You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 7

  “Don’t worry,” I reply. “Girls like her get theirs in the end.”

  “You sure about that?” Anusha asks as we watch one of the other trainees remove her stuff from the bottom bunk so Lex can slide hers in. Lex looks over her shoulder at us, smiling triumphantly, as she claims her place in the Qualifiers hierarchy.

  Head bitch. Let the games begin.

  * * *

  I hear him before I see him.

  The rest of the girls have gone to lunch, but I opted for a big breakfast and the chance for one more training session before Qualifiers orientation this afternoon. Behind the closed door of our dorm room, I hear the clunk of boots, the scrape of heels in the hallway. I’m tying my shoes when I hear his long, confident stride. When you’re a Black Angel, you memorize weird things about people. Anyone can memorize a voice. But I know all the little pieces that make him whole. The way he bites his cheek when he’s pensive. The way his voice rises an octave when he thinks I’m full of crap. And I know his walk. I’d listen for it as I sat in class. I’d smile when I’d hear it down the hall, knowing I’d see his face in a matter of seconds. But the sound of his distinctive cadence in the hollows of CORE stop me cold.

  It can’t be. It really can’t be.

  My neck slowly swivels toward the door, my lungs burning under the weight of anticipation as the footsteps get closer and closer then stop in front of the door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Come in,” I say, the words barely escaping my swelling throat. After a second, the door opens and there he is, a smile parting his full lips and crinkling his dimples, and I can’t remember seeing a lovelier sight.

  “Luke?!” I whisper, my lips trembling, tears burning my eyes. I blink hard, certain that when I open my lids the sight of him will be a cruel mirage. But when I open my eyes, he’s still there, standing in my doorway. Before he can speak, my feet take off running. I jump into his arms, my limbs flailing and hair flying, getting caught between our lips as he laughs and I begin to cry into the curve of his shoulder.

  “Hi, Reagan,” Luke says, softly stroking my hair as I wipe my tears away.

  “Am I hallucinating?” I ask, pulling myself away from his strong body so I can look at his face. I hold his warm cheeks in my cold hands. “Are you real?”

  “I’m real,” he whispers back.

  “I’m so confused,” I reply, taking a step back, both hands rising to my forehead. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Is your family okay? Are you okay? Is everyone safe?”

  “One question at a time,” Luke answers with a smile, pulling me in for another hug. I breathe him in. Cinnamon gum and body wash and something new, something I don’t recognize. I wrap my arms around his waist and let him hold me. I take in all the things I’ve been missing. The weight of his arms and curve of his defined chest. His sweet breath against my neck. The beat of his heart in my ear. I close my eyes, thinking back to all the nights at the safe house I prayed to a God I’m not even sure I believe in to let me see him one more time. To hear his voice just once. Even if it was a phone call telling me he was okay. And now here he is, his warm body enveloping mine, filling a small part of the aching emptiness that has hollowed me out. I squeeze him again and silently say thank you to whoever answered my selfish prayer.

  “Okay, what is going on?” I ask, pulling out of our embrace, too ravenous with curiosity to hug him for a second longer. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I’ve been so, so worried. Where have you been? Why are you here?”

  “Let’s just start at the beginning,” Luke says, taking my hand and leading me over to one of the empty bunk beds.

  Luke tells me that the Black Angels feared for both of our lives after Colombia. We were the faces captured by security cameras. We were the ones who killed Torres’s brother. We were that monster’s best targets for revenge. And that wasn’t just speculation. CORE intercepted messages about a plan to find and kill us in the States. So when Luke was escorted off the plane in Virginia, he had a choice to make: be reunited with his parents and sister and immediately force his entire family into hiding, or spare them the danger, go into hiding by himself, and join the Qualifiers in June.

  “I didn’t want my family to face that kind of threat,” Luke continues, his forearms leaning over his knees, his face tilted toward the floor and eyes shielded from me. But I can still see the pangs of distress, the torture of his choice on his face. “I didn’t want my little sister to have to live in fear. It didn’t seem fair. So I chose to go live in a safe house in New Hampshire. Had round-the-clock security. Finished high school online. And now I have the chance to join the Black Angels through the EOP. They said they normally only hold spots like that open for cadets who have finished their freshman year but since I had already proved myself on the mission, they wanted to give me an early shot.”

  “Luke, I’m so sorry you had to make that choice,” I reply, putting my hands on top of his, a guilty knot twisting in my stomach at the thought of Luke alone in New Hampshire, torn away from his family and his friends and the life we both loved. He wasn’t born into this darkness. He had a chance at a different life.

  “It is what it is,” Luke replies with a shrug, still avoiding my eyes.

  “This is my fault,” I say, my voice ragged and thin.

  “No, it’s not,” Luke says, shaking his head. “I followed you to Colombia. I followed you into that house. You tried to keep me away, keep me safe. It was my choice to go. And my choice to be here now. And you know what … I’d do it all over again.”

  He slips his hand through mine and squeezes it three times. I squeeze back and try to smile, try to be happy that he’s here. Because I am. But I can’t shake the guilt that’s pulsing through my veins, metallic and cutting. The lives I’ve altered and futures I destroyed that night in Colombia. Luke had a plan. He was supposed to be a West Point cadet. Serve his country. Follow in his father’s military-boot-sized footsteps. Luke was not supposed to live a life of isolation. He was not meant to trade in his pins and accolades for a career in the shadows. His dreams are gone. The life he wanted stripped away. By Torres. By me. And how do you even start to say you’re sorry for that?

  TEN

  “I think we’re supposed to be in here,” Anusha says, gently pulling at my arm and guiding me from the East Hall into one of the secure conference rooms. A few trainees are already inside sitting in high-back leather chairs that line a long, dark, wood conference table. They look up when we walk in and almost immediately return to staring at their hands, their laps, the shiny tabletop veneer in silence.

  “Friendly,” she whispers and I stifle a giggle.

  We grab a pair of chairs at the far side of the room, waiting for our first official meeting as trainees to begin.

  “Are you nervous?” Anusha leans over and whispers.

  “A little bit,” I answer quietly back, but in reality, my stomach is filled with a thousand lead-winged butterflies. “Are you?”

  “I might throw up or shit my pants. Or both,” Anusha whispers and I bite down on my lower lip to stop my laughter from shattering the silence.

  “Have you given any thought to which team you want to be placed on?” I ask her quietly.

  “You mean if I even make it past Qualifiers?” Anusha asks as she shifts awkwardly in her seat, her eyes lacking their usual confidence.

  “I’ve seen you,” I answer back. “You’ll make it.”

  Anusha is everything the training academy would want. Strong, smart, and flush with raw talent, the trainers can mold her into the exact type of agent they need. But more than that, she has a military pedigree. She’ll actually obey the Black Angels’ every order while I’m still given the side-eye everywhere I go. Insubordinate. Combative. Reckless. The adjectives used to describe me may not be said out loud, but they’re written on every face. Legacy status or not, I’ve got a long way to go in proving I belong here.

  “One of the trainers told me with my military bac
kground I may be good at Forward Logistics,” Anusha answers, tightening the band around her ponytail. “Do all the advance scouting and intel. Establish operations ahead of missions, bank accounts, housing, all that stuff. But it kind of sounds like bitch work to me. I think I’d rather be doing Counter Intelligence or Rescue/Take-down, but we’ll see how much I suck.”

  “You won’t suck,” I reply. “You were chosen for a very good reason.”

  “Well, I’m no Reagan Hillis,” she whispers, arching her perfectly sculpted dark eyebrows over her light brown eyes. “I guess I didn’t realize how legendary you were before I went to lunch earlier today.”

  “Oh, lovely,” I reply and roll my eyes.

  After years of secret identities, this was one of the first times I could actually introduce myself as Reagan Hillis. But with each hand I shook, an unconscious tug at my tongue stopped me from saying my full name. Until Lex pressed me, I didn’t say my last name out loud to even one trainee.

  Anusha touches me on the arm and whispers, “What?”

  “Nothing, it’s just…” I begin but my voice trails off.

  “What? Were you hoping you’d be anonymous here?”

  “I don’t know,” I say and cross my arms over my chest, anxiety coiling around my already heavy stomach. “I mean, why does everyone know who I am and I don’t know any of them?”

  “That’s what happens when you’re the best,” Anusha whispers, tapping playfully at my wrist with her fingertips. “They’ve all been measured up to you their whole lives.”

  “By who?”

  “Trainers, their parents, people at CORE.”

  “Great, no wonder no one wanted to talk to me after lunch. They’ve probably all hated the sound of my name since they were eleven years old.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have,” Anusha says, putting her hand to her chest, shaking her head, almost offended. “I would have just let it motivate me. But be careful. I know there’s more than a few who will be gunning for you.”

  “Perfect,” I say and play with the knotted-up cord of my sweatshirt. Just what I need: the leaders at CORE, my father, and now 80 percent of the trainees all against me.

  When I was thirteen and having a particularly tough time at whatever new school, new life I’d been thrown into, I’d lie in bed every night, stare at my dark ceiling, and dream about going to the academy. I envisioned doing everything with my Black Angel friends that I never got to do with kids on the outside. They will understand me, I used to tell myself. I can be Reagan Hillis with them. I’ll never have to lie. Never once in my daydreams did I imagine sitting among people who not only knew, but actually shared my deepest secrets, and still feel so alone.

  “Reagan … they wanted to know why you’re even in Qualifiers,” Anusha whispers as more and more trainees file into the room. “Lex was peppering me with questions. Said the two of us looked close and I had to know the truth.”

  “And did you tell them?” I ask, worry altering my voice.

  “Of course not,” Anusha answers quietly, her sincere eyes meeting mine. “I would never.”

  My lungs pull in a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm me down. My chest collapses with an even deeper sigh. “I guess it doesn’t matter. They’ll find out about Colombia and Torres and Mom soon enough. But thanks for buying me a little time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Anusha whispers, bumping her elbow into mine. “I’ve got your back, Reagan. Whether you want me to or not.”

  The muscles in my mouth twitch, forcing a small smile. I look up at the door as Luke walks into the room. He spots me, waves, and makes his way in our direction. Introductions are made, hands shaken. Luke grabs the seat next to me and automatically rolls it closer, the wheels scratching along the stained concrete.

  “How are the guys in your dorm?” I ask softly. People are finally beginning to talk but I don’t feel like broadcasting our conversation.

  “I haven’t met them all yet but they seem cool,” he answers and nods his head. “How are the girls?”

  “Uhhh … too early to tell,” I reply with a shrug. “But apparently they were all talking about me at lunch. Trying to figure out why I’m here instead of at the academy.”

  “Don’t worry about them.” Luke shrugs, unconcerned. “It’s just first-day jitters. You’ll be fine.”

  Three loud claps interrupt the low hum of chitchat as Blue Scarf enters the room.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.” Her voice booms, attempting to quiet remaining whispers. I study her as she stands at attention, staring at us until she has absolute, complete silence. She’s in black pants, black heels, a thin black sweater, and a sky-blue scarf. This lady really likes her blue scarves. I kind of want to break into her room and ransack her closet to find out just how many she has.

  Blue Scarf takes three large steps to her left and stands directly in front of two guys who are still whispering to each other, burning holes into the sides of their heads until they shut up. Blue Scarf looks down at her watch. She shakes her head, disapprovingly, and launches into a lecture.

  “Not good at all. It took a full seventeen seconds for this room to quiet down not only after I walked in, but after I commanded your attention. That is the type of behavior I expect out of kindergartners. Not Black Angel trainees. This is not high school. This is not college. This is a tryout for the most elite and powerful spy agency in the world. Lesson number one: when a senior leader of CORE, or anyone with rank over you for that matter, walks into the room, you shut the hell up. You stop whatever conversation you’re having and you give us your attention immediately. If that’s too hard for you to do, then there’s the door and good luck to you.” Blue Scarf waves her hand in front of the open doorway, her eyes searching the room, daring someone to get up. No one moves. No one breathes.

  “My name is Victoria Browning,” she says and the formal name fits her stiff, elegant, slightly bitchy face. “But you will address me as Director Browning. I am one of the senior leaders at CORE and will be helping to oversee all of your training and your development. Basically, I will be a crucial person to impress because I decide your fate.”

  Browning’s eyes find mine and the muscles in my back wince, forcing my spine into a perfectly straight line. Fantastic.

  “First things first. Qualifiers is a year-long tryout,” Blue Scarf … I mean, Director Browning, continues. “Your first few months will be spent here at CORE where we will assess you on everything from your physical strength, your weaponry skills, and your martial arts training, to your strategic thinking and intelligence. If you don’t meet our standards, you will be cut after the first round. Those who remain will rotate through all four of the primary leadership teams: Forward Logistics, Counter Intelligence, Intel Technology, and Rescue/Take-down. After your year at Qualifiers, we will decide who will receive an invitation to the prestigious training academy. Make it through the academy and we will place you on the team you best fit. You do not get to choose. From this day forward, your life belongs to the Black Angels. Do you understand?”

  We nod our heads in fierce unison as Browning goes over the list of strict rules: No leaving the compound without permission. No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. Ten p.m. curfew. Lights-out at midnight. No phone calls except to our parents (and only once a week). No speaking out of turn in front of trainers or operatives. And absolutely no dating.

  “We know what happens when twenty-four young, athletic teenagers come together. But this rule is firm. We do not want you distracted during your time at Qualifiers,” Browning adds, placing her fingertips on the polished wood table. “Training should be your first and only priority. Clearly we encourage dating after Qualifiers, otherwise many of you legacies wouldn’t be sitting here. But while you’re a trainee, we better not catch you doing anything you wouldn’t want to do in front of your parents. Do we understand one another?”

  I nod, perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm, my lungs swelling with relief. Whatever is happening between Luke and me, it
doesn’t need to be defined because it’s forbidden. At least for the next twelve months. My head can barely compute that he’s actually here, let alone how I feel about him after all these months apart. A big, fat question mark is just fine by me. I try to catch Luke’s reaction in my periphery. He doesn’t look nearly as pleased.

  “Your first physical assessment begins tomorrow morning at six a.m. Be late and you’ll have points deducted from your overall score. Not to mention, you’ll have to do extra chores around CORE. I hope all of you enjoy scrubbing toilets.”

  A few boys in the corner groan but stop as soon as Browning’s eyes dart across the room.

  “If you thought training with your parents was intense, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Director Browning says, clasping her hands together, a rigid smile cutting across her severe face. “Take a look around the room.”

  The trainees look to their left and right, eyeing one another, some with fear, some with arrogance, a few with both.

  “There are twenty-four of you sitting in this room,” Director Browning continues, pointing to the table.

  “In three months, at least a quarter of you will be gone. And even if you make it through to the next round, we reserve only three spots on each of the four teams in the training academy. Now, you all have genius-level IQs and know how to multiply. So yes, your math is right. Only half of you will make it onto an elite squad. The other half will either be cut or be assigned a desk job at CORE or one of our other compounds. So unless you want to be downloading satellite photos or doing research in this dungeon for the rest of your life, I suggest you do your very best, every single day. Even when you think no one is watching, we are. Everything counts here. Am I clear?”

  Everyone in the room nods in silence, terror etched on every trainee’s face. Most of us have been training to be Black Angels since we were kids. We’ve given up sports and ballet and dances and sleepovers, spent every waking hour learning languages and martial arts and mastering knife skills and weaponry. All of us want a spot.