You Don't Know My Name
Page 10
“Mom, what happened?” I ask, touching her arm. I run my fingers along the little grooves of the wrap. She shoos my hand away and pulls her sweater down, hiding it from view. “What happened?” I ask again, this time with a little more force.
“Nothing,” she says, refusing to meet my eyes. “Just some bumps and bruises. All part of the job, sweetie.”
I look at my father. He stares down at the counter, drumming his fingers on the side of his coffee cup.
“What’s going on with you guys?” I wait a few beats. Silence. “Did something happen on the mission?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Why would you think that?” Mom asks after a few silent seconds, her eyes fixed straight ahead, staring blankly into the backyard.
The lightness we shared when I first walked in was a facade. With each moment that ticks by, it begins to crack and the darkness they’re hiding slowly slips out, encircling the room like a thick smoke, licking the corners, the cabinets, and the granite until it reaches my chest, tightening my lungs with every breath.
“Because you’re acting super weird. I know when something is wrong,” I answer. “So what’s going on?” They share a look. One that says, Should we tell her?
“Nothing that concerns you, baby,” Mom finally says, her voice soft and still. I roll my eyes and stand up from the stool.
“You know, I’m really sick of this,” I say and point at my chest. “Childhood ended for me a long time ago. You want me to put assault rifles in my hand and kick down doors and rescue people like you do, fine. But start by telling me the truth.”
My fist knocks against the stone counter. My mother jumps and my father’s eyes widen, surprised by my anger. They’re used to me rolling my eyes, saying “Whatever,” and walking out of the room.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” my father snaps at me, his sharpness forcing my body back into the chair. “We will tell you what you need to know and that is it, do you understand me?”
We sit in impenetrable silence. My eyes dart between Mom and Dad, studying their weighty eyes, their tight lips, their strained breaths. Whatever they’re hiding, it’s heavy.
“That’s not fair,” I finally say, my voice quiet.
“Well, guess what? Life is not fair. Out of everything we’ve encountered in the last twenty-four hours, you have the fairest of lives,” my father replies, his voice raised, his tone bitter. The joy I felt five minutes ago seeps from my blood and is replaced by a flash of panic. It burns sharp and hot and thick against the walls of my veins, tensing every muscle.
Dad stares at me, his eyes angry, before he shakes his head and walks out of the room. His feet shuffle down the hall and the door to his office slams shut. I listen as his body collapses into his old desk chair. It squeaks under the weight of his 225-pound frame and the house is silent again. Mom stares at the doorway, like she’s hoping Dad will come back to help her explain.
“Mom,” I say, placing my fingers gingerly on her arm. She turns around, but her glassy green eyes still won’t meet mine.
Mom starts then stops. She takes a deep breath and wrinkles her brow. I watch her put the words together in her head before she speaks.
“We are going to have a Black Angel watcher with you for the next few days,” Mom says, reaching out and touching the shoulder of my thin red jacket. She straightens it and pulls it closer to my chest, dressing me like she did when I was little.
“Why do I need a watcher?” I ask, staring at her, waiting for her to stop fidgeting and look at me.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be completely undercover with you at school,” she says, still playing with my coat. “You won’t even realize they’re there. And I need you to carry your weapon with you wherever you go from now on.”
My weapon. Holy shit. We have a no-gun rule outside of the house. Sure, I have my little knife contraptions the Black Angels made me and weapons stashed near the school. But never, ever have I been told to carry my gun.
“My gun? Bodyguards? I don’t understand. Why do I need them?” I press her again.
“I also need you to memorize all the codes that identify you as a Black Angel,” Mom continues, staring straight ahead and ignoring my questions. “Our code right now is BA 178229. If anyone is questioning you or you need to get yourself out of trouble, just repeat BA 178229.”
BA 178229. BA 178229, my mind repeats over and over again until it’s locked in.
“My code name is Red Sunrise. Dad’s code name is Black River. Sam’s code name is Beacon. Your code name is Shadow.”
They’ve never told me my code name before. I didn’t even realize I had one.
“Mom, what is happening? Why are you telling me all of this?” I demand, grabbing her carefully by the shoulder and forcing her to look at me. Her eyes finally lock with mine. They are no longer glassy. The sadness has been replaced with something else, an emotion I cannot put my finger on.
“Just in case,” she says, her voice firm and cool.
“In case of what?” I ask, each word tightening my throat.
Mom takes a deep breath and gets up from the stool. “Just in case is all, Reagan.”
Before I can say another word, she slips out the garage door and closes it behind her. I hear the secret door slide open and she is gone.
I sit frozen in the kitchen, the refrigerator humming behind me. The searing heat I felt in my stomach with Luke has been replaced by a series of tiny knots, tied so tightly, it’s impossible to move. I slide Mom’s coffee across the sleek granite and take a sip. I stare into the cup and it’s then I get a flash of what I saw in Mom’s eyes. What had replaced the sadness and guilt: It was fear.
TWELVE
What the hell happened out there? What is going on? Who is after us? How long until we leave?
The nerve endings in my brain are violently thrashing, my mind spinning with questions my parents refuse to answer. I sat alone in the kitchen for ten minutes, drinking Mom’s coffee, watching the garage door, listening to the squeak of Dad’s chair, waiting for one of them to reappear and explain why I need my gun and body guards 24/7.
They never came back. Fine. I’ll find the answers myself.
As I sit down at my computer, the terror I’ve been trying to push away slashes deeper, making each breath a labored effort. I should have known as soon as I walked in the door, their soft voices in the kitchen, their tight smiles, the tension pulsing off their bodies, ping-ponging against the cabinets and countertops. They’re unequivocally shaken and won’t tell me why. They’ve been on a gazillion missions. Sometimes stuff goes wrong. But this time feels different. I’ve never felt this undertow of fear before.
I force my brain to focus on what Mom told me about the mission and the details come flooding back. Anna Taylor. Santino Torres. Drug lord. Colombia.
I type Anna Taylor’s name into Google and one hundred headlines pop up. The top one reads:
Senator Taylor’s Daughter Killed During Rescue Mission
The words knock me back in my chair. Shit.
I click on the CNN article. A picture of Anna smiling, her arm wrapped around her father, stares back at me. She’s absolutely stunning with long blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and a bright, wide smile. A white play button at the center of the photo beckons me to hit play. So I do.
A brunette anchor appears on screen, filling in all the missing details. “Anna Taylor, the daughter of millionaire businessman turned US senator Josiah Taylor, has been killed during an attempted rescue from Colombian cartel boss Santino ‘The Hammer’ Torres. Taylor, along with four other Americans, had been abducted earlier this week and held hostage in exchange for the release of three Colombian drug dealers in federal custody here in the United States. Sources are reporting that an unknown group raided the compound in the early morning hours and successfully rescued Taylor’s two traveling companions, Stephanie Litton and Jen Meredith, all former students at the Sidwell Friends School in DC, as well as Massachusetts couple Richie and M
ila Barcelona. The rescue team was unable to reach Taylor before she was shot and killed. Anna Taylor planned to attend Georgetown next fall. She was just eighteen years old.”
They lost someone. They lost a senator’s daughter no less. My parents rarely lose someone they are trying to save. I can count on one hand the number of people that have died on their watch.
“Oh my God,” I whisper as I feel the gravity of what this could mean for the Black Angels and my parents, the shit storm from the media, the repercussions at CORE. But there has to be more. This can’t be the only thing that happened. There has to be something else that has my parents so petrified.
Tears threaten to climb up the back of my throat but I swallow hard and let my training take over. I take a deep, full-bodied breath and fall back into numbness. Holding this tragedy far away is the only way I can function. I refuse to let it break through my skin, soak into my body, and affect me. Turn off emotions, push away the poison, I hear my mom’s voice in my head. And so I do.
My fingers bang at my keyboard, typing in “Rehenes Estadounidenses” and “Santino Torres.” Several Colombian newspapers pop up. I scan the headlines. The newspaper in Santa Marta, Colombia, called El Informador has a headline that reads “El hijo de Santino Torres se murió en rescate de rehenes.” Translation: Santino Torres’s son killed in hostage rescue.
That’s it.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, raising my fingertips to my temples. I click on the headline and begin to scan the article.
Take-down in Santa Marta.
Unidentified American Group.
Alejandro. Four years old. Shot in head by rescue team.
Died in father’s arms.
Anna Taylor. Forced to her knees.
Cried and begged for her life. Shot execution style.
Her body abandoned. Her flesh set on fire that night. A promise from Torres.
“Venganza, venganza, venganza. Muerte a los Americanos.” Revenge, revenge, revenge. Death to the Americans.
Bile rises up my throat as I realize that Torres must have leaked this entire story in hopes the Americans would find it and heed his warning.
At the bottom of the article, Alejandro’s dark eyes haunt me; his sweet smile crushes me. He was so small. Why did he have to die? Collateral damage. That’s what the Black Angels would call him. He was just collateral damage. But he wasn’t. He was a little boy. They’d justify it and say he’d grow up to take over his father’s drug empire. But how do they know? Maybe he’d grow up and become a doctor or maybe a lawyer or a teacher and do good to offset the evil of his father. He was only four years old. He still had a chance.
My stomach has been tied into so many knots, I feel physically ill. The wall I’ve built around me begins to chip and crumble; my body begins to tingle. My arms, my legs, my feet, my hands feel disconnected from me somehow.
We’re leaving. We’re leaving, my mind taunts. I can feel it in my bones. We’re twenty-four hours away from going into hiding. Forty-eight if I’m lucky. The room spins, dread tightening my lungs, and I can’t breathe. I want to slow the clock that’s counting down the minutes I have left in this house, in this life, but it ticks by at double speed.
My wobbly legs stand up from my desk chair. The walls around me begin to melt, coming closer and closer and a sudden rush of heat blisters my skin. I have to get out of here, go for a run, something.
I tear open the bottom drawer of my dresser, pulling out yoga pants, a sports bra, and a T-shirt. I glance over my shoulder and out the window. The sun is just starting to set, its warmth retreating as our part of the world spins into darkness. I grab my red jacket in case I get cold.
I slip on my shoes and walk into the dark hallway. Mom and Dad’s door is closed, a sliver of pale light lining the crack at the bottom. I can hear the hum of their voices but cannot make out what they’re saying. Or more important, what they’re plotting. A shiver pricks at my spine, sending my body shaking, at the thought of what’s next. A two a.m. wake-up call. A frantic search for my go-bag. A silent drive down our street, my face pressed to the window, as I watch my house, my life, disappear.
I pound down the stairs, pull open the front door, and practically throw myself into the darkening night. The cool air hits my flushed face and finally I can breathe.
The leaves crunch under my running shoes as I head out of my neighborhood and down one of the bike paths. I pick up the pace and turn on the running mix Luke made me last weekend. A hollow, harsh violin floods my ears, followed by an explosion of drums and a rap beat.
My feet strike the pavement and with each line I push myself to run a little faster, my stride a little longer. I run past the small downtown and toward the bright lights of the high school track.
Once I reach school, I’m surprised to see dozens of cars in the parking lot. I thought the track would be empty. I take out my earbuds and hear female voices. The cross-country team is in the middle of the field, laughing, talking about their weekends while they stretch their tight quads and massage sore calf muscles. I reach the iron gates and grab the cold metal with both hands. I know I should turn around, head back to the path or pick a different route. But I stay there and watch them. I lean my warm cheek against the cool black bar, wishing I was in the middle of the field with them instead of looking in. A wave of loneliness rushes over my body and even though I’m sweating, I feel cold.
Every fall I ask my parents if I can run cross-country. I don’t know why I even bother asking anymore. The answer is always no. My training is too important, they say. I’m in far better shape than any of those girls will ever be, my dad always tells me. But it’s never been about the running or the competition or being in shape. I just wanted to be part of something normal, something that was mine.
The crisp evening air punctures my lungs. At first, I think something is wrong. I put my hand on my chest and breathe in again. The air cuts through me, knife-sharp, as I inhale. I realize then that the crushing pain I feel isn’t just in my lungs, it’s in my veins. Anger tingles down my arms and up my legs.
I do my best to bury the anger. Mask it as sarcasm or annoyance. But watching the girls in the middle of the field, I can’t find a way to make fun of it or brush it off. Because I’m not annoyed or irritated. I’m freaking pissed off.
It crushes me, wave after wave after wave, one right after the other. It doesn’t trickle in, it floods. I’m angry that my childhood ended at ten. I’m angry that my parents pulled me out of ballet and soccer and that training took over my life. That summers were spent learning languages and martial arts, and weekends were spent shooting and running and strength training. I’m angry that playing outside with my friends was a luxury and that leaving them in the middle of the night was something I was told to just “get through.” I’m angry that my mind is riddled with daymares and that the fear of another panic attack lingers with every anxious breath. I’m angry I might be taken away from the only person who’s ever really seen me, maybe even loved me. That I have to bury every emotion and pretend everything is okay. God forbid I cry or get mad or show that I’m human. I feel like a zombie, a robot. My entire life, I’ve followed their every order, forced on a million different masks, and I’m just so tired. I’m tired of feeling half dead.
My mind takes over my body. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I shake the fence with so much force the gate slams shut. The bone-chilling sound of metal crushing metal echoes against the empty bleachers, silencing the entire cross-country team. I stand there frozen as their ponytails whip around. They stare at me, their mouths open, like I’m a monster. And maybe I am.
I take three steps backward and turn around, running at almost full speed toward the sidewalk. My feet pound back down the hill and my heart beats just as fast. Fury tightens my lungs and numbs my lips. I take deep breaths in and push bad air out as my legs sprint the mile back to my house. My body fights me, wanting to give up, but I just keep running.
I flip open the keypad and punch i
n the six-digit code, unlocking the secret door to our basement. My feet pound down the stairs, relieved to find the basement empty and cold. I head straight for the punching dummy, rage bubbling and burning my skin. My hands are shaking. I can’t even be bothered to put on training gloves. All I want to do is smash the dummy’s face.
I tear off my jacket and throw it to the floor. A piece of paper flies from a pocket and pinwheels to the ground.
It’s folded, its edges torn. I pick it up, unfold it, and recognize the half-cursive, half-printed handwriting immediately. Luke’s. Inside the note are four words. I’m falling for you. I hold the note in my hand and read the words over and over again. The tears I’ve been struggling to contain rise, burning the corners of my eyes.
“No,” I whisper and close my eyes. “Please, no.”
I breathe in once, twice, then attack the dummy. Punch after punch after punch the dummy bounces back to me, mocking my strength, unmoved by my rage.
You’re leaving him, you’re leaving him, my mind hisses with every violent punch.
The tears crawling up my throat finally break free, rolling hot and thick down my face. I don’t swallow them or fight them or even brush them off my face. For the first time in years, I let them fall.
Through glassy eyes, I hit the dummy again and again until I cannot take it coming back to me one more time. “Goddammit!” I scream and shove the dummy with so much strength, it falls with a deafening crash to the floor.
Pain shoots sharp and searing through my muscles, sending me to my knees.
“Please don’t,” I whisper as the tears fall faster and turn into full-body sobs.
Please don’t take me away from him. I pull my legs up to my chest and bury my face in my knees. The pain I’ve been dreading the most finally breaks free from its box, poisoning my blood. The bodyguards and passcodes and guns are just the beginning. If Torres isn’t found immediately, there will be a significant increase in our threat level and there’s just no fighting it. We’ll be forced to disappear.