You Won't Know I'm Gone

by Kristen Orlando

The walls in the training room feel like they’re closing in on me. I have to get out of here. I have to think somewhere alone. I start walking toward the door without saying good-bye to Cam.

  “Don’t do anything without me, Reagan,” Cam says but I’m already out of the room, grabbing at clumps of my hair, my legs shaking beneath me as I walk down the nearly deserted hallway. I whip my body around the intel center, and hear someone call my name from the West Hall. I look up and see Luke’s smiling face, the end of an ice cream cone in his hand. But I put my head down and keep walking.

  “Reagan, where are you going?” he calls after me but I don’t answer.

  I head toward the South Hall and my dorm room, where I just want to scream into a pillow or punch a wall or something. A few seconds later, I hear Luke’s feet running toward me.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he says, grabbing at my arm, but I pull away. “Reagan, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I answer quickly.

  “Are you still upset with me about what happened on the plane last week?”

  “Not everything has to do with you, okay?” I snap, my voice far meaner than I meant it to be.

  “Jesus,” Luke says under his breath but still tries to grab for me as I walk briskly down the hallway. “Then what is it? You’re clearly upset.”

  “You think?” I reply with extra bite.

  Luke grabs me by both of my shoulders and spins me around. “Talk to me, Reagan,” he says, lowering his voice as we get closer to the senior leaders’ rooms, knowing they could overhear our conversation.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to wiggle out of his grip. “I just want to go to bed.”

  “You need to talk to me,” Luke answers, squeezing me gently. “I know you. You’ll never sleep like this.”

  “You really want to know? Fine,” I answer with a sigh. I grab him by the wrist and drag him in the opposite direction toward the secure and soundproofed conference rooms in the East Hall. We walk in silence until we reach one of the smaller conference rooms.

  “Okay,” Luke says, taking a seat as I close the door behind us. “Spill.”

  My body is feverish and I feel like I just can’t cool it down. I take in a deep breath, hoping fresh oxygen will lower the temperature of my scalding blood, but it boils anyway, blistering my skin from the inside out.

  “The Black Angels are royally screwing up with Torres, and good operatives like Cam’s parents are paying the price,” I say, throwing up my hands as I pace three steps to the left, then three steps to the right in the small area in front of him. “They’ve had chance after chance to take down Torres and they just let him walk away.”

  “How do you know?” Luke says, the skin between his brows cinching together.

  “Cam hacked into the files on his own and told me,” I answer, my hands digging deep into my hips. “Apparently there was a folder we didn’t see last time. One they’ve kept hidden, probably because it shows what screwups they all are. Torres and his crew have been involved with the murder of rival drug lords all around South America. The Black Angels always think it’s him but they do nothing about it until it’s too late. I’m just so pissed off and sick of this shit, Luke. I’m sick of knowing he’s still out in the world, living and breathing and killing people. I can’t believe they’ve let him get away multiple times now. Do they not care about my mother? About the other agents who have died or gotten injured? Protocols are clouding their judgment and letting a dangerous man walk free.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions yet, Reagan. I’m sure they’ve had their reasons to wait,” Luke answers, his voice irrationally cool, trying to calm me down.

  “God, stop defending them,” I snap.

  “I’m not defending them,” Luke says. “I’m just trying to explain that not everything is as simple or clear as it seems. Not everything can be done with the snap of someone’s fingers. There are Directives and a chain of command for a reason.”

  “Oh, screw that,” I huff, throwing my hair over my shoulder. “God, you really are just a rule-following, agency appeasing suck-up, aren’t you? This is one of the worst serial killers on the planet—who happened to kill my mother. God forbid we don’t cross every t and dot every i before trying to apprehend him.”

  The cinder at my center erupts into full-fledged flames, burning my organs, just as Sam had feared. But let them burn. I take in a deep breath, hoping to fan those flames even higher.

  “Look, I’m just trying to be rational here,” Luke replies, his voice steady.

  “That’s right, Luke. You have the luxury of being rational. Your parents are alive and living far away from all crap. So you go ahead and enjoy being rational.”

  “That’s not fair, Reagan. My father may not be on the front lines anymore, but my family is not exactly safe,” Luke says, his eyes flashing with frustration. He shakes his head, runs his hands along the lengths of his thighs, trying to regain his composure. “Look, I just think that you are not giving the team enough credit. They have been doing this for a long time. You don’t always know what is best.”

  His words echo Sam’s, and coming from him, they sting.

  “Good. Now I can clearly see where you stand,” I say, slowing my pace and turning my body directly in front of him, my arms crossing over my chest. “You’re always trying to reason with me, and you mask it as calming me down. But really, I just think it’s because you’re never really on my side. You’re always fighting against me.”

  Luke’s face changes three times in three seconds. From shock, to horror, to anger.

  “Are you kidding me?” Luke says, his voice rising and the cream of his cheeks streaking red. He jumps up from his chair, forcing me to take a step backward. “Reagan, how can you not see that I am always on your side? Even when I think you’re wrong. Even when you hurt me and push me away. I’m always right here.”

  He stomps his feet and points to the ground next to me, emotion clouding his blue eyes. But it’s not anger anymore. It’s sadness. Betrayal.

  “I would do anything for you,” Luke continues, his voice beginning to shake. “But would you do the same for me?”

  “Of course I’d do anything for you,” I answer, my voice escalating. “How can you even say that?”

  “Would you really?” Luke asks, his eyes narrowing and voice softening.

  “Without question.”

  “You think that no one really knows you, but I do,” Luke says quietly. “I know you want to kill Torres. I know that’s why you’re really here. For revenge.”

  Luke’s words physically knock me back, forcing my body to sway. I’ve kept that secret so close to my darkening heart, how could he know? But then again, this is Luke. The only person who I sometimes think can truly see into my screwed-up soul. Even when I don’t want him to.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Luke continues.

  “How could I not,” I answer, my voice catching in my throat. “I’ve wanted to kill him since the moment he put a bullet in my mother’s brain. And if the Black Angels aren’t going to take care of him, I’m going to do it myself.”

  “It’s way too dangerous,” Luke says, shaking his head. “You’ll get caught by the Black Angels before you make it out the door. And even if you do, it’s a suicide mission.”

  “I don’t care,” I answer, my voice firm, my words true.

  “You just said you’d do anything for me,” Luke begins. “What if I asked you not to kill Torres? Would you give that up if I told you I was terrified and couldn’t bear to lose you?”

  Luke stares at me, waiting for my answer. My eyes stay locked on his, my mouth doesn’t move. My chest heaves with heavy breaths.

  “That’s what I thought,” Luke finally says, nodding his head. Like he has me completely pegged. “I’ve picked up on little things you say and do and put the pieces together. When you’re not numb, when you’re truly you, revenge is your only priority.”

  “If this had happened to you instead of me, you’d feel t
he exact same way, Luke.”

  “No, I don’t think I would,” he says and shakes his head. “I’d try to honor their legacy in some way. Do some good in the world instead of just perpetuating the bad.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the good little Boy Scout,” I reply swiftly, my voice cruel. “Sorry we all can’t be self-righteous choirboys like you.”

  “Reagan, listen to yourself,” Luke replies, pointing at me. “This insane desire to kill Torres has completely changed you. What kind of life is this? What type of impossible, rage-filled person have you become? Would your mother even recognize—let alone like—the girl that’s in front of me? Because I don’t think she would.”

  I stare at Luke, my mouth gaping open, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. His words are so excruciating, I want to knee him in the groin. Hurl my best insult into his chest. Slam the door in his face. But there are only three words, toxic and sour, on the tip of my tongue.

  “Fuck you, Luke,” I whisper, staring into his eyes for a moment so he knows I mean it. Before his face can change, I walk toward the door and heave my body into the dark hallway. Luke opens the door and calls after me. But I don’t turn around. I just walk away, hot tears running down my cheeks. Not because of what Luke said. But because I wonder if his words are true.

  THIRTY

  The roar of the plane’s engine fills the silence in the cabin. We’re in one of the Black Angel jets on our long journey toward the RT martial arts training camp in Indonesia. I look down at Mom’s watch. We’re several hours into our late-night flight and everyone around me is asleep. But I cannot rest. Not since my fight with Luke two days ago. I close my eyes, even slip into a half dream, but my mind is awake and annoyingly aware, taunting me the entire time. You’re still awake. You’ll never fall asleep. It’s like I can only reach that first plateau, that hazy gray area between sleep and consciousness. All I want to do is spin into the black. I move my eyes in circles from behind my eyelids, nonsensically trying to pretend I’m being sucked into sleep’s black hole. But it refuses to swallow me.

  Luke chased after me that night. Showed up at my dorm before breakfast the next day. Waited for me after training and assessments. But I’ve refused to even acknowledge his presence. He says my name, stares at me with those big, sad eyes, but I won’t look in his direction. I don’t even flinch at the sound of my name.

  Cam noticed our distance, cornered me in the weight room to ask about our fight. I told him the whole story and he frowned. When I asked why, he responded, “Luke loves you. He’d do anything for you. He didn’t mean it.”

  But I think he did.

  I rub my eyes with the back of my fists, fully awake now. I quietly pull open the window shade next to me, careful not to wake Anusha, who has fallen asleep on my shoulder. I stare out past the wing and look into the blackness. I wonder where we are, if we’ve flown past California and are now headed into the dark Pacific waters. The lack of gridded lights that make up subdivisions, shopping centers, and office buildings tell me we’ve left land and are now crossing the ocean.

  I’ve been to this training camp in Indonesia before to study martial arts. It makes CORE look like the Ritz-Carlton. It’s safe and secure, but without the luxuries of headquarters. The dorms are cramped, with lumpy mattresses, squeaky beds, and no air-conditioning. The meals are basic. No chefs cooking up lemon-roasted chicken or shrimp scampi. Outside of training, entertainment lies in a couple decks of cards or five-year-old wrinkled and water-spotted magazines left behind by trainees and operatives. But Indonesia is an important training ground when it comes to perfecting our martial arts and fighting skills. Black Angels come from all over to learn the Indonesian pencak silat, a martial art that focuses on the use of leverage and angles rather than size and power to take down an opponent. During my trip a few summers ago, I watched a 150-pound woman take down a 275-pound man with just a few elegant moves. Krav Maga and jujitsu are my specialties, but that’s not enough. Being armed with several different forms of martial arts can be the difference between life and death on the RT squad.

  * * *

  “Come on, I don’t want to miss the sunset,” Anusha says, pulling me by the wrist down one of the sandy streets near our RT camp. That’s the best part of this camp. It sits just a quarter mile from the beach and they actually let us leave the compound, albeit rarely, to see the island. Of course, we must always be heavily armed. Anusha and I have two guns hidden beneath our T-shirts. But having to feel cold metal on my warm skin is a small price to pay for a few moments of freedom.

  “We’ve still got time,” I answer with a laugh and point toward the sun still hovering high in the sky. “Look, it’s not even close to the water.”

  “I know, I just haven’t seen a sunset in forever,” Anusha says, still pulling at my wrist like a willful child.

  And she’s right. It’s been months since I watched a single sunset. I think back to the farmhouse and can’t remember paying attention to the rise and fall of daily light. I should have. There are few wonders in the world like the moment the blue sky fades and the clouds streak pomegranate pink. You don’t realize just how much you’ll miss something until it’s gone. Until the option is stripped away from you. I wish I’d watched more sunsets in my life. I wish I’d done a lot of things.

  We reach the narrow stretch of white sand. With its crystal clear, aqua-blue water and green mountains in the distance, Indonesia is like nowhere else in the world. Towering palm trees stretch over the sand, casting shadows on the water and shading the last remaining beachgoers. But I’m not interested in their leafy canopy. I want light.

  As we take a seat on the warm sand, I survey the beach, just to make sure we don’t have anyone to worry about. We blend in well with the few remaining couples and young backpackers who have stayed on the beach to take in the day’s fleeting luminous glow.

  “God, it’s beautiful here,” Anusha says wistfully as tiny waves of turquoise water lap up on the beach, a few yards away from our feet. I take off my flip-flops and bury my toes in the powdery white sand.

  “Did you go to the beach much growing up?” I ask as we stare out over the calm lagoon.

  “The occasional family vacation,” Anusha answers, leaning back and resting her hands behind her. “Hilton Head. Virginia Beach. Nothing like this. How about you?”

  “We lived for a year in Miami when I was little,” I reply. “We had this really cute bungalow a couple blocks from the beach. I was maybe four or five at the time. I didn’t know what my parents did for a living then. I remember them being gone a lot. And Sam taking care of me. But the thing I remember most about living there was my blue bucket. It was always by the back door, and whenever I’d come home from preschool and see my parents were back, I knew that meant it was time for the blue bucket and sand castles. It was like our little bonding ritual.”

  “Whatever happened to the blue bucket?” Anusha asks, her eyes on me while mine stare out on the water.

  “I don’t know,” I answer with a shrug. “I have vague memories of leaving Miami in the middle of the night. I remember my dad carrying me and putting me in the backseat in my pajamas. We’d played in the sand that day. I built this epic sand castle with Mom, complete with a moat. I guess that was the last time I ever saw the bucket. Or built a sand castle for that matter. I don’t remember making another one.”

  “Do you ever wish you’d been born into a normal family?” Anusha asks, her voice quiet.

  “Sometimes,” I answer and think back to all the moments my parents missed. Plays and parent/teacher conferences and holidays. I think of all the things I missed. Sports, friendships, family trips. But if I had to choose between different normal parents and mine, I’d still choose them every time. Even with the agonizing aftermath of Colombia. My soul belonged to them.

  “Do you ever feel her?” Anusha says, pulling me back to the moment.

  “Feel who?”

  “Your mom,” Anusha states, her hands running along the smoot
h sand, creating tiny paths with her fingers. “I was really close with my grandma. She lived with us most of my life and after she died, I swore I sometimes felt like she was in the room with me. She loved butterflies and every year, almost without fail, I’d see a butterfly the week of my birthday. It was like she wanted me to know she was still there.”

  I lean forward, resting my chin on my kneecap, my toes digging farther into the soft sand. “It’s a really nice idea,” I finally say. “To think that we all live on in some way after we die. I just don’t know if it’s real or something we use to comfort ourselves.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “I want to,” I answer and chew at the inside of my lip. “I want to believe that there’s something or someone looking out for us. But then I see all the violence and horror in the world and it makes me wonder if we’re alone after all.”

  Anusha leans forward, creating tiny shapes in the sand with her fingertips. A sun. A smiley face. A heart.

  “There’s good in the world too, Reagan,” she finally replies. “I know it’s hard to see sometimes. Especially with what we’re training to do. What you’ve lived through. But there is good out there. You just have to look for it.”

  I want to believe in everything Anusha says. That there is good in the world. A God. That I’ll see my mother again. That she’s still with me now. I wish I could say I feel her all the time. That I know she’s watching over me or protecting me. I haven’t asked her to come to me because I’m afraid she won’t and that it will only confirm what I fear is on the other side. Blackness. Nothingness.

  I’ve heard religious people say you feel no pain after you die. And while that comforts most people, it scares me. Because I wonder if that means you also feel no joy. Is being “at peace” just a nicer description for numbness? If that’s the case, then perhaps I already know what it’s like to be dead.

  I pull my knees closer to my chest and we watch in silence as the glowing sun dips inch by inch into the water, tiny waves catching its light, like bobbing diamonds against the blue. And despite its beauty, that hollow spot inside me shrieks as the world spins closer to darkness.