THIRTY-ONE
“Reagan, wake up,” I hear someone whisper, their hands on my shoulders, gently shaking me out of a REM cycle I haven’t been able to achieve since Luke basically said my dead mother probably wouldn’t like me.
My eyes flutter and are forced open by a quick rub of my palms. When my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, I see the outline of a man. In the pale light, I recognize the shape of his head and his buzzed haircut: Cam.
“What is it?” I whisper, pushing myself up in bed by my elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Something is going on,” he whispers back and grabs me by the arm. I slip on a pair of flip-flops at the edge of my bed. “Take those off. No noise.”
My feet shimmy out of my shoes, dread stabbing at my skin, forcing tiny hairs to stand straight up. Whatever this is, a middle-of-the-night wake-up call that demands complete silence cannot be good.
I follow Cam down a dark hallway away from the dorms. On the other side of the compound, I can hear a flurry of activity. Boots running up and down the hallway. People speaking in low but panicked voices. I hear the crack of weapons being assembled and the calls for radios. Then the slam of a conference room door.
Cam and I carefully creep up to the edge of the dormitory hallway and peer down the East Wing of the compound where the control center, training facilities, and conference rooms are located. These rooms are secure-ish. You can still hear the murmur of conversations on the other side but cannot make out the words.
I walk close to the conference room door and hear very faint, muffled voices inside. The hallway is now silent and empty. All the trainers must be inside. I look at Cam and nod toward the door.
“I can’t hear anything,” I whisper. “What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I just heard a huge commotion and snuck into the hallway. I thought I heard Michael say something about drugs or a drug lord or something as he was going into the conference room. I was afraid maybe it was about Torres. That’s why I came and got you.”
“Shit, really?” I whisper with the sudden urge to burst inside the room. “We need to hear this.”
“I know. Come on,” Cam says, waving me down the hallway and back toward the dorms.
In less than two minutes, we’re hunkered down in a pitch-black training room, our backs against the wall, hacking into the system on Cam’s laptop. We scan the activity and see a conference call between the compound in Indonesia and CORE.
“There.” I point at the screen and Cam clicks in, picking up the call mid-conversation.
“I say we get a larger team together,” Michael’s voice insists. “Really go after him this time. He’s right in our backyard. What are the chances of that? We weren’t expecting him to be in Indonesia and he has no idea we’re so close. Let’s finally take this guy down and be done with it.”
“We can’t,” says a male voice on the other end. “We have no proof it’s actually him.”
“But it has to be Torres.” Michael’s confirmation of who is behind this flurry of activity causes a sharp and jagged breath to cut into my lungs. “It was his cousin who was just sentenced to death for drug trafficking here. And now, he’s the one guy who is unaccounted for in that prison. Torres would not just send a team. This is his family. He’d want to oversee everything. Make sure things went right. We’ve got to get to him before he leaves the country. We cannot blow this, and sending only a surveillance team puts us at risk.”
“No, Michael,” the voice says gruffly. “We need to gather more intel before sending out an entire team. Minimize the blowback if something does go wrong.”
No, no, no!
“I just think that—” Michael begins but is cut off.
“This is not a negotiation, that’s an order,” the voice interrupts. “We do not move an entire team on this until we know it’s really Torres. We cannot insert the Black Angels into a drug conflict. The only reason I was even able to get Indonesian authorities to relinquish control is because they have so many dead guards at the prison and are overwhelmed trying to contain the remaining inmates. I only have approval for surveillance. That’s it. So Michael, pick your second man and load up. We’ve got the vehicles on surveillance back here at CORE, so we’ll be giving you coordinates as soon as you’re ready.”
“Fine,” Michael answers with a heavy sigh. “We’ll be suited up in five.”
The call ends. I can hear the conference room door down the hallway open, followed by Michael saying, “Damn it!”
My sentiments exactly. I spring to my feet and head toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Cam calls after me but before I can answer him, I’m chasing Michael down the hallway.
“Michael,” I yell after him, running toward him with my bare feet. He turns around and looks down at his watch, surprised to see me at this late hour.
“What are you doing awake?” he asks.
“Take me with you,” I reply quietly once I reach him.
Michael’s eyes narrow as he looks me up and down in my pajamas.
“What are you talking about?” he says, playing dumb.
“I know you’re going after Torres right now,” I answer. Michael starts to shake his head and walk away but I follow him down the hallway, two strides for his every large one just to keep up. “And I know you’re right. You need a bigger team to take down someone like him. You know he’s going to have a small army with him. It’s unthinkable and irresponsible to send just two operatives.”
“I’m not even going to ask how the hell you heard that call,” Michael says, slipping into the weapons room at the end of the hallway. “I don’t have time to write you up. But Reagan, I have my orders. You know how these things go. I have to follow protocol.”
“Screw protocol,” I answer as Michael picks a M4 carbine off the weapons shelf. “If you follow those orders, I promise you he’s going to get away or worse, someone’s going to get killed.”
“You think I haven’t already thought about that?” Michael answers, his voice annoyed as he slips a bulletproof vest over his black RT gear. “Look. These are the orders. Two people for surveillance. Besides, the team down here is small. We have to at least keep a couple people back here to protect all the trainees.”
“Take me with you,” I answer, jumping in front of Michael’s path as he loads up his weapons. He looks me in the eye and shakes his head before moving me out of the way.
“Reagan, you know I can’t do that,” he says, opening up a black case and loading in pistols, ammunition, and zip ties.
“Please, Michael,” I say and grab him by the shoulder. “Let me be your second man. Even if it’s just for surveillance.”
This is it. This may be my only chance to get close enough to Torres to kill him. He has to take me.
“Reagan, the answer is no,” Michael answers sternly, slamming the black weapons case shut. “First of all, I’d be breaking every Black Angel Directive known to man and secondly, your mother would never want you to be in that kind of danger. I know her. If she was alive, she’d kill me if something happened to you.”
“No she wouldn’t—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Reagan, I’m your trainer,” Michael says, finally stopping and looking me in the eye. “I know why you want to come with me. I get it. But I cannot let you get involved in this. I’m supposed to protect you and keep you safe.”
“But I’m never safe,” I answer, swallowing hard at the fear scratching at my throat. “I’ll never be safe if he’s still alive. So what does it matter?”
“Your life matters very much,” Michael says, grabbing me by the shoulder and giving my arm a squeeze. “I’ll do all I can to bring him down. To make you safe. I promise. You have to trust me.”
Before I can respond, Michael grabs his weapons case off the counter and hurries out of the room.
“Let’s go,” I hear him yell down the hallway and I listen as two pairs of Black Angel bo
ots stomp against the concrete until they disappear.
I want to believe him. I’m desperate to trust in his promise. But that black cloud of dread enters my body with my next breath, squeezing my lungs, whispering that I’m a fool.
* * *
“I can’t take this much longer,” I say as my legs carry me between the two cinder block walls of the small conference room. “Is there still no word back from the field?”
“We’re trying, Reagan,” Anusha announces, hovering over Cam’s shoulder as he pounds away at his keyboard. He’s hacked into the system but still cannot access every security level.
I glance at the digital clock above the door: 2:21 a.m. The team has been gone for over an hour, and so far we’ve only been able to access some of the satellite images of Torres’s suspected vehicles traveling south. We haven’t been able to listen in on radio contact yet, which is driving me insane. I need to hear what’s going on.
A door swings open, making me jump. I turn around to see Luke balancing cups of very strong and very bad instant coffee. I didn’t want to bring him into this. I know him. He’s going to put up roadblocks. I told Cam as much but he insisted on waking them both up to help, with the reasoning that four heads are better than two, blah blah blah.
“Here,” Luke says, handing me a cup of steaming black liquid. “I couldn’t find any cream. But I put four sugars in.”
“Thanks,” I answer and foolishly swallow a large gulp. It scalds the back of my throat.
“What’s the latest?” Luke asks, working his way around the conference room table and handing Cam his cup of coffee. Luke is wearing a white T-shirt and the red plaid pajama pants Harper and I bought him two Christmases ago. There’s a friendly little snowman on the left pocket. We thought the sweet cartoon face looked like Luke.
“From the satellite photos and the notes in the files, it looks like Michael’s right on them,” Cam answers, still typing at the keyboard. “The photos are coming in to me a bit late though. And no radio interception yet but I’m working on it.”
“What’s our endgame here?” Luke asks, glancing up at me and then back down at the computer.
“What do you mean?” I ask, pausing my pacing and squaring my body toward him.
“I mean, we’re sort of stuck in this compound,” Luke says, looking around the room. “What exactly are we trying to accomplish?”
“See, I told you not to wake him up.” I glare at Cam and take another gulp of coffee.
“I’m just trying to understand our objectives here,” Luke says, holding out his arms. “Reagan, you’re a doer. You do, do, do without thinking about the reason behind it.”
“We’re not doing anything yet,” I reply and cross my arms over my chest. “I just want to follow what’s going on and make sure something actually happens. And that Torres doesn’t get away this time.”
“And what exactly are you going to do if he does?” Luke asks, cradling his paper cup, the steam rising around his face. “They can’t know we’ve hacked into these files. We’ll get kicked out.”
“Luke, if you’re so concerned then do me a favor and just go back to bed,” I say and roll my eyes.
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” he replies, throwing up his hands in surrender and taking a seat on the other side of Cam.
“Well, you’re not,” I answer, my voice hoarse and throat thick with piercing barbs of anxiety. I try to swallow, but can’t. I take another swig of coffee, letting the hot liquid work its magic but the minute it coats my stomach, the pain returns.
“Wait, something new is coming through,” Anusha says, pointing at the computer.
My legs quickly whip my body around the conference room table. I stand behind Cam as red letters in the Torres file flash Alert, Alert, Alert over and over again.
“What is it?” I ask, my pulse picking up speed, my breath immovable in my chest.
Cam clicks on the folder and it begins to download.
10%. 20%. 30%.
The little blue bar fills at an agonizingly slow speed.
40%. 50%. 60%.
I grip the back of Cam’s steel chair so hard, I swear I can feel metallic splinters penetrate my skin.
70%. 80%. 90%.
My head feels dizzy, like I’m moments away from passing out. Fear scratches at my skin like fiberglass, needling my pale flesh.
Finally, the bar fills all the way up.
Download Complete flashes on the screen.
Cam clicks on the file again and it pops up. It’s an email. There’s no subject header. Just an attachment and one line written inside.
“What does that say?” Luke says and I lean in closer.
“Dame lo que siempre he querido, y esto termina.” I read it out loud.
“What does that translate to?” Luke asks, glancing back at me.
“Give me what I’ve always wanted and this ends,” I say.
“What the hell does that mean?” Anusha asks, her fingertips running across the tiny words on the screen, as if human touch will unlock some kind of clue.
“I don’t know,” I answer, shaking my head. “Click on the attachment. Maybe that will tell us.”
Cam clicks on the file and as the photo fills the screen, the room begins to spin, our collective breaths wrenched from our bodies.
“Oh my God,” Anusha screams and even though I’m staring at the same image, I can’t fully see it. It’s like the horrific picture in front of me is still stuck in the cones of my eyes and hasn’t registered in my brain. I shake my head, clearing it because that photo can’t be real. I blink hard, expecting it to be gone the moment I open up my eyes, but it’s still there in all its gory horror.
Michael’s piercing blue eyes stare back at me from the computer screen, blank and clouding with death. His throat has been cut, his red tissue spilling from the thick line of a calculated strike. Blood pours down his skin, disappearing against the black of his collar.
“No,” I whisper, tears ascending up my throat as my heart struggles to fully beat. “No, no, no, no! Not again. Not Michael.”
My voice rises to a near scream and Luke wraps my raging body up in his arms, softly covering my mouth with his hand.
“Reagan, shhhh…” he whispers quietly in my ear. “You can’t scream. We can’t let the guards know we’re in here. You have to calm down. Okay?”
I nod slightly in agreement, struggling to breathe into Luke’s palm, trying frantically not to scream or throw up or crumple on the ground. Luke gently removes his fingers from my lips as Anusha and Cam hang their heads, casting their eyes away from the image on the screen.
“Get it off, get it off,” I command and run away from the violent photograph. “Jesus Christ, help me. I knew they never should have sent that small of a team out. I was terrified something like this was going to happen. This is what happens when you follow protocols instead of listening to your gut.”
“I can’t believe it,” Anusha interjects quietly, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Not Michael. Not Michael. The words thread between the slimy coils of my brain.
He’s been with us all since the beginning of Qualifiers. He’s trained us, supported us, torn us down, built us back up. Everyone loves Michael. The trainees will be devastated. If they even tell us at all. Knowing the Black Angels, they’ll make him disappear on some overseas assignment and never bring him up again. He’ll be just like all the other silent heroes. Another black star on the white marble wall outside the intel center, no name, no label. Just a placeholder to be added to the body count this year.
“What do we do now?” Cam asks quietly from his seat at the computer.
“Well, what are they doing?” I counter, immediately turning my anguish into action to stop myself from falling apart. “They have to be sending another team after him, right?”
Cam taps at the computer, digging into the latest files. “Doesn’t look like it,” he answers. “Says the team down here is compromised and too
small to send out.”
“But what about all of us trainees?” I ask, holding my hands out. “Half our group is down here. That’s an extra nine bodies who know how to shoot in addition to whatever guards and operatives they have left.”
“I doubt they’ll take the risk,” Cam says, pointing at the computer screen. “This is a memo from Director Browning. Feels pretty final to me.”
“They’re going to let him get away again,” I say softly as I return to my pacing, forcing motion just to stay upright. “If another team doesn’t go right now, we’re going to be having this exact same conversation again but with a different Black Angel dead next time. He’s right here on this island. He’s so close. We can’t just let him jet back to one of his mansions in South America.”
The thought of Torres sitting on his private jet, sipping on Scotch and flying back home, causes the ember to flare, its black smoke spreading, filling every inch of my body with its poison. I dig my fingernails deep into the flesh of my hips until all I feel is heat and pain. I close my eyes, and even though I don’t want to see her face, I do. Bloodied, swollen, and scared. A gun pressed to her temple, Torres’s finger on the trigger.
Every vital organ within me feels heavy, like tiny metallic particles are cutting into my flesh. I can almost taste blood on my tongue. I open my eyes and they’re all frozen, staring at me.
“What did that line in the email say again?” I ask, trying to remember. “Give me what I’ve always wanted and this ends?”
“Yes,” Anusha answers, looking back at the computer. “What does that mean?”
And then it hits me. The bile in my stomach churns, violently sloshing from side to side, curling my body forward and forcing me to grab at my knees.
“What, Reagan?” Cam asks, registering my sudden terror.
“I think he means me,” I say, looking up from my hunched-over stance but staring past them, my eyes fixed on the cream cinder block walls behind my friends.
“What are you talking about?” Luke says, his voice on edge, ready for a protest.
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