by Sonja Stone
Text copyright © 2018 by Sonja Stone
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Stone, Sonja, author.
Title: Dark divide / by Sonja Stone.
Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2017] | Summary: “Nadia Riley and her team are back for another semester at Desert Mountain Academy, the covert CIA training school, where Nadia finds herself in ex-recruit and traitor Damon Moore’s deadly sights”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016058465 | ISBN 9780823438365 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Boarding schools—Fiction. | Undercover operations—Fiction. | Spies—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Kidnapping—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S755 Dar 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016058465
Ebook ISBN 9780823438969
v5.3.1
a
To Jude, for valor
To Kaitlyn, for honor
To Morgan, for strength
And to Hannah Duncan,
for tenacity, eloquence,
fairness, and justice
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1: Nadia Riley Thursday, March 2
Six Weeks Earlier
2: Nadia Sunday, January 15
3: Damon Moore Sunday, January 15
4: Nadia Sunday, January 15
5: Simon Hawthorne Sunday, January 15
6: Nadia Sunday, January 15
7: Jack Felkin Sunday, January 15
8: Nadia Sunday, January 15
9: Libby Bishop Sunday, January 15
10: Nadia Monday, January 16
11: Alan Cohen Monday, January 16
12: Nadia Tuesday, January 17
13: Simon Tuesday, January 17
14: Nadia Wednesday, January 18
15: Damon Wednesday, January 18
16: Nadia Wednesday, January 18
17: Jack Wednesday, January 18
18: Nadia Thursday, January 19
19: Alan Thursday, January 19
20: Nadia Friday, January 20
21: Simon Monday, January 30
22: Nadia Friday, February 3
23: Damon Saturday, February 4
24: Nadia Saturday, February 4
25: Libby Saturday, February 4 (Twelve Hours Earlier)
26: Nadia Sunday, February 5
27: Simon Sunday, February 5
28: Nadia Sunday, February 5
29: Alan Sunday, February 5
30: Nadia Monday, February 6 (40 Minutes Earlier)
31: Damon Monday, February 6
32: Nadia Monday, February 6
33: Jack Monday, February 6
34: Nadia Monday, February 6
35: Alan Monday, February 6
36: Nadia Monday, February 6
37: Libby Monday, February 6
38: Nadia Monday, February 6
39: Damon Monday, February 6
40: Nadia Tuesday, February 7
41: Simon Tuesday, February 7
42: Nadia Wednesday, February 8
43: Damon Thursday, February 9
44: Nadia Friday, February 10
45: Damon Sunday, February 12
46: Nadia Monday, February 13
47: Libby Tuesday, February 21
48: Nadia Tuesday, February 21
49: Libby Tuesday, February 21
50: Nadia Tuesday, February 21
51: Simon Tuesday, February 21
52: Nadia Wednesday, February 22
53: Libby Wednesday, February 22
54: Nadia Thursday, March 2
Right Now
55: Nadia Thursday, March 2
56: Damon Thursday, March 2
57: Nadia Thursday, March 2
58: Jack Thursday, March 2
59: Nadia Thursday, March 2
60: Simon Thursday, March 2
61: Nadia Thursday, March 2
62: Jack Thursday, March 2
63: Nadia Thursday, March 2
64: Damon Thursday, March 2
65: Nadia Thursday, March 2
66: Damon Thursday, March 2
67: Nadia Thursday, March 2 (10 Minutes Earlier)
68: Damon Thursday, March 2
69: Nadia Thursday, March 2 (2 Hours Earlier)
70: Alan Friday, March 3
71: Nadia Friday, March 3
72: Libby Friday, March 3
73: Nadia Friday, March 3
74: Damon Saturday, March 4
Three Months Later
75: Nadia Friday, May 26
76: Damon Tuesday, May 30
77: Nadia Friday, June 2
Acknowledgments
Minutes before committing her third felony of the semester, Nadia enters the lobby of the Scottsdale Ritz-Carlton and immediately turns right, following the predetermined route down the marbled hall. She lowers her chin as she passes reception to avoid the sightline of the cameras mounted above the desk.
At the bank of elevators, she waits for a vacant car. As she’s reaching for the button to the seventh floor, an elderly man in a dark suit catches the door. Nadia stalls as he makes his selection.
He presses eleven, then turns to her. “And for you, miss?”
“Twelve, please,” she says.
Thirty seconds later on the twelfth floor, Nadia exits the elevator and walks silently toward the stairs. She pushes through the heavy door, then jogs down five flights to the seventh floor.
Before leaving the stairwell, she leans against the wall to catch her breath. Her stomach feels like a snarled fishing line, though her nerves have nothing to do with the mission. She sighs and pulls open the door.
Around the corner at room 760, Nadia slides her keycard into the lock. The lock flashes red and beeps twice. She tries again—still no luck. The third time she slows, carefully inserting the card. A single beep chimes as the light on the lock flashes green. She cracks the door.
“Housekeeping,” she softly calls. No one answers, so she slips through.
Inside the room a thick duvet covers the king-size bed. A chocolate rests on each pillow. A small toiletries kit sits on the dresser, a metal briefcase on the bed, a half-empty suitcase opened on the valet stand.
Clever details. Whoever staged the mission did a nice job lending authenticity with the personal items.
Nadia retrieves the memory card from her purse. Her op-specs instructed that she hide the tiny device in the target’s possessions, preferably somewhere he’ll never look.
She moves to the suitcase on the valet. Running her fingers over the fabric lining reveals the perfect spot—between the plastic back and the metal support bar. She unzips the silk, wedges the storage card into place, and reseals the zipper. The knot in her stomach loosens slightly.
Back at the door, Nadia checks the peephole. A man with a shaved head walks toward her room from the direction of the elevators.
She steps away and taps her ear, bringing her comms to life. “Boy Scout, traffic in the hall. I’ll be down in ten.”
Jack’s voice resonates in her ear. “Copy that. See you soon.”
A moment later she leans in for another look, but the peephole’s gone dark—something obstructs her view. It takes her a second to realize someone’s at the door.
A keycard slides into the lock. Her heart flies to her throat as the door beeps twice—red light.
Bathroom, shower, under the bed. The options race through her mind.
The plastic card slides into t
he lock again, then a single beep.
The knob turns. He’s coming in.
Closet.
Nadia slips inside and pulls the slatted doors closed. She holds her breath as he enters the room, then curses herself for not throwing the deadbolt.
A thunk as he moves the briefcase from the bed onto the dresser.
Her eyes widen as she strains to hear over the pounding of her heart. She runs through possible scenarios: she’s in this man’s room; he came home earlier than expected. But it’s a mock mission—she assumed the school booked a room just for this exercise, that the suitcase and toiletries kit were props. Why would they have her break into a civilian’s room and plant something in his luggage?
The ironing board hanging in the closet presses painfully against her back. As she shifts her weight, the board brushes the wall. She freezes.
The scent of his cologne hits her a second before his shadow darkens the door. His hand reaches for the knob. He opens the closet.
His face registers surprise, then…what? Recognition?
Six feet, shaved head, broad shoulders, slightly crooked nose. Pale skin, light eyes—blue, maybe. Black t-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Late twenties, muscular, handsome.
Totally normal.
Except for the gun pointing at her heart.
SIX WEEKS EARLIER
Nadia Riley lowered the car window as her chauffeur pulled up to the gatehouse outside the block wall surrounding Desert Mountain Academy. An armed guard stepped forward with a clipboard and a retinal scanner. After verifying the driver’s ocular print, the guard waved them through the iron gates.
After a wintery month-long break in Virginia, the lush grounds were a welcome sight.
Eight buildings were arranged in a semicircle around the outskirts of a sloping lawn, which stretched to the edges of the impenetrable wall encircling campus. Flowerbeds packed with violet and yellow pansies ran along the horseshoe-shaped sidewalk in front of the buildings. Hopi Hall, home to the administrative offices, stood at the lower right of the hill.
Her driver followed the single paved road into the parking lot at the far side of the building, where he drew to a stop.
Nadia took a deep breath as she stepped from the black sedan. Lemon blossoms scented the temperate air with a sweet perfume, and the afternoon sun filtered through the palm trees and danced across the wide stone steps leading to the entrance of Hopi Hall.
“I’ll drop your bags at security,” her driver said. “We’ll deliver them to your room after they’ve been searched. If you’re ready to relinquish your cell phone, I can take that, too.”
“Oh, right.” Nadia fished through her bag. Desert Mountain Academy allowed minimal unsupervised communication with the outside world. Cell phones were forbidden, the hall phones were tapped, laptops were subject to search and tracking, and—above all else—students were strictly prohibited from discussing the true nature of the Academy with anyone—parents included. Recruits who didn’t last were treated to a week-long “deprogramming session” before returning to the outside world. Nadia wasn’t sure what that entailed, but was fairly certain she didn’t want to find out. “Let me just text my mom so she knows I’m here.”
A few seconds later, Nadia powered down her phone and handed it over.
“Looks like she’s ready for you.” He gestured toward the steps of Hopi Hall as Ms. McGill, the dean’s assistant, pushed through the massive wooden doors.
“Miss Riley, welcome back.” Ms. McGill hurried down the steps.
“Thank you,” Nadia said. “How was your holiday?”
“The dean of students wants to see you right away.”
I guess that’s enough small talk. “Right, we have a new dean.”
“Of course we have a new dean. You nearly killed the last one.” Ms. McGill gave her a closed-lipped smile.
Nadia frowned. Was that supposed to be a joke?
Ms. McGill continued. “Her name is Dean Shepard, and she’s quite eager to meet the young woman who saved our school.”
“That seems like an overstatement,” Nadia said, trailing the assistant up the stairs.
“Don’t be modest; you’re a hero. Enjoy the celebrity while you can.” Ms. McGill pulled open the carved wooden door. “Because it never lasts.”
Nadia paused briefly inside the foyer as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She ran a hand over her dark, wavy hair, then followed Ms. McGill down the tiled hall.
The dean’s sitting room looked untouched, precisely as it had last semester. A pair of leather chairs sat near the unlit fireplace. Behind her, glass-covered bookshelves lined the wall like sentries. Across the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealed distant Phoenix nestled in the valley to the right, and to the left, low mountains covered with rust-colored rock and sage-green cacti.
“Go ahead.” Ms. McGill gestured to the closed door on their right. “I’ll confirm that your uniforms have been delivered to your room.”
Nadia cleared her throat and stepped forward. The brass nameplate bolted to the door no longer read THADIUS WOLFE. Instead, printed in strong block letters, was SOPHIE SHEPARD. Nadia knocked. A moment later the door opened.
Dean Shepard’s red hair, styled in a pixie cut, flattered her delicate features. She wore a cream-colored skirt and matching blazer, tailored to precision for her petite frame.
“Nadia, welcome back. I’m Dean Shepard. Let me be the first to say thank you for all you’ve done for Desert Mountain Academy. Won’t you please sit?”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Nadia moved into the middle of the room and immediately regretted it. She stiffened, her eyes sweeping from corner to corner. The office had been completely redecorated in a Southwestern theme: a large, rustic desk, brown leather chairs for guests, a deep red rug with textured waves of wheat and gold. Automatic shades for the window, enough to block the light but not the view.
The corner to her right: that’s where she’d found Jack’s body. In front of the desk: that’s where she’d stabbed Dean Wolfe. Between the guest chairs: that’s where her heart had stopped.
“Is something wrong?” Dean Shepard asked.
“It’s just…the last time I was in this office, I got shot.”
“Well, let’s see how the conversation goes.” Dean Shepard smiled and gestured to the chairs. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
Nadia laughed and picked the chair on the left. Dean Shepard returned to her seat on the far side of the desk.
“I understand you had an exciting first semester,” the dean said. “Naturally I’ve been briefed, but can you tell me your version of the events that transpired?”
“My version?” Now her back was to the open door. Was it too late to switch seats?
“Everyone filters life through their own experience.”
“I guess so.” Nadia took a deep breath. “Basically, the CIA had intel that a new recruit—one of the juniors here—was a double agent, but that’s all they knew. The double turned out to be Damon Moore, one of my teammates.” Pause. “Do you mind if I close the door? It feels a bit drafty.”
“Not at all.”
Nadia shut the door. “Where was I?”
“Double agent.”
“Right.” She sat back down, the image of Damon filling her mind. His broad shoulders, his dark brown skin. His beautiful smile and unwavering gaze. He had, at one point, been one of her best friends. Or so she’d thought. “He was working for an organization called the Nighthawks, and he tried to frame me as the double. His on-campus handler was Professor Hayden, our political science teacher. Dean Wolfe was also a Nighthawk. I figured it out, Dean Wolfe shot me, and I stabbed him with a poisoned pen. I think that’s about it.”
“Why did you confront Dean Wolfe?”
“I didn’t have a choice. He was holding my team leader hostage.” Referring to Jack Felkin as her team leader felt a little dishonest—a lie of omission. But he wasn’t her boyfriend, either, and she wasn’t about to launch into the whole we�
�re-thinking-about-trying-a-relationship thing.
“Your actions were quite impressive for a first-year recruit.”
Nadia shifted in the chair. “I didn’t really think it through.”
“You have good instincts.”
Or I’m reckless and impulsive. “Thank you.”
Dean Shepard sat back in her chair. “Well, I’m here this semester serving as the interim administrator as a favor to Director Vincent.” The head of the CIA. “Normally, I run the postgraduate CIA training program at The Farm near Williamsburg, Virginia. I’m sure you’ve heard of it; it’s not a black-ops site.”
“I have. So you’re a former agent?”
“Officer, technically. And current, not former.”
“That’s incredible,” Nadia said. “What a great opportunity for us.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I’ll be implementing several new programs this semester. I think you’ll find the new curriculum both challenging and exhilarating.”
“I look forward to it,” Nadia said.
“Will you be checking your shoulder bag with security, or would you like me to inspect it at this time?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Nadia lifted her small carry-on from the floor. “I didn’t even think about it.” She handed it across the desk.
Shepard remained seated as she opened the main compartment of the leather purse. “A scarf, magazine, notepad and pen, motion sickness bracelets—that’s unfortunate.” She glanced at Nadia. “Passport, wallet, lip gloss. No cell phone?”
“Already turned it in.”
“Excellent.” The dean swept her hand through the large side pocket before handing the bag back. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“In that case, check in with Dr. Cameron before going to your dorm.”
Nadia sighed. “Of course.” Visiting the psychiatrist was not her favorite task, especially when she wanted to catch up with her friends.
Dean Shepard rose from her chair. “It was lovely to meet you. Don’t hesitate to drop by should anything arise.”
“Thank you,” Nadia said, moving toward the door.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” The dean opened a desk drawer and pulled out a postcard. “This came for you a few days ago. I’m sure you’re aware that security scans all incoming mail for chemical and biological weapons.” She smiled. “It’s clean.”