“Bring them back to me,” I whisper and she nods, kissing me on my cheek.
“I will,” she whispers back, running the back of her fingers against the apple of my cheek. She lowers her eyes, unhinges the panic room door from the wall, and pushes it with a noisy creak until the door is closed. I punch in the six-digit code and my body suppresses a shiver as the weighty bolts shift into place and lock me inside.
TWENTY-THREE
Just leave. Just leave. I watch the built-in monitors from inside the panic room as Sam and Cooper throw the last of the aluminum weapons cases inside the black SUV. Sam slams the trunk, grabs the keys out of Cooper’s hands, and makes her way to the front seat. I hold my breath as she turns on the car, pulls out of the driveway, and disappears from the camera’s view.
My body stands motionless, staring up at the camera for sixty long seconds, waiting for their headlights to return. They don’t. I punch in the six-digit code. The metal bolts clank out of place and the door hisses back into its unlocked state. With guns still in my hands, my shoulder pushes open the heavy door and I run back into the situation room.
I place my weapons on the desk, pull out my phone, and immediately begin capturing photos of everything and anything related to the mission. Routes, flight schedules, code names, coordinates, a map of Torres’s ranch near Tumaco.
On a slip of paper, the word Brian and a phone number is scrawled out in Sam’s messy handwriting. I need more time. I pick up the satellite phone and dial Brian’s number.
“This is Brian,” a deep voice says on the other end of the phone.
“Brian, hey, it’s Sam,” I reply, lowering my voice two octaves to try to match Sam’s natural vocal range. “We are on our way out the door but stand down on coming to the safe house. We’re actually going to move Reagan to another safe house on our way.”
“You sure?” Brian asks.
“Yeah, this area is compromised,” I answer, pinpricks of sweat threatening as the lies roll off my tongue. “We need to get Reagan out of New Albany. So we’ll take care of it.”
“But the direct orders to move her came straight from CORE,” Brian says, his voice questioning.
“Look, what do you want from me, my codes?” I reply, trying to pull off my best annoyed and in charge Sam. “BA 178229, code name Beacon, mission code 220394. Seriously, Brian, I don’t have time for your questions. Just stand down and I’ll talk to you after I’m back stateside.”
“Okay. My apologies,” Brian answers, finally satisfied. “Be careful out there.”
“We will,” I answer and hang up without saying good-bye.
I stare down at the guns on the desk. I can’t take any of these with me on the plane but I grab the small pistol and tuck it into the back of my jeans. I look around the situation room one more time for any detail of the mission I may have missed. The walls of the basement are starting to inch their way closer with every shallow breath and despite the cool temperature, my body is burning. I need to get out of here. I run into the weapons room, grab my go-bag, sprint up the stairs, and head out the door.
The freezing night air encases my scorching body and burns the delicate membranes inside my nose. An old-model Jeep is still in the driveway. I try the door. It’s unlocked but no keys. I flip down both sun visors and pull open the glove compartment. Nothing. I do a mental scan of the situation room. There were no keys down there. Cooper must still have them in his pocket.
I sprint back inside the house and tear open the cabinets under the kitchen sink. Yes. Toolbox. I grab a flathead screwdriver and hammer and run back outside. This better work. I know how to hot-wire a car the hard way but that takes too much time. I jam the screwdriver into the ignition and pound it with the hammer.
Please work. Please work. After one more tap, I turn the screwdriver and the car comes to life.
“Yes,” I whisper to no one. I back out of the driveway, pull out my phone, and call Luke.
“Hey, you okay?” he answers after a half ring.
“Yes, I’m fine. Look, I need you to book me a flight to Quito right now,” I reply and wind down the two-lane country road on the outskirts of the country club neighborhood.
“Absolutely not. You need to turn around and go back to the safe house immediately,” Luke insists.
“No way,” I snap. “I need to get down there.”
“This is so dangerous, you’re going to get yourself killed and…” Luke begins.
“Luke, I can’t sit at Langley and watch another failed mission over the monitors,” I answer, frustrated tears burning my exhausted eyes. I take a deep breath, forcing them to retreat.
“Reagan, this could be suicide,” Luke says again.
“I know,” I answer. “But if I don’t go, my parents will die. I can feel it, Luke. They are going to die.”
My gut wrenches as the words tumble out of my mouth. This isn’t a scare tactic, a ploy to get Luke to buy me the ticket. Throughout my years of training, I’ve developed a sixth sense, that know-it-in-your gut feeling that so many agents develop over time. And I know the words I’m saying are true.
“Please,” I beg and suddenly feel disconnected from my body; like I’m watching this conversation instead of having it. “Help me, Luke.”
Luke lets out a long sigh. I can hear him typing at his computer.
“Two flights. One leaves in ninety minutes at ten p.m. The other leaves tomorrow morning,” Luke answers, his voice tight with what-am-I-doing worry.
“Book tonight,” I answer. “I need to get down there before the DC team so I can swipe their ride.”
“Done,” Luke answers. “Got to love that Platinum AmEx.”
“Thank you. Be right there,” I say and hang up.
My car turns down New Albany Country Club Drive and races toward the Weixels’. I glance at my clock just before I turn down Landon Lane: eighty-five minutes and counting. I pull into their driveway but before I can put the car in park, Luke is running down their front path, a backpack strapped to his back. He pops open the car door and climbs in.
“Okay, we better get going if we’re going to make that flight,” he says, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and throwing it with my stuff in the backseat.
“What do you mean we?” I ask.
“I bought two tickets to Quito,” Luke replies and fastens his seat belt.
“No way, Luke,” I say, shaking my head with ferocity. “No. Way. I’m not letting you come with me.”
“Well, I’m not letting you do this alone,” he answers, shaking his head back at me.
“It’s way too dangerous,” I reply, throwing my hands in the air. “I’ve been training for this since before I lost my baby teeth.”
“So have I,” Luke insists. “I may not have been trained as a Black Angel, but I’ve been training my entire life to be in the military. Look, I know I don’t know as much as you, but Reagan, it’s suicide to try and do this by yourself. I’m not going to let you. And if you make me get out of this car, I’ll call Sam and tell her what you’re doing.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Yes I would. To keep you safe, I would.”
“Luke, I have to do this,” I say, my voice rising. “You don’t understand what it’s like to sit in a room completely helpless and wait to hear if the people you love are dead or alive.”
“Of course I do.” Luke’s voice surges to match mine. “How do you think I’d feel if I stayed here and let you go?”
His words knock out the last thread of air I’m so desperately trying to keep in my lungs. We stare at each other for a second, but the gravity of the moment pulls our eyes to the floor.
“Look…” Luke says, his voice now calm. “If you’re going to take the DC team’s truck, then we better look like a team. Otherwise, you’ll be put right back on the next plane to Dulles Airport with a half-dozen bodyguards around you.”
My lips are throbbing, pressed tightly together between my teeth. He’s right. I can’t just
show up in Quito and expect to get across the border. They’re expecting a team.
“What about your parents?” I ask, looking over his shoulder to his front door. “Won’t they freak out if you’re gone?”
“They’re in DC until Sunday,” Luke answers. “I told them I had JROTC training and overnights the rest of the week and would be hard to reach.”
“Okay,” I finally reply, a heavy sigh passing through my sore lips. “You can come but you have to follow my every order, do you understand?”
“Promise,” Luke answers. I throw him my phone.
“Okay, first thing. I have photos of all the plans on there,” I say and back out of his driveway. “Text every photo to your phone, then delete them off mine. I’m dropping my phone off at Harper’s. Then we’ll go to the airport.”
“Why are we going to Harper’s?” Luke asks as he texts all the photos to his number.
“Because it’s two minutes from the safe house,” I answer and pull out onto New Albany Country Club Drive. “If they try to track my phone, maybe it will confuse them once they find out I’m not at the safe house. Buy us a little more time.”
We drive in silence the three minutes to Harper’s, Luke transferring over my files and deleting any trace of who I really am. When we pull into Harper’s driveway, she’s climbing out of her Range Rover in yoga pants and an oversize sweatshirt. I glance at the clock: 8:48. Seventy-two minutes.
“My two favorite people,” Harper says, her smile wide, as we hop out of the still-running car. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Taking a drive,” I say with a casual shrug.
“Wanted to come and say a quick hi,” Luke says and wraps an arm around Harper. She returns his half hug and gives his waist a squeeze.
“I’m so glad you did,” Harper says, pulling her enormous tote over her shoulder. “I just got back from the club. Tried that new yoga class with the superhot teacher. Don’t know if the gorgeous face and Australian accent was worth the pain. I think he broke my hymen and not in the fun way.”
“Too much, Harper,” Luke responds, shaking his head as a laugh bubbles up my throat with tears close behind. She’s in front of me, so close I could touch her, and yet my heart already misses every piece of her.
“Still RGFs?” Harper asks, giving me a wink. I shrug while Luke looks back and forth at us, confused.
“You two,” Luke says, shaking his head and letting go of his hold on Harper. “I’ll never figure your little language out.”
“You guys want to come inside?” Harper asks.
“No, no, we’ve got to get going. I just wanted to see you,” I say and wrap my arms around her neck as Luke starts walking toward the car.
“Are you okay?” Harper asks as I hold her tighter than normal.
“Yup. NBB,” I reply. Never been better.
Before I pull out of our embrace, I gently drop my phone into her wide-open tote and pray it sinks to the bottom. She can never find anything in that bag.
I squeeze Harper one last time and whisper in her ear, “Thanks for always being such a good friend.”
“Of course,” she whispers back.
I pull away from her and quickly walk toward the car, afraid of the tears that lie at the base of my throat.
“Love you,” she calls after me. I turn around, thankful for the darkness that hides my tear-stung eyes. I put my hand to my lips and blow her a kiss.
“Love you too,” I say and know it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to her beautiful face. I open the car door and take her in. The way she wraps her wavy hair into a wild bun. Her full, pink cheeks. The way she smiles, first sluggishly then bright and wide all at once. I file every piece of my dear, sweet friend away and that pain pierces even deeper into my heart.
I pull out of her driveway, my face catching the dim glow of the streetlight, giving me away.
“You okay?” Luke asks, reading my face.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard and forcing any remaining tears back down. “That’s the first time I’ve actually gotten to say good-bye.”
Luke doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out, his fingers dancing on the top of my hand for a moment before he returns them to his lap. I glance at the clock: 8:55. I press on the gas and we race in anxious silence to the airport.
TWENTY-FOUR
“So once we fly into Quito…” I say quietly, pointing to Ecuador’s capital on my tablet. I tap my finger on the screen, zooming in tighter on Quito. I trace the route to Colombia with my index finger, creating a squiggly blue line. “The Black Angel transporter will get us to a meeting point somewhere near San Lorenzo and then we’ll travel to Colombia through our channels. We’ll meet up with the team in Tumaco and make our way to Torres’s ranch by tomorrow night.”
“How are we all going to make it across the border?” Luke asks, staring at the digital map.
“Foreign Black Angel agents have connections at the border, so we’re just going to have to hope they will be on duty,” I answer, tapping on the map again. It zooms in tighter on the border. Luke squints his eyes, studying the route. “But most important, CORE has already arranged for two trucks with hollow beds. They use them all the time on missions to cross dangerous borders without being detected. We will hide in there until we get outside of Tumaco.”
“And if anyone spots the trucks, the agents just will look like your average farmers, carrying their load,” Luke interjects, nodding.
“Exactly,” I say, pushing my hair off my face. “Believe me. My parents have done this like a hundred times. Probably hidden in the exact trucks we’re going to take. I’ve practiced it a few times during my training at some of the different international camps. It’s uncomfortable and hot in there, but they’ve all been intricately designed so no one ever suspects there are people inside.”
“International camps? Where have you trained?” Luke asks, his voice soft even though there’s no one else seated within ten rows of us. Late-night flights to Quito in the middle of the week aren’t exactly an in-demand ticket.
“All over,” I say and do a mental scan. “Israel one summer to learn from the best Krav Maga experts in the entire world. Russia another summer for weaponry training. China for hacking and digital training. I’ve trained in Mexico and the Middle East. I did some training one summer with MI-6 in England. They have a group there that’s connected to the Black Angels. Very secret, very underground. Children of agents are born into that life and are trained their entire lives to become the next generation of agents. Just like me.”
“That’s amazing,” Luke says, shifting in his seat, his leg brushing against mine. “You’ve gotten to do so much.”
I nod in quiet, conflicted agreement and stare blankly at the tablet, my eyes pausing on different Colombian towns. Florencia. Mocoa. Montería. Cali. Bogotá. Such beautiful names for a country filled with so much violence. They sound more like the names of resorts or spas, not cities where shootings are an everyday, every-hour occurrence and the streets run red with blood.
My ears pop. I didn’t realize how muffled everything had sounded since takeoff. The noises around me amplify. The roar of the plane’s engine fills my head and pulls me away from the map, hushing my racing mind.
I press my forehead against the plastic window and feel it give under the weight of my skull. I stare past the wing and wispy clouds. The lights of small towns twinkle back at me. We pass over fields and two-lane country roads, pockets of subdivisions. I stare down at the strip malls and the grocery stores, dark office buildings and lit empty parking lots, warm homes with smoke rising from their chimneys and cars parked in the driveway. I count the houses on the streets and wonder what their lives are like.
I imagine women washing dishes in the kitchen, scraping food off white plates and staring out their windows at dark backyards, still swing sets, or their own distorted reflections. Their children sit at the kitchen table doing homework while their husbands read newspapers or fiddle on laptops in the fami
ly room. They all wait for dishes to be put away, for sink tops to be dried, and showers to be had so they can spend time together. Watch TV, read a book, get ready for bed. Go to sleep and start the routine all over again. That may sound like a boring existence to some. But right now it sounds perfect.
The cabin lights above us dim. I stare up as the bright white darkens to a warm orange. Luke pulls out his phone and glances at the time.
“I think you better try to get some sleep,” Luke says, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
“What about all the tactics and strategy?” I ask, my voice catching in my throat, giving away my emotional and physical drain.
“We’ve been going over it for hours. We know it,” Luke says, looking up at me for a moment. “And besides, we’re only going to be there as backup, right?”
“Right,” I answer even though the thought of sitting in the truck sounds just as awful as sitting at Langley.
“Come on. It’s been a long day,” Luke replies and touches my hand. His fingers are warm on my cold skin.
“I’m almost too tired to sleep,” I say, tucking my leg beneath me.
“How about I tell you a story?” Luke asks. No one’s told me a story since I was little. I nod and Luke pulls a blanket off the empty row across from us.
“Come here,” he says, patting his lap. “Lie down.”
“What about you?” I ask. “You need to sleep.”
“I’ll be fine.” I curl up my legs and lie down, my head resting in his lap. Luke drapes the blanket over my body, pulling it up around my shoulders. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”
“Tell me about your favorite vacation.” I snuggle up to him.
“Okay. When I was a little boy, we’d take a trip to North Carolina every summer,” Luke begins. “We’d stay at a condo on the beach and every morning Claire and I would eat mini chocolate Entenmann’s donuts on our balcony and count the number of waves that crashed on the sand. Claire hated getting all sandy and spent half of the trip running her little legs under the faucet on the boardwalk. Every day we’d get our little buckets and collect seashells. Starfish, sand dollars, and clamshells and…”
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