You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 9

  As Anusha and I stretch in the corner, I regurgitate the history that was hammered into my head over the years.

  “America had always had spies, but they were disorganized, especially the elite spy sector,” I explain as I reach for my toes. “When President Eisenhower commissioned the building of the CIA headquarters, inside that budget were hidden funds to build a proper underground facility for America’s most secretive spy network. And to run this agency, Eisenhower chose an army lieutenant who was his special advisor during World War II. He helped him with everything. D-Day. Battle strategies. That man’s name was Lieutenant James Morgan.”

  “Oh shit,” Anusha says under her breath.

  “Lieutenant Morgan brought in his son to be one of the agency’s first directors and then that son brought in his son. And now, there is the latest Morgan descendant,” I answer and tilt my chin up at Lex across the track. “She’s not just a legacy. She’s the legacy.”

  “I’m sorry. Does being the legacy just give you a free pass to be a total bitch?” Anusha asks, unimpressed by Lex’s family history.

  “Absolutely not,” I answer and shake my head. “But it explains a lot. I mean, her family created strategies and ran missions that helped to end the Cold War. They’ve stopped a number of attacks that would have had devastating effects on the United States. I hate her. But Lex’s family members have been vital to the success of this agency and the safety of this country.”

  “But that doesn’t mean a girl like Lex will get a top spot in the Black Angels over someone who is truly deserving like you,” Anusha says.

  “It might,” I answer, looking down at my outstretched, aching legs. “It just might.”

  How could the Black Angels not give an RT spot to Lex Morgan? Her family members have walked these halls for decades. They’ve sacrificed normal lives to save millions more. Even with her horrible attitude and complete disregard for human decency, she’ll get in. She has to. And that means there’s one less spot, one less chance for me. Even if they took away Lex’s family advantage, that girl is highly talented and annoyingly strong. I’m nowhere near her level right now. And as I watch her perfect Black Angel body curve into a stretch, I can feel my one shot to kill Torres fading, and fast.

  The ember blazes in my stomach, its vengeful smoke polluting my lungs. My heart suddenly races and my chest seizes, and I feel like I’m a few breaths away from a panic attack.

  I need to get out of here.

  Despite the dizzy fog encircling my skull, I push myself off the ground and walk away from Anusha, Torres’s heartbeat gaining strength in my ear. It beats and beats and beats against my brain, like a ticking time bomb. Without me, the Black Angels may catch him. Bring him to the US to stand trial. Lock him away for life. But that’s not enough. Almost nothing will be enough. And my chance to see Torres’s cold, dead eyes diminishes with every mediocre race, every middle-of-the-pack test. I must get stronger, better, faster. Because average, even among the very best, might as well be dead last.

  THIRTEEN

  “No, Luke. Turn left,” I say and motion toward the next fake stoplight on the closed CIA course in the mountains of Virginia. “Let the team behind us pick the target up. We’ve been behind him too long. He’ll get suspicious if we follow him for much longer.”

  “You’re the boss,” Luke answers, pulling down on the turn signal as we approach the next light.

  “Team two,” I say into my earpiece. “We are making a left on Elm Street. Subject is still in a blue Honda Civic in the far right lane. We need you to pick him up.”

  “Picking up,” I hear Anusha answer from three cars behind us.

  “On it,” Cam echoes. He’s driving while Anusha plays strategic navigator, her eyes never leaving the target.

  Our first week of assessment was all physical: timed runs, endurance tests, obstacle courses, lifting measurements, martial arts maneuvers. Sixteen hours a day of this stuff. My strength is back to only 75 percent after Colombia, and holy crap—every muscle, every tendon, even my skin is rebelling with exhaustion. Thank God this week has let up a bit; still grueling training and tests but only half the time. The other half, we’re being tested on our strategy and intellect, and I’m finally hitting my stride (much to the dissatisfaction of Lex).

  Luke makes a far too cautious left onto Elm Street, his eyes still on our target.

  “Luke, you can’t do that,” I try to say as gently as I can, but my voice is tight with insistence. “Turning too slow makes you stick out. We need to remain hidden or the target is totally going to call us out and we’ll fail the test. You’ve got to swing the car like you normally would. You can’t do anything that draws attention to us.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” he says, nodding his head with frustration. I’ve had countless hours of training on surveillance from my parents and summer camps. But for Luke, this is all very new. “I’m sorry. This is just really bizarre. I feel like we’re shooting a movie or something.”

  The CIA built a small town in the middle of nowhere, Virginia, for secure training just like this. There are several different avenues and streets, but the buildings are hollow or even completely flat. It’s like maneuvering through the backlot of a Hollywood studio or Disney World or something. Still, CIA operatives and Black Angels have filled the streets with other cars and even fake pedestrians to make it feel as real as possible.

  “I thought we were supposed to do this test in Georgetown,” Luke says, glancing over at me.

  “I know. Me too,” I answer. “I guess they like to keep us on our toes. Okay, turn right onto Main Street up here so we can run parallel with them,” I instruct, pointing Luke toward the right-hand lane. I look in the side mirror, knowing there are Black Angel trainers tailing us, watching our every maneuver. I touch the talk button in my earpiece and say, “Team two, we are taking a right on Main Street and will pick you up after two blocks, copy?”

  “Copy,” Anusha answers. “But be advised, target is now making a right-hand turn onto Shirley Street. Repeat, Shirley Street. You’ll need to pick us up earlier.”

  “Copy that,” I say back into the earpiece, silently motioning to Luke to turn right on Main Street, but he can hear Anusha in his earpiece too and is already making his way toward the right-turn lane. I switch off the microphone on my earpiece so I can speak privately with Luke. “Crap, maybe I shouldn’t have had you turn earlier if he was going to turn so fast.”

  “No, that was the right move,” he reassures me, nodding his head. “We were getting too close to him. He would have flagged us soon and then we would have failed.”

  “Team one,” Cam says into my ear. “Be advised, target is parking on Shirley Street next to a park. This could be the drop. Request pickup.”

  “We’re on him,” I say as we turn onto Shirley Street. “Team two, check your mirrors. Can you see if he’s getting out of the car?”

  “Affirmative,” Anusha answers. “He is getting out of the car and approaching a small playground. He’s in a gray T-shirt and jeans. Black baseball cap. Sunglasses. Shaggy brown hair.”

  “Shit,” I whisper to Luke. “Okay, you’ve got to let me out as close to the park as you can, but without drawing attention to us. I just don’t want to lose him and miss the drop.”

  “Here, I’ll pull down the alley up here,” Luke says as he floors it down Shirley Street. I can see the park on the right-hand side and a man with his hands shoved in his pockets approaching the swing sets.

  “Stop, stop, stop. You’re going way too fast,” I reply and touch his arm, his tense hands gripping the steering wheel at 9 and 3, just like they taught us in driver’s ed. Luke releases his foot from the gas and we ease our way toward the alley, a block away from the park. I spot the target’s gray T-shirt and shaggy hair as Luke pulls up to the curb. Without saying a word, I jump out of the car as soon as it’s stopped.

  Once I shut my car door and start casually walking after the target, Luke says in my ear, “Reagan, I’m
going to circle the block and keep an eye on the target.”

  “Okay, but only circle once,” I say back and push a dark pair of sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “Pretend you’re looking for parking, but when you find a spot after the first circle, park.”

  “Copy,” Luke answers and I can hear his car engine fading as he pulls farther down the block.

  “Team, be advised I’m now crossing the street and going to walk along the south end of the park but I won’t enter it yet,” I say into my earpiece as I casually stroll across the street without taking my eyes off the target. Black Angel trainers and agents are playing the role of pedestrians on the sidewalk and I do my best to blend in with them.

  “Reagan, we are parking now one block over,” Cam says into my ear. “We will be there soon with backup.”

  “No, no, hang back, you guys,” I answer and shake my head. “I think the less people physically out here, the better. I’ve got this.”

  “Copy that,” Anusha says in my ear as I watch the target remove an envelope from the pocket of his jeans. He turns around, looking over his shoulder, scanning the pedestrians in the park and on the sidewalk. I immediately turn away. When I look back, he has turned around and is walking toward a large slide at an empty area of the playground. I press my talk button. “Target has removed an envelope and is now approaching a metal slide at my three o’clock. There are no other citizens in that section of the park. Looks like this is a lone drop.”

  “Copy,” Anusha and Luke both say at the same time in my ear.

  I circle around the opposite end of the park and head toward a fence where several young “couples” are paired up, peering into the park. I pick a spot and rest my elbows up on top of the chain-link fence. My head is pointed toward the swing set, but my eyes are staring straight at the target, hidden behind my dark sunglasses.

  The target stands next to the slide, his elbow resting on the hot aluminum. He looks over his shoulder once more then seamlessly tucks the envelope underneath before shoving his hands in his pockets, backing up and walking away.

  “Got him,” I say into my earpiece, still watching his large frame from behind my dark lenses.

  “Awesome. Don’t move in too fast, Reagan,” Anusha replies into my earpiece.

  “I know,” I answer and watch as the target walks out of the playground and toward his car.

  “Target is approaching his car,” I hear Luke say in my ear, parked somewhere nearby. My eyes follow his body as he approaches his blue car, climbs in, and pulls out of his spot.

  “Am I clear?” I ask my team.

  “No. Hold on,” Luke says, clearly watching the target closely. “Okay, go, Reagan. You’re clear.”

  My eyes scan the park one more time, making sure there is no one else ready to intercept the envelope. The trainers didn’t say anything about being on the lookout for a second target, but this is the Black Angels. You’d be stupid to not expect the unexpected.

  “Making my approach,” I say into my earpiece as I push away from the fence and walk toward the slide where the target stuck his envelope. “Thirty feet away. Twenty feet away. Ten feet away.” I update them on my progress. I reach the slide, feel for the spot with the envelope, and pull it away. “Got it.”

  “Excellent job, team,” I hear Jack, our surveillance and tactical trainer, say in my ear. “You are the only team to complete the surveillance test on the first try so far.”

  “Awesome work, guys!” Luke says in my earpiece and I can hear Anusha and Cam celebrating on the other end too.

  “Yeah!” I exclaim and throw my hands up in the air as I walk toward Luke’s car, now parked where the target’s used to be.

  “Reagan, fantastic leadership,” Jack says in my ear. “You really helped to steer the team in the right direction and keep everyone hidden.”

  “Thanks so much, sir,” I reply, breathing a sigh of relief. After my horrible performance last week, I’m elated to finally be excelling at something. “I really appreciate that. Everyone did amazing.”

  “Agreed,” Jack answers. “You were the last group. So you four can drive the practice cars back to base. Grab something to eat. You need to refuel before our last test tonight.”

  “Perfect,” I say and open the car door. Luke beams proudly at me as I climb into the passenger seat.

  “Freaking awesome, Reagan,” he says, opening his hand to me, inviting a high five. I hit my hand into his palm and hold it there for a second too long. My skin ignites, tingling like tiny champagne bubbles, as my fingers drag against his skin and pull away.

  There it is, my mind whispers. That unquestionable heat. I wasn’t sure if it’d ever return.

  When I’ve touched him over the last week, I’ve felt warmth. I felt care. But let’s be honest. I have so many emotions stacked on top of one another that it’s hard to breathe. Hate on top of hurt on top of sorrow on top of fury. So, love? I wasn’t sure if it was still in this car, still in me. It’s hard to find the good when you’re emotionally suffocating from all the bad. But as my eyes linger on his strong hands, I realize just how badly I want his fingers laced through mine. How much I need to feel that touch, that burn again.

  “I need food so badly,” Luke says, breaking my trance as he pulls out of the parking spot.

  “Uhh … yeah … yeah … same,” I stutter and shake my head to clear it. “And an ice cream sundae. Will you make one for me?”

  I like the way Luke makes my sundaes. Always have. When we lived in New Albany, he’d come up with the best creations. It was a little game we’d play trying to outdo his last wildly creative concoction.

  “Of course I will,” Luke says, pulling down Shirley Street, the Black Angel watchers directly behind us.

  “Do we get radio in these cars?” I ask and Luke flips on the radio to a classic seventies rock station. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” comes blasting through our speakers.

  “Yesssssss,” I say and Luke’s full lips separate into a wide smile, his dimples creased so deeply, they could hold pocket change. We both love all kinds of music but have a special place in our hearts for the rock bands of the seventies.

  “More than a feeling,” I jump in on the chorus.

  “Till I see Marianne walk away,” Luke sings.

  “I see my Marianne walkin’ away.” I belt out the last line of the chorus and then bend my fingers into a fierce air guitar, shredding my imaginary solo, my head banging and hair flying.

  Luke laughs and for a second, I forget where we are, what we’re doing, and the life that lies ahead of us. For the three-minute car ride back to base, it’s just us.

  FOURTEEN

  “Ready. Aim. Fire!”

  CORE’s firing range explodes with the rapid blasts of bullets. Twelve of us are lined up in the shooting range, two Glock 22 pistols in our hands, firing at a difficult target several hundred feet away.

  The explosions end. I count while I fire, so I know my clips are empty, but I can hear a few other trainees still pulling on the trigger, the click of an empty chamber giving them away.

  “All right, bring them forward,” Jules Puleri, our shooting instructor, shouts and the machines bring our paper targets forward for her to inspect. A former military sniper shooter, Jules was awarded several presidential medals before being recruited to join the Black Angels a decade ago. I’ve heard people say she’s the best shooter in the entire country.

  We put our weapons down and stand next to our dummies, bracing for Jules’s comments. I spy a look down the line. Several dummies are sprayed with bullets. Mine has two giant holes. One to the head, one to the heart.

  “Nice work, Mr. Conley,” Jules says as she inspects his target before moving on. “Mr. Weixel, getting better, happy to see that. Miss Venkataraman, you’re still all over the place. An extra hour of shooting tonight, please.”

  Anusha nods her head and examines her dummy. Some of her bullets didn’t even hit the target.

  “Lex Morgan,” Jules says as she
comes closer to my end of the shooting range. Lex’s green eyes widen as Jules gets closer, an expectant smile tickling the corners of her mouth, causing her lips to twitch under her restraint.

  “Yes, Agent Puleri?” Lex responds, her put-on voice slick with saccharine. I have to resist the constant urge to roll my eyes whenever Lex is around.

  Jules stands in front of Lex’s target, examining it from top to bottom before shaking her head. Lex’s face falls before the words reach her.

  “This is a joke, right?” Jules’s gravelly voice is wrapped in serrated blades, cutting through Lex’s overly confident demeanor. Which is fine by me; Lex has only grown more insufferable as the weeks of testing and training have gone on. “This is atrocious. You’ve seriously been shooting since you were seven?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I can shoot any type of weapon you throw at me,” Lex answers, her voice with an edge that borders on defensive. Uh-oh. Jules’s neck begins to change colors.

  “Well, I just gave you one of the easiest weapons in the world to shoot and you can’t shoot for shit, so let’s bring that confidence down a notch or two. Or twenty,” Jules declares, stabbing her finger through several bullet holes that didn’t come close to hitting the outlined target. “Three hours of extra shooting practice tonight.”

  “But, Agent Puleri,” Lex says, looking across the shooting range at the clock on the far wall. “It’s already ten p.m.”

  “Are you questioning me, Miss Morgan?” Jules’s voice swells.

  “No, ma’am,” Lex answers and shakes her head, her long, blond ponytail swaying back and forth.

  “Sure sounds like it,” Jules huffs. “You’ve been in Qualifiers for over a month. You should know by now when a trainer says something to you, the only response we want to hear is yes. There are no excuses at CORE. I don’t give a shit if you’re tired. I don’t give a shit if you’re hungry. No one put a gun to your head and forced you to be here, so if you want out, there’s the door.”