The White List

by Nina D'Aleo

  “They’ve put a hit on me,” I repeated still struggling with the words. “So won’t they get suspicious when I keep showing up alive? Won’t they suspect I have outside help?”

  “You’re an agent. You have your own contacts. You have your skills and knowledge. They won’t necessarily assume it has anything to do with us and we’re going to keep creating scenes to try to keep the heat off you for as long as we can,” Rocco said.

  “And if I do this—you keep my family and Dark safe,” I said.

  “We need the names.” Omen sounded as though he was tiring of the conversation. “Understand we’re not asking you. For as long as you cooperate with us, we’ll protect your family and your partner; as soon as you stop, we stop. We can’t afford to waste resources on someone who is not one of us. Annrais Pope will be looking for any opening. She won’t get paid until she has your head.” Omen’s words seemed logical, but it was a threat, and it was blackmail—there was no denying that.

  “I’ll find the names,” I told him. “But first I want to see my family.”

  Omen nodded. “Go see them. Go tell them goodbye.”

  “I’m not saying goodbye to anyone,” I said through gritted teeth.

  He smiled faintly, in his predatory, mocking way.

  “Rocco will be your shadow,” he said. “He’ll keep Pope’s assassins off your back—for as long as you’re one of us. Go.” He dismissed me without so much as a gesture.

  I stood up on weakened legs and started toward the door. Everyone in the group watched in silence. I paused before leaving to say, “I wanted to help people. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I still don’t.”

  “To protect the people you love, you will do anything and everything,” Omen said, his voice sounding hollow, and again an image came to mind of the Rose. His heart was broken, I understood that, but he had almost killed my partner: I wouldn’t be forgetting that.

  “God help you,” Omen murmured.

  He turned back to his computer and I followed Rocco out into the storm-black night.

  Part 2

  18

  I was thinking about my grandfather, the violent psychopath. Unlike the photos of Dark’s nonno, from which the love still beamed, the old black and whites of my mother’s parents made me uncomfortable. I believed you could see the coldness in my grandfather’s face, in his eyes—there was something missing. As we flew through the storm, jagged strikes of lightning slicing the starless sky, it was all I could think of—those eyes. The girl assassin, Annrais Pope—she’d had that same look, that void. I kept seeing her over and over and each time a sick fear pulsated inside me. If Pope had my family … they were harmless … helpless—just like all the Shaman Chapter 11 had abducted and killed. And I had been part of it. So maybe I deserved what was happening to me now. What do they say? You can’t dance with the devil without getting burned?

  But my family hadn’t had any part in it—they were innocent—and the innocent still suffer with the guilty. Cold sweat prickled my skin, my jaws ached, my fingernails bit into my palms. I sat on the edge of the seat and focused on the dual heartbeats in my chest and in my head. Migraine pain split my skull, but it seemed entirely insignificant, welcome even—some physical manifestation of the emotions I felt. I thought I’d have to tell Rocco to pull over so I could be sick, but I managed to catch control by blanking out: Think of nothing, think of nothing …

  It should have taken the best part of an hour to get from north Toran-R to my house. With Rocco at the wheel we made impossible time. We turned into my street. The neighborhood appeared unremarkable—the usual darkened yards and scattered night lights, the neon glow of televisions through loosely drawn curtains. I held my breath and looked past all the houses toward my home. The lights were on, but I didn’t see any shadows of movement inside. Rocco swung his heavy vehicle into the driveway. I grabbed the door-latch, planning to jump and run, but found the door locked.

  “Let me out,” I demanded as he slowed to a stop in front of my house.

  He turned off the headlights and we sat staring out into the darkness. His gaze moved left to right over the shadows, seeing what my blunt human eyes could not. What was out there? We sat in silence with the rain hammering the roof above us. I squinted through the windscreen streams, watching my house, searching for any signs of life. I still couldn’t see any. My professional control snapped. I wrenched the latch backwards and forwards and slammed my shoulder against the door.

  “Let me out!” I yelled.

  Rocco sat unmoved, closed and unreadable.

  “Hey!” I shouted and pushed him. It was like pushing a brick wall. He turned to me, his face half-shadows. A blast of lightning lit the night. Rocco’s eyes glowed and I saw past him into the yard. Silhouettes of people stood everywhere, still, watching—waiting. A prickling weakness shot from my stomach to my knees.

  “Are they yours or hers?” I murmured as the light died and the darkness swallowed the figures again.

  “Some ours, some hers,” Rocco said. “But now …” he paused “… just ours.”

  I imagined the assassin corpses strew around the lawn among my father’s palm trees and Mom’s bird feeders. Not exactly an image for Home Beautiful.

  “Let’s go,” Rocco said.

  I grabbed for the door and this time it opened. My boots squelched down into the mud of the driveway. Cold rain pelted my face. Rocco kept me close by his side as we moved for the front door. I jumped at a sudden loud sound to our right. A crack of light appeared in the dark as the garage door lifted. Mom’s little red car reversed out. I spotted her behind the wheel, peering out the window, trying to make sure she didn’t hit anything as she backed.

  “She needs to stay here.” Rocco spoke beside me; his voice was steady and cool, but there was a sharpness to his words that made me react immediately.

  “Mom!” I called out. I broke away from my Shaman guard and ran to the driver’s side of the car. I half-jumped through the window to hug her, high with relief, laughing like a crazy.

  Mom hugged me back even tighter.

  “Thank goodness you’re home!” she said. “I’ve been calling you all day!” She pulled back to look at my face.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I said. “Mom, I’m sorry.” Tears blurred my sight. “Are you okay? Are the others all right?”

  “Don’t worry, we’re all fine,” she said giving me a gentle smile. “They’re just finishing dinner. Yours is in the oven. Go in and eat—I just have to pop down to the store—we’re all out of cat food and parrot mix and milk and …”

  Rocco, standing so she couldn’t see him, nudged me.

  “It’s a bit late, isn’t it?” I cut in. “Wouldn’t the store be closed?”

  “I think they’re open until ten on week nights, aren’t they?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t think so … Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said. “Do you need me to get you anything?”

  “No—thanks—I think I’m okay … I ah …” My mind was a vacant lot, tangled with weeds.

  Rocco nudged me again. He stepped into view and pointed between them—gesturing for an introduction.

  “Mom, this is … a friend of mine—from work. Rocco …” I had no idea of his last name or if Rocco was even his actual name or a codename. “Rocco.”

  My newly acquired bodyguard leaned down. Mom’s face flashed a micro-expression of shock and fear, which immediately smoothed into a smile. I felt a warm sense of reassurance and familiarity, and realized he was tampering with her pheromones or whatever it was they did. I seriously didn’t like the idea of him diddling with my family’s body chemicals.

  “Rocco—this is my mother,” I said pointedly.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” he said to her, all tall, dark and handsome with impeccable charm. “The roads are quite wet. Why don’t you let us drive you to the store?”

  “Oh.” Mom beamed up at him; he had her at hello. “I’d love the company, but I’ll drive.”

>   “I really don’t mind driving,” Rocco said.

  “No, no—I don’t want you wasting your gas on me.”

  “It’s just up the road. I insist,” he said.

  “So do I.” Before he could stop her, Mom jumped out into the rain and pushed her seat forward so that we could get into the back. Rocco shot me a perplexed look that I would have found amusing at another time. I doubted he’d ever met anyone as stubbornly pleasant as my mother.

  I climbed into the back seat, trampling random piles of trash and treasure. Rocco squeezed in beside me. With his height and muscle mass we were literally pressed shoulder to shoulder. We sat with our hands in our laps, not looking at each other. I felt like I was sixteen again and going to the movies with a boy for the first time. All that was lacking was my father’s disgruntled face glaring out the window at us.

  “What about the rest of my family?” I whispered to Rocco.

  “They’re covered for now,” he replied.

  Mom jumped back behind the wheel. She turned the key so that the dashboard lights flashed on, but not far enough to start the engine.

  She tried to shift the gear into drive, but it wouldn’t budge. She struggled for a minute then said, “I’m not sure why this isn’t working.”

  “The engine’s off,” I told her.

  “But I just turned it on,” she said.

  “It’s definitely off,” I said.

  She turned the key again and the engine coughed to a start. Mom laughed and said, “Sorry, how embarrassing!”

  “Happens to me all the time,” Rocco said graciously. Somehow I didn’t think so.

  Mom turned down the Mozart blaring from the speakers, adjusted the heater, then reversed the car and headed down the driveway. Being a tiny three-door with rubber-band suspension, every bump and pothole jostled us together. It didn’t help that Mom was driving with her headlights off. She was creative rather than muddled and forgetful, but driving admittedly wasn’t her greatest strength any more than it was mine.

  “Mom, headlights,” I reminded her.

  “Oh thanks,” she said.

  She turned them on and accidentally switched off the wipers. I waited to see if she would notice, but when we reached the end of the road and the windscreen was completely obscured with rain, I said, “Mom, wipers.”

  “Oh sorry—I don’t know where my mind is tonight!” She turned them back on and bumped the indicator.

  We drove straight for several minutes indicating left before I said, “Mom—you’re indicating.”

  “Oops, sorry!” she said again. She looked back at us through the rear-vision mirror. “Do you know what the limit is here—I think it’s fifty here and forty up ahead—do you remember?” she asked me.

  “Not sure,” I replied. Mom had a few obsessions—one of which was keeping exactly to the speed limit. In a cruel twist of irony she had, one night when I was a kid, been pulled over by the cops for going too slow. They probably thought she was stoned; it didn’t help that she was driving a Kombi at the time.

  We saw the forty sign ahead and Mom said, “Here we are.” She took her foot off the accelerator and counted down, “forty-nine, forty-five, forty-three … I find Dad’s car is easier to slow down in—this car’s a lot speedier—don’t you think?” she asked me.

  It literally felt like we were crawling. The car behind us was almost tipping our bumper bar. I held my breath expecting to be slammed into or shot up at any second.

  “Now I think it’s fifty again,” Mom said. “Do you remember?”

  “I don’t think it matters, Mom,” I said, trying to keep calm.

  The store came up on the left and we turned in. My mother drove up and down several lines—passing a number of free parking spaces.

  “I find it easier parking on the left than the right,” she explained to Rocco.

  “Mom—just park anywhere—it’s all the same,” I said a little harshly.

  She slowed and tried to turn, taking several attempts before maneuvering in. I could tell she was a little hurt and embarrassed, and guilt prickled me. She turned off the engine and I gripped her shoulder before she got out.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Mom smiled and patted my hand. I let her go and she climbed out. Rocco moved swiftly after her and I clambered behind.

  We walked in a tight bunch to the store entrance, where other late-night shoppers were coming and going. Rain sparkled off the lamplights at the crossing. I scanned around us. Everything appeared normal, everything mundane … maybe it was—or maybe it was the calm river surface with the crocodiles waiting beneath.

  We entered the store and Mom grabbed a basket. “I’ll just dash around and meet you at the front so I don’t hold you up,” she said, half jogging away.

  “Wait!”

  I started to run after her, but Rocco held me back and said, “We can follow her.”

  “What if there’s a sniper?” I hissed, struggling out of his grasp.

  He shook his head. “She’s no use to them dead. They won’t shoot her, but they will shoot you—stay close.”

  We pushed the pace to keep up with her. Mom was short but a fast walker. It had always frustrated me to go shopping with her. I liked a more leisurely pace and inevitably we ended up ten paces apart, calling out conversation to each other.

  I thought about the fact that I could have lost her tonight and the guilt washed back in like a salty tide. “I don’t usually snap like that—at my family …” I tried to explain to Rocco.

  “Yes you do,” he said. “It’s normal—human. People would die for their families, but they can’t put up with their everyday imperfections.”

  His words made me feel ten times worse.

  “What can I say?” I steadied my voice. “It’s been a hard week—starting with you and your boss blowing us up.”

  He glanced at me—measuring, evaluating, not settling on a judgment but continually searching—a brilliant mind behind cold-blooded eyes. I wondered if what I saw was actually how he looked or if he could change his appearance like Omen.

  A thought hit me. “You know my family are going to keep going out. They have work, appointments—life.”

  “I have that under control,” he said. “We just have to get your mother back to your house.”

  We continued shadowing Mom around the shops, down the cat-food aisle to the birdseed, to the checkout and out. At the crossing, Rocco wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me close. The action made me immediately tense up and look around. I saw her then, Annrais Pope, leaning against the wall, watching us. She’d swapped her punk look for a schoolgirl outfit, her hair now blonde and pulled up in piggy tails. It changed her appearance but not her eyes. The same lunatic predator stared out from behind the blue. Her smug expression said she knew she would get me—it was just a matter of time. Rocco kept his eyes straight ahead, seeming to ignore her, but I stared straight into her face, sending her so much hatred that I felt it burning through me. She didn’t flinch—just smiled and pulled up her shirt to show me my duty belt still strapped to her waist. Rocco led us to the car. He covered me while I got in and was then instantly at my side. As Mom reversed, he put his arm around me—shielding my head.

  I didn’t back-seat drive at all during the five-minute trip home—partially because of what Rocco had said and partially because my jaws were fused together with rage.

  When we reached the house, Mom drove the car into the garage. As she opened the door, the sound hit me—a man screaming. The breath rushed from me in a gasp. I left Mom with Rocco and ran in through the laundry and out into the hallway. I rounded the corner into the lounge room and saw my Dad and my brother jumping up and down together in front of the television. My sister-in-law stood on the periphery holding her vomit bucket and looking stunned. I was shouting—“What? What?”

  “Siamo vinto!” Dad yelled at me. “We won, we won! Ten million!”

  He dragged me in and I found myself in a sweaty jumping group hug. Mom appea
red and was also snatched in before she even knew what we were celebrating. We went around a few times, then I noticed Rocco standing in the shadows of the hallway, watching us, his arms crossed over his chest. I met his eyes and saw the truth. This was his doing.

  He melted back into the darkness. I extracted myself from the celebrations and followed him. I found him waiting by the front door, but he wasn’t alone. All eleven of our cats had congregated around him and were brushing up against his legs with a loud cacophony of purrs and friendly meows. I’d never seen them react like that to anyone before. He crouched down and patted them in turn, and I wondered about this paradox of a person. Soldier, mercenary, magician, cat whisperer, I thought.

  Rocco looked up and maybe—maybe—there was an edge of humor to the cold black of his eyes. I got the distinct feeling then that he was seeing my thoughts. He had mentioned telepathy being one of the skills some of the Shaman had, but now wasn’t the time to explore the notion. I just tried to clear everything from my thoughts, and ended up thinking of everything inappropriate and embarrassing. I rubbed my forehead and prickling eyes.

  “You said you had a plan of how to get my family out of danger,” I said.

  He nodded, standing up, brushing fur off his hands. “You’re going to convince them to go away,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave me a look that said he didn’t like to explain himself when he thought it was clearly obvious. “If they stay here, they’re at risk, especially if the Horseman attacks the resistance or steps up his plans. Omen will pull all our defenses into that, which will leave your family open. If they go away, I can send people with them.”

  “Where should they go?” I asked.

  “As far as possible, as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning—first thing. I’ve given you the exit, you just have to make them walk through it.”

  “I don’t know if I can. They have jobs, my sister-in-law is pregnant—”