Blackbird

by Anna Carey

  On the back of the first one is a printed paragraph.

  Blackbird: Los Angeles Target

  Blackbid has been one of our most elusive targets. She lasted the full fifteen days on the island, making alliances with one other target and injuring two hunters. She is intelligent and cunning. Incredibly fast, she has outrun every hunter who has pursued her. Skills include: tracking, knife skills, and disarming.

  You move through the folder, trying to find more information on your background, but there’s nothing. No explanation of who you were before, no explanation of where you came from. Where was the island? Is the “alliance with another target” talking about the boy who saved you?

  The folder is filled with paperwork. There’s not enough time to read it all. You scan through it, noticing a contract between Hilary Goss, Henry Goss, and the company. But it’s the letter behind it that raises the fine hairs on your arms. You see the heading from A&A Enterprises. It’s made out to Henry only, dated less than a week before. Due to the nature of your wife’s death and your history with the target on the island, your request has been granted. You have been reassigned to “Blackbird.” According to her Watcher she appears to be in strong physical and mental health. Your hunt will resume on September 21 at midnight. Await word from your Stager, who will provide information regarding the target’s location.

  Your stomach tenses and tightens, your hands bloodless and cold. Ivan was your Stager, tracking you to and from different locations, reporting your whereabouts. You were Hilary’s target, but when she was killed, her husband was reassigned to you—he asked to be reassigned to you. But who is the Watcher? The man with the black hat, the one Ivan reported to? How did the hunter find you the second time, when you were walking with Izzy that day? You think back to everyone you encountered on your walk, to the man giving the free stress test, and then you realize—that girl in front of the health-food store handed a coupon to Izzy. It was in Izzy’s sweatshirt on your walk. It must be how they tracked you.

  You pause when you hear a noise from downstairs. You look around, suddenly aware of all the windows in the bedroom. There’s an open door right behind you, a bathroom to your left. You roll up the papers and tuck them into the back of your jeans. You reach for the knife.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  YOU START DOWN the hallway when you hear a familiar voice behind you. “What the hell?”

  Izzy is standing at the top of the stairs. She glances around, looking into the master bedroom, at the overturned drawers and the clothes scattered on the floor. “This is what you had to do? This is what couldn’t wait? You had to come rob these people?”

  “Izzy, we have to get out of here,” you say.

  She looks at the glass case behind you. “Yeah, you bet we do. This is what you’ve been doing? Ransacking houses?”

  She doesn’t even finish the sentence when you hear it. The metal creak of the gate opening. You turn into the office, looking out over the driveway. His car—the same black Mercedes that followed you—pulls to a stop just beyond the front door. You turn to Izzy, grabbing her arm, pulling her toward the stairs.

  “Just come with me,” you say. “Don’t say anything. Don’t make any noise.”

  “What is it?” You can see in her face that she already senses the danger. Her arm is tense beneath your grip. “What’s wrong?”

  You turn back, looking out the window, but the car is empty. There’s the sound of the key in the lock. Then the door downstairs opens.

  “He’s here.”

  “You know these people?” Izzy whispers.

  There’s no time. You usher Izzy into the hall closet, pressing a finger to your lips. You close the door gently. You have barely made it a few steps before he appears at the bottom of the stairs. He lifts his pant leg, pulling a small pistol from a holster hidden at his calf. He doesn’t aim it, though. He doesn’t run up the stairs. He just smiles, as if he’s been waiting for you all along.

  “Did you miss me?” he asks.

  He climbs the stairs slowly, coming toward you. You’re aware of Izzy in the closet right behind you. You can’t leave her there. You keep your body positioned between him and the closet door, knowing you’ll have to lure him away.

  “I remember what you did on the island,” you say, conscious of the knife tucked at your hip. He’s not close enough yet for it to be of any use. “You were choking me. I remember you.”

  Goss shakes his head. “I’ve heard some of you were getting your memories back. I’ve tried to look at it as incentive to kill quicker, before there are any complications.”

  “So do it, then,” you say. “If you want me dead why wait even a second longer?”

  “Because it’s always the saddest part,” he says. “Right at the end. Because all that time, that waiting . . . it’s over. And there’ll be satisfaction, of course, but the joy of it is in the build.”

  He reaches the top of the stairs, leaning casually on the banister, just a few feet from you. His gun is still in his hand.

  “So you remember the island? I’d tracked you for five days, right at the end. Everyone said you couldn’t be taken but I knew I almost had you. It felt close. I’d found where you’d been staying with that boy, that den you’d made. I was always just a few hours behind you.”

  “The boy?”

  Goss laughs. “You didn’t bring him, did you? You used to work as a pair then. Cal thinks that’s the only reason you survived.”

  He takes the next two steps. You step back, hiding your right side from him. You bring your hand to your hip, feeling for the end of the knife. “I survived again, here. Twice.”

  “It’s harder to kill here, you must know that. Too many chances for people to see. But on the island, it felt . . . unbridled. There was total freedom. I was sure I had you. I tracked you to the north end. You were below, on those rocks, sleeping—that’s where I found you. Do I kill her while she’s asleep? Or do I wait for her to see me, to know that fear, to really see it as it happened? I fired at the rocks below to wake you. But it was a mistake. By the time I fired again you were already up, diving off the cliff face.”

  He’s closer now. His gun is still aimed at the floor. You could close the space in three steps. You’re trying to gauge how fast you can strike, how effectively, when there’s a thud inside the closet behind you. Goss’s eyes flick to the closet door.

  He doesn’t hesitate. He raises the gun, firing once into the center of the door. You hear Izzy’s low, muffled yell, and something inside you breaks. You lunge, driving the knife into his side.

  He jerks back, losing his balance, slipping down the staircase. One leg gives out, sending him skidding on his side.

  You open the closet. Izzy is slumped against one wall, pressing her hand to her side, her fingers covered in blood. There’s a tiny hole in her sweatshirt, right beneath her ribs.

  You tuck your shoulder under her arm, pulling her to stand. At the other end of the hall there’s a narrow staircase. You move her toward it, listening to Goss below, his stunned murmurs as he picks himself back up. “You have to try to walk with me,” you say. “I know it’s hard, but try.”

  You urge her down the narrow flight, out a side foyer. You’re in the back of the house now, the garden providing some cover. You move toward the back gate, which leads to the hill below.

  You hear a door open somewhere behind you. He is up again; he is following you. You pick Izzy up, all one hundred pounds of her, and run as fast as you can, feeling the papers fall out of your back pocket. But there’s no time. You push through the metal gate and down the back of the hill.

  You can hear Goss running around the side of the house, trying to figure out where you’ve gone. “Just leave me here, we’ll never make it,” Izzy says.

  She pulls up her shirt, studying the wound, pressing her
fingers into it as if she’s not sure it’s real. You shake your head and keep moving, wishing it were you. It should have been you.

  The house is on a hill and you find your way to a dirt path leading down. It’s so steep you keep slipping. Along the back of his property there are eucalyptus trees, their trunks twisting up toward the sky. You can’t hear him behind you. Has he gone the other way?

  As soon as you’re around the side of the fence, out of sight, you ease Izzy down. She leans back against the tree, her hand still pressing down on the wound.

  Her hair sticks to her skin. Her face is tense and twisted with worry, her breaths raspy. Watching her, you know that she could die here. She will die here if you don’t do something.

  “You’ll be all right. He wants me,” you say, “not you. I’m going to get help. Keep pressing down on it. Don’t move; stay awake.”

  You hold your hand over her hand, pushing onto the wound. A red stain spreads out beneath your fingers. The fabric is so wet.

  “I’m going to get help,” you repeat. “I promise, Izzy.”

  She offers a weak nod before her eyes close.

  You run, cutting up the steep hill as fast as you can. Every muscle in your legs burns, but you keep going, snaking out until you’re on the road. You don’t stop. You crane your head and he appears behind you, a hundred yards off. He is at the end of the driveway, waiting for you.

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  HE IS ABOUT to shoot when you take a hard left, cutting through a neighbor’s yard. You hop a low stone fence, your sneakers sliding against the dirt path. You grab on to brush and vines, trying to stay up, but it’s useless. You fall, slipping, skidding, your legs scraping against rock. As you slide farther down you catch the roots of a dead tree. You hold yourself there, looking back. Above you, the wall is empty. He hasn’t followed you down.

  You climb the rest of the way. Your hands grab branches and vines, clinging to dead roots, feet fitting into the dips and ledges in the rock. When you get to the street below it’s empty. There’s not a single car parked. Every house is behind a huge gate, so far back you can’t even see them.

  You pull the phone Celia gave you from your pocket, grateful for it—for this gift, for her help. As soon as the operator answers you speak, the words coming together in a breathless stream. “My friend has been shot. She’s at 2187 Glendower Avenue. She’s behind the house, near the back of the yard. She’s bleeding—she needs help now.”

  You can’t wait for much of a response. When you’re certain they’ve got the information you hang up and keep moving. Ben’s house is several miles east, and you know you can outrun Goss once you’re somewhere with more people, where he can’t shoot without being seen. You just have to get to the boulevard below, two streets down.

  You run, keeping along the edge of the street. You’ve gone for a few minutes, maybe more, when you hear him behind you. Glancing back, he’s running up the edge of the road. He has a hat on now, sunglasses. You’re cutting across, trying to avoid him, when he aims.

  You sprint up the side of the pavement, unsure when a few seconds pass and he hasn’t fired. Then you hear the engine behind you. You turn back. A red van has stopped at the edge of a driveway.

  The side reads STARGAZER TOURS in loopy script. A man walks up and down an aisle of people with a microphone, pointing to a house over the gate. He mentions some action-movie star, then says something else that makes the people laugh. Behind him, Goss has stopped by another mailbox. His gun is now hidden. He walks slowly, methodically, toward you. The van doesn’t move.

  You know it’s your chance. While the people are turned, studying the house, you run. You don’t look back. You just keep going, until the street winds down to the boulevard below, a rush of traffic beside you.

  When you return to Ben’s house he’s not there. You want to wait for him, to explain, but there’s no time.

  You sift through Ben’s drawers, looking for checks, money—anything you can use. There are two credit cards that you pocket, enough to get you a cab ride or a ticket out of Los Angeles. You think of the photo, of the label Los Angeles Target. There are other targets in other cities, hunts going on around the country, maybe around the world. Where are those other targets now? Do any of them remember what happened to them, do any of them know what they’re caught up in?

  The game is elaborate, the network huge—you understand that now. Goss is just one hunter among many. You need to get out of here, you need to stay alive long enough to figure out your next move. But you also need help. You have to find the others.

  There are a few stray dollars in the bottom of the drawer. You take those, along with a glass jar of silver coins sitting next to the couch. As you tuck it under your arm you feel sick. You imagine Ben there, realizing they’re gone, realizing that you took them.

  You’re nearly to the back door when you see his computer on the kitchen table. The idea of not saying anything, of not saying good-bye . . . it’s too much. You flip it open to write him a note.

  You’re search the screen for a document to write in when you catch sight of it. A folder in the corner of his desktop labeled AAE.

  Your hands are unsteady. AAE. A&A Enterprises.

  You open it and there are hundreds of documents inside. You click through to an image of you—the same one from Goss’s house. You’re staring into the camera. You already look half dead.

  The room feels smaller, the walls rushing to meet you. It’s so hard to breathe. You think of the file. The Watcher. Ben’s known all along. He works for the people who are after you. The people trying to kill you. He is your Watcher.

  You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there when the lock turns. The door opens. Then Ben steps inside, all smiles.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “IT WAS GOOD that I went,” Ben says, dropping his keys on the entryway table. “She was upset I hadn’t picked up the phone, upset about all the school stuff. I promised I was doing okay. I’m going to go back in three weeks when she’s released. Until then . . . I’m yours.”

  He sets his hands down on your shoulders and his fingers work into your skin, kneading the muscles. But you are frozen beneath his touch. You’re only aware of how close his hands are to your neck, the distance between the kitchen table and the door.

  “What’s wrong?” He leans down, staring into your face. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. We can go now, I just need another minute or two.”

  You stand, slipping out from underneath him. “It’s just a lot to process,” you say. “That’s all. Let me just get my bag from the pool house.”

  You don’t look at him as you go. You can’t. Instead you go for the door, almost out of the kitchen, almost into the hall.

  “What’s this about?” he asks, picking up the glass jar of coins from underneath the table. “Were you taking this? What’s going on?”

  You pause, hand on the doorknob, debating whether you should try to explain. He’s studying your face. Then, as if it has just registered, he looks down at the computer on the table, then back at you. He flips it open. Your picture is still there, still open on the desktop. It stares up at him.

  You go for the back door but he is already coming after you. “It’s not what you think,” he says. “Please, you just have to listen.”

  You get out the door but he jams his hand against the frame, stopping it from shutting. You push back, crushing his fingers. You hit the door again, wincing each time it lands, each time you hear his skin and bone catch beneath the frame. But then, finally, he lets go. You hop the fence into another yard. You keep running, weaving through a wood
en area, not stopping until you are back on the street.

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  CHAPTER FORTY

  AS SOON AS she steps through the gate, she begins her routine. She scans the front gardens, checking to see how much the plumeria have grown in her absence. She’ll have to cut the branches back from the window. They replaced the grass in the front with gravel the year before so she no longer has to worry about the overgrowth when they’re not there. Leaves are gathered around the front entrance, but otherwise it looks fine. No one has tried to break in.

  She has begged her husband to get someone to watch over the property while they’re in the states, but Michael always refuses. It’s impossible to get here by boat. It’s a private island; what’s the point? He won’t listen to her when she argues about what happened three years before, how they found the lock on the front gate broken, a knife lying just outside the door. He’d been game hunting on the south of the island with friends. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious, had pointed out it was near impossible for someone to approach the house from the north shore. The property was gated, sitting atop a rock cliff. But she hasn’t forgotten about it. She still wonders if it could have been one of the men he was with.

  There were other things, too. . . .

  That tree she’d seen on a walk one morning last year, the trunk smeared with blood. The forest smelled different to her, a strange, sickening stench drifting in when the wind changed directions. She used to spend all her time in the woods beyond the fence, hiking the stone paths the previous owners had carved out, cutting the black orchids that grew along it. She hardly goes out there at all anymore.