know.

  “Who told you?” I ask, forcing my voice to be as causal as possible despite the initial urge to be knife-sharp.

  Cam and Anusha share a look. After a few seconds, Cam finally answers. “We’ve heard bits and pieces around the compound.”

  “Which bits and pieces exactly?” I ask, dropping the weights on the floor. Despite the protective mat, they land with a crash that makes Anusha’s shoulders flinch.

  “Just that … that…” Anusha stutters before taking a breath and trying again. “That your mom died during a rescue mission in Colombia. One that you were on. That your automatic bid into the academy got revoked. And you had to face the Tribunal for some of your actions on the mission.”

  “You know, for being a bunch of top secret spies, the Black Angels sure do like to gossip,” I reply and reach for a thirty-pound dumbbell that I lower with both hands behind my head, my muscles straining and screaming under the weight of my triceps curl.

  “I’m really sorry about your mom,” Cam says, picking up weights of his own. I feel the nerve endings in my muscles clutch at the pity in his voice but push through the urge to full-out flinch. I never know quite what to say.

  “I’m so sorry too,” Anusha says, still standing behind me, watching as sweat begins to collect at my dark hairline. “I’ve heard from everyone she was great. Not just a great operative. But a great person.”

  “She was the best,” I answer flatly and desperately search for a way to change the subject. “So what’s your deal, Cam? You haven’t told me why you didn’t go back home after your Tribunal investigation?”

  “I don’t really have a home right now. My parents’ cover was about to be blown,” Cam answers, his words strained as he lifts the heavy weights over his head. “They had just been in the Middle East gathering intel from some of their sources. CORE was afraid we were being watched. I got woken up in the middle of the night, grabbed my go-bag, and we left.”

  “Been there more times than I can count,” I reply and put my weights back in their stand.

  “Yeah, me too,” Cam says as he gently brings the weights down to the floor. He stands back up, puts his hands on his hips, his chest rising with steady breaths. “Always hard to watch your life get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. I really liked our last stop.”

  “Where was that?” Anusha asks.

  “Stowe, Vermont,” Cam replies, his eyes tinting with melancholy as he remembers his picturesque—albeit fake—life. “I loved it. There nearly three years. Almost all of high school. I was on the football team. Had friends. A life. After we had to leave, I told my parents I didn’t want to start over again. I mean, high school’s nearly over. And since I was planning on attending the Qualifiers in June, I asked if we could stay here in DC. Let me finish high school online. Couldn’t stomach the thought of…”

  “Pretending.” I finish his thought as he trails off.

  Cam nods. “Where were you?”

  “I was in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. Same thing. Real friends. Real life.”

  Gone now, my mind whispers.

  “You guys just always leave in the middle of the night?” Anusha asks, lowering her body onto the floor behind us, pulling it into a stretch. “No warning or anything?”

  “Yup. If you want this life, get used to it,” I answer, my voice harsher than I meant it to be.

  “Do you ever get a chance to say good-bye?” Anusha questions.

/>   “Normally, no. We never get to say good-bye. We just disappear,” I answer and take a seat next to her on the mat. “But I begged them to let me send an email to my best friend in Ohio. I didn’t make a ton of friends at our other stops. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of her wondering what happened to me the rest of her life. After everything that happened, I think they felt sorry for me and bent the rules.”

  When we reached DC, the Black Angels had allowed me to send one final email to Harper. One stating that my mother had been killed in a car accident overseas on assignment and my dad was injured as well. That he was to be transferred to a different city as soon as he recovered. I wrote that I was sorry that there was no time to say good-bye, but that I would think of her and love her always. The agents stood over my shoulder as I typed out the detailed lies, the achingly personal truths. The minute I hit send, they deleted all of my Reagan MacMillan accounts and made me turn over my cell phone. I never got to see her response. Any trace of the girl I was in Ohio has vanished. Another splintered shadow. Another ghost. I wonder if anyone even notices I’m gone.

  “You guys miss the people you left behind?” Anusha says, reaching for her toes.

  “All the time,” Cam answers for us both.

  I nod slowly, my chest throbbing with homesickness. I miss Luke, but he’s so tied to the twists and turns of my tragedy that sometimes it’s hard to think of him, to wish for his presence in my life. He was there when it happened. He watched her die in my arms. And as much as I care about him, I’m sometimes afraid if I hear his voice, see his face, I’ll only remember her last moments in Torres’s basement.

  Harper is an escape. Thinking of her makes my head fuzzy with conflicting emotions, happiness and heartache tangled together. I miss dancing with her in the car and the sound of her singing voice, sweet and high and always in tune. I miss her wild hair and her sugar-and-lemon perfume and the way her arm felt when it hooked through mine.