Hideout

by Jack Heath

  I bash the handle of the knife against the side of Samson’s head. His skull cracks on the fourth try. I grab his hair and peel away some of his skin to expose the fractured bone, and then pull it apart like an Easter egg. This is not how a real autopsy would go, but it will get the job done.

  I unplug Samson’s brain from his spinal column with a wet snap. All of Samson’s memories and opinions and feelings are stored in this lump of grey flab, inaccessible forever. I can see the little hole where the bullet went in, but other than that, the brain seems largely intact. Not typical. If there’s no exit wound, that normally means the bullet ricocheted around and around the inside of the skull, shredding everything. Maybe Samson’s brain was unusually dense.

  I peel the two hemispheres apart, stretching the membranes until they pop. There’s the hole again, where the shot exited the right hemisphere and entered the left. I pull apart the left hemisphere, looking for the bullet.

  It’s gone.

  Someone got here first. Someone with more finesse than me—and probably a long pair of tweezers. They removed the bullet. If I hadn’t smashed the skull, I might have seen scrape marks around the edges of the entry wound.

  A bullet that didn’t match the gun would prove Samson was murdered. But a missing bullet also suggests murder, or at least foul play. So what was the point of removing it?

  The type of bullet must identify the killer. Maybe it would match another gun in the house. A small one, since there was no exit wound. Maybe the kind of gun that would fit in a woman’s hand. A hand that could manipulate tweezers delicately enough to get the bullet out the same way it came in.

  Zara had a long pair of tweezers in her room. And on Monday night, when we were out looking for the hiker, she strayed from her search area. She ended up near me and Samson, where the hiker actually turned out to be. Later, his footprints led right up to her window.

  I remember the way she grabbed the satchel with the slashed strap. The way she searched it. The way Samson was favouring one arm, acting strangely. It all fits.

  I leave Samson’s corpse in the woods and run back to the house. Time is short. The sun’s going down.

  My hands are covered with gore. I keep them in my pockets so they won’t stray near my mouth. For Thistle. As soon as I’m inside, I force myself to wash them. The blood spirals down the sink.

  I find Zara on the couch in the living room. She’s reading one of the dusty paperbacks from her room. It’s called 1984—I guess it’s a history book. A glass of wine is on the table beside her, as usual. But she’s not drinking it. It’s a prop. So is the paperback. Everything Zara does is an illusion.

  ‘Good book?’ I ask.

  She looks up. ‘One of Fred’s favourites. It has lots of useful ideas. How’s your belly?’

  I don’t need the reminder that she’s dangerous. She killed Samson. But if I’m right about why, she won’t kill me.

  ‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

  ‘Cedric and Kyle are in the greenhouse.’ She appears not to notice the grubby cuffs of my sleeves. ‘Fred’s showering Ivy. Donnie’s making a new video with the Terrorist.’

  I cough. ‘He is?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently there was a sudden influx of votes. We have to make the most of our friend from Isis before we kill him on Sunday.’ She puts the book down on her lap. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Sure.’ She smiles and swings her legs out of the way, making room on the couch. She pats the cushions. ‘I came on too strong this morning, didn’t I?’

  I’m sick of her games. ‘Somewhere private.’

  Her smile grows wider. ‘Okay.’ She stands up, smooths down her dress. ‘Let’s talk in my room.’

  I follow her swaying hips up the corridor. This is a risk. I don’t know how she’ll react when I confront her. But the indirect approach won’t save Thistle. I’m out of time.

  She enters her bedroom. Before I’ve even closed the door, she’s undressing, letting the straps of her dress fall from her shoulders. There are freckles on her back.

  When she turns to face me, she’s holding a gun.

  ‘So,’ she says, the flirtatious act gone, ‘what do you want to talk about, Blake?’

  I put my hands up. It’s just the kind of gun I expected to see: small, lightweight. Medical tape dangles from one side—she must have had it stuck to her chest, just below her bra, where the folds of her dress would cover it.

  It takes me a moment to realise she just used my real name. I guess that means I’m right. But this isn’t going how I thought it would.

  ‘We’re on the same side,’ I say.

  She doesn’t lower the gun. ‘You’re FBI.’

  I nod slowly. ‘And you’re CIA.’

  CHAPTER 35

  You fill me with time, then mail me away. What am I?

  ‘I should have figured it out the second you told me about all the travel you’d done with the Department of Agriculture,’ I say. ‘That was official cover, with diplomatic immunity. You sat in an embassy, waiting for local assets to bring in secrets for you to send home. But you got bored.’

  Zara keeps the gun trained on my heart. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. She gave me the truth yesterday: I just got sick of being stuck behind a desk.

  ‘So you asked to be reassigned. You wanted a non-official cover role, with more opportunities for … excitement.’ Opportunities to hurt people. I remember the consultant’s words: Why would an agent volunteer for such a risky assignment? This is why. It’s not patriotism. It’s not loyalty. It’s the desire to be the person society doesn’t allow you to be. ‘This little group was easy to infiltrate. You just had to submit a few videos to prove you weren’t a cop. As luck would have it, they wanted exactly the kind of content the CIA specialises in.’

  The look on her face is unreadable. I don’t know how long we have. I need to prove that I’ve figured it all out, so she doesn’t waste time denying it. I keep talking, fast.

  ‘The hiker wasn’t a hiker,’ I continue. ‘He was your handler. Right? He came here to give you a dossier about Donnie. But his timing was bad. The Guards had rearranged the cameras that day and you hadn’t had a chance to warn him. He walked right past one of them. You tried to convince us all he was Druznetski, the private investigator, who none of us had met. When that didn’t work, you suggested that he was a hiker. A fake cop showed up the following day to reinforce your story—and to check that your cover was intact.’

  I think of the way the sheriff’s deputy looked at Zara as she spoke: Is everything okay out here in general?

  Zara keeps the gun trained on me. ‘Lift up your shirt.’

  ‘We’re on the same side,’ I say again.

  ‘Do it.’

  I untuck my shirt and lift it up, exposing the cut Zara made this morning.

  ‘Turn around,’ she says.

  I do, letting her pat me down, checking for weapons or listening devices.

  ‘That first night,’ I say, ‘you knew more or less where your handler would be. You were desperate to warn him that he’d been spotted. But Samson found him first. He cut the bag off his shoulder. Suddenly Samson had the dossier about Donnie, not you.’

  As I’m talking, I’m picturing her expression when she found the bag empty. Was this his? And it was empty? Shit. And the look on Samson’s face. You see which way the guy went? I want to talk to him.

  ‘And he’d opened it,’ I continue. ‘He wouldn’t have had time to read it, but he saw the pictures. Proof that someone in the house was a spy. And he didn’t know who.’

  Zara finishes searching me. Steps back.

  I turn around again. ‘He was acting weird that night, and he didn’t come out of his room the next morning. So when we all went out to search for the mystery man, you came back. You shot Samson in the head and put one of the guns from the armoury in his hand to make it look like a suicide. You took his phone and laptop, so you could figure out i
f he had told anyone else what he knew. You threw the dossier into the fireplace, just in case someone searched your room—you could maybe explain away the phone or the laptop, but not that. But then you realised Fred was getting suspicious. He had asked me to investigate, and I was getting closer. There was one more piece of evidence which could sink you—the bullet.’

  ‘Wow. You really are with the FBI,’ Zara says, looking amused.

  ‘You dug up Samson’s corpse,’ I say. ‘You used tweezers to—’

  ‘I’ll stop you there.’ Zara sits down on her bed, suddenly relaxed. ‘You’re way off, Mr Blake. I didn’t kill Samson.’

  This isn’t the kind of denial I expected, nor the point at which I expected one. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’ She spreads her arms wide. For the first time, the gun isn’t pointed at me. I could pounce, try to get it off her. I don’t. With her training at Camp Peary, her hand-to-hand skills would greatly outclass mine—and anyway, we’re supposed to be allies.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Don’t play dumb. We can help each other.’

  I can see her deciding how much to tell me. At last she says, ‘The CIA doesn’t kill people.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. We recruit assets.’

  We. An admission, finally.

  ‘Patrice Lumumba might disagree,’ I say.

  Zara ignores this. ‘I’m here to gather intelligence. If my cover was blown, I would have left. I wouldn’t have killed Samson, staged a suicide and then stayed for the fallout.’

  She’s talking like a normal person now. The breathy, sex-kitten voice is gone. It’s a relief.

  I keep pushing. ‘If Samson read the file—’

  ‘That dossier wasn’t just about Donnie. It was an update on the operation as a whole—and it included a fake file on me, so I wouldn’t be compromised if it fell into the wrong hands. Which it did, because of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Fred’s not the only one with cameras,’ Zara says. ‘The station clocked you turning into the drive on that first night.’

  I remember the camera I saw near the mouth of the driveway. Better hidden. More powerful.

  ‘Within minutes they matched your face to the FBI database,’ Zara continues. ‘My handler brought the dossier ahead of schedule, so he could tell me in person that some bumbling FBI guy had turned up. But I hadn’t had a chance to warn him that the cameras had been moved.’ She adjusts her hair and leans back on the bed. ‘So, yes, this is all your fault.’

  ‘What are you even doing here?’ I ask. ‘The CIA isn’t supposed to operate on US soil.’

  ‘The FBI isn’t supposed to recruit cannibals, either.’

  A chill crawls up my spine. She knows.

  ‘Cannibals?’ I echo.

  A twitch of her lips. ‘Now who’s playing dumb?’

  When her handler came back the following night, he must have brought a second dossier—this time with a section about me. The CIA unearthed my terrible secret less than thirty-six hours after taking my picture.

  Either that, or they had a file on me already.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say. If she confronts me with more evidence, maybe I can identify her source.

  But she’s not so easily manipulated. ‘What do you want from me, Mr Blake?’

  ‘I want you to help me get the prisoners out.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  I frown. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I know Zara gets off on hurting people—I don’t think that’s just part of her cover—but it’s also her job to protect US citizens.

  Zara toys with her gun, saying nothing.

  ‘You’ve been here for months,’ I add. ‘Your people should have moved on this place ages ago.’

  ‘Like you said, the CIA isn’t supposed to operate on US soil.’

  ‘You could notify one of the other agencies.’

  ‘We’re not going to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Counter-offer,’ Zara says. ‘I help you get out of here. The prisoners stay.’

  It takes me a second to think my way into the head of a CIA agent, but I get there. ‘You don’t care about the Guards,’ I say. ‘You care about their international customers. If you find out that a Chinese delivery driver likes torture porn, you can blackmail him into transporting packages for you. If you find out that the vice-president of Turkey is a subscriber, you can force him to go through his boss’s filing cabinets. This place is an intelligence goldmine.’

  ‘Are you going to take the deal or not?’ Zara says.

  The scope of this is alarming, even for me. The CIA is letting Americans be tortured and killed in order to steal classified data from foreign leaders.

  I had expected Zara to be on my side, but our goals don’t line up at all.

  ‘Just Agent Thistle, then,’ I say. ‘Help me get her out of here. I don’t care about the others.’ I don’t know how I’ll convince Thistle to leave them behind, but it sounds like my only choice.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ Zara asks.

  I rack my brain for something I can offer her. ‘I don’t tell the Guards who you’re working for.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Zara points out. ‘You’re a single Google image search away from being exposed. After that, they won’t believe a word you say.’

  ‘How about I help you figure out who really killed Samson. If it really wasn’t you, don’t you want to know?’

  ‘Samson killed himself,’ Zara says. ‘Sorry, but it’s that simple. Gay men in Samson’s age group are five times more likely to attempt suicide than straight men.’

  ‘Are they also likely to remove the bullets from their own heads afterwards?’

  There’s curiosity in Zara’s eyes now. ‘The bullet is really gone?’

  Before I can work out what to say next, footsteps thump up the corridor towards us.

  Zara and I look at each other. What’s our excuse for being in here together?

  A different bedroom door flings open. Mine. Someone is looking for me.

  Another door opens. Whoever it is, they’re searching the whole house.

  Zara quickly tucks the gun under her blankets. Then she grabs my hand, pulls me down onto the bed with her, and kisses me. Her lips are smooth and warm. She tastes of mint. I try to struggle free, in case it’s Fred in the corridor, but she doesn’t let me go.

  At that moment, the door bursts open. Donnie storms in. He sees us both on the bed, my shirt untucked, Zara’s arms around my neck, her dress open to the waist. His expression darkens.

  ‘Get up,’ he snarls.

  Zara releases me. ‘Donnie—’

  Donnie grabs me by the ear and pulls me off the bed. Pain explodes across the side of my jaw and scalp.

  ‘Wait,’ I say.

  ‘How much have you told him?’ Donnie snaps. Not what I expected him to say.

  ‘We weren’t talking,’ Zara says pointedly.

  ‘Good.’ Donnie kicks me in the ribs with a steel-capped boot, leaving me wheezing. ‘Because he’s a fucking FBI agent.’

  No.

  No.

  This is exactly what I’ve been dreading.

  ‘What? That doesn’t make sense.’ Zara sounds genuinely shocked. She’s a hell of an actress.

  ‘Maybe not, but it’s true.’ Donnie hauls me by the collar out the back door, past the greenhouse and the vegetable garden. The dogs snap and snarl as we pass.

  ‘Donnie, listen,’ I say. ‘Someone is lying to you—’

  He punches me in the eye socket. Sparks fill my vision and my brain wobbles like jello.

  Fred emerges from around the side of the house.

  ‘Found him,’ Donnie says.

  Cedric looks up—he’s been scraping food scraps into the composting pipe. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks as Kyle runs out of the greenhouse.

  ‘Lux is a fucking fed,’ Donnie says.

  Kyle’s eyes go wide.

  ‘I’m not!
’ I scream. But I can’t come up with anything to support the lie.

  Donnie kicks me in the back. Something cracks. Hopefully not my spine. He loses his grip on my collar and grabs my throat instead. I can’t speak anymore. I can hardly breathe.

  Fred is already unlocking the slaughterhouse. He doesn’t look as surprised as the others. Donnie must have told him already, before he started looking for me.

  Zara is right behind us. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says, but that’s all. She doesn’t try to defend me.

  ‘How do you know?’ Cedric demands.

  ‘I just got a message from Druznetski,’ Fred says.

  The private investigator. My heart sinks. I hadn’t even considered him as a threat.

  ‘This guy isn’t Lux,’ Fred continues. ‘It’s the FBI agent he killed—the one he claimed to have killed. Blake.’

  I was never an agent, I was a civilian consultant. I don’t think they’ll care about the distinction.

  It’s not true, I try to say, but Donnie’s hand is still squeezing my throat. All that comes out is a choked gasp.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Kyle says. A look of betrayal has washed away his faux-nihilism.

  ‘But—but I saw a picture,’ Cedric stammers.

  Fred opens the slaughterhouse door, ignoring him. The other prisoners stare as Donnie drags me in. I try to get a look at Thistle, but my head is twisted the wrong way.

  I can’t rescue her if I get chained up in here. I kick and squirm, but I can’t loosen Donnie’s grip.

  The shiny new cameras watch us from above, red lights blinking. Whatever is about to happen to me will be recorded for thousands of greedy psychos.

  ‘Help me chain him up,’ Donnie tells Kyle. ‘I’ll beat some answers out of him.’

  ‘No,’ Fred says sadly. ‘Druznetski gave me all the information I need. Switch on the grinder.’

  CHAPTER 36

  A sickness rearranges the gale—it’s a crime!

  The motor growls and the blades clatter, louder and louder as the machine warms up.

  The prisoners shrink back against the walls of the slaughterhouse, preparing for the rain of blood. Thistle’s the only one who doesn’t close her eyes. She hasn’t seen this before. She doesn’t know what’s coming. But she knows it’s bad.