You May See a Stranger

You may see a stranger

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May Martin453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxZvgloBeK6

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Chapter 1

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As a child, I found fire comforting. My mom, who was perpetually three or four wine glasses deeper than she should’ve been, would wander around the house in the evenings, lighting candles in every room in the house. Content with the atmosphere she created, she would plant herself on our scratchy, old floral sofa and order me to make a fire. Even at five years old, I would love to wander around the house finding things she would let me burn. I’d hold up various items – an old book or the curtains off the bathroom window, yes. Her favourite denim jacket, no. Then, once I’d used a match to light whatever paraphernalia I could find in the hearth, the two of us would sit there, watching the flames dance. I always found those evenings relaxing, watching as everything burned, becoming a grey indistinguishable mound of ashes. Most nights, my mom would fall asleep, her pale skin and blonde, greying hair glowing orange by firelight. Eventually, I’d feel my eyes grow tired and I’d blow out the candles on my way to bed, dumping a glass of water on the ashes in the fireplace.

This nightly routine would go on for a decade, into my early teen years. Every evening, whether returning home from the library or a party down the road, I’d find my mom draped across the sofa, a glass of something in her hand. Though her love affair had begun with pinot grigio, she gained an affinity for hard liquor as I grew up – probably because I was able to steal it from the homes of various classmates during Friday night parties. By the time I was fifteen and had enough teenage angst in me to get angry, I had become disillusioned enough by her alcoholism that I wouldn’t make her a fire unless she bought actual kindling from the corner store during one of her good days.

I lived for her good days. They’d come around every once in a blue moon, when she’d wake up suddenly determined to become a good mother, to find a job, to make amends. I learned not to take these days too seriously (knowing that the evening would end with a cup full of amber liquor) but instead grew to appreciate them for what they were – opportunities. These were the days I’d get her to sign permissions slips so I could go on trips with the church youth group, who asked me join out of pity, or cough up $20 so I could take a kickboxing class in the local community centre basement. These were also the days I felt heartbroken at how her life had turned out, because I could see a glimpse of the funny, confident women she could’ve been. Sometimes she’d make lunch for me to take to the park, and write a terrible knock-knock joke on the paper towel in black pen. Other times, I’d wake up to the radio playing an old song, and she’d sing terribly in the kitchen as she made breakfast.

That was what she was doing, the morning it happened. As I watched her hum while mixing pancake batter, I asked her to sign a form I got from the bank to open my own account. I had gotten a job a few months ago, working as a waitress at the local pastry shop, and I wanted to finally deposit the cheques I’d received. She was so proud.

“Look at you, all grown up,” She smiled. “Soon you’ll be supporting this family!” She waved the whisk in the air, as if celebrating, and a drop of pancake batter fell to the floor.

“That’s the plan,” I said, watching her spoon the batter onto the hot pan. “I don’t think you buttered it.”

“Ah, that’s alright,” She said. “I’m pretty sure it’s a non-stick pan.” It wasn’t, but there was no point in saying anything now. Eventually she delivered me two pancakes, slightly burnt and missing large chunks that were still stuck to the pan.

“Thanks,” I ate the breakfast quickly. “I’m going to work.”

That’s really the last thing I remember from that day. The rest of it had gone by so mundanely. When I turned the corner onto my street after finishing two back-to-back shifts at the bakery, my clothes coated in sugar and flour, I felt the comforting aura of a good day, the first in a while, dissipate.

Our home, a small two-bedroom bungalow behind a chain-link fence, was engulfed in flames. They reached so high that the leaves of the old oak tree that towered over the house were starting to catch light. Neighbours stood across the street on the sidewalk, their cell phones to their ears, no doubt calling 9-1-1. I ran the rest of the way to the front of the house, my heart beating quickly as I scanned the crowd who was gathering in front of the inferno. I didn’t see my mother.

“My mom’s not in there, is she?” I asked, trying to find anyone who will answer me. The crowd is stunned, looking back at me with sad eyes, as if they knew the answer but didn’t want to be the one to tell me.

As it turns out, she was home. Later that day, in the small hours of the morning after the house had been drenched in water, her body was recovered from the couch in front of the fireplace, which turned out to be the culprit of the whole thing.

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Chapter 2

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I was thinking of that night, the first time I truly ever encountered death, as I stand in my room, listening to Chris tell me that an operative has died.

“How?” I ask, watching as I gather my hair up in a ponytail using the small mirror on my wall.

“Shot in the chest,” Chris replies in an indifferent tone, leaning against the doorframe.

“Okay,” I say, tucking my shirt into my pants. I look at myself in the mirror, noting how tired and dull my eyes look, the news of the death not registering on my face. “I’ll go on the job then.”

“Be downstairs in ten.”

Chris leaves, shutting the door behind him. I breathe out slowly, thinking. Death has become a constant presence in my life for the better part of a decade, since the fire. As I tie my shoes, I try not to get emotional. Though death is familiar to me, I still feel guilty, and sad. Kelly was just a colleague to me; we worked together maybe a handful of times. But she’s the fourth person we’ve lost in the last couple months, and it feels like a bad omen of what’s to come. With what I do, you have to get comfortable with death. I’ve never been great at that.

I straighten myself up and throw on a jacket. My bed is still unmade – Chris woke me up when he knocked on my door with the news – so I make it, tucking in the corners and fluffing the pillow. My room is pretty bare, consisting of just the bed, an unframed mirror on the wall, and a dresser with a broken drawer. I didn’t have any personal effects to bring when I came here eight years ago and I don’t see the point of accumulating pointless stuff.

I leave my room, heading downstairs through the concrete walls of Kingston. A warehouse in the middle of New York state, Kingston was home base for Chris’ operation. It used to be where an old appliance company stored their refrigerators and other products, and Chris bought it from them years ago. The old logo, which read Kingston in bright red, cursive letters, was still sprawled along the outside wall of the building, and could be found faded on various walls inside. Besides bringing in furniture so that the space was livable, Chris and his previous associate Jen didn’t do much to it. As I walk down to the main area, to the large first floor of the warehouse where some couches were haphazardly assembled, I wonder what the job is that Chris is sending me on. The job that was supposed to be Kelly’s.

There’s a few people sitting on the couches, silently waiting for Chris to come brief them.

“Hey,” I say as I approach the couches.

“Hey, Molly,” Will grins, looking up briefly from his phone. Will is a big guy, and looks oversized on the couch. He’s one of the only people who is friendly here. The rest of my colleagues, probably smartly, have decided not to connect with anyone. Besides talking during jobs and small talk at Kingston, they keep to themselves.

The other two, John and Nina, nod at me as I take a seat.

“How was last night’s job?” Will asks me, making conversation. It’s a silly question because, besides giving a simple answer, I can’t tell him anything, since he wasn’t on it with me.

“It was fine,” I reply. “You?”

Will shrugs. “We lost Kelly.”

“Right,” I mumble, feeling terrible that I didn’t remember he was on that job too. Will and Kelly worked on a lot of jobs together. John and Nina seem unaffected, though they’ve always been particularly closed off.

Chris walks in, slamming the door behind him. A tall, bald man in his early forties, he had an air of irate intensity about him. As he strides towards us his new associate, Lydia, follows behind him. She joined the team just a few months ago, replacing Jen, and has been Chris’ right-hand man ever since. I think Lydia is my age, but with the short, curly hairstyle and an air of restrained anger that was permanently clear in her face, she seemed much older.

“John and Nina, get out of here,” Chris says once he gets to us. “No job today.”

Nina looks up at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Really?”

Chris nods, “I’ll come talk to you later.”

John glances at Nina dubiously, looking a bit annoyed, but they get up and leave, heading back to their rooms. You don’t question Chris.

Lydia and Chris take John and Nina’s place, sitting down on the faux leather couch. Lydia hands Chris a folder, which he opens, taking out a piece of paper with the photo of a man on it and placing it on the table.

“Senator McCormick?” I ask, recognizing the portrait. He’s been a New York Senator for a few years now, and I’ve been on a surveillance job on him before, though I’ve never engaged. He seemed like a dirty politician, from what I’ve gathered.

“You’re going to his fundraiser tonight,” Chris says. “The client wants evidence of his involvement with the Czechian arms dealer Marecek. They’ve heard McCormick’s been setting up orders from them for the State Department even though the U.S. has a trade embargo with them, and Marecek’s on a blacklist.”

Will nods. “Easy enough.”

“That’s it?” I ask, surprised. Compared to last night’s job, which ended up in a bloody interrogation in order to get information on an illegal shipment, this seems like child’s play. I want to ask more questions – why this event, why tonight? Wouldn’t it be easier to catch McCormick at a private residence, rather than a public event where he would be less likely to talk about sensitive subjects? But I don’t ask these questions. I keep my mouth shut. I learned early on that I don’t make the plans at Kingston, and I don’t ask questions. I just execute.

“That’s it,” Chris replies. “You leave at 5 p.m. Molly, we have a purchased a ticket for you under a cover.” Lydia hands me a golden piece of cardstock, with the name Amelia Kensington on it. “Will, you’re on surveillance.”

“Got it, boss,” Will responds. Chris and Lydia go over the other details of the job, which seem pretty straightforward. When it becomes clear that they have nothing further to add, Will clears his throat – “Any update on Kelly’s shooter?”

Chris shakes his head. “No.”

I can tell Will wants to probe further, always one wanting to have all the information.

“Have you investigated? Do you mind if I look into it?” Will asks.

Chris sighs heavily, leaning back into the couch with an air of irritation. “You think you can find more information than me?” He asks, testing Will.

Will shakes his head immediately. “No. We just don’t know who it was. Doesn’t that pose a security risk for us?”

Chris stands up, looking down at Will who’s perched on the end of the couch, leaning forward. “I have it under control, Will.” His tone effectively ends the conversation.

With that, Lydia nods in agreement and follows Chris out of the room.

Will breathes out a sigh of frustration, sinking back into the couch. He goes to open his mouth to say something to me.

“You better not,” I warn, trying to be smart. “For the both of us. I’m sure they’ve got it handled. Have you ever known Chris to not handle something?”

“You’re right,” Will says, standing up, though his tone indicates that he’s not convinced. As he leaves the room, he calls out “See you at five.”

The rest of the day goes by quickly, probably because I’m anticipating the job. I didn’t sleep well last night – I didn’t get back from that job until 6 a.m. and Chris woke me up just a few hours later to tell me about Kelly – so I make myself a cup of coffee in Kingston’s old staff break room. These days, with so many jobs back-to-back, I’ve become dependent on caffeine. Once I’m feeling somewhat awake, I go back to my room and shower, nursing the injuries that I’ve gotten off the past few jobs. My sprained ankle is almost back to normal – I got that one a few weeks ago scaling the outside of a building trying to break into a lawyer’s office so I could erase some evidence for one of Chris’ clients. There’s also a large gash on my thigh that I got last night when I was pushed against a sharp, metal table during the interrogation. I clean it and dress it in a new bandage. As I do every day, I take a painkiller for my right wrist, which broke years ago and never healed properly. It perpetually aches.

It’s almost 3:30 p.m. so I wander out of my room towards Brianna’s, hoping she’ll let me borrow a dress for tonight. The fundraiser has a formal dress code and I don’t have anything that’ll pass. I walk down the hallway of bedrooms, which are just old Kingston offices Chris converted into residences. There were about a dozen of us here at some point, but numbers have dwindled lately since we’ve lost a lot of people. As I pass Kelly’s old room, I feel a pang of sickness in my stomach.

I knock on Brianna’s door, but she doesn’t answer it. I knock again, rapping louder this time. “Brianna?” I call through the door when there’s no answer. I turn around and bang on Thomas’ door across the hallway. He opens it swiftly, his hair amess and dirt and dried blood on his face. He scratches at his thick beard and flings a towel onto his shoulder, looking like he’s about to shower.

“Hey. Have you seen Brianna?”

Thomas shakes his head. “We were on a job but we took different vehicles. I just got back. She’s probably on her way.”

“Oh, thanks,” I reply, barely getting the words in before he closes the door in my face. I turn around, convinced that Brianna wouldn’t mind too much if I go into her room without her here. She came to Kingston three years ago and I trained her. She was younger than me and was so frightened when she arrived, I took pity on her and we kind of became friends. Well, as much as you can be here.

I turn the doorknob and find the room was unlocked. Like mine, her room is simple, though she has collected a few personal items. A photo of her and another woman on her dresser, a couple books, and a throw pillow. I walk over to her closet, rifling through the clothes. There’s not much, but I find a green dress that I remember her wearing in cover to an event a while ago. I also pick up a pair of heels which were strewn on the floor of her closet. I think this’ll work. I find a piece of paper and a pen in her bedside table and write Brianna a message: Took your dress, will bring it back soon. Thanks! xx, Molly.

I take the clothes back to my room and get dressed, pinning my hair up with some bobby pins and applying some make up. I hear my door open, and turn around to find Chris.

“Ready?” Chris asks from the doorframe, looking at me as I put on the heels. I’ve known Chris for the better part of a decade but I’ve never liked him. He’s just a necessary part of my life. I tell myself to be grateful to him for giving me a place to sleep, food to eat, and a job.

“Yes,” I reply, grabbing a scarf I’ll use as a shawl from my closet. It doesn’t match well, but it’ll do.

“Good,” Chris says vehemently, sitting on my bed. Like a lot of men I’ve met, he walks into a space and is able to completely make it his own. It’s unsettling how he can make me feel like an unwelcome intruder in my own room. “Don’t come back empty handed from this one.” It sounds like a threat.

“I understand, Chris,” I say, though his words are unneeded. I know you don’t come back to Kingston without finishing the job.

“Nice outfit,” He says, inspecting me. It’s not a subjective comment on my appearance, but an objective approval of my cover.

“It’s Brianna’s. I had to borrow it from her.”

“I’ll tell her you took it.”

“Thank you.”

Chris takes a moment and then gets up from the bed, walking up to me so we’re only a foot apart. His face is solemn, his eyes intense. I want to look away, to stare at the floor, but I know I can’t. I look him in the eyes, his gaze making me feel small and insignificant.

“You’ve been here a long time,” Chris says, putting his hands on my shoulders, the weight of them feels constrictive. “Almost the longest of anyone.”

“Yes,” is all I can say, unsure of where this is going. Usually Lydia is the one we talk to, unless we’re getting briefed on a job. Besides those meetings, I don’t spend much time with Chris unless there’s a specific reason to do so, which isn’t typically a good sign. He smiles a little, but it seems unnatural on his face.

“You like working for me, right?”

His choice of words give me pause and sends a feeling of unease down my spine. “Yes, sir.”

His presses his lips together and nods. “That’s what I thought.” He releases his grip on me and goes to leave the room. “Make sure you get the confession on record.” His tone changes as he’s back to business, talking about the McCormick job.

“Will do,” I say, still feeling his hands on my shoulders as he closes my door. The conversation leaves me with an odd, sickly feeling I don’t quite understand.

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Chapter 3

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Hours later, I’m in the Belmara ballroom which is filled with a couple hundred people, dressed in their finest. It’s snowing outside – the type of thick, full snow that comes around only once or twice a winter in upstate New York – and the large marble hearth is filled with a roaring fire. Candles line the room and are placed amongst a rose centerpiece on each round table.

I glance around the room, observing my surroundings. Dozens of couples dance in the middle of the room to the generic, non-descript music being played by the band. Senator McCormick, the host of the fundraiser, stands just six or seven feet to my left, discussing something under his breath with two other men. They look concerned. Though just in his early forties, McCormick has aged over the past few years, a consequence of the job. His furrowed eyebrows had specks of white in them, and his hair had started to turn grey since last summer. A waiter passes by and I pull a champagne glass off his tray.

“Molly, can you hear what they’re saying?” Will’s voice says in my ear.

I raise the glass to my mouth as if to take a sip and respond, “I think they’re talking about the Robertson affair.” It’s hard to listen from a safe distance, but I’m able to hear snippets.

“Worried that it’ll hurt his chances of being re-elected?” Will probes.

I turn to the fireplace and look up at the large painting above it – a depiction of a long-forgotten general from World War II, probably painted around the same time the Belmara was built.

“Slightly,” I say, guessing off of McCormick’s face. Robertson was his primary policy advisor. “Mandelson says it’s off colour. Braxton thinks it might actually help his chances with the older male demographic.” The men conversing with McCormick are louder than they should be.

“Alright,” Will says, sounding dissatisfied. “Can you try to initiate a conversation about Marecek? We’re coming up dry here and it’s been a few hours.”

I nod slightly, knowing Will can see through the hacked security cameras. I turn around from the fireplace, put on my most dazzling smile, and stride over to the group of men. They turn when they hear the sound of my heels on the marble approaching them.

“Excuse me gentleman,” I say politely, resting my hand briefly on Braxton’s back.

“Hi there,” McCormick says, turning his attention to me with a dazzling, politician smile. He reaches out with his hand to shake mine. “I’m Senator McCormick. This is Bob Mandelson and Liam Braxton.”

“Senator McCormick, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And you two, as well. I’m Amelia.”

“Enjoying the party, Amelia?” McCormick asks.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I respond, looking around the room in amazement. I look back to McCormick. “I voted for you, you know.”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjQJgAidYD0
“Smart lady,” Mandelson says, nodding in acceptance at me as McCormick beams.

“What can we help you with?” Braxton asks. I get the sense he’s the one who keeps everything on track in McCormick’s life and career.

“Well, I was wondering. Have you seen my husband?” I ask in mock worry. “He dragged me to this party and I can’t find him anywhere. Dark hair, glasses? Wearing a handsome, navy blue suit?” I look around expectedly to the men.

“No, ma’am, we haven’t,” McCormick says.

“Oh shoot. He did say he knew you though. His name is Donald. He’s from Marecek. I think you two work together!” I look to McCormick, playing up the clueless wife narrative. The second I mention Marecek, the air changes from one of mild amusement to one of tension.

McCormick chuckles dryly. “I don’t think I know a Donald. We have to get going now,” He starts to move away, gesturing for Mandelson and Braxton to follow. “I have to give a speech.”

“Good luck!” I exclaim, waving after them.

“Nice, okay,” Will says in my ear. I can hear quiet clacking on his end as he works on his computer. “Okay… you should start to hear them now.”

Through my earpiece, I hear the small microphone I placed on Braxton’s back go live.

“…the idiots at Marecek,” I hear Mandelson say, a bit muffled, and I eye the trio as they work towards the stage. I make my leave from the ballroom, knowing now that we’ll hear everything we need to. “You’re not working with them, are you?”

“No,” McCormick says sternly. “And we didn’t invite any of their people tonight. Who’s Donald, can you find out, Liam?”

“Yep,” Braxton says. Donald doesn’t exist – neither does Amelia – so he won’t have much luck.

“If the White House, Jesus, or the media, finds out you’re striking a deal with a Czech arms dealer again, we’re done,” Mandelson says tensely. That word, ‘again’, was all we needed. The job’s over. The easiest one I’ve had in months.

As I leave the Belmara, using various staff hallways to leave behind the esteemed politicians and celebrity endorsers, I listen as McCormick, Braxton and Mandelson panic about the presence of a possible Marecek employee at their fundraiser. I open the exit door out of the back of the hotel, bracing myself for the cold weather. Brianna’s dress and my scarf aren’t enough to protect me from the late December weather. Approaching the black SUV in the staff parking lot, I take my earpiece out and slide into the passenger seat.

Will smiles at me as I hop in, and he throws his laptop, which was balancing on the dashboard, into the back seat, starting the car and turning the heat up.

“Well, it wasn’t ideal that you had to talk to him face-to-face… but it seemed like they were determined not to talk about it,” Will says, and we pull out of the hotel’s driveway, leaving the lavish Belmara brightly lit behind us. The hotel was located on a private, wooded road just off the interstate, so we’re driving in darkness as the snow falls.

I shrug, agreeing. “Yeah, I mean, Chris needed the intel tonight.” I raise the hem of my dress up just enough to access the gun holster on my thigh, slipping it off and putting it in the middle console. “Just means I can’t see my good friend McCormick again.” After we engage with a subject, we can’t work on jobs involving them again, in case they recognize us.

Will laughs. “Right, Amelia and McCormick were really getting along.”

“I think she would’ve left Donald for him,” I say, taking my heels off and resting my feet up on the dash. Will shoots my feet a look of annoyance but lets it slide.

“Are you going to get into your pajamas in here too?” Will says incredulously, watching as I unpin my hair in the rear-view mirror. He takes a left onto another road. In the rear-view, I notice a white car behind us.

“Next time you stand in heels for four hours, trying to hear the confessions of idiot politicians who don’t give a shit about anyone else.”

“I’d wear the heels,” Will says, nodding with a goofy smile on his face, as if talking himself into it. We take a ramp onto the highway.

Good to know,” I say, my voice trailing off distractedly as I look again the rear-view. “Is that car following us?”

Will glances in his mirror, noticing the white car. “Shit.”

I sigh, hitting my head back into the headrest in annoyance. “Weren’t you looking out for this?”

“I saw the car in the parking lot, but I figured it was a waiter’s car or something since it has a college bumper sticker. I didn’t even see a person in it. Shit,” Will curses again between his teeth.

I look around at our surroundings. Though it is late at night, the highway is full of other cars. And it’s dark. “Do you think you could try to lose them? I’d rather not engage until we know who they are.”

Will turns silent, concentrating. He speeds up quite a bit – just enough that other cars wouldn’t report a dangerous driver. He switches lanes, weaving throughout the other cars. The white car does the same, and I can hear its engine rev behind us as we approach an exit.

“Should we take it?” I ask, looking back at the other car. Will grimaces, thinking, then shakes his head. “No, the next one,” he says decidedly.

We zoom past the exit, as does the white car. In preparation, I reach for my gun and angle myself so I have clear visibility of our pursuer. We soon approach the next exit, and despite Will’s attempts to get away, the white car is just two cars and one lane over. I try to see who’s driving, but can’t through the falling snow. Will waits just long enough until it looks like we’re about to miss the exit, then veers sharply to the right – the tires slide across the pavement. Expertly, Will straightens the car out as the other commuters honk angrily.

“Did we lose them?” Will asks, making another hard right at the first stoplight we come across. I look out the back windshield.

“They’re gone,” I tell him, putting the gun down. It’s tense for a moment.

“Shit!” Will groans angrily, as we come to an abrupt stop in a nearly-empty parking lot, slamming the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

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I’m standing at the sink of a run-down dusty blue bathroom in a Best Western hotel room when Christopher finally answers the phone. “Molly?” Chris barks, as soon as he picks up. He’s probably wondering why we’re not back yet at Kingston yet.

“We’ve had an issue,” I say quickly. “We were followed leaving the Belmara. We lost them but they would’ve definitely noted the make of the car and the license plate.” I peek out of the bathroom door and see Will perched on the edge of one of the double beds, his head in his hands. His legs jerk up and down in anxious, quick spurts.

“Give me your location,” Chris says immediately.

“Well, we lost them without engaging and we ditched the car in a Denny’s parking lot a few blocks north of here,” I continue.

“Where’s here?” He asks, impatient.

“A Best Western just off the interstate. We couldn’t risk coming back to Kingston. Did you get the audio Will sent?” I inquire, trying to remind Chris that we did pull off a successful job. I hear Chris exhale forcefully. I can imagine his face turning a deep red, irritated colour. He had a temper, and it flared often and intensely.

“We did. The client is happy,” He says in disinterest, but it’s the best compliment I could’ve asked for in this situation. Chris never tells us who the clients are.

“I did get the license plate of the pursuer. KED 0590,” I say, picturing the car. “Can you run it?” I perch on the edge of the bathtub.

“We’ll run it. Leave the SUV in the parking lot, it’s no use to us anymore. Let the county impound it. Lydia will leave the keys to something else at the reception desk sometime tonight,” Chris was never one to forget or forgive mistakes like the one Will made tonight. He was exceptionally good at fixing them, though.

“Yes, sir,” I say and I hear a click as Chris hangs up the phone.

Walking out of the bathroom, I toss the phone onto the bed and watch as Will paces in front of the dusty, closed blinds that cover the single window in the room.

“So?” Will asks, throwing his hands up as if I wasn’t speaking fast enough.

“They’re going to run the plates and we’ll go back to Kingston in the morning.”

“And what did Chris say?”

“He didn’t sound happy. But it’s not like this is an entirely new situation. We’ve all been tailed before.”

“Nah, this was a rookie move. I got lazy because I thought it was an easy job,” Will says, flopping himself onto the bed as I sit on the other. “I should’ve noticed.”

I shrug. “Shit happens.” Will groans in annoyance.

I’m still wearing the dress from earlier, so I pull the bed’s comforter up around my shoulders to shield myself from the cold air seeping through the hotel’s cheap windows. The material is scratchy and uncomfortable.

“Let’s just get some sleep and re-evaluate in the morning,” I offer.

Will sits up and looks at me. I notice his five o’clock shadow is coming in, deepening his already dark appearance. Though he was a large man, and one of the most intimidating of Chris’ operatives when he wanted to be, as a partner on jobs he was always a somewhat comforting presence because of his sarcastic nature, and tendency to wear his thoughts on his face.

“You know, I think you might be too soft for this type of work,” He says. “If I was on this job with anyone else, they would’ve berated me for that mistake. Or killed me, if it was Thomas.”

I’m not sure if I should take it as a criticism or compliment, so I get defensive. “I’ve worked for Chris longer than you have, so I wouldn’t think anything,” I pause. “You’re an idiot for making that mistake. We could’ve both been killed and you could’ve risked exposing Kingston. Happy?”

Will smirks, successful in getting me mad, and lays down on the bed, his hand behind his head. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

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Chapter 4

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I’m not even asleep for an hour when I’m woken up by a beep from my phone. Groggily, I turn over and look at it, the bright screen illuminating my side of the hotel room. As my eyes adjust, I look quickly over at Will, who is sleeping spread-eagle on the bed.

No information yet on license plate KED 0590. Stand by and remain at hotel.

I sigh and delete the text from the unknown number, sitting up and yawning. I get up from the bed and wander over to the window, peering in between the closed blinds. The snow continues to fall heavily. There’s three more inches on the parking lot pavement than when we arrived and I can see fresh tire marks leading from the road to a grey van. The footprints from the driver side door lead back to the road, instead of to the hotel, so I figure Lydia has dropped off our ride back to Kingston. I grab the room key and head to the lobby. Standing in the elevator in an evening gown, I feel ridiculous, and the florescent lights aren’t a welcome sight to my already-tired eyes at 3:15 in the morning. But knowing I usually can’t fall back asleep after I wake up, there wasn’t anything better to do. I feel the weight of the day sink into me as the elevator descends. The back-to-back jobs are catching up to me.

The lobby is a ghost town when the elevator doors beep open, and I look out to the parking lot to see if I can spot the grey van lined up amongst the other vehicles. The lobby desk is manned by a lone receptionist shuffling through papers. Approaching the desk, the man looks up at me, startled. He has a mess of short, light brown hair and dark blue eyes, the right of which has a small scar through the eyebrow. I note that he has a large build for a bellhop.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He inquires, his voice seemingly strained and full of forced customer-service pleasantness. The man looks me up and down, probably judging my choice of clothing and my red-ringed eyes. I ignore it.

“Good night. Or good morning,” I chuckle at my tired blunder. “I’m picking up car keys for Amelia Kensington? They should’ve been dropped off recently.”

“Right. What’s the room number?”

“302,” I reply, and he turns around and looks at the wall full of dozens of small mailboxes behind the desk. Fifteen seconds pass as he searches for the box.

“Just there,” I point to the mailbox with “302” etched into a metal plate in the bottom right hand corner. He retrieves the keys from the box.

“How are you doing tonight?” The man inquires as he hands me the keys. He asks the question any customer service person would, but the context and tone seems out of place.

“Oh, I’m… fine, thank you,” I reply hesitantly, after a moment. The strange man nods, looking at me intently, then rubs his eyes. “Long shift?” I ask.

“No, my shift just started,” He answers, picking up the papers he was shuffling through.

“Well, thank you for the keys,” I offer with a small smile, before walking back to the elevator and hitting the button for the third floor. Back in the room, I hastily turn on the lights.

“Will, we gotta go,” I whisper urgently, grabbing his laptop, our guns, and my bag out of the hotel safe and tossing them onto his bed. Will wakes up immediately and grabs his stuff.

“What is it?” He demands, packing up his belongings.

“I think the person who tailed us is in the hotel. I just went down to get the keys to the car and something’s not right.” I yank open the blinds and prop the window open. “We only have a couple of minutes. Pass me the sheets from the beds,” I instruct holding my hands out. “Then get in the bathroom.”

Will tugs the sheets off the beds and I tie one around the desk chair, throwing the rest of it out of the window. The other, I toss completely out of the window, letting it crumple on the bushes beside the sidewalk below. I turn off the lights and quickly join Will in the bathroom, closing the door slightly. We both breathe quietly, and Will hands me my gun, which I hold down at my waist.

A few seconds later, as I expected, I hear someone enter the room as Will watches through the crack in the bathroom door.

“He’s armed but I can’t see his face,” Will whispers. I can hear the man’s footsteps as he runs over to inspect the make-shift escape plan I manufactured.

“Now,” I whisper to Will, and he throws open the bathroom door as we run out of the hotel room – I slam the door shut behind me and we run down the hallway towards the emergency staircase. I know that there’s nothing to stop the man from following us, so I push against Will’s back to go faster.

Just as we reach the staircase door I hear a shot behind me, and I duck as Will throws open the door and starts descending down the staircase. I’m not quite sure where the bullet lands.

“We’re going to have to hotwire something,” I say to Will, following him quickly down the staircase. I have to hold up the dress as I run since it’s long enough to get under my feet. “We can’t take the car Lydia left us – they’ll know which one it is.”

Will nods as we reach the bottom of the staircase where the ‘Exit’ sign glows red, leading us out into the parking lot.

“There,” Will says, starting towards an old, brown car. Using his elbow, he smashes the driver-side window and unlocks the car. As he’s doing so, I stand with my gun cocked in the air, aimed towards the staircase door. My heart pounds as I anticipate it opening.

Will strategically chose an older car, so no alarm goes off when he breaks the window. He takes off the hoodie, places the sweater over the broken glass in the driver’s seat and sits down, starting to wire the car. He does so swiftly, and I hop in the car once he’s done. Quickly, he pulls out of the parking lot and soon enough we’re on the interstate heading towards Kingston. The highway is completely empty ahead and behind us, a stillness that comes just before the sunrise.

It’s quiet for a few moments before I break the silence. “This was supposed to be an simple job.”

“I know,” Will says, under his breath. “I mean, it’s McCormick. He must have this guy on his payroll.”

“He has to be,” I agree. “But I don’t know how they identified us so easily.”

“Chris didn’t say anything was breached?”

“No,” I shake my head. “Let’s just get back to Kingston and figure out what’s happening.”

“Something has to be wrong,” Will says, his brows furrowing as he thinks. After a minute, he asks a question. “Exactly how long have you worked for Chris?”

I’m taken aback by the question. We don’t ask each other things like this – things that give away information about our lives before we lived at Kingston. I don’t know why he’s asking. I look at Will, who glances back at me, then at the road. I can tell he regrets asking. I glimpse out the window at the rear-view mirror, checking for any followers, but I can’t see any cars around.

“A few months after my mom died, I was squatting in this encampment on the street,” I begin. “I had been lucky enough to meet up with other people about my age who were being looked after by this older guy, who would come by once a week and drop off cash in exchange for us selling drugs. And one day a car pulled up. The woman in the driver’s seat asked me if I wanted a place to stay. It was a rough area and I was maybe… fifteen? Anyways, I knew I couldn’t stay on the street much longer. It wasn’t good, especially being that young. I had already gotten in a half dozen fights and I was getting a reputation as a dealer. It was the woman Lydia replaced who picked me up, actually. Jen. I only found out after I got in the car that she actually paid the man to take me. And then I spent a year training with Jen and Chris. You joined a few years after,” It’s the first time I’ve talked about my beginnings at Kingston since I met Chris eight years ago. I hadn’t even told Brianna about this, who is the only person I would actually want to tell.

“Shit,” Will inhales sharply. “You were just a kid.”

“I think that was kind of the point for Chris. And, you were only nineteen,” I protest.

“There’s a big difference between nineteen and fifteen. By the time I joined, I had already served a year in the force,” Will argues back, then pauses. “Do you regret joining?”

Yes, I think, but unsure if this is a sort of test, or if he suspects me in some way. Even though I like Will, and we’ve worked together for a while, you can’t really trust anyone in our line of work.

“No,” I reply.

“Me either,” Will says. “Beats working for Uncle Sam.”

I have nothing to say to that, so we sit in silence for a few minutes. I watch as the sun rises ahead of us. The snow has stopped falling but the car is freezing – there’s no way to patch up the shattered window.

“Hey,” Will says, snapping me out of my trance. “How did you know something was wrong back at the hotel?”

“Oh,” I think back to the lobby. “The guy was acting like he’d never been behind a front desk before. Couldn’t find the mailbox. He was wearing the same nametag of the guy, “Caleb G.”, from when we checked in. And then he said his shift just started, but night shifts start much earlier than 3 a.m.”

Will nods, mulling over my statement, seemingly choosing to believe me. Maybe he doesn’t suspect me after all. “You should call Chris. Let him know what happened.”

“You’re right,” I answer, pulling my phone out of my bag and dialing his number. Chris sounds even more irritated on the phone after I recount what happened. He asks where we are on the interstate, and tells us to pull over at a gas station and wait for someone from Kingston to pick us up. We’re only an hour away, but he doesn’t want to risk the police roaming the highway for the brown sedan, which Chris said had now been reported stolen by hotel management.

A few minutes later Will and I pull up to a heavily wooded gas station. A couple businesspeople are there filling up their tanks, no doubt about to make the long drive into the city. It’s 5:30 a.m. now, and the world is starting to wake up. I take the opportunity to purchase some ill-fitting pants, slip on shoes and a “I <3 NEW YORK” hoodie from the convenience store, along with a bottle of water and an energy bar. I don’t want to be cold or hungry while I wait for someone from Kingston. I pay with cash at the front, and ask the clerk to direct me to their bathroom. Meanwhile, Will is filling up a cup of terrible gas station coffee with what looked like a gallon of cream.

The gas station bathroom was just as disgusting as I expected and two of the three stalls were unusable. I slip into the third stall and hang the small black bag I’ve been toting along with me on a partially broken hook on the back of the stall door. I sift through it, moving aside my gun and an extra microphone device to find a lone hair tie which I use to put my hair up. As I’m slipping the hoodie over my head, I hear the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from outside the bathroom, giving me pause. I listen intently to try and decide on my next move, but a few seconds later, I hear the sound of the bathroom door creaking open. Quietly, I stand on top of the toilet seat, my feet straddling the lid, and peer between the cracks of the stall. I recognize the curly, auburn hair – it’s Lydia.

“Lydia?” I ask, pushing open the stall door and pulling my gun out of my bag, putting it at my side so I’m ready to shield us from whoever was outside. Lydia turns around, her reddish curls bouncing against her shoulders. Her square face had a set determination, her brown eyes gazing over me with an air of incrimination.

“Who’s the shooter?” I ask, gazing towards the door to the gas station parking lot, waiting for someone to burst through it at any moment. “Is Will with you?”

“Will’s dead,” Lydia says, matter-of-factly. The ice-cold feeling of shock strikes my chest. He was just alive… he was just here.

“Where’s the shooter?” I ask again, trying to regain my composure. But before I can, Lydia has snapped my bad wrist away with her left hand and pulled the gun from me with her right. She’s disarmed me, and my gun was now pointed directly into my chest. I wasn’t expecting it – I wasn’t on guard.

“Lydia,” I mumble quietly, stunned. My heart beats loudly in my chest. “What’s going on?”

I raise my hands over my head, my wrist aching, in anticipation and as a sign of innocence. I haven’t done anything wrong but Lydia’s deadly gaze didn’t seem to confirm that she thought the same.

“Lower the gun,” I say, in equal measure of anger and confusion. “I haven’t broken protocol.”

Lydia continues staring at me, unmoving as if waiting for someone to arrive. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, the door bursts open and, unexpectedly, the man from the hotel front desk crashes in. Lydia turns the gun off me and points it at him, firing once. I take the opportunity to get out of the way, looking for something I can use as a weapon or a shield. There’s nothing except a garbage can overflowing with used paper towels in the corner.

The shot must’ve missed the man, as he’s sprinted into Lydia, knocking her off her feet. My gun flies out of her hand and hits the floor, sliding under one of the stall doors. As Lydia and the man fight on the ground – I can hear the distinct sound of fist hitting bone – I clamber over to the stall door and pick up the gun.

“Stop!” I yell, pointing the gun at the pair. The man has Lydia in a choke hold, but she kicks him in the groin and he releases his grip. He swings his leg out, tripping her and forcing her to fall onto her back. I notice a gun tucked into his waistband and I’m just about to shoot to incapacitate one of the them – at this point, I’m not sure who – when a woman I’ve never seen before, dressed in all black, bursts in and restrains Lydia.

“Get her!” The woman yells, and the man looks up at me with determined eyes. I shoot, hitting him squarely in the abdomen. He must have some type of gear on because, though he winces, he lunges at me and knocks me off my feet. I still have a hold of my gun, and I try to wiggle my way out from under his body weight so I can angle it at him and shoot at an unprotected part of his body.

“Molly, stop,” He says, trying to grab the wrist of the hand holding onto the gun. Trying to figure out how he knows to call me Molly, I continue to work my way out of his grip, biting him on his upper arm so hard that I draw blood. He’s noticeably strong, but I can tell that he’s not using his full strength. He’s pulling his punches. I can see out of the corner of my eye that the woman has either knocked Lydia out or killed her. Lydia lays on the floor, her head turned away from me. Now, it’s the both of them against me, and the women stomps hard enough of my hand that I’m forced to release the gun. She kicks it far from me, and I hear it clatter against the tiled walls.

“Get her up,” The woman orders, and the man grabs me under my arms and sets me up straight. I struggle for a moment to regain my footing, then manage to kick him in the kneecap. It doesn’t seem to do much so I take a second to try and get my bearings. I’m facing the bathroom door, which has been busted open, and I’m shocked to see Chris making his way into the bathroom, striding in with his hand on the belt buckle where I know his gun is holstered. The man from the hotel is in front of me with his back to the door, looking at me intently. He has my wrists entrapped in his hands and is squeezing so hard I’m worried my bad one will break again. I kick his other kneecap again.

“Just stop for a min-,” The woman demands in a harsh voice, but before she can finish her sentence, she drops to the floor, a bullet in the back of her head. As her body falls besides Lydia’s, I see Chris turn his aim to me and this man, who are close enough that one bullet could probably kill us both. I panic – is Chris aiming at me, him or the both of us? A thousand thoughts fly through my head at once. Why was he here? Why was Lydia? Who killed Will?

The man from the front desk still has me restrained but I glance quickly at him. Unlike Chris, he seems calm and collected, as if going through the motions of a well-rehearsed dance, rather than the blood bath this has become. I see, now, that Chris has shifted his aim to the upper part of the man’s back, right where the heart would be. He’s shooting to kill.

All these observations run through my head in a matter of seconds and, without much thought to the consequence or even reason of my actions, I headbutt the man in front of me hard enough that he lets go of my wrists, and I grab the gun that I saw holstered at his side. I aim at Chris’ abdomen and shoot.

What did I just do?

I don’t have time to think about it. I sprint out of the bathroom and towards the treeline just past the parking lot. I run for at least a few minutes, until I can no longer see the signage of the gas station. There, I sit at the snowy trunk of a tree, trying to understand what just happened.

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Chapter 5

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I’ve been sitting in the wet snow for half a minute, shivering with my head in my hands and trying to think of my next move, when I hear the sound of foot steps behind me. I stand up, tense, and maneuver my body behind the tree so I’m completely obscured.

“Molly?” The voice says, like he knows I’m there. I recognize it – the same one from the front desk and the bathroom. Knowing I have nowhere to go and my only chance out of this alive is a confrontation, I move away from the tree and hold up the gun, his gun, which I shot Chris with.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t kill Will,” he says. “And I’m not the person who shot at you at the hotel.”

I’m still defensive, but curious at his initial reaction to explain himself rather than disarm or attack me. I remember that I didn’t get a look at the man who entered the hotel room, but I keep the gun pointed at him.

“You were at the front desk,” I counter, noting the same scar above his eye. He’s no longer wearing the tacky hotel vest or nametag, and instead is sporting a black zip up jacket and jeans. There’s a hole in the jacket from the bullet, but no blood.

“Yes,” he admits. “Want to put the gun down?” He cocks an eyebrow towards my outstretched arms.

“No,” I reply harshly. I hear the sound of sirens faintly, making their way off the interstate. The gas station was rather secluded so they must just be getting here. Nevertheless, from the moment whoever shot Will to now, must be only ten or so minutes apart.

I can see the man pick up on the same sound of the sirens. His arms still up, hovering around his shoulders, he looks back at the ground behind him, where our sets of footprints are displayed clearly in the snow. I realize, now, his concern; when the police get to the gas station, they’re going to follow the footprints in the freshly fallen snow right to where we stood.

“If you put down the gun and listen to me, you don’t have to worry about the police,” He says.

“Why?” I ask defensively, “Are you an officer?”

“No,” He shakes his head slightly. “My name’s James Kennedy.”

“Don’t recognize it,” I say, curtly. I keep the gun positioned to shoot. I can tell the man – James – is getting frustrated.

“Look, you have two options here. You put the gun down and come with me, and I can explain some of this. The second is that you don’t and I give you to the police. I’m sure they’d be happy to be the ones to bag one of Christopher Mendoza’s operatives.”

“Or, I shoot you and run,” I offer.

“How about fourth option, I decapacitate you right now and bring you to the station myself?” James throws his hands up in exasperation. He pauses, as if catching himself in his frustration. “What’s the call?”

The sirens get louder. I think through my options, which, to be honest, all suck. If I run, I have nowhere to go because there’s no way I can go back to Kingston. My money and phone are tied to Chris so they will surely be cut off as soon as anyone at Kingston finds out what happened. If I go to the cops, I’ll be thrown in jail. Or, I test my luck with James. I don’t really have a choice.

“I guess I’m going with you,” I say in annoyance. “But I’m keeping the gun,” I put it in the front pocket of the sweater.

“Fine. Let’s go,” Without a second thought, he turns around and starts walking back towards the gas station.

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As we approach the parking lot, I notice that there’s four police cruisers and two ambulances with their lights flashing in the parking lot. The door to the bathroom is closed, and yellow tape is pasted across it. With a pang of guilt, I wonder if Chris or Lydia survived. I only know that the woman James came in with was dead. I look to James as we walk out from the tree line, but he doesn’t seem much affected. As soon as we’re visible, the police officers, who are standing around the cruisers either talking to one another or taking a statement from a few people who I imagine were at the pumps when this all unfolded, turn to look at us. Some put their hands on their holster ready to shoot – their eyes are on me. The others look to James almost expectedly, like they’re waiting for him to give a command.

James strides over to one of the officers and they speak quickly. I think I can hear James mention McCormick’s name. The officer seems to agree with whatever James is saying, and says something into his radio. The other officers drop their hands from their weapons. I wait, trying my best to seem small and insignificant, standing beside a van in the lot. I’m a bit dumbfounded – these officers seem to be at his control. I add the inquiry to the list of questions that are forming in my head.

“Molly,” James calls me as he departs from the cop, who has turned and started conversing with his squad. “Let’s go.” He strides towards a Mercedes on the other side of the lot. I follow him, picking up a slight jog to keep up. We both get in the car and James moves to pull out of the parking spot.

“Wait,” I say, stalling him from moving the gear stick by putting my hand over his and pushing back upwards. “You have to tell me where we’re going first before we leave.”

James looks at me, irritated. “Do you really think you’re in a position to ask questions right now? I just saved your ass out there.”

“I have no reason to trust you more than the cops,” I spit back, now equally aggravated.

“And you think I trust you?” James says back to me. Now that we were both confined in a small car I notice how big the guy was. His head almost brushes against the car roof.

“I saved your life back there when I shot Chris. That should be enough,” I say, even though I agree. There’s no reason for him to trust me provided that I don’t even know why I shot Christopher. I chock it up to the fact that I was on defense after what happened to Will.

James sighs. “Look, I’m not going to kill you or send you over to the authorities at least until we talk. Can we just agree to not kill each other until then? Once things are explained?” When I don’t respond right away, he adds, in a less frustrated tone, “We’re going to the military base in Albany.”

I lift my hand off the gear stick. “Okay, then. Fine. We can go.”

James nods and we pull out of the parking lot.

“Albany is a while away,” I say, putting on my seat belt. “Do you want to play a game of ‘I spy’?”

I throw in the joke not to lighten the mood but to test the waters, and see what I’m up against. If he doesn’t trust me, he’ll scoff. If he doesn’t care, he’ll ignore it.

James chuckles sarcastically, but seems annoyed at himself that he did so. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Ask them first and then we can play punch buggy.”

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“Tell me who you are,” is my first question.

James explains that he works for the Department of Defense (generic, and when I press for more information he doesn’t respond) and that he’s a Captain. I ask about his squad and previous mission history but again, he doesn’t answer. It’s clear that he’s high up enough police officers have been told to report to him. When I ask him how he survived a gunshot at his stomach, he just says that he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

“I’m assuming you’re the one who tailed us from the Belmara and broke into our hotel room,” I state, after I get through my first batch of questions.

“I was at the front desk. But I didn’t tail you or go into your hotel room. That was Christopher Mendoza,” James says, as he turns onto the highway and heads north.

I furrow my brow. “Chris?”

James looks at me incredulously. “He was trying to eliminate you. That’s why he tailed you to the hotel and to the gas station.”

“Why would Chris try to kill me? And how would you know?”

“You worked for the guy for eight years and you’re asking why he’d want to take you out? He’s a criminal, Molly.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I snap. “So am I. That’s why I don’t understand.” I try to roll the window down a bit, craving fresh air, but it doesn’t go down. James notices and does so using his controls. The air is cool, but needed.

“He’s been cleaning up his operation – and operatives – over the past several months. He must know the DOD is close to cracking down on him.”

I try my best to absorb all this. “I don’t understand why he’d send me on a job just to kill me right after.”

James shakes his head, seemingly in disbelief at Chris’ actions. “There’s no way he could kill all his operatives at once. We’re operating under the assumption that he’s been sending you all on jobs and killing you afterwards as an easy way to take you out one by one without anyone getting suspicious.” James explains.

“Well, there’s still a few operatives back at Kingston that are still al-,” I start, but then a cold realization comes over me. If Chris was about to off Will and I on the road, that means he had already cleaned out Kingston. It was already done, I realize - it makes sense when I think of all the people we had lost recently, which were pretty much back-to-back. A sick feeling settles in my stomach when I realize that this was what happened to Kelly. John, Nina, Thomas and the others would be gone now too. I don’t even want to think about Brianna.

“Jesus,” I say quietly, staring out the window as I try not to get emotional, though my eyes start to water. I know we weren’t in a particularly safe business, and I always assumed some of us would die. But not Brianna, because I did my best to protect her. And there’s an extra layer of anger on top of my grief – that Chris, the person who was supposed to protect us, have been the one to do it.

I can feel James’ gaze on me, sizing up my reaction. “It’s good news for us. Mendoza’s operation was one of the biggest crime syndicates in the country. The majority of you had a number of kills on your head and were harbouring a hell of a lot of state secrets,” James says, defensively, seemingly surprised and offended by my emotional reaction.

I nod. “You’re right,” is all I say, and I believe it. After my first job with Chris, at the young age of fifteen, I knew there was no turning back. I had even come to terms with the fact that I’d die in this business after I was shot in the upper thigh, losing a quarter gallon of blood, on my second time out. Once you’re in Kingston, you don’t leave.

I think James was expecting me to be defensive, to try and excuse away Chris and the operation’s actions, to try to rationalize my job. But I couldn’t. I always knew that we were the bad guys in the grand scheme of things. It was only rational to think that. I just never really had another option.

“So, you never answered my question,” I say, after I can be certain my voice won’t give away my emotion. “How do you know all this?”

“The Department of Defense has been tracking Chris and his operation for months. We bugged Kingston and it became clear that you were the weakest of the bunch,” James says, and I take offense to his words. He seems to notice. “In that you seemed to be the least radicalized,” He continues. “So I was asked to follow you on your mission to Belmara and guard you with the hopes that we’d be where we are now – with you in custody.”

Least radicalized sticks in my mind. I guess it makes sense. Compared to Nina, John, Lydia, even Will, I seemed to be the least disillusioned to what Chris and the rest of them called “Uncle Sam”. The other operatives would take pride in their jobs. I just did them because I had to. But it doesn’t make me feel any better about the things I’ve done.

“I was at the Belmara undercover,” James continues. “You grabbed a glass of champagne from me. Is that why you were tipped off when you saw me at the front desk?”

“No,” I say, noticing that the sun was fully up now, reflecting off the pristine snow that laid on the ground. “I didn’t recognize you from the fundraiser. But you suck at covert operations. I recognized the incorrect nametag right away.”

“Covert operations,” he scoffs. “Spoken like a true spy.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a spy.”

“No?” James inquires. “Then what are you?”

I don’t know, I want to say – but I don’t. I just rest my forehead against the cold glass of the car window in silence. James seems to agree to leave me alone for a bit.

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For an hour or so, I exist within that weird space where I’m half asleep, alert enough that I could hear what James was doing, but groggy enough that I feel like I at least got some rest. At one point, James turns on the radio softly and taps along to the beat with his finger tips on the leather steering wheel. I didn’t want to fall asleep, not knowing where exactly I’d wake up, but I think I do, at least for a minute. When I open my eyes, I realize the car is parked in the lot of a rundown strip mall just off a highway exit. Besides a shoddy pizza place, the rest of the businesses are closed down. James isn’t in the car. I try to open my door, but even hitting the unlock button doesn’t do anything.

My heartbeat accelerates as I start to wonder if I’m about to be killed. I’ve watched it happen before – leaving someone in a car and planting an explosive in the car… it can be written off as a technical malfunction. I reach into my sweater’s pocket for the gun, but it’s gone. I start to try and problem solve, opening the glove box to look for something to use to get out of the vehicle.

Just as I’m about to use an ice scraper to attempt to break open the window, I hear the driver door click open and James slides in, holding a green and white checkered pizza box. “Hungry?” He asks, shoving the box into my lap.

I breathe a small sigh of relief.

James cocks an eyebrow at me. “What, you thought I was going to leave you here or something? Believe me, you are worth more in our custody than anywhere else,” James says, leaning over and opening the pizza box on my lap. He pulls out a greasy slice of pizza, eating almost half of it in one bite.

“So that means I’ll be forced to testify against Chris? I’m assuming he’s alive,” I ask, my heartbeat returning to a normal pace.

“Well, you’re going to prison. But if you give us intel on Kingston and Mendoza, you’ll get a lighter sentence. And yes, he’s alive. You missed all the vital organs. Bad shot,” He shrugs.

I scoff. “I aimed there on purpose. You took my gun?” I add in annoyance, pulling out a piece of pizza, realizing it’s been a while since I ate.

“I took my gun out of your pocket while you were snoring.”

“I don’t know if Captains are supposed to buy their detainees food,” I add, ignoring his comment and taking a large bite. It’s definitely not the best pizza I’ve ever had, the bottom is even burnt black, but it hits the spot. It reminds me of the time my mom tried to make a frozen pizza and left it in three times as long as it should’ve been.

“Yeah, well, I’m buttering you up,” James says, wiping his fingers on his pants and reversing out of the parking spot. “The more pizza you eat the more likely you are to work with us.”

I can tell he’s being sarcastic but I answer seriously anyways. “I’ll do it.”

“What, give us information on Mendoza?” He asks doubtfully as he turns out of the parking lot, his mouth full of pizza.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Well…,” James pauses, swallowing. “I am. It’s usually not so easy. Most people want to set up a plea bargain with a lawyer before they agree.”

I shrug. “I did what I did. So did Chris. I’m sure he’s going to tell the DOD about everything I’ve done. I might as well own up to it and tell the truth.”

James nods, digesting what I just said. He looks like he’s searching for something to say.

“Fine,” he says finally, speeding up as we approach the highway.

We’ve been driving on the interstate for a while when I finally see a sign for Albany. The rest of the car ride had been silent, though during the few times I glanced at James, I could tell he was thinking through something.

We reach the gates of a military base, which is lined by a concrete wall and barbed wire, with lines of uniformed men and women standing around the outside, guns in hand. They seem to recognize the car, because they let us in without checking for James’ identification. I get the feeling, from the way people’s eyes drifted behind the car, that he was important here. The car rolls to a stop in front of a large brick building, which seems to be the main office.

“Ah,” I exclaim sarcastically. “We never got around to playing road trip games.”

James shows a hint of amusement and gets out of the car, walking around to get my door, which apparently I never had the power to open. He seems to use a key fob to let me out. I can see through the frosted glass of the building door’s windows that a line of people wait for me. I pause before standing up out of the car, and look up to James.

“Do you have handcuffs?” I ask.

“Handcuffs?” James asks. “Uh… I think one of the guys do,” he says, tilting his head back to the two officers guarding the door.

“Can you put them on me?” I ask, holding up my wrists. A look of confusion comes over his face but he retrieves them. I stand up as he puts the handcuffs on behind my back.

“Is this some sort of performance? Or trick?” He asks quietly, his face close enough to mine that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.

I shake my head. “I want them to know that I don’t want to make this complicated.”

James pushes me forward, and I walk up the stairs to the office. As I suspect, the hallway entrance to the building is lined with armed officers and staff. I feel a pit of nerves in my stomach. I was just one of many operatives that worked for Chris, but they were treating me like I headed up the whole firm.

On my jobs, I’d killed a total of six people and it was usually self-defence. Despite my line of work, I didn’t kill that much. Chris gave us two rules. If you’re going to kill, clean up your mess. If you’re not going to kill, you better be so good at your job that you don’t need to. I tended to live by the second rule, and tried my best not to kill – not only because I didn’t want to, but because, truthfully, harming people was better for the job than killing. Less mess to clean up. Injured people retreat or surrender. Dead people lay there, waiting to be found and used as evidence against you.

Most kills, I cleaned up well. I don’t think anyone will find out about those. But there is one… the person had shot Brianna, and she was down. I fired back but I didn’t clean up my mess. I paid the price for that.

Besides the knowledge of my own kills, I only know what Chris wanted me to know. Either I knew something that I didn’t know the power of, or the DOD thought I played a much bigger role in all of this. I wasn’t sure which one was better.

James, now backed by two other officers – a stern looking older woman and a younger man with freckles – leads me into a briefing room. A stainless steel table with two chairs sat in the middle; a camera in one corner and a one-way mirror on a wall just below a clock.

“Sit,” the woman orders, and I do so as she and the freckled man guard the door. James leaves the room with a final glance at me. I nod goodbye, knowing I probably wouldn’t see him again.

It’s about an hour before anything happens; probably an interrogation technique. They didn’t need to use it, because I’d already convinced myself I’d tell them what I knew. My back starts to grow sore in the metal chair, but I continue to just stare at the table. I massage my tender wrist behind my back, willing time to pass quicker. I do catch a glimpse of myself in the one-way mirror. My long auburn hair is in a state of disarray, my bangs going every which way. I could see bags under my dark brown eyes. I’m still wearing that tacky “I <3 New York” sweater and it makes me look like a teenager.

The briefing door finally opens, and I’m surprised to see Senator McCormick and Liam Braxton walk in, accompanied by another man who I assume was a DOD staff member. The DOD staff sits down in the chair, scraping the metal against the floor and leaning back in the chair, his arms crossed against his chest. McCormick and Braxton stand behind him like bull dogs.

“Amelia, is it?” McCormick says, almost spitting sarcasm. Braxton scoffs.

I don’t say anything. What is there to say?

“Molly Vance,” The man at the table says, slow and drawling in a Southern accent. My name sounds like an accusation. “My name is Chief David Pollard. I’m in charge of the Mendoza investigation. Do you understand?”

I nod and say, “Yes, sir.” I don’t know who, or how many people, are standing behind the glass and I want to play this carefully.

“So polite,” Braxton says, irritably. Pollard holds up his hand to silence him.

“I’ve heard you’ve agreed to give us intel on Christopher Mendoza.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again.

“And you don’t want to talk to a lawyer? Or make a plea deal?” He asks.

“No, sir.”

“What do you want then?” McCormick says, speaking up from behind Pollard’s chair.

“Nothing, sir. I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Unbelievable,” Braxton says, his forehead creasing in anger. “You sell out a Senator as an arms dealer and you don’t even give a shit!” He slams his fist against the wall.

“Did the information we got at the Belmara go public?” I ask, a bit shocked.

“Did it go public…” McCormick says under his breath. “You’re damn right it did! Your buddy Mendoza sent the clip to a journalist as soon as he realized his operation was going tits up.” His face turns red.

“I didn’t know,” I say, matter-of-factly. “You haven’t worked with Marecek then?” I’m pushing my luck on that one. I probably shouldn’t have said that. The three men look at me incredulously, like I’ve just signed my death sentence. Even the female officer’s eyebrows raise slightly. The truth is they have worked with Marececk. They’re just mad people know about it now.

“So I guess this means the DOD is okay with you working with the Czechs then?” I say, tiptoeing the line as I watch McCormick get more and more angry. I glance at Pollard, who almost seems amused. “Makes sense, the military-industrial-complex and all. The real issue was the public knowing right?” I ask. Chris was always good at knowing exactly what string to pull to get the reaction he wanted. Whoever the client is wanted to expose McCormick through the media.

A tense silence hangs in the air for a moment, signalling that I’m right. “Who cares what she knows about Mendoza,” McCormick says. “Just make sure you get her thrown in prison for treason.” McCormick slaps Pollard on the shoulder and walks out, Braxton following close behind. They slam the door behind them.

“Is that what you want?” Pollard says, after they’ve been gone for a few moments.

“Prison?” I ask, shifting my aching shoulders a bit. “Not particularly. But it’s not up to me.”

Pollard breathes in and out, and crosses his legs, thinking. He’s an older man, in his early sixties. His salt-and-pepper hair and lined face show that he’s lived through a lot. Compared to the hot-headedness of McCormick and Braxton, he seems almost wise, maybe even a bit kind.

“We knew you weren’t fully radicalized,” Pollard says slowly. “But you seem almost complacent. It doesn’t make sense after working for him for eight years. Why?”

“I’m tired,” I admit.

“Of?”

“Working for Chris.”

Pollard looks at me intently, sizing me up. Then he stands up, and buckles the button at the front of his suit jacket. “Let’s get started then.”

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Chapter 6

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Pollard spends the next three hours questioning me on what I know about Chris’ operation. I tell him all the jobs I’ve been on and who I suspect the clients were, and which politicians, advisors, and businesspeople I tailed. I admit to killing the six people. A lot of the time, I say “I don’t know” or “I’ve never heard of that person”. I can’t tell if Pollard thinks I’m lying. It’s a lot of talking; my mouth grows dry and the fluorescent lights start to bore into my eyes, giving me an intense headache. I don’t complain, knowing that it wouldn’t help my situation much.

At around the five hour mark, Pollard switches out with a woman with greying hair and dark brown eyes. She explains her name is Sandra Fisher and that she’s taking over for Pollard. She’s harsher than him, and pushes me when I tell them that I don’t actually know the histories of the other members of the operation. At one point, she throws her glass of water in my face in frustration. It ticks me off a bit, but I almost welcome it because it’s the next closest thing to getting a drink.

She doesn’t acknowledge that she’s done it, and instead leans back in the chair and glares at me. I blink away the water, a droplet falling off my eyelash onto my cheek.

“The only piece of information I have on anyone’s history is that Will was in the military for a year,” I say, repeating what I told her a minute ago. “We were encouraged not to talk about it. And when I mean encouraged, I mean Chris would’ve lost his shit if he found out we talked about it.”

“Why do you think that is?” Fisher says, sticking her chin out as if to defy my answer, regardless of what it is.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling the frustration bubble in my chest. “Probably because he broke a lot of laws recruiting us.”

“What law did he break when he recruited you?” She asks.

“Human trafficking, I guess,” I shrug. “His associate Jen paid some guy to take me.”

I can see Fisher trying to withhold a scoff. “So you’re saying Molly Vance is a victim then?”

I shake my head. “I’m not saying that.”

I’m about to tell her something else when the door opens and James walks in. I’m surprised to see him, but notice Pollard standing behind him. Compared to James, he looks like someone’s grandfather.

“We’re wrapping up this examination,” James says, matter-of-factly, looking to Fischer. The expression that falls over Fischer’s face clearly shows that she wants to tell him to bug off, but instead, she nods curtly. She presses the stop button on the small recording device that sits on the table. In a fit of contained rage, she walks swiftly out of the room, bumping James and Pollard’s shoulders on her way out.

“Do you mind taking the cuffs off her?” Pollard asks, pointing at my wrists. One of the guards, the freckle-faced one, comes over and does so.

“Thank you,” I say. I stand up, the joints in my legs and hips flaring up in pain after sitting for so long.

“Did you get what you needed?” I ask, looking at Pollard.

“We did,” Pollard says, “The truth of the matter is that we want to talk to you about something else, Molly, if that’s okay.” I try to stifle a scoff at the fact that he’s asking for permission.

“Sure, that’s okay,” I say, sitting back down in the chair to prepare for another round of questions.

“No, not here,” James says, opening the door wider. He gestures out the doorway. “After you.”

Surprised, I stand up and walk out of the room. Out in the hallway, I follow James and Pollard as they walk, to my surprise, out the front doors I came through seven hours earlier. James’ car is there. Pollard climbs into the passenger seat, and James opens the back door, so I slide onto the bench. In the driver’s seat, James launches the car into drive and speeds through the military base, which is huge.

“Can I ask where we’re going?” I say, after a few minutes of quiet.

“The residences,” Pollard replies.

“Why?” I ask.

“We’ve made sure that they’re not under surveillance,” James says.

“How can you be sure?”

“We’ve taken care of it,” Pollard replies simply.

I’m confused, but choose not to pry, guessing that there will be more explanations later. Even if there isn’t, I know that here, I’m not entitled to them. We arrive at the residences – a six-storey building made of brick, with few windows. It looks like it’s been neglected for years. James parks, and we walk into the building. Inside, it’s much nicer than how it appears from the road. There’s a tiled floor with white walls, with large green plants throughout the lobby. A long white desk sticks out against a stone wall – to the left of it is an elevator. It’s not what I expected, and almost looks like an upscale hotel.

In the elevator, Pollard pushes “6” and we ascend to the top floor, which is equally impressive. There’s only three doors in this hallway, and Pollard walks up to one. I go to follow, but James grabs my upper arm to stop me.

“We’re going over here,” He tilts his head towards the other door, on the opposite side of the hallway.

“I’ll be there in a half hour,” Pollard says, scanning a card against a fob on the door down the hallway. “I need to get some of my things first.”

I stand behind James as he opens his door on the other side of the hallway. Similar to the lobby, the apartment has beautifully tiled floors and white walls. It’s quite large, filled with generic white furniture and stainless steel appliances in the kitchen. There’s only a few windows, but they look out over the military base. Besides a jacket hanging on a hook on the door, there’s not much evidence that a person lives here.

“Welcome,” James says half-sarcastically, throwing his keys onto the kitchen island, which is spotless and white, and disappearing into what I think is a bedroom. I stand, just a foot inside the door, unsure of what to do. After a minute or so, James reappears from the room. He’s changed into dark blue sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Make yourself comfortable,” He swings his arm around as if to show off the place. I shift my weight from one leg to the other awkwardly.

“Uh,” I blink, trying to clear my mind. “I have no idea what’s happening right now. Can you please fill me in?”

James has pulled a water bottle out of the fridge, and throws it to me. I catch it, and immediately open it to take a swig, my throat burning for hydration. He does the same with another bottle.

“We need to wait for Pollard,” James says as he finishes his drink. “Maybe you want to shower in the meantime?” James eyes the dirty gas station outfit I’m wearing. I feel uncomfortable being here, unsure of what’s happening, but if I’m being honest, a shower sounds incredible.

“Would you mind?”

James points at the door beside the one he just exited. “Go ahead.”

Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is pristine, and the shower looks inviting. I pull back the blue curtain and turn on the hot water, taking off the pants and sweater and folding them carefully on the counter. For the first time, I get a good look at myself in the mirror. I have a few bruises, though not very large. There is a large black one on my hand though, where that woman stepped on me at the gas station. I flex my fingers, and I can tell a few of my knuckles are swollen. My bad wrist aches, but doesn’t feel broken.

I step into the shower, letting the hot water run through my hair and down my back. It’s heavenly. I stand there for at least a few minutes, enjoying the warmth. I find a soap bar and try to scrub away the dirt, and the guilt I feel. It’s the first time in more than 24 hours I’ve been able to really think about what’s happened. I feel saddened for the way things ended for Will. A mix of guilt and anger for Chris. Grief for Brianna, and frustration at how my life has turned out this way, and that I couldn’t protect her. The feelings rush over me in a wave and tears start to flood at my eyes.

I’m letting myself have the moment – a wave of emotions that I’ve been told not to feel for years – when the bathroom door clicks open. Startled, I back up against the ceramic wall of the shower.

“Molly,” James says, speaking loudly over the running water. “I found some clothes for you to wear.”

“Thanks,” I croak back, my voice clearly full of emotion. Through a crack between the shower curtain and the wall, I can see James in the mirror. He hesitates, like he’s listening for me to say something else, then quickly leaves the room.

I finish up in the shower and dry off using a fluffy white towel from under the sink. I inspect the clothes James left. They are clearly owned by someone. There’s a women’s knit blue sweater, with a of piece of wool on the sleeves badly frayed. I choose not to wear them, and get changed back into the clothes from the gas station.

There’s no hairbrush, so I run my fingers through my hair as best I can. Then, grabbing the clothes so I can return them, I exit the bathroom to find James and Pollard standing in the kitchen, talking tensely on either side of the island. There’s a steel briefcase in front of Pollard.

James looks up from talking to Pollard. “You didn’t want the clothes?”

“No, thank you,” I say, placing them gently on the counter. “So,” I say, putting my hands on the island. “What’s the story here?”

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Pollard types in an eight digit combo into the small screen on the briefcase. It pops open, revealing a lone iPad inside. Pollard reaches in and grabs it out, using his thumbprint to unlock the screen. He types in a few things, until he’s pulled up what he wants to. Then, he hands it to me. “Watch this.”

I hesitantly take the tablet, looking to James to see if I can guess its contents by his facial expression. All he does is nod, encouraging me to watch. I slide onto the leather stool by the island and press play on the video.

It seems to be a recording of some type of research. It’s a video of James, and the woman from the gas station, doing various activities; shooting a gun at a target and running on a treadmill. The video cuts to them both in a lab, sitting on two adjacent stainless steel medical tables. I notice that James looks younger and smaller, and I note that the time stamp on the video indicates it was six years ago. Pollard, also looking a bit less grey, enters with a doctor in a white lab coat. She takes their vitals and measures their arms, legs, and torso. Then, she injects both of them with some sort of drug.

“What is that?” I ask, looking up to the men.

“Acyccelex Glucoside Ketosteroid,” Pollard says.

“Should I know what that is?”

“No,” James replies.

I glance back down at the video, and the date has skipped four days later. James and the woman look noticeably stronger, almost a bit older. They are being evaluated by the same doctor.

“These changes happened in four days?”

“Yes,” Pollard says.

The video cuts again to James and the woman doing the same exercises, though I notice that their aim is better, and they are running at a much higher speed.

“Who was the woman who took the drug with you?”

“Her name was Pavitra,” Pollard responds.

The video cuts to black, and I hand the iPad back to Pollard.

“So,” I say slowly, seeing if I can put together the information I was just disclosed. “The DOD is giving their agents a specialized steroid to enhance their performance?”

Pollard shakes his head. “Not the DOD.”

I shift my glance between the two of them. “So this is under the table?” I look to James.

“Not exactly,” James says. “Pavitra and I are a part of a small team of people – who have taken AGK – that is owned by a private company. The DOD leases them out for specific jobs.”

I rub my forehead, taking a deep breath. “And clearly the public doesn’t know about this.”

“No,” Pollard says. “The money for it is hidden in the budget and there’s little to no clearance around this information.”

“Is AGK safe?”

James nods. “There’s some initial side effects but nothing major. It’s a heavily modified version of the steroid that was already on the market. Provides additional strength and helps finetune the senses – like sight, hearing.”

“McCormick, Braxton and Fisher don’t like you,” Pollard says, placing the iPad back in the briefcase. “But I do. And I know the company that funds AGK deployment.”

“And you want me to take it?” I ask incredulously. “Are you forgetting that I’m going to prison?”

“Pollard made some calls. You’ve already provided all the intel on Mendoza so they have enough information from you,” James says. “So you won’t have to, if you do this.”

I raise my eyebrows, “I think I might prefer prison.”

“How can you say that?” James asks.

“How can I not? I just got out of an operation that did the same type of work, except it wasn’t approved by the DOD,” I hear the disdain on my voice, though it’s not purposeful.

“The deployments they go out on are sanctioned,” Pollard says. “They help people. Protect the country.”

I shake my head, “I don’t know if I want to do it again. Besides, why do you want me to join? I can imagine there’s hundreds of people on this base alone who would happily volunteer for this.”

“You have more skills and industry knowledge than most,” Pollard says. He pauses, then adds, “and you have nothing to lose.”

Finally, it clicks in my mind. “Ohhh,” I say, drawing out the word. “You need expendable people.”

“What do you mean?” James asks.

“Well, Pavitra died,” I say, matter-of-factly. “And it seems like you didn’t particularly care,” I look to James, remembering that they must’ve known each other for at least six years and that he barely reacted to her death. He looks slightly hurt. “So you need people that no one is going to miss if they die. No family, no big military service. No trackable history. Like me.”

It’s silent for a minute, like no one wants to acknowledge the harsh truth.

“Yes,” Pollard says eventually. “But I also think you’re cut out for this type of work. I think you’re better than working for an illegal operation like Chris’ or wasting away in prison.”

“And what would McCormick and Fischer have to say about this? I don’t think they’d be happy with anything but seeing me in prison or dead. I can’t stroll in and out of DOD buildings like James does without someone noticing and telling them.”

“I only do select missions with the private company. Everything else – including what I did getting you – is under DOD’s jurisdiction. I’m on both payrolls. You’d only be on the one,” James explains. “As for McCormick and the rest of the world… they’d think you’re in solitary. We can stage it.”

I nod slowly, trying to understand what this would mean. “And would I ever meet the owner of this private company?”

“If you agree,” Pollard says.

I sigh, releasing the tension that was building in my body. “Okay. Fine.”

Pollard smiles a little, picking his briefcase up. “Great,” He says, heading towards the door. “We’ll meet at the lab tomorrow for the injection.”

Then, he’s gone, leaving me and James standing in the kitchen.

“What made you decide?” James asks me.

“There wasn’t a decision to make.”

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James shows me to the third apartment on the sixth floor, which stands even more barren than his. There’s a white leather couch and a television in the living room, a kitchen with a gaping hole where the stove would’ve been, and a mattress on the floor of the bedroom beside a dresser. The dresser has a drawer open, and has a few articles of clothing scattered within. I figure that’s where James got the jeans and sweater.

“Pavitra’s place?” I ask.

“Yeah,” James nods, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom with his arms crossed as I examine the room. The lone closet stands empty except for a couple wire hangers.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, looking to him.

“About what?”

“Pavitra. You must’ve known her well.”

James nods, deep in thought. “I did.” After a moment, he exhales and stands upright. “Well, I’ll leave you to sleep. I’ll come get you in the morning to go to the lab. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Thanks,” I say, layering on the sarcasm.

After James leaves, I take a seat on the sofa and turn on the television, flipping through the channels. I spend about an hour mindlessly watching a Spanish soap opera, not understanding a word. Really, I’m trying to work up the confidence to do what I do next – flip to a news channel. As I expected, the anchors are discussing McCormick’s backroom negotiations with an arms dealer, and that it’s a disgrace to America that a senator was trying to secretly buy weapons for the U.S. to use abroad. There are calls for him to resign.

I curl up, pulling the sleeves of my sweater so they cover my fingers and wrapping my arms around my legs. After a commercial break, they talk about the source of the McCormick news, which is Christopher Mendoza. They mention that the DOD has confirmed that Mendoza has run a crime operation, so there’s discussion about the authenticity of the McCormick accusations. Two of the three anchors dismiss the worry, stating that there’s audio evidence and that the radio-silence from the McCormick camp shows guilt. The third anchor is raising his voice and stating that McCormick is ‘innocent until proven guilty’. He does add, at the end of his rant, that he’s happy to report Mendoza is in custody and will be tried for the long list of charges against him.

The show goes to commercial, then comes back and talks about the current economic crisis. In the middle of the segment, one of the anchors, a woman in an ivory dress, touches her ear to signal that she’s receiving information from the producers.

“We’ve also received news that there has been another arrest in the Mendoza case,” She waits expectedly, and a few seconds later a picture of my face shows up behind her. It’s a blurry close up from the interrogation room earlier today. “Molly Vance, a 23-year-old from New York state was arrested for treason, first-degree murder and other charges alongside Mendoza.” Again, she listens to the earpiece, nodding vigorously. “She will be transferred to a private prison indefinitely. More details to come on that on the 11 o’clock show.” There probably won’t be any further details but it doesn’t matter. She goes on to report my history which is inaccurate. Probably provided by Pollard.

Pollard must work fast; I glance at the clock and it’s only been an hour and a half since he left. I also notice that it’s 10 p.m. I lay down on the couch and close my eyes, the anchors still chatting away and the lights of the television flashing behind my eyelids. Nevertheless, I sleep.

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When I wake up to a knock at the door, it’s still dark outside and the television is still on, playing an infomercial. Upon further inspection out the living area’s only window, I can tell the sun is just about to rise. I walk over to the door, rubbing my eyes softly. James is on the other side, dressed in a blue t-shirt, khakis, and a ball cap.

He hands me a pile of black clothing. “This time, you do have to change,” He says. “The ‘I heart New York’ sweater isn’t exactly discreet.” I roll my eyes. “They’re new,” He adds, nodding towards the clothes.

“Okay,” I reply, “Just a second, I’ll change. Come in.”

I quickly get into the clothes, which are basic; black pants, and a black long-sleeve shirt. I note with gratitude that James has also included a comb and a toothbrush. I splash my face with cold water, brush my teeth and detangle my hair. When I come out, James is watching the television, which has changed back into an early morning talk show. They’re talking about Chris’ operation, and the words “McCormick-Mendoza Case” scrawl across the bottom of the screen on a blue banner.

I turn the television off and we head downstairs. The elevator and lobby are empty, and I ask James about who lives in this residence as we approach a car with heavily tinted windows.

“It used to be for visiting families but it’s decommissioned now that they don’t allow that anymore. So it’s mostly empty except for us and a couple people who can pull rank for better accommodations.”

“You and Pavitra were clearly pulling rank then,” I say. “I noticed that they seem to respect you quite a bit. Or maybe fear is a better word.” In the backseat, I put my seatbelt on. To my surprise, James gets in the back seat, leaving Pollard, who’s driving, alone in the front.

“What, is he our chauffer now?” I remark.

“No, but to save some time I’m just going to ask some questions on the ride there, and it’s easier this way,” James says. “And they did. Respect Pavitra.”

“And you,” I add.

“Well, we’re the last-resort people. And that means we get people out of tough situations. It breeds a lot of gratitude.” He pauses. “You probably won’t feel that.”

I shrug. “Feeling warm and fuzzy inside isn’t exactly why I’m doing this. Is there anyone else besides you, now, who works for both DOD and this AGK guy?”

“No, it’s just me now,” James says. His tone changes abruptly. “So, you’ll need a another name to go by besides Molly Vance. Any ideas?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t care what I’m called.”

James looks surprised. “You don’t care? Most people would be pissed to have to change their name.”

“Well, I’m not,” I say. “Molly Vance isn’t my real name, anyways. I was going to tell Fischer but you so rudely interrupted.”

Pollard glances back from the driver’s seat in surprise. “What do you mean?” He asks from the front.

“Molly Vance was a fake name. It was the one Jen gave me when she picked me up that day. Because we were on Vance Avenue and I was selling ecstasy.” It was a cruel joke – I remember Jen laughing about it. I never really liked the name, but preferred it to people calling me by my real name. I wanted to separate the person I was from the person I became in Kingston.

James looks shocked, his eyes searching mine. “Are you being serious?” He asks.

“Yes,” I say assertively, annoyed that he thinks I’m lying. “It was Emilia Sutcliffe.” Saying my name for the first time in years feels foreign, like I’m speaking another language. “I guess you couldn’t have known. I had no paperwork and I was never really registered anywhere under that name,” I think back; I didn’t attend school or ever go to the doctor so there wouldn’t have been a paper trail there. When the fire happened, I hadn’t stuck around long enough to give a statement to the police. I often felt a pang of guilt that I left my mom there, at the house, to be recovered by strangers. That she never had a funeral or burial. But I knew, even at that age, that I didn’t want to be in the custody of Child Protective Services. I’ve heard enough horror stories from my mom, who grew up in the system herself. I took care of myself and I wanted it to stay that way.

“That’s mental,” James says in disbelief. He pauses, shaking his head. “I mean, if we didn’t figure it out no one else would. Did you ever tell Chris your real name?”

I shake my head no. Jen called me Molly as an insult and joke in the car, and it stuck.

“So do you want to go by Emilia now?” Pollard asks. “You could keep the first name, we’d just have to change the last name – something common. Smith, Wilson, Davis, or something.”

Truthfully, I’m not sure. My mom had named me Emilia after an aunt she had, who I never met. The name never really meant anything to me, but I did like my name growing up, proud that my mom cared enough to name me after someone she cared about.

“Hello?” James probes, bringing my headspace back to the car.

“Sure,” I say to James. “Emilia Davis it is.”

“Okay,” James says, slightly exasperated. “During our background check, there was a birth certificate and whole backstory for Molly Vance, but that was clearly fabricated by Mendoza. So, do you mind sharing more information about you, Emilia, with the class now?” He says. Pollard chuckles from the front as he takes a turn out of the base and only a public road.

It’s odd being called by my true name, but oddly comforting. I clear my throat a little and inhale deeply. “I was born in a small town in in northern New York state. Never knew my dad. My mom didn’t believe in the government or paperwork so I was homeschooled. As much as you can be in those circumstances. She died when I was fifteen in a house fire and the rest you know. I went to work for Chris.”

James nods, and then the rest of the car ride is spent answering his questions, with the occasional follow up from Pollard, about if I have allergies or medical conditions, and the various skills I have or don’t have.

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Chapter 7

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About forty-five minutes after we left the base, we arrive at a pair of tall, iron gates surrounded by ten foot hedges. Pollard pulls up to the intercom and presses the red button.

“It’s Pollard,” He says. “With James and the new recruit. Key number is 8930184.”

A moment later, there’s a click at the gate as it swings open, and we drive through. It’s a long driveway, lined with beautiful trees covered in layers of snow. At the end of the driveway, growing quickly in my eyes as we speed along the road, is a large home. I would even say manor. Four stories high, it looks like it belonged in the 19^th century, with yellow-bricked walls and dozens of windows. Three chimneys, one puffing smoke, graced the roof and ivy climbed the walls.

We pull up under the car park and a woman walks out, bundling herself in a floor length black peacoat. She gives a small wave as we get out of the car.

“Lana,” James greets her as the woman walks up to us. She’s young, maybe late thirties, with long black hair and bright blue eyes. “This is Emilia.” Lana smiles and reaches her hand out to me. I shake it – she has a strong grip.

“Thanks for having me,” I say, unsure of what else to say.

“Of course,” Lana says. “Let’s get inside, it’s freezing out here.”

We all head into the manor, and I’m taken aback by the inside of the house. It’s decorated almost exactly as it would’ve been when it was built, so it’s dated, but gorgeous, with burgundy walls and plush carpet. There’s ornate pieces or artwork and marble busts lining the walls.

“Who owns this place?” I ask, looking around at the decorated walls.

“That’d be me,” Lana says, taking off her coat to reveal a pencil skirt, blouse and tall high heels. “I’m Lana Sherwood. I own the Sherwood Company which deploys AGK agents like my good friend James here.” Her smile dazzles as she looks to James, a gaze falling upon her face like a proud mother.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say.

“Oh, this isn’t my home. It’s where my AGK agents stay.” Lana starts walking away from us, down the long hallway towards a grand staircase. James and Pollard move to follow her, so I do too. “You’ll have time to explore the place after the injection.”

We make our way up two flights of stairs and approach a wooden door. When Lana pushes it open, I’m surprised to see that it’s the lab from the video. The juxtaposition of the room’s sterile, hospital-like interior and the rest of the house’s warm, antique décor is jarring.

“Up on the table you go,” Lana says as we enter the room. Pollard and James line the wall and Lana riffles through some drawers. I realize that she’s the doctor from the video, but she must’ve dyed her hair. It was blonde in the video.

“You’re a doctor?” I ask, climbing up onto the table.

“I am,” Lana says, as she gathers a small vial, a needle, cotton balls and rubbing alcohol, placing them beside me on the table. “Among other things. So I got the answers to the medical and skills testing questions that James asked you on the way here via email. Normally, we would put you through some more tests but we just don’t have the time.” She rolls up my sleeve. “Any questions before I do this?” Lana applies the rubbing alcohol to my upper arm.

“No, ma’am,” I say, and she quickly plunges the needle into my arm. It hurts a bit, and I can feel the fluid entering my body, like a hot white snake in my veins.

“And… you’re done,” Lana removes the needle and replaces it with a cotton ball. “Keep some pressure on that.” I place my finger on it, pressing down tightly. “Just like getting the flu shot,” Lana says with a small smile. I nod, as if to convince myself that’s true. “You might feel some side effects. Minor shaking, chills, fever. Nothing out of the ordinary. And you’ll start to feel the other effects, the ones we want you to have, within a couple days, maybe sooner.”

“So what now?” I ask, hopping off the table and looking to Pollard and James.

“We’re going back to base,” James says, resting his hand on Pollard’s shoulder. “But I’ll return tonight, maybe tomorrow. You’ll be in good hands with Lana though.”

“Actually, I have a meeting in the city tonight,” Lana says, and she checks her watch. “I’m leaving in about half an hour. And the rest of the agents are on a job. So it’ll just be you and the cook tonight. I’ll have her bring you some food.”

“Right,” I nod. “Okay, no problem. Thanks.”

“Is that the best idea, Lana?” James asks, sounding concerned at the thought of leaving a stranger and criminal in the manor alone.

“I’m not worried. We have surveillance everywhere,” Lana says nonchalantly, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take it as information, or some type of pre-emptive threat. “Let me show you to your room and you can rest.”

Lana leads us down the hall back to the staircase, and up another flight of stairs. As we go, I admire the artwork on the walls, and the stained-glass windows that is on the landing between the second and third floor.

“How many agents are there?” I ask as we reach the fourth floor.

“Seven, now, with you,” James says.

“Wow,” I say. “Such a big place for a handful of people.”

“I bought it more for the privacy than the size,” Lana replies.

“Right. And the five of them are all on a job together?” I ask.

“Yes,” Lana says, placing her manicured hand on the railing as we ascend the staircase. “Why?”

“I’m just used to smaller jobs, I guess. Never more than three people. And those were for the biggest jobs.”

“You should get used to the fact that there will be many differences from what you use to do,” Pollard says, walking behind us.

“Our work requires a lot of resources,” Lana adds, her bright blue eyes glancing at me. She stops in front of a door as we walk across the floor. “You’ll see soon enough. This is your room,” She cocks her head towards the door, and I open it up.

It’s a beautiful, light room, with a double mattress in a white wire bedframe up against a wallpapered wall. There’s a bay window with a small seat in it, overlooking the snowy forest that seems to border the property. There’s another door which I suspect leads to a bathroom.

“Here’s your phone,” Lana says, handing me the device. “Our numbers are on it. I wouldn’t recommend calling unless it’s urgent.”

“Understood,” I say, examining the wardrobe in the room. It’s empty except for a few towels.

“I have to get going,” Lana says as I wander throughout the room and sit down on the bed. “James, Pollard?” Lana calls from the hallway – both men are standing just inside the doorway.

“Don’t leave the property,” Pollard says with a small nod. James gives me a quick glance and then they all walk out, leaving me alone.

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Once I’m sure they’ve left the grounds, I emerge from my room with curiosity, eager to explore the place. I’m currently on the top floor, which is a long hallway lined with doors. I pop my head into a few of them that are unlocked, which are similar bedrooms to mine – empty, waiting for someone to reside in them. On the third floor, there’s a massive library with ladders along the shelves to reach the highest books. There’s a big fireplace in it, which looks like it hasn’t been lit for ages. There’s also a den, with a large television and sectional couch. It looks to be where most people spend their time because there’s a half-drunk cup of cold coffee and a book on the table, open face down on the couch as if to hold someone’s place. The second floor has a couple offices and a boardroom, with twelve leather chairs around a large, oval mahogany table. As I explore the building, the pain I had at the injection site, the hot, burning sensation, starts to spread down my arms, chest and legs. I feel my head grow warm, but continue to the first floor, knowing Lana warned me of these side effects. By the time I’ve walked past the foyer, empty kitchen and a large empty ballroom, I’m shaking and sweating uncontrollably.

The edges of my vision start to blur and even though the rational part of my brain tells me it’s just the side effects, I start to panic, trying to make my way up the staircase back to my room, where I stupidly left the phone. Ascending the stairs feels likes a mountain climb, and my vision starts to go black. I drag my arm along the wall as I climb the staircase so I can still understand where I’m going. I think my nose is bleeding, but it could be the sweat – I just know something is dripping down my face. Fourth floor, third door on the left, I keep telling myself, determined to get to the bedroom where the phone is. I finally get to the top floor, and at this point am crawling on my knees to my door. Somehow, I make it, and try to stand so I can open the door. I lean all my body weight against the doorknob, trying to support myself. I manage to get in, and accidentally slam the door shut once I’m inside because I was leaning too heavily on it.

My vision is now completely black and it’s all I can do to lay down on the floor and try to stable myself by taking a deep breath, but I can feel myself slipping into my unconscious.

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When I wake up, the sun is setting through the bay window, casting golden light over the bedroom. I slowly prop myself up on my elbows, trying to assess the damage. My body aches and is still shaking, but at least my mind feels less cloudy. I hold my hand up to my face and find that my face and shirt are covered in sticky, half-dried blood. It was a nosebleed after all. I slowly get onto my knees, using the bed to get me to my feet. Just as I do, and turn the bedside lamp on to bring some more light into the room, there’s an aggressive knock at the door.

“Emilia?” I hear James’ muffled voice through the door. He bangs against the wood three more times. “Let me in.” I reach out, using the bed as support, to open the door. He bursts in, tripping over a tray of food that was laid at my door – cold soup spills onto the carpet. “For Christ’s sake,” He says as he looks down at his feet, observing the mess. Then he looks up at me. “Oh shit,” he mutters, an air of surprise in his voice. “Are you okay?”

I try to wipe the blood away from my face using the sleeve of my shirt, thinking it’s done, but my nose is still bleeding. “I’m fine. Side effects.”

“They shouldn’t be this bad,” James says, walking over to the cabinet and grabbing a towel. He comes back and stands beside me on the bed. “Here,” he offers me the towel which I take and put against my nose. “Are you cold or hot?” He asks. “Your hands are shaking.” His voice is methodical, like an engineer solving a problem.

“Side effects,” I say again. I don’t think my brain can come up with any other words.

“Are you hot or cold?” He repeats the question.

“Cold,” I reply eventually, as the chills run up and down my body.

“Okay,” He says, walking into the bathroom. A few seconds later, I hear the shower start to run. I get up and slowly walk into the bathroom, careful to keep my balance.

Once in the bathroom – tiled in black and white small squares and with a porcelain tub in the corner, a shower head protruding over it – James checks my nose, which has finally stopped bleeding.

“Get in,” He demands as he feels the water temperature. I do as he say, clambering into the bath tub fully clothed. Once in the tub, I curl up in a ball and let the hot water warm my body.

I hear the door click and realize James has left the bathroom, though I hear him talking loudly into what I think must his phone, considering I can’t hear any other voices. After a minute or two, he comes back in and sits on the floor besides the tub, resting his arms on his bent knees. The shaking is calming down, and I’m able to use my hands to wipe away the blood from the nosebleed.

“You were supposed to call if there was an issue,” James scolds, his voice unconcerned but firm.

“I tried to,” I say, wetting my hair. I watch as the pink water spins down the drain. “I couldn’t get to the phone in time. I passed out.”

James nods. “I called Lana to come take a look at you but she’s staying in the city tonight. They’re predicting a snow storm.”

I turn my head to look at James, who glances expectedly at me in return. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I say. “She’ll think I can’t handle it.” Frustrated, I rest my forehead on my knee.

“Well, something obviously went wrong. This is the strongest reaction I’ve ever seen.”

I’m quiet for a moment. “Can you pass me that?” I ask, pointing to a washcloth on the bathroom sink. My hand still shakes, but not terribly. James retrieves it for me, and I use it to get the rest of the blood off my face and chest.

“Are you feeling better?” James asks.

“Yep.”

James rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie. You’re still shaking and,” He puts his hand against my forehead and I jerk back. “Your head’s warm,” He finishes, ignoring my reaction.

“I’ll be back to normal soon,” I say definitively. “Are the rest of your team members back?” I ask, wringing out the wash cloth.

“No. Their job went overtime and Pollard is back at the DOD. They should be here in the morning.” I nod and return to trying to get the blood of me.

After another ten minutes in the tub, I get out. Again, I realize I don’t have any clean clothes, so I call out the door to James, who retrieves a sweatshirt and an old pair of joggers from his room.

“This is all I have,” He says, as I open the bathroom door just wide enough for his arm to and the clothes to get through.

“Thanks,” I take off the soaked clothes I’m wearing and slip the dry clothes on. “I’m really going to have to get some clothes of my own,” I say feebly, realizing I’m going to have to hold these pants up the whole time I wear them so they don’t sag to my ankles. I come out of the bedroom and make my way to the bed, trying not to appear too ill to James, who is observing me meticulously from the bay window. I flop down on the bed, my legs still aching.

“I’ll stay in here tonight,” James states. “If the new recruit dies on the first night, Lana will have my head.”

“I’m not going to die. And, no, you aren’t,” I say, peeling back the thick white comforter on the bed and wiggling my way in between the sheets. “Go back to your own room.”

“No,” He says matter-of-factly. I stare at him through my eyebrows, annoyed.

“Fine. Sleep on the ground.”

“Great,” He says, striding over and yanking a pillow and the throw blanket off the bed, laying them on the ground beside it.

“Seems comfortable,” I mutter sarcastically.

“Thanks. It is,” James says back, the sarcasm layered on twice as thick.

I lean back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, which has intricate crown molding around its edges. The air is awkward – two people who don’t know or trust each other, thrown into the same room.

“How was the job today?” I ask, not sure if I should make conversation.

There’s no answer for a few seconds. “Complicated,” James replies.

“Are you not supposed to talk about it?”

“No, I can,” James says, almost hesitantly. “You’ll be working on it soon enough.”

“I figured there was some time-sensitive job.”

“You did?” James asks.

“This all happened so quickly. Lana barely knew anything about me before she agreed to pump me full of this stuff. It’s pretty clear you need bodies on something urgent.”

He lets out a breath. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence hangs between us for a couple minutes, and eventually James reaches up to turn off the bedside lamp. I try to relax my body, praying for the aches to go away. I’ve stopped shaking at least.

I can faintly make out James saying goodnight before I’m asleep.

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I notice immediately upon waking up that something is different, even before I open my eyes. The world seems louder. I can hear the sound of James’ heartbeat as he lays on the floor. My body feels eerily still; gone are the aches and shakes from last night, instead replaced by a stillness that feels almost inhuman. My bad wrist isn’t aching any more, and I move it around in front my face, noticing that it no longer cracks when I twist to the right. It’s the first time in years it hasn’t pained me, and it’s a disorienting feeling. As I swing my feet out from under the sheets and stand, being careful not to step on James, the weight of my body feels heavier.

I make my way quietly to the bathroom mirror and look at myself in the mirror. I notice that, though I look mostly the same, my muscles are larger, like I’d been on an intense weight training program for months. I look out the window of the bathroom and notice that I can see, quite clearly, the fallen needles of a pine tree in the snow metres below. It’s disorienting.

“Shit,” James voice says, appearing behind me suddenly in the bathroom mirror. His face is slightly swollen, the usual puffiness that comes with waking up, and his eyes are red. “That was fast.”

I turn around to face him. “Does it not usually take effect this quickly?”

“No, it’s usually a few days. Maybe that’s why the side effects were so severe.”

“Maybe,” I echo.

“Feeling okay?” He asks.

I don’t answer for a moment, internally taking stock of the sensations in my body. “Nauseous,” I say suddenly, as I recognize the peculiar feeling of sick rising up through my stomach into my throat and cheeks. I rush to the toilet, making it just in time. I haven’t eaten anything since the pizza back in the car. All that comes up is bloody bile. I hold my hair back, coughing.

“Lana will need to check you out. You aren’t useful like this,” James grumbles. Almost on cue, his phone rings and he picks it out of his pocket as I make my way to the sink to wipe my face. “Hi,” James says into the phone. He listens for a moment. “Okay, we’ll meet you there. Can you get Sacha to bring some extra clothing?” He pauses, listening. “Thanks.”

A moment later he turns to me. “The team's back,” James says, sitting on the edge of the tub watching as I splash my face with cold water. “You better get ready to meet them.”

I use the back of my hand to wipe away the excess water dripping off my chin. “Can’t wait.”

Ten minutes later, we’re walking down the staircase heading towards the den. As we approach the room, I hear a chattering of voices talking over one another. James enters first and I walk in behind him, conscious of the fact that I’m still wearing someone else’s clothes. Upon our entrance, the seven people in the room pause and look to us. I see the faces I recognize first. Lana, standing in a grey pantsuit, and Pollard, who’s leaning up against an oversized pool table talking to her.

The other five are scattered throughout the den. A woman with long blonde hair and a large purple bruise on her cheek sits cross-legged on the arm of a couch, beside a dark-haired man with a short beard. A young girl, maybe a year or two younger than me, stands in front of the television with shoulder-length, sleek black hair, having her wrist wrapped with a bandage by a spectacled woman, who’s dark brown hair is gathered in a bun on the top of her head. Then, there’s another man, who might be a few years older than James, in the lounger, his arms crossed.

“Everyone, this is Emilia,” Lana says grandly, reaching her arm out to welcome me. “She’ll be joining the team.” Lana wraps me in one of her arms, giving me a tight squeeze on my arm, which throbs at the injection site. “And it looks like the shot is already taking effect,” She says proudly.

“Yeah, we need to talk about that,” James interrupts.

“Well, let me introduce everyone first,” Lana says, giving a faux-scolding look to James. “There’s Sacha and Iain,” She points to the blonde woman and the bearded man. “Jaclyn and Abby,” she refers to the women in front of the television, the brunette in the eyeglasses waving when she says Abby, “and Khaled.”

“It’s good to meet you,” I say.

“Bóg, you really had nothing else to put her in?” Sacha, the blonde, says as she stands from the couch and gives an disapproving look to James, who shrugs. She picks up a bundle of clothes from the coffee table and approaches me, smiling softly. Besides the bruise on her cheek, which even then looks like it was placed there purposefully, she looks like a doll – her skin is smooth and unblemished and her eyes are wide and curious. She reminds me of Brianna, not in appearances – Brianna had short, strawberry blonde hair and dark eyes – but in demeanor. Friendly, but somehow distanced, like there’s a barrier she won’t pass to preserve her own sanity. Sacha hands the clothes to me.

“Go change in there,” She points a slender finger at the door in the back of the room.

“Go ahead,” Lana agrees. “We’ll brief afterwards.”

I change into what must be Sacha’s clothes. Black leggings with a grey stripe up the leg and a tight-fitting sweater that is too small for me, barely zipping up to my neck. Before I enter back into the room I take a minute to try to compose myself, willing myself to present as a confident, able, and professional member of this team. I need to do well here. This is the first time, in a long time, I can do something that’s good. I take a deep breath and walk back out. I could hear them talking about me through the door – a benefit if the AGK, I guess – and the room falls silent as soon as I re-enter the room.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I say. Abby, who is now undoing her bun and letting her curly hair fall on her shoulders, chuckles quietly.

“We weren’t saying anything bad,” She says, jokingly defensive. I knew that – they were mostly asking about my work history and where I came from. No insults, yet. I look to Abby to acknowledge what she said, and notice how similar she looks to James. The curly hair is a dead giveaway.

“Yes, I’m James’ younger sister,” She says, answering my unspoken question. I must’ve stared too long. “Don’t let that skew your opinion of me.”

I nod, deciding not to say anything in approval or denial, knowing that James was the leader of this group and there were likely strong opinions about him.

“You’ll be replacing Pavitra then?” Khaled asks, sounding somewhat irritated.

“I guess so,” I reply. “I’m sorry for yo-,”

“So,” Lana says loudly, interrupting me as I was about to give my condolences, the image of Pavitra lying dead on a gas station floor in my head. “James told me you had some side effects?”

“Minor ones,” I say shortly, shaking my head, not wanting to appear frail. I glance at James, angry at him for saying something. Lana takes my pulse and feels my forehead, quickly running her hands up and down my arms and legs in an examination.

“Well, I gave you one and a half times the dose than normal. So I’m not surprised there was a heavier reaction,” Lana says disinterestedly, and I can tell by the look on James’ face – and the rest of the team’s – this wasn’t normal.

“Did you test that dosage before doing that?” James asks. “Has anyone even taken that much before?”

“I needed her ready for the job tonight.”

“You’re not sending her out already?” Abby inquires, slight disbelief in her voice.

“I am,” Lana states, a hint of sternness in her words, warning the team to stop questioning her. Pollard who has been quiet throughout this conversation, looks up from the ground.

“It’s necessary,” He adds, backing up Lana. Upon Pollard’s confirmation, the rest of the team falls silent.

“Okay!” Lana exclaims, clapping as if to mark the end of the conversation. “Briefing room, five minutes.”

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Chapter 8

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The briefing room turns out to be the large boardroom on the second floor. The seven of us are sitting in each of the chairs, waiting for Pollard and Lana to show up. It’s already been ten minutes.

“While we wait, let’s tell Emilia a little bit about our team,” Abby says, straightening her posture in her chair. She looks to me and smiles, like she’s a new friend about to tell me her favourite colour on the playground. “I’m Abigail Kennedy – but call me Abby. I usually work on the tech and surveillance part of the jobs, so I’m often in a van a mile away or something, or I stay here, depending on what the job is. The rest of them are all field agents, but they all have their talents. Khaled’s good in hand-to-hand, Jaclyn is great at intelligence gathering, Sacha can speak a half dozen languages so is usually our interpreter, and Iain is our equipment guy and sniper. Sacha is usually our commander, unless James comes on the job, then he is,” She says the last part as if mocking James, like a little sister would. I smile a little at her teasing.

“And were you all recruited out of the military?” I ask, curious to know how they ended up here.

Iain nods. “Except you.” It’s just two words, but they are full of disapproval.

For the first time since I’ve gotten here, I realize that I was someone who’d they probably consider their enemy up until a couple days ago. I rack my brain for something to say, something that would make them trust me on their team. But what could I say? Why would they trust me? I open my mouth as I search for the words, but awkwardly come up short. “I know you don’t trust me,” I start slowly, praying I come up with something substantial to say as I go along. “But I was young when I started working for Mendoza. I know what I did there was wrong. I told the DOD everything I could and was willing to go to jail for what I’ve done,” It’s nervous word vomit and I can tell I’m coming off desperate for approval. Nevertheless, I continue. “I’ll pay my dues here and I’ll –,”

Lana and Pollard walk in, cutting me off. Pollard looks surprised to see James sitting in the chair across from me. “James, we don’t need you for this. We’re still intelligence gathering,” he says. “You can go back to base.”

“I think I should go on this one,” James replies.

“The more the merrier,” Lana says, placing her finger tips down on the oak table and leaning towards us. “I’m going to start at the beginning to get Emilia caught up.”

Lana explains that James’ mission last night, and the separate job the rest of the team went on, were both to learn more about the staff of Congressman Bailey from Montana. The DOD suspected them of working with an extremist group that originated in Billings but has been growing its roots in America. The extremist group works in chemical warfare, and had gassed a senator’s house in Colorado. I vaguely recall hearing about this on the news a few weeks back. Pollard adds that the diagnostics test showed that one of the chemicals in the gas was traced back to a factory in Billings that was owned by a family friend of Congressman Bailey, and thus began the investigation. Last night, James was monitoring the Congressman, who was in New York on business, and the team was tailing a few members of the rest of his staff, who travelled with him. Nothing suspicious was uncovered on either of the jobs.

“Another night of surveillance then?” Iain asks, sighing in annoyance.

“Jaclyn reported that her suspect is having an engagement party at a bar in New York during their last night here,” Lana says. “And we’ve confirmed through email correspondence that all of them except the Congressman himself is going.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt, and I can tell I shouldn’t have by the look on Lana’s face. “You’ve hacked into their emails? And there was no suspicious activity seen?”

“Not yet,” Pollard reports.

“So why do we think they are a part of this extremist group’s supply chain?”

“We were asked to look into them by the DOD,” Lana responds. “And they pay us. We don’t question them.”

“Okay,” I regret saying anything, but something feels off. I notice James glaring at me, looking angry that I questioned Lana. I should’ve get my mouth shut.

“I want four of you in the bar, so you can keep a tight visual. The other three of you can listen through the bar’s surveillance system, which Abby can get access into, and tail anyone who leaves,” Lana continues. “James, you can go ahead and give assignments.”

“Alright,” James stands up, putting his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, thinking. “Sacha and Jaclyn, you’re both in the van with Abby because you’re injured. That’s your fault,” He seems to add the last bit in assumption that they’d complain. I’ve been wondering how they got those, seeing as last night’s mission was just surveillance, and I make a note to ask that later. I can tell Sacha and Jaclyn aren’t happy with James’ decision, especially since their injuries don’t seem that bad. “So that leaves, Iain, Khaled, Emilia and myself in the bar.”

“Do you think you’re ready for that?” Sacha asks me. “No offense,” She adds.

I shrug. “I leave it up to the boss to decide.”

“It’ll be fine,” James replies, not giving it much thought.

“The on-floor crew will leave at 7 p.m., you can take one of the cars. The surveillance team should leave earlier and get set up. The Congressman’s staff are starting to show up around 9 p.m.,” Pollard says, walking towards the door. “Let’s hope we get something.”

He leaves the room, Lana close behind. As soon as they do, the atmosphere in the room becomes much more casual. Khaled leans back in the chair, throwing his feet up on the table. “So, Emilia, what’s it like to be an enemy of the state?”

“She’s not anymore,” Abby says, throwing Khaled a glance.

“You don’t need to defend me,” I say, though I smile a bit at her thankfully. I look to Khaled. “It’s not ideal.” I say it decidedly, indicating that it’s the end of that conversation. It seems to shut him up. I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to get me angry, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Well, we need to get you ready for tonight,” Abby says, standing up. “Let’s go to the equipment room. Iain?”

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We spend the next couple hours in the equipment room, a space in the basement of the manor only accessible through a hidden staircase behind a pantry in the kitchen. Iain gets me the regular stuff – a comms earpiece, a tracker, other small pieces of tech I can keep on me. He asks what I like to shoot. I tell him I have no preference, and he pulls out a small gun and thigh holster. It’s smaller than what I’ve worked with in the past, but I figure this job is all about being discreet.

Sacha, Jaclyn and Abby came with us, and they’re sitting down on the lone couch in the middle of the room.

“What happened to your wrist?” I ask Jaclyn. “Something happen on last night’s job?”

“You could say that,” She scoffs in response. “Khaled got bored doing surveillance and we started doing some hand-to-hand training to try and stay alert,” She replies. “He twisted my wrist really bad and gave Sacha that dinger.”

“He’s a dirty fighter,” Sacha jeers.

“Oh,” I say, not wanting to say the obvious thing – that it was an incredibly stupid thing to do on a job, and they should’ve focused on surveillance.

“Lana was pissed,” Abby adds.

“Khaled’s always causing shit,” Iain says, as he sets up a dummy with a target across the room. “Okay, try to hit this.”

I raise the gun up and notice immediately that it feels much easier to aim than before. I no longer need to make a conscious effort to stabilize my hand, and my eyes keenly narrow in on the target. It feels like I’m much closer to the dummy, making it easier to have an accurate shot. I fire, and the bullet lands just a half inch left of bullseye. I fire again, and this time it’s centered.

“Decent,” Iain says. “And how are you in hand-to-hand?”

“She’s not terrible,” James’ voice says, appearing behind us in the doorway.

“Did you two fight?” Jaclyn asks, with an air of interest.

“I would say I’m better than not terrible,” I add in defensively, responding to James’ remark. “If I remember correctly, I disarmed you and shot someone coming at your back.”

“Well, I let you,” James says. I scoff. “What, you really think I didn’t know Chris was there?”

“No, I don’t. From what I can tell you don’t have eyes in the back of your head,” I reply venomously. Jaclyn, Abby and Sacha have faint smiles on their faces, like they’re enjoying this.

“No, but I could hear him,” James says, a mixture of amusement and defense in his voice.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s get your hand-to-hand expert Khaled in here and see what happens.”

“Oh, good idea,” Jaclyn says, clearly eager for entertainment. She whips out her phone and sends a text. A moment later, her phone dings. “He’s coming down.”

Attached to the equipment room is a gym, with a padded floor in the centre where the team must train. I’m standing in the centre, watching Khaled approach me. I realize now that I might’ve let my confidence get away from me. Khaled is at least a foot taller than me and thick, his one arm the size of two of mine combined. But another part of me is excited to see what’s about to happen, to test what the AGK did to me. Nerves course through me like electricity.

Abby, Jaclyn, Sacha and Iain sit side by side on the workout bench, with James standing and leaning on the wall behind him, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you ready?” Khaled says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Sure,” I say, raising my arms defensively. “Let’s do this.”

The first move Khaled makes is what I expect – he swings his fist at me. I was anticipating it, so I duck and spin, so that I’m behind him. I kick him in the back of the knees, which sends him down onto the floor. Khaled spins around, grabbing my body and slamming it onto the ground with him, putting his full body weight on me. I’m able to get my arm out from under Khaled, so I elbow him in the soft spot between his ear and shoulder – I have to do it twice to get him to release his body weight, but he does, and I get back on my feet. He does as well, and this time I swing, hitting him in the temple with my fist. I notice how much stronger I am when the blow seems to knock him off kilter, something that might’ve just hurt him if I’d done it a week ago. This pisses him off, and he retaliates with an upwards blow to my jaw. It’s a weird feeling – there’s definitely a pressure and I can feel the blow hit me, but it doesn’t have the same feeling of sharp pain it used to. Though the force of the hit knocked me to the ground, I feel pleased with the strength I have. I swipe my legs at him, knocking him off balance, giving me time to stand up. He’s quick, and I know that even though my punch hit him the first time, I won’t win this fight using my hands. I throw myself onto my hands, flipping up and wrapping my legs around his neck, using the force to bring him back down to the mat and keeping him down. It’s an awkward position to get out of, because he can’t reach any of the sensitive spots – my chest, face, arms – to get me to release him.

Khaled wraps both of his hands around my foot and is twisting it, the wrong way. It takes longer than it normally would’ve but I start to feel immense pain, and I call out, releasing him from my grip. Next thing I know, Khaled is behind me, holding me in a chokehold, stopping any air from reaching my lungs.

I can hear Khaled breathing heavily in my ear. My chest is burning and it doesn’t seem like he’s giving up anytime soon, so I try to fit my hand in between my chest and his forearm, pressing against his arm and relieving pressure from my chest – when there’s enough space, I duck down and kick him, hard, in the groin. He buckles to the ground and I crawl away, trying to put space in between the two of us.

The room is silent; the fight didn’t turn out to be the friendly joust it was supposed to, and we both got too defensive. I breathe heavily, trying to get oxygen back into my lungs. “Are you okay?” Abby asks from the bench. I nod, “I’m fine.”

“I told you she wasn’t terrible,” James says to Khaled, who’s groaning on the floor, as he walks out of the equipment room. I watch in annoyance as James leaves.

“Better than ‘not terrible’,” I mumble, still somewhat gasping for air, but Abby, Sacha, and Jaclyn laugh. “You got a good grip,” I say to Khaled, as I get to my feet.

“Not bad yourself,” Khaled says dryly, but I can tell there’s a bit of humour in his voice, and I wonder if I’ve just proven myself to him.

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I spend the rest of the day in my room, trying to get a handle on this new reality. There was a large box of clothing – it looks like hand-me-downs from Sacha and Abby – on my bed when I got back, so I hang up the clothing (a mix of practical exercise clothes, casual clothes, and dresses for various occasions). They’ve also left me a box of shampoo, makeup and other things I’ve desperately missed over the last few days. I need to remember to thank them.

After I put everything away, I double check all my equipment, working on getting used to the weight of my new gun, of how to discreetly use the comms device in my ear without it looking too obvious. I then reread the files Jaclyn gave me on the people we’re watching tonight and try to memorize everything about them. From what I can tell, they are just typical government workers with no ties to chemical weapons. They must be being very careful if there’s little to no data or evidence on them. After a few hours, I get hungry and decide to go down to the kitchen, passing the den where Sacha, Iain and Khaled are talking. The rest of the team must be in their rooms. In the kitchen, I poke around the cupboards until I find the ingredients for a sandwich, and I haphazardly throw a grilled cheese together. I glance at the clock on the stove. It’ll be time to leave soon. I wolf down the sandwich in a few bites and start quickly doing the dishes in the big industrial sink.

“Are you trying to take my job?” A voice says from behind me, and I turn around to see a tall woman with a shaved head, standing in the doorway with an apron around her waist. A tattoo peaks out behind the collar of her shirt.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, taking my hands out of the soapy water and drying them on my pants. “I didn’t want to leave a mess.”

The woman grins, breaking the stoic exterior she was playfully putting on. “It’s a joke. I’m Sri,” she says, striding across the kitchen and reaching her hand out.

I shake her hand. “Sorry, my hands are still a bit damp. Emilia.”

“Occupational hazard,” Sri jokes. “Did you get enough to eat? You didn’t eat the soup I left you yesterday.”

“It had nothing to do with your cooking,” I say quickly, not wanting to offend. “I just… wasn’t hungry.” It’s a weak excuse but I’m not sure how much she’s supposed to know.

“No worries,” Sri says, throwing her hands up as if in defeat. “I usually take the team dinner in the den before jobs though. I must’ve just missed you on my way up.”

“I’ll remember that,” I smile. “Sorry for raiding your kitchen.”

As I go to make my leave, Abby pokes her head in through the door. “Oh good, you met Sri,” she says, practically skipping over to her and planting a kiss on her mouth. Abby wraps her arm around Sri’s waist. “We should go,” she adds to me. “We got work to do.”

“Right,” I say, following Abby as she exits the kitchen. I hear Sri call out to her to be careful. “How long have you two been together?” I ask Abby as we walk through the house towards the den.

“Not long after she started working here, which was a year ago,” Abby says. “You’ll like her. She’s great. Amazing chef.” It’s sweet to see the look of adoration on her face.

When we reach the den, Sacha and Jaclyn are waiting by the doorway. “Wreszcie,” Sacha says in Polish, rolling her eyes when she spots Abby. “The surveillance team was supposed to be out the door two minutes ago.”

“Calm down, I was just getting some extra equipment,” Abby says, tapping a small pocket on her hip. “Good luck and we’ll be in your ears,” she adds to me with a wink before the three of them depart.

I find Khaled, Iain and James standing in the den, talking about strategy tonight.

“…the four of us can’t enter and sit together, it’s best if we split into two groups and monitor on different sides of the bar,” Iain is saying.

“Agreed,” James says, nodding at me to acknowledge my appearance.

“Do you ever approach subjects in surveillance?” I ask.

“Nope,” Iain says, as if it was a stupid question. “That wouldn’t be surveillance.”

“Well, how do you mean?” Khaled asks me, ignoring Iain.

“You were saying that not a lot of useful information has been gathered from previous missions,” I say. “So I wonder if it’d be useful for one of us to probe the information out by talking to them.”

“You’re serious?” Iain asks, throwing a skeptical look to James.

“It’s not like we ask them outright if they’re guilty. You plant a seed and see if they carry the conversation internally. Usually if they’re guilty, the seed grows pretty fast. It’s what I did with McCormick.”

“It’s worth a try,” James says. “If we don’t get anything after the first couple hours or so. We can’t come back empty-handed from this job.”

Iain doesn’t seem convinced, but Khaled and James outnumber him. It’s decided that Khaled and James will monitor the north side of the bar, posing as work colleagues, with Iain and I covering the south side.

“Our cover story is just a husband and wife going out for dinner,” Iain says absentmindedly, barely looking at me.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I reply.

“Why not?” James asks, who was noting our plan down in a notebook, I’m assuming to report back to Lana.

“A couple wouldn’t go to a noisy bar for date night,” I say. “And even if they did, they’d keep to themselves. We want to be near the group, and we need an excuse to do that. I think we should cover as two single people who hit it off at the bar. That way we have reason to be together so we can share intel and plans, but we can still separate if we need to cover more of the room.”

Iain eyes me, as if assessing my idea. Eventually, he nods begrudgingly and James scratches out the initial note he made, writing down my cover recommendation.

“Alright,” Khaled says. “We good?”

“Yup. Let’s meet downstairs in twenty.”

I use the twenty minutes to get ready for the cover, picking a dark blue dress and black heels from the clothing Sacha and Abby gave me, deciding it would be the most believable for the job. I remember to bring a jacket, knowing it’ll be cold outside. I brush out my hair, put some makeup on and double check my equipment is in the right place and that my gun is properly concealed against my thigh. I also run through a list of details I should know for my cover.

I head downstairs and wait at the garage door for the rest of the team, who show up right on time. James and Khaled are wearing business casual, like they just came from the office, and Iain is wearing jeans, a sweater and a backwards baseball cap.

“Ready?” Khaled asks.

“Ready.” I respond.

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Chapter 9

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The car ride is about an hour, and we go over the plan twice more. Khaled and James are going to drop Iain and I off at two separate subway stops so we can arrive at the bar separately. We test our comms, and Abby comes on the line, telling us they’re set up and monitoring.

“Nervous?” Khaled asks me in the back of the car, once Abby, Jaclyn and Sacha finish their update. We drive through the Lincoln tunnel.

“Not really,” I say. “I feel pretty comfortable on jobs.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I like the feeling of knowing exactly what I need to do. Plus, I like going places in cover. I don’t have to be myself for a while,” I laugh a little.

“Sounds like you’re never yourself, Molly,” James butts in from the front seat, sounding exasperated, saying my old name like it’s a curse word.

I change the topic. “So, I can tell you have reservations about going after these staffers. Why?”

James raises his eyebrows, seemingly surprised that I picked up on it. “So far they’ve been clean. They’ve never deployed us on this many jobs for one group before, especially when there’s no evidence.”

“Sometimes it takes a long time to uncover this stuff,” I say. “Hopefully we get them tonight.”

“Let’s hope so,” Iain says from the front. “We’re almost at drop off.”

“How are you feeling, Emilia?” Khaled asks, turning around from the passenger seat to face me. “Any more side effects?”

I shake my head. “I feel fine. I did expect to feel more of a change from the AGK though.” I can tell I’m a bit stronger, a bit better at things. But overall it’s not a huge difference.

Khaled chuckles in amusement. “Believe me, you’ll feel the difference when it matters.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“When it counts, and you’re full of adrenaline, you’ll feel the difference,” James says. I’m eager to see what they mean.

“This is you, Iain,” Khaled says, pulling up in front of a dingy subway stop. Iain quickly gets out of the car, nodding goodbye at us before slamming the door. We drive for a few more minutes, to another stop.

“See you there,” James says to me as I get out at my stop.

It’s a fifteen minute subway ride to the bar, and I spend it mentally preparing myself for the job. I’ve learned over the past few years that the simplest of jobs can turn into bloody messes, so I have to be ready. And this is my first job with Sherwood Company. I need to prove myself. The subway car is filled with young people, like me, going out. I’m standing, holding onto the pole in the middle of the subway car, my body swaying as the train starts and stops. I can hear Abby and Sacha speaking in my ear piece, with the guys chiming in with one-word answers every once in a while. I notice that I’m able to concentrate on more things now – I can clearly hear the conversations going on in my comms piece, along with the dozen or so conversations happening on the train. Instead of only being able to focus on one, I can listen to them all simultaneously. It’s a weird feeling.

One of the conversations on the subway was between two men, both wearing dark clothing and hats, a few seats from me. I can feel their eyes on me and one tells the other to “go talk to her.” I shift, trying to look casual, so I can face them and see what’s about to happen.

“Hey,” The man says in a rough voice, getting up from his seat. He stumbles, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath before he’s even a metre away from me. I think it’s another effect of the AGK.

I don’t respond, shifting my gaze away, hoping it’ll be a clear clue for him to leave me alone.

“Where you partying tonight?” He asks putting his hand on the pole just above my hand, which I quickly release. I didn’t need to hold the pole anyways - despite the abrupt moves of the train, I feel completely stable.

“I’m going to a work party,” I say, knowing I couldn’t name a bar or ‘home’, which would prompt him to follow me once I got off the train.

“Dressed like that? You work at a club or something?” The man puts his face close to mine, and I can see his dark, bloodshot eyes.

“No,” I reply. Abby’s in my ear asking who I’m talking to. “Leave me alone. I don’t like speaking to strangers on the subway.” I choose my words carefully, trying to answer Abby’s question and get this man to leave me alone at the same time.

“We don’t have to be strangers,” He says, his body bumping into mine as we come to a stop and more people file on the train. With most passengers either ignoring our confrontation or distracted by getting on or off the train, he places his hand on my waist.

I exhale angrily. “Are you kidding me?” I say through gritted teeth, yanking his hand away from me. I move away from the pole towards the closing subway doors, and the man follows.

“What’s happening?” James says in my ear piece. I can’t answer, as the man is too close to me and I can’t think of anything clever to say to respond. I can see his friend out of the corner of my eye, smirking. A couple other people on the subway look awkwardly to me, like they want to help, but don’t want to risk it. The others, in true New York fashion, can’t be bothered to notice. The man is now standing in front of me, blowing his hot, stinky breath into my face.

“Leave me alone,” I say, feeling the subway slow down for the next stop. The man’s friend gets up and comes to stand behind him just as the subway grinds to a halt and the doors open. The man puts his body up against mine, flattening me against the plexiglass separating the seats, letting the people into the subway car, but it’s just an excuse for him to press against me. He grabs my arm, holding it firmly.

“Emilia, can you give an update?” Abby says in my ear. I have my face turned to the side, with the man’s nose up against my cheek.

“Doors now closing,” The robotic voice says over the subway speaker and, making an effort to time it correctly, I wait until the doors are just about closed and I take his hand off me and bend it behind his back. The man yells, and I realize I’ve used too much pressure. Panicked, I push the man to the ground, slipping through the closing subway doors just before they close and the train takes off.

“Emilia, can you give us a status report?” James asks urgently in my ear. I watch as the subway takes off, leaving me behind in a gust of hot wind. I hope I didn’t sprain that man’s arm, but I have a feeling that I did. Feeling somewhat guilty, I start to make my way up the subway stairs to the street, answering the team softly, covering my mouth with my arm as if I’m coughing. “I’m fine. I’m just a stop south of where I need to be so I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Let’s focus,” James tries to get people back on track, though he himself sounds distracted. ‘’I’m just about to enter the bar and Khaled’s already in there. Iain is also just outside and Emilia is apparently on her way. So let’s pay attention.”

I reach the street and the cold winter air hits me as I start walking towards the bar, which I remember on the map Abby showed me was just a block away. I can already hear the sounds of the bar in my earpiece, which means that at least a couple of the guys are already in there. Jaclyn notes that the Congressman’s staff are starting to arrive.

I reach the bar, simply called ‘Al’s’, and it’s the kind of place that was probably really nice just a few years ago, but hasn’t been managed well. There’s a handful of people smoking outside who I quickly pass, trying not to inhale the smoke. The inside of the bar is warm and humid, the result of the amount of bodies in there right now. I check the clock behind the wooden bar – it’s 9:08 p.m., and the place is already quite busy. There’s only a couple empty stools available, and I sit at one, trying to take in the surroundings. James and Khaled are sitting in a booth at the back of the restaurant, right beside what seems to be the kitchen. I can see Iain, sipping a beer, five or six stools down. He makes brief eye contact with me and looks away. I see the group of staffers populating two tables in the back corner of the bar, a few metres away from James and Khaled. There’s nine of them, which means only a few more are due to arrive still. I study them, trying to look casually. Some are drinking alcohol, others look to be drinking water or soda. There’s a few appetizers on the table that they’re snacking on. One woman, with a short blonde bob wearing a pant suit, is showing a couple of the other staff her engagement ring. Despite the noisiness of the bar, I can hear them chatting and congratulating one another clearly.

The bartender comes over and asks for my order. I request a vodka soda, which I nurse as I spend the next half hour listening acutely to the Congressman’s staff. They talk about the upcoming wedding, how the proposal went, the restaurants they’ve been trying in New York. The three staff who were missing when I first arrived show up eventually, but they don’t seem to be all that suspicious either. It’s awfully mundane. A while later, Iain comes over and we sit together, talking like we’ve met for the first time and he’s picking me up. I can tell it’s difficult for him. We roll our eyes when Sacha comes on the earpiece to say that she’s bored and they haven’t picked up anything on their end either, even after tapping into their phones.

About forty-five minutes later, one of the men from the Congressman’s office comes over and leans across the bar, just beside me, trying to signal the bartender. I raise my eyebrows at Iain as if to say ‘now’s my chance’ and I turn my stool to face the man, smiling.

“You’re never going to get his attention,” I say to the staff member, talking about the bartender. I recognize him as Adrian VanCamp, Congressman Bailey’s Communications Coordinator. I remember from the information Jaclyn gave me that he was responsible for overseeing external and internal memos. He could be the one connecting people to the factory.

“Oh, no?” The staffer says, turning to look at me, leaning against the bar. “Why is that?”

“I’ve been trying to get his attention for hours now,” I shake my empty glass at him and the half-melted ice cubes rattle around.

“Well, if I can get his attention I’ll get you a drink too,” He says. “I’m Adrian.”

“Tabitha,” I smile. “It looks like you guys have been having a lot of fun,” I nod to the two tables full of his colleagues.

“Yeah, one of the girls from the office just got engaged,” He says, glancing at the bartender who is at the other end of the counter, making a drink. “We’re celebrating.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Do you care to join us?” He asks.

“Oh, I’m not sure, I don’t want to impose,” I say, hoping it’ll motivate him. “Oh, wait, the bartender’s coming this way,” I flirt, as I gesture for the bartender. “A vodka soda for me and… what will you have?” I ask Adrian.

“Heineken,” Adrian says, side-eyeing me as if he was thinking. “And two shots of tequila.”

“Oh? Is this for us?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Well, I’ve been looking at you all evening and I think you could use some fun.”

I know for a fact he hasn’t been looking at me at all, since I’ve been studying him and his colleagues all night, but take it as a positive sign that I might be able to pull information out of him easily if he’s this agreeable.

“Agreed,” I say as the bartender puts down the shots. We cheers and take them, the burning liquid sliding down my throat.

“Come on. Join us,” Adrian repeats, grabbing his beer and my drink, walking back towards his table.

I turn and give a pointed look to Iain, apologizing for leaving him at the bar, but there was no way to invite him along without it coming off suspicious.

“You’re supposed to ask permission before you engage with the suspects,” James says in my earpiece. Throughout my whole conversation with Adrian, I could hear Khaled, James, Sacha, Abby and Jaclyn discussing what I was doing. I look at James briefly as I walk towards the table, and he looks angry. It’s too late now, but he’s leading this job and I should’ve waited for his go ahead. I bite my tongue but continue to the table, knowing this was the best bet at getting any information. At least Abby, Sacha and Khaled seem to think I made the right call.

“Everyone, this is Tabitha,” Adrian says, introducing me when we get to the table. I wave timidly, and make a comment about how I hope I’m not interrupting. I recognize their faces from Lana and Jaclyn’s information package.

“You’re not interrupting at all,” one of the women says – Lynda, the Congressman’s executive assistant. “Take a seat!”

I spend the next hour chatting casually with all of them, telling them about how I moved to New York from New Hampshire not long ago to pursue a job in advertising and needed to get out tonight after my long-distance boyfriend broke up with me. I hear Khaled mention something in my earpiece about how I’m a good liar, which I ignore. After Anna, the woman who got engaged, asked if I met anyone yet, I mention that there were a couple (nodding to Iain who was still sitting alone at the bar, ‘watching’ a hockey game on the television) but no winners. The women laugh.

“There’s still time,” Adrian says, putting his arm around my shoulders. I laugh shyly.

The whole time I’m sitting there, no one says anything remotely suspicious. No one mentions that they hate their job, that the Congressman is a bad boss, that so-and-so had to stay late the other night. No one mentions Billings or Colorado. I try to prompt something.

“What do you all do?” I ask.

“We work for Congressman Bailey. Montana,” Frank, the office manager, says.

“No way!” I say, feigning interest. “That must be such an interesting job.”

Adrian shrugs. “It’s not as exciting as people think.”

“Well, that can’t be true! What kind of things do you do?”

“Administrative work,” Anna says.

“Lots and lots of admin work,” Another staff adds, Maria, who is stirring her drink with a straw. I’m trying to decide if I should ask about the chemical attack. It’s been in the news, so it wouldn’t be totally out of character for me to ask. But it could also give me away.

James seems to be reading my mind. “Go ahead,” he says through the earpiece.

“Maybe I’ve been reading the news too much. I heard about that awful attack back in – was it California - a week or so ago? Wasn’t that a Congressman?” I ask, as if I just recalled it.

“Not California,” Adrian chuckles, amused at my lack of knowledge. I knew that, and said it on purpose to probe an answer besides Yeah, that sucked. “It was in Colorado.”

“Ohhh,” I laugh. “Sorry, I’m not well-versed in geography. That was just so terrible.”

“Ah, I forgot to tell you guys, my aunt lives right down the street from where it happened and she said the cops were there for days,” Maria says, her voice casual.

“Ugh, really?” Anna responds. “I heard that they’re thinking about imposing a curfew until they catch the people that did it.”

“They should,” Adrian says, leaning across me to grab a few French fries off a plate.

And just like that, the conversation is over. I expected a tonal shift, a few glances between colleagues when it was brought up – at least – but it was like they were talking about an inconsequential car crash someone’s cousin was in back home.

“Time for a trip to the ladies’ room,” Anna says. “Maria, come with?”

“Oh, I need to use the washroom too. I’ll come,” I pipe up, curious to see if they’ll say anything in there.

After a moment of awkward shuffling as people moved their chairs to let us up, the three of us go to the bathroom. I don’t have to actually use the washroom, so once I’m in the stall, I wait for the team to check in.

“I didn’t pick up anything odd,” Abby says in my earpiece. “I just checked and Maria does have an aunt in Colorado. So it’s probably not a coded message or tip off.”

“They don’t seem to be exhibiting any signs of extremist behaviour. No tip-offs, no side-bar discussion. No clues. They seem like normal people,” Sacha adds.

“Most people do before they’re outed as radicals,” Iain replies harshly.

“Oh, shut up, Iain,” Sacha snaps. “You can’t tell me there were any tells in that conversation. And we’re still not picking up anything on their cell phones or laptops.”

“This is a dead end,” Khaled adds.

I hear James sigh on the other end. “Emilia’s actually with them. Emilia, what do you think?” I’m just about to respond when Maria calls from the other side of the stall, asking if she can borrow my perfume.

“Yeah, I have some!” I say, shifting through the small bag I brought and retrieving the sample perfume that Sacha gave me in the miscellaneous box of things. I flush the toilet so they don’t question me.

“Here you go,” I say, exiting the stall and handing her the perfume, going over the wash my hands.

“I think Adrian likes you,” Maria says, spiritizing the perfume over herself and handing it back to me.

“Do you think?” I ask giddily, playing up the part.

“Obviously,” Anna says with her eyebrows raised as she dries her hands with paper towel over the garbage can. I smile shyly and we leave the bathroom and head back to the table. When we get there, Adrian is standing up with his coat on. “Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, as Maria and Anna sit back down in their chairs, small smiles on their faces.

“And go where?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

“Back to my hotel,” He says, “It’s not too far from here.”

“Don’t go,” James says in my ear. I disobeyed him before by engaging, but I’m so deep in it and I know this is the last chance we have to get any information. If anyone has information, or contact with someone who does, it’s the communications person.

“Sure,” I smile, grabbing my shawl from the back of the chair. “Let’s go.”

“Are you kidding me?” James says in my ear, and we pass him as we leave the restaurant, his face twisted in irritation.

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The minute we get inside Adrian’s hotel suite, which is on the twelfth floor of the Waldorf Astoria, he pushes me up against the wall and kisses me. His breath tastes like beer and fries, which is gross, but I have no choice but to kiss back. He puts his hand at the back of my neck, grabbing my hair. I’m acutely aware of the fact that everyone in my ear knows what’s happening, though I can hear them talking about how Jaclyn was now tailing one of the congressional staffers who left the bar.

I break the kiss and look at Adrian, trying to figure out something to say. “I don’t usually do this,” I say, trying to sound shy. “I just broke up with my boyfriend.” My cover story is paying off here.

“That’s okay,” Adrian says, breathing heavily. He kisses me hard again, a bit too aggressive. Again, I break the kiss.

“Can I have something to drink? I’m just a bit thirsty.”

I can tell Adrian’s annoyed but he retreats into the suite’s kitchen as I walk further into the room. I look around, making note that he isn’t messy and hasn’t left his personal effects everywhere.

“What do you want?” He asks. “Wine, beer?”

“Do you have any water?” I call back, scanning the room for any documents or a computer. I notice a laptop sitting on the coffee table.

“Abby, what devices are you monitoring for Adrian VanCamp?” I ask quietly into my earpiece.

“A 14” Lenovo and an iPhone 11,” Abby replies.

I nod, and check the laptop – it’s the Lenovo.

“Go to the bathroom, Emilia,” James says in my ear. “I need to talk to you.” Just as James says it, Adrian comes back in the room, a cup of water in his hand.

“Thanks,” I smile a bit, accepting it and taking a sip. Adrian leans back on the couch, his arm resting on the back. “Is that the bedroom?” I say, eyeing one of the closed doors.

“Yeah.”

“Give me five minutes then come in,” I say, getting up and heading to the bedroom. I need time to search it. James, Khaled and Iain have clearly left the bar – they are arguing in my ear. James and Iain think I should leave, and Khaled says I should stay.

“I’ll leave after this,” I say quietly, once I close the door to the bedroom. Like the living room, the bedroom is pretty bare, with a bed, a dresser, a closet. I start poking around, looking for anything that might help us. Underneath the bed is empty except for a few dust bunnies and the dresser has nothing but socks and underwear. I check for trick bottoms in the drawers, but there aren’t any. I move on to the closet as James is lecturing me in the earpiece.

“We can talk about it later,” I say. “Who’s Jaclyn tailing?”

“Maria,” Iain replies. “She left the bar not long after you did.”

I nod. “I really think there’s some bad information,” I start sliding around clothing and checking pockets in the closet. I open up two shoeboxes but find nothing but Ted Baker’s within them. I take extra care to put everything back exactly in the position I found it. “There’s nothing here,” I say in defeat.

I hear Adrian stand up from the couch in the living room, it squeaks loudly, and start to approach the bedroom. I quickly shut the closet door and sit on the bed, putting my head in my hands.

“I’m sorry!” I cry out as soon as he opens the door. “I thought I was ready for this.” I look up to Adrian, fake tears in my eyes. He’s clearly shocked as I run past him, heading towards the front door. I grab my jacket and bag, and quickly leave the hotel suite, walking to the elevator. I hear Adrian curse through the wall. After a few moments, his television turns on.

“Wow, you could be an actor,” Khaled says humorously, somewhat entertained.

Besides Khaled’s remark, the line is quiet on my way out of the hotel. As I pass through the lobby, no one speaks.

“Hello?” I say into my earpiece, once I’m back outside and there’s no one in earshot. “Anyone there?”

I turn the corner of the street to make my way back to the bar, and hopefully find the rest of the team. As I do so, someone grabs me and puts their hand over my mouth, pushing me aggressively against the brick of a building. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust but I realize it’s James. He looks mad. I can practically see steam coming out of his ears as he thinks of something to say to me. Instead he just slams me against the wall again and we look at each other for about ten seconds, his forearm against my chest to stop me from moving. It’s a stand-off.

Eventually, I am able to get my arm free enough to yank his hand off my mouth. “So what, I didn’t follow your orders. I was trying to get some intel.”

James looks irritated but doesn’t say anything, instead just glaring straight through me. “Let’s go,” he mutters, finally relieving the pressure and pushing me into the passenger seat of the car we arrived in hours before, which is parked on the side of the street. Iain and Khaled aren’t in it yet. They must still be outside the bar. James takes his comms piece out and I do the same.

“If you’re mad, just say so,” I say.

“Fine, I’m mad,” James says, as he gets into the driver’s seat. He turns to look at me. “You know, I’ve figured you out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t get you until now. You confused me. You were barely radicalized by Mendoza, and you gave up so easily once we got you. You seemed harmless, almost pathetic. So I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. And now I have.”

“What’s wrong with me,” I repeat in frustration. “Well, what is it?”

“You’re reckless. Irresponsible. Uncaring to whoever you work with,” James spits the words at me.

I scoff. “I was trying to help the team. To find information. Was that not the job?”

“The job is to listen to the person who runs the mission. You didn’t listen to me one damn time. You put the whole team and job at risk. Adrian could’ve killed you, exposing everyone, and you went back to his hotel? You’re a joke.”

I’m taken aback by his anger. I knew he’d be mad at me for not listening to him, but this seems far deeper than that.

“I don’t think Adrian would’ve killed me,” I defend myself, then pause, my self-preserving instinct coming in as I realize that I can’t make the people I work for angry. “But I apologize.”

“You don’t think he’d kill you? Why, ‘cause you kissed? Just because he took you back to his room doesn’t mean he couldn’t have killed you. Or hired someone to.”

“I think these people are bystanders,” I throw my hands up in the air. “I don’t think they did anything. All the evidence, both from what I’ve seen with my own eyes and what’s in the files, points to these people being innocent.”

James shakes his head. “You trust too easily. That’s your problem. One day you trust Mendoza, then you trust Will, then you trust me. And now you trust these people you don’t even know? You have no idea who you are. And it means you make naïve decisions.”

“I never trusted Mendoza. You realized that when you started monitoring me, remember?” I say as James kicks the car into gear and we start driving. “Where are we going?” I add.

“Everyone else is going back to the manor,” James says through clenched teeth. “You never trusted Mendoza?” He almost scoffs as he says it. “You worked for him for eight years.”

“You’ll recall that I didn’t really have a choice,” I say angrily. “You might also remember that I didn’t have much of a choice to work for Lana either. So maybe I trust because I can either dive head first into a situation and try to make the best of it or end up in prison or dead somewhere.”

The conversation stops in its tracks – James doesn’t say anything.

“It won’t happen again,” I say after a few minutes of silence. If I want to keep working for Sherwood Company, I need James and the team to value me. Hopefully apologizing will help.

“Good,” He replies shortly. We cross the bridge out of the city, heading back towards the manor.

“So what did Jaclyn find out with Maria?” I ask curiously, partially trying to ease the tension.

James exhales. “Apparently Maria left the bar and met up with someone a couple blocks away. Jaclyn tailed her. We couldn’t hear what they were saying over the earpiece but Jaclyn said that Maria mentioned the attack in Colorado and that the next one would be in North Dakota.”

I’m surprised. Usually intel isn’t so cut and dry. “You said the other night that you think this job is complicated. Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Something’s not lining up.”

“I don’t disagree,” I say.

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Chapter 10

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We arrive back at the house late, and the rest of the team is already in their rooms, most likely asleep. I say goodbye to James and head back to my room, falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. It’s a restless sleep. I dream of being in my mom’s house all those years ago, unable to move from the doorway as the fire spreads from the fireplace to the couch, engulfing her.

When I wake up, it’s twenty minutes after five, and the sun is starting to rise. Knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep, I throw on a sweatshirt over my pajama pants and walk down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, cleaning up carefully so that Sri doesn’t notice that I was rummaging around her cupboards. I make my way back up to the library, which I’ve been wanting to explore since I first saw it.

It’s a grand room, with bookcases lining the walls, though they don’t look like they’ve been moved in years. On one wall, there’s a fireplace lined with grey stone so I start a small fire, using a match and kindling that’s placed in a chest just to the left of the hearth. I sit in front of it, feeling its warmth on my skin and sipping hot peppermint tea. I could sit here all day watching the flames dance and listening to the crackling of the fire. It reminds me of my mom, both the good and bad memories. Either way, it’s reminiscent of a simpler time, when my biggest worry was caring for one, singular person.

After a good thirty minutes of sitting quietly, I stoke the wood to evoke more flames, stand up and start to wander around the room. A lot of the books I haven’t heard of before, or they’re in entirely different languages, but there are some I recognize. I wasn’t much of a reader, but there were a couple staple books my mother used to ‘homeschool’ me, which essentially meant she gave me the book and forced me to read them myself, which meant I didn’t. I always preferred to be outside. I find 1984, which I did actually read when Brianna loaned me her French copy last year, back when I was learning the language. I pick up a copy of Little Women, which I find on a bookshelf near the top of the wall. Thumbing through the pages, I try to recall the story, knowing I watched the movie on VHS at the library one day. I look at the names in it – Amy March, Beth – but I can’t remember. I put it back and climb back down the ladder, reminding myself to come back in my downtime to read it. I feel a sort of comfort, knowing that I’ll always have the manor to return to after a job or mission. It feels like more of a home than Kingston ever did. Maybe things are starting to turn around for me.

I come across a stereo on top of one of the end tables and turn it on, keeping the volume low enough not to wake anyone or draw attention. I turn the dial, trying to find a good radio station. We’re in the middle of a forest so the signal isn’t great, but I’m able to find a station playing Billie Holiday’s I’ll Be Seeing You. The sound of older music makes me feel a terrible mixture of nostalgia, sadness and comfort. I think of the mornings my mom would sing along to them in the kitchen. She was raised by her grandmother for a couple years before she put my mother into the system. I only visited my great-grandmother once before she passed. I was four. I remember she sat at her old kitchen table in the dim light playing solitaire, the music from the next room and cigarette smoke wafting throughout the house. As I stand there, submerged in memory, I hear someone enter the room. I don’t turn to face them, not wanting them to see.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, turning me around. As I turn, my gaze turns to James, who looks like he just rolled out of bed too. His t-shirt is disheveled and he’s barefoot, wearing sweatpants.

“Was it too loud?” I ask. “I can turn it down.”

James doesn’t say anything, but takes the mug out of my hand and places it on the table beside the radio. Then, he takes my right hand in his and puts his other hand on my waist.

“I like this song,” James says, and I realize we’ve started to dance, swaying in a circle.

“It’s sad,” I reply, trying to justify the emotion on my face. “I didn’t realize you were a dancer,” I add, teasing.

“Save your sarcasm for a second,” James says quietly, softly – a rare display of gentleness.

I fall silent, enjoying this brief sense of calm and trying to ignore that he smelled like fresh laundry and shampoo. For a couple minutes, we continue swaying and I dread the song ending.

“No one ever comes in here,” James says, as if to himself. “But I like it in here. It reminds me of a slower world,” He pauses. “Sometimes, I just need a minute to stop.” I nod, knowing what he means. I don’t want to say anything, because I’d probably just make him angry, like I do most times I speak. The song ends, and I’m ready for him to let go, but a Frank Sinatra song comes on, and he doesn’t.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks.

If I’m being honest, I’m wondering why he’s doing this. Last we spoke, he was so mad with me. Though I’m also thinking about the fact that I’m close enough to hear his heartbeat through his shirt. I don’t say anything for a few seconds, trying to find something to say.

“You know what, don’t tell me,” He says, interrupting my train of thought. “I owe you an apology.”

“For?”

“Last night. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“I deserved it,” I say. At this point, we’re not looking at each other. My face is against his chest, his chin almost resting on top of my head.

“A little. But I was too harsh. I’m just trying to wrap my ahead around what’s happening.”

“And what’s happening?” I ask, curious about what he means.

He sighs. “The world isn’t so black and white anymore.”

“I don’t think it was ever that simple.”

“I know. That’s what I’m realizing.”

I nod, and we continue swaying for a second more.

“Want me to tell you what I’m thinking about?” James asks.

“Sure,” I say, looking up at him, waiting for his answer. He looks me in the eyes, as if searching for something – I’m not sure what. Then, after a few seconds, he turns around and leaves the room.

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As I look at the empty door, I wonder what that was. A test? A manipulation? A moment of honesty? I’m not sure. All I know is I have a feeling in my chest like it wasn’t supposed to happen. I shake my head to put it out of my mind, and distract myself with finding something to do. I notice that the fire is mostly out already, but I pour some water on it just to be certain, then head back to my bedroom. Once I arrive, I sit on my bed checking my alarm clock – seven a.m. Sacha told me breakfast was usually at eight a.m., so I get ready for that.

I head into the den, where Jaclyn, Sacha and Abby are sitting with Iain and Khaled, sipping cups of coffee. I notice that the bruise on Sacha’s eye is all but gone, and Jaclyn’s no longer wearing her wrist brace. I wonder if the quick recovery is because of the AGK.

“Good morning!” Abby chirps. “Heard you had an eventful evening last night.”

“Right,” I reply slowly, sitting down in one of the chairs. “I’ve already talked to James but I wanted to say sorry to all of you. I shouldn’t have done that. I was out of line.”

“You were,” Iain says. Sacha nods when Iain speaks, but she doesn’t seem too angry.

“You didn’t get anything out of that Adrian guy?” Jaclyn asks.

“No,” I shake my head. “He seemed clean to me. But you got some intel?”

Jaclyn nods. “Yeah, the Maria woman met up with someone and said that the next attack is in North Dakota in a couple of days.”

“So we’re tracking her phones, right?” I ask Abby.

“We are,” she says, pointing at her laptop resting on the couch. “Nothing yet.”

“These people must be smart enough to have some other form of communication. One we can’t track,” Sacha says.

“It would appear so,” Khaled says.

I notice Abby smiling as Sri walks into the room. “Yum, breakfast,” She says, practically licking her lips.

Sri pushes in a cart with coffee percolator, omelettes, muffins, and fruit on it and the team scrambles to pick their favourites.

“You’re not hungry?” Khaled asks me, sitting back down in his seat with his hands full with three muffins. I didn’t get up to grab anything.

“I’m good, thanks,” I reply, just as James walks in. We make eye contact for perhaps too long, before he breaks it and grabs a cup of coffee from the cart. “Thanks,” he says to Sri, who looks like she’s looking for an excuse to stay in the room. James takes a seat at the table.

“You stayed overnight?” Iain asks him. “I figured you’d go back to the DOD.”

“I can’t remember the last time you slept here,” Abby says, taking a big bite out of her apple.

“It was late-” James starts to explain, before Abby cuts him off.

“I remember one time you finished a job at 4 a.m., drove back to the Albany base for twenty minutes of sleep, and came back here for 6:30 a.m.,” Abby teases.

“It’s actually because we have another job today,” James says, ending Abby’s mockery.

“Already? I thought we had a couple of days.” Sacha asks, but she doesn’t sound irritated or burnt out, more so excited for another job. ,

“Well, you can thank Jaclyn for the information,” He gestures towards Jaclyn, who’s picking at her omelette, with his coffee cup. “We’re going to Fargo, North Dakota. We’ve been asked to be there early, just in case.”

“Fargo? That’s where they think the next attack will take place?” Iain asks.

“Based on Jaclyn’s intelligence, yes. Lana and Pollard are coming to brief us now, and we leave tonight.”

“Let’s hope we actually get to do something this time. I’m sick of surveillance,” Khaled says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “What’s the point of taking AGK just to sit and listen to people talk?”

“Agreed,” Sacha adds.

“Will you be lead on this?” Jaclyn asks James.

James nods. “Yep,” He says, sounding exhausted. Sacha looks slightly annoyed at her position being taken again. His phone beeps and he retrieves it from his pocket, giving it a glance. “Pollard and Lana are here. Let’s meet them in the briefing room.”

We migrate to the boardroom, where Lana stands at the head of the table. “This is the big job,” she says once we’re all seated. She hands out individual folders for each of us, labelled with our names. I go to open mine but she shoots me a pointed look. “Study on your own time. Listen to me now.”

She sits in a chair and places her hands on the table, folded together. “Jaclyn’s intel says there’s going to be a chemical attack in Fargo. The intel team at the DOD got some chatter that there’s two possible targets. Congressman Schaeff and one of the Senator’s. Neilman. Both are at the homes of their families.”

“We’re getting intel from the DOD now?” Abby asks. “That’s new.”

“They have more resources than us, and they offered it,” Lana replies shortly. “We’ve alerted the authorities in North Dakota and they are taking the proper precautions. Discreetly.”

“So your job is simple,” Pollard says from the back of the room, where he’s leaning against the wall. “Try to catch these people in action. We’ve heard that there’s only a couple of them who deploy the chemicals, but if there’s two targets we need two teams of you guys there to get them.”

“Why don’t the authorities in North Dakota do this?” Iain asks.

Lana sighs, as if she’s explained this a dozen times already. “It would be a PR nightmare for North Dakota, and the House and Senate.” Lana looks to me. “We’re discreet. Our jobs don’t require budgeting from taxes or the need for transparency with the public.”

“So, why these targets?” James asks.

“Looks like they’ll go after anyone in the government. We’ve heard that they are anti-establishment. That’s supposedly the manifesto,” Pollard responds.

“Huh,” I say suddenly, the verbal demonstration of all the thoughts running through my head. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“What?” Lana asks me sharply.

“Well, nothing,” I say, feeling thoughtless for the slip. “I’m just surprised how much more information we know this morning. Yesterday it felt like we were going in blind.”

“Yes, well,” Lana stands up, smoothing out the front of her dress. “That’s what happens when you get good intel.” She looks to Jaclyn approvingly. “You’ll be taking a private charter from the municipal airport. Wheels up at 11 p.m., so you best spend the day getting ready.”

We all get up, ready to leave, but Lana asks for Jaclyn and I to stay behind. I sit back down in my seat, watching as Abby and James exchange curious glances with each other before leaving the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Emilia, I understand there was an issue last night?” She looks to me, her blue eyes intensely gazing.

“Yes, and I’ve apologized. It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure of that,” She says, with a forgiving but stern smile. “I want you to pay attention to Jaclyn on this job. Study the job with her. Do what she does. Listen to her. Think like her.” Lana turns to Jaclyn. “I’ll make sure James puts the two of you on the same team in Fargo. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jaclyn says, nodding agreeably.

“Yes, ma’am,” I echo.

“Good,” Lana says, tapping her nails against the wood table. “You can go.”

I nod and leave Jaclyn and Lana in the room, realizing that this is my punishment for last night; being treated like I need a babysitter.

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Chapter 11

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We board the flight to Fargo later that evening. It’s a small, but nice, private plane – there’s just three empty seats on the whole flight, and only seven of us besides the pilot. I’m seated beside Jaclyn. Though James is leading the mission, Jaclyn has taken it upon herself to explain the plan to me a few times. I repeat it back to her, almost word-for-word, so she knows I remember it. Jaclyn, Khaled and I are monitoring the Senator, the one who is least likely to be the target of the attack, while Sacha, Iain and James monitor the Congressman. Abby will be running surveillance from a hotel. If or when we see members of the extremist group, we are to engage and detain them (Sacha put her fingers in air quotes when James told us the plan for the first time an hour or so ago, probably because detain doesn’t really mean detain). Then, we bring them in for interrogation and sentencing, if they’re still alive.

“Good,” Jaclyn says, when I finish reciting the details for the fourth time. She turns to look at me, her dark eyes staring seriously at me. “Lana doesn’t like mistakes. So don’t make any.”

“Noted,” I reply.

“Good, an-,”

“Jesus,” Sacha exclaims, interrupting Jaclyn and popping her blonde head up over the seat in front of us. “It’s a five hour flight and we haven’t even taken off yet. Give us a couple hours of peace before we have to hear you berate Emilia anymore.” Abby and Khaled laugh in the seats across the aisle. I can’t help but notice James and Iain talking quietly at the front of the plane. He hasn’t made eye contact with me since this morning.

“Was it like this at Mendoza’s?” Jaclyn asks, lowering her voice.

“Like what?” I’m surprised that she asks since no one has mentioned the name since I came to the manor. I could go the rest of my life without hearing it.

“This team. I feel like they don’t take anything seriously.”

“Mendoza was… stricter than they are here.”

“You mean the team. Lana’s pretty strict,” She says the sentence like a question – what do you think about Lana?

“I admire Lana,” I say, mostly truthfully. “She runs a competent strike team. She owns the Sherwood Company. It can’t be easy to do when you have to navigate the American government while simultaneously not being a part of it.”

“Right. You must hate the feds,” Jaclyn says, like an accusation.

I shake my head, “I don’t.”

“How could you work for Mendoza and do all the shit you did to American politicians and corporations and not?” She asks insistently.

I start to feel the plane speed up as it begins to take off. Gravity pushes my body back into my chair. “I never cared about why we did the jobs we did. I didn’t care about the people. It’s selfish but I was just trying to survive. And I survived working for Mendoza.”

“What about this extremist group?” Jaclyn probes.

“What about them?” I ask, feeling the wheels of the plane leave the ground. I quickly glance out the window and I don’t see cars or trees anymore, just lines that must be roads and snow-covered fields. I’ve flown dozens, maybe hundreds of times, but I’m always supposed at how small the world feels from up here.

“Why do you think they’re doing it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Some people resort to terrible things when terrible things happen to them. And some people think they’re doing the right thing, somehow.” I’m thinking of Mendoza. “We can ask them when we find them.”

“Hm,” Jaclyn says, shortly, pulling out a book from her bag under her seat and flipping it open to a dog-eared page. The seatbelt sign turns off, and I can’t see anything out the window anymore, just clouds. She starts reading without another word to me.

Eventually, it falls silent and the team turns off their overhead lights, leaving the plane mostly dark except for a few bulbs throughout the cabin. Jaclyn read for about an hour, texted someone something, and then fell right to sleep. After I’m sure she’s knocked out, I get up and move to the two empty seats at the back of the plane, feeling a bit claustrophic sharing a small space with Jaclyn. I spend a few minutes staring out the oval window, looking at the flashing light on the wing of the plane, before reading the file Lana gave us during the debrief, which includes our cover, fake documents and information on the targets.

I realize while reading that, even now, we still don’t know a lot about the extremists. The file says that they’re young and that they use social media to spread their message of anti-government across borders, but there’s no names attached to who might be the leader or who is committing the attacks. There’s guesses at profiles – they think the person who attacked a few weeks ago was a man in his late twenties, early thirties based on snippets of data they’ve picked up, but they don’t know anything else. There’s also two paragraphs of text, which after reading, seem to be the manifesto of this group. It’s all about the uselessness of bureaucracy, how unneeded laws and regulations are, and how the current government is stunting scientific developments. To me, it feels unhinged, despite one or two glimmers of truth that resonate through.

After studying my file until it’s burned into my brain, I decide to take a nap. I must go out cold, because the next thing I know I’m waking up with my forehead pressed against the chilled window and the plane is getting ready to descend. I quickly make my way back to my seat beside Jaclyn, who is still asleep, and I prompt her awake, telling her to put her seatbelt on as I do. She grunts quietly and does so.

“Sleep well?” I ask Abby, who is rubbing her eyes across the aisle.

“No one sleeps well on a plane,” She says grumpily as she pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking it. “Hm. I forgot it’s New Year’s Eve tonight.”

“What better way to ring in the new year than catching a terrorist,” Khaled laughs, half-way through a yawn. I look out the window and notice the ground getting closer and closer. We must be landing at a municipal airport since I don’t see a city around – makes sense, since we want to be undetected.

The plane lands quickly and within minutes we’re on the tarmac, where there’s two driverless cars waiting for us. There’s two other airplanes in sight, and a small building and tower, but otherwise there’s no other people or buildings. I’m astounded by how well planned everything is, provided the lack of people and resources here. I note that the air is even colder in Fargo than back in New York, but at least the sun will start to rise soon.

“Alright,” James says, the last to get off the plane. “Sacha, Iain and I are in this car,” He points to the small red sedan. “And Jaclyn, Khaled and Emilia are in the black one. We’re all staying at the same hotel, but different rooms and floors, so Abby you can go with them for the time being. Once at the hotel, you have an hour to get ready and then we need to be in positions by 7 a.m. for monitoring since we don’t know when this attack might take place. Be prepared for a long day. Or days.” James looks around at the group, who nod at him to say they understand, though he never looks at me.

“Stay alert, and communicate with one another,” James adds. “Do not make a move unless it’s been approved by me.” That comment was definitely a jab at me, and I glance at the ground to avoid everyone’s looks.

We pile into the cars, Khaled offering to drive. I sit in the passenger seat and plug in the GPS coordinates of the hotel, which is downtown Fargo. The exterior of the hotel is pretty rundown, located in between a deli and what appears to be a dry cleaners. The stairs are littered with garbage and the welcome mat at the door is faded so badly you can’t see the hotel name. It’s a shame, since the rest of Fargo looked nice on the way in. The lobby isn’t much better, its tiled floors dulled by dirty footprints and dying plants scattered throughout the room. As Khaled, Jaclyn, Abby and I walk in, I notice the other team, who must’ve just arrived, heading to the elevators.

The four of us check in with our fake identifications, posing as a group of graduate students on winter break, touring the States. The woman at the front desk gives us a recommendation for where best to go for New Year’s Eve, which we thank her for. She hands us each our own room key with a smile and points us towards the elevators.

“Alright, see you in an hour,” Jaclyn says as we reach her floor first and she gets off. “Except you,” She says to Abby, who is staying behind at the hotel for surveillance.

Abby gets off next, then me, on the ninth floor. “See you soon,” I say to Khaled, who gives me a small smile before the doors close. I find my room, 912, and use my key card to get in. It’s just as run down as the rest of the hotel. There’s a small window which looks out to an empty brick wall and an alley, which I think must lead to the next door dry cleaners. I put my backpack down on the bed and go to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water. It was a long plane ride after a long week, and I know I have a long day ahead of me. I dread it. So much has changed in a short amount of time. A week ago, I was still working for Mendoza. Now I’m working for someone entirely different. Truthfully, I’m exhausted, but the anxiety I feel here is nothing compared to working for Mendoza. There, I felt like I was under constant judgement and analysis, and the punishments came often.

I sit on the bed, flipping through the file even though I have it memorized. My cover is Sarah Murray, American college student majoring in English. A knock at the door interrupts my reading and I go to open it, revealing Jaclyn in the doorway.

“Hi,” I say, though she brushes past me swiftly and enters the room. I shut the door behind her. “What’s up?”

Jaclyn turns to look at me, full of some sort of pent-up energy. “Are you ready for today?”

“Yes.”

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I nod, holding up the papers which are still in my hand. “All memorized.”

“Did you read the manifesto?”

“I did.”

“What did you think?”

“Well, it didn’t give away any information on who wrote it,” I say, thinking analytically, always focused on the target. “And it’s pretty generic enough that I don’t think we can tie it back to any existing group yet.”

“Generic?”

I pause, her questions getting exasperating. “It’s pretty standard for an anti-government group. I’ve come across their type before.”

Jaclyn looks like she wants to ask another question, her expression investigative. “What was it like when you went up against them?” She must be asking to prepare for today.

I think back to that mission, which Mendoza sent us on to take out their facility for a client. I went with Nina that time, and I remember she shot a couple of their people. I was responsible for rigging the building to blow.

“They weren’t fighters,” I say to Jaclyn. “All talk, no bite. But the people I went up against weren’t committing chemical attacks.”

“Do you think they’re justified?” Jaclyn asks, her question surprising me.

“No,” I reply almost immediately, shocked she would ask. Another test.

Jaclyn nods curtly, says she’ll see me soon, and leaves abruptly.

Thrown off kilter by my interaction with Jaclyn but knowing I need to get ready, I quickly change into black pants and a long-sleeved sweater, comfortable and practical, folding up the papers from the file and stuffing them inside my backpack, along with my cell phone and wallet with fake identification. I put my gun in the waistband on my pants, covering it with my top, before heading downstairs. I don’t run into anyone until I see Khaled in the lobby.

“Hey,” I say, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yeah, just waiting for Annika,” He’s referring to Jaclyn’s cover. “Where do you want to go?”

“Not sure,” I say, taking the opportunity to ask the receptionist for recommendations, so that she would recall if anyone came asking. I throw in a joke about her ‘not to expect us home tonight’ since it’s New Year’s Eve and we’ll be out at one of the clubs she recommended. The receptionist laughs, and I feel confident that we’ve covered our bases.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Jaclyn says, opening the door to the right of the elevator. She must have taken the stairs. “I’m starving, let’s go.”

We walk out of the hotel bundled in the thick winter jackets we brought with us, which is a good thing since it’s snowing heavily.

“This won’t be great for visibility,” I say quietly as we make our way to the car, which we parked a street over.

“No, it won’t,” Khaled agrees, looking somewhat concerned.

In the car, we turn on our comms earpieces and double check that we can all hear each other. Abby greets us from her hotel room, and James, Sacha and Iain give an update that they’re already on their way to the Congressman’s home, where they’re estimating the attack will take place.

“The homes are only twelve minutes away from each other if you gun it,” James says. Something about him being in my ear all day makes me uneasy. “So if something happens at one site, come to the other if it’s safe.”

“Noted,” Khaled replies, turning a corner. “We’re 21 minutes away from the Senator’s.”

“Jaclyn’s team: once you get there, there’s an office building that’s kiddy-corner. You should be able to get to up the roof and have clear eye-sight of the house,” Abby says. “James, the house that’s across from the Congressman’s is actually for sale, and there aren’t any showings today since it’s New Year’s Eve. You can monitor from there since it looks like it has good visibility. Let me know when you’re there and I’ll get the lockbox code from the realtor’s phone records.”

“Okay,” James replies. “These are our home bases but as much as possible I want you all moving around the targets, all around the houses, because I don’t think these people will be knocking on the front door.”

We arrive at the Senator’s house, which is a large two-storey brick home surrounded by snow-covered gardens. We park the car a couple streets away and find the office building Abby mentioned. It’s closed since it’s the weekend, but Khaled easily opens the back door and with Abby’s help, disarms the security system. We climb up the stairs to the roof, where we set up shop. “We’re ready,” Jaclyn tells the other team as we situate ourselves. From his backpack, Khaled pulls out binoculars for the three of us, along with some other surveillance equipment.

“It’s cold as hell up here,” Khaled complains, reading my thoughts.

“I know. If we each take shifts doing walks around the home and monitoring we should be able to warm up,” I respond, though I dread sitting here for a dozen hours, freezing. The snow continues to fall, and even with the binoculars and AGK, it’s hard to see the street.

“We’re set up too,” Sacha says on the other end of the line.

“Alright team,” James says. “Let’s focus. Keep the line clear for reporting anything out of the ordinary.”

Khaled takes the first shift, going down to street-level and walking around the block, looking for cars or people lingering too long. There’s no occurrences of that yet. At around 8:30 a.m., Abby – who has access into various devices in the home – says that the Senator is up and responding to emails. The other team doesn’t report anything suspicious either.

Meanwhile, Jaclyn uses the time to order me to do various surveillance tasks in between asking me intrusive questions about my history – how many have I killed, do I have any family, how do you feel about Mendoza going to prison. I answer all of them truthfully, thinking that this is her way of figuring out a way to trust me, or maybe Lana’s. Yes, I have killed people. I explain why. No, I don’t have any family anymore. I feel fine about Mendoza going to prison, he deserved it. I have no loyalty to him.

Every once in a while, someone groans or sighs in annoyance in the earpiece, and after a dozen or so questions, Khaled tells Jaclyn to shut up, which she does even though she doesn’t seem impressed by my answers. Besides Jaclyn’s questions, nothing else really happens for a good six hours. We take shifts going to the street to monitor but never see anything odd.

“Anything on your end?” I ask into my earpiece halfway through the afternoon as I walk back up the stairs to the roof after my third shift. I’ve come to love the staircase because it’s a bit warmer than outside.

“No,” Sacha sighs. “Any chance these people are going to a New Year’s Eve party? That’d be more exciting than this.”

“They were told to stay home,” Jaclyn responds in the earpiece, and I can hear her open up the door to the staircase a few flights ahead of me as she comes down to do her shift. Eventually, we both end up on the same flight of stairs, and she grabs my arm as I go to pass her.

“We’re going to monitor on the street together,” Jaclyn says, tugging my forearm as she makes her way back down the stairs, her backpack swinging off her shoulders as she bounces down the stairs.

“Why?” I ask, with no choice but to follow her back down the stairs, her grip pulling me along.

“Yeah, why?” James echoes in the earpiece, indicating this was also a change to his plan as well.

“Lana wanted her to shadow me. Nothing’s happening, so might as well take the time to teach her some stuff.”

“Sure,” I sigh, not looking forward to more condescending tips from Jaclyn.

“Fine,” James replies. Hearing his voice makes my chest tighten.

Every time we do a street shift, we’ve been changing up the directions we walk to try to avoid suspicion but it’s a quiet street, and I’ve yet to see another human besides an older man walking his dog. The weather was probably keeping people inside. This time, Jaclyn and I walk around the block counter clockwise, sauntering, as if two friends just going on a casual walk. When we walk in front of the house we slow down, listening intently. It’s still miraculous to me that I can hear inside someone’s home even from outside. From what I can tell, the Senator is in a meeting. I can hear voices on a speaker phone and the Senator typing on her computer. We walk around the back of the house, where a small pathway off the sidewalk leads to a garden gate.

Jaclyn pulls me off the sidewalk and behind a fir tree just beside the pathway. She looks at me intensely and points to her ear as if wanting something.

“Wha-,” I start to ask, but she puts her hand over my mouth tightly. I swipe it away. “What’s your prob-,”

Jaclyn has taken her gun out of her belt and pressed it against my abdomen. I notice that her earpiece has dropped into the snow, and she presses her foot over it, smashing it.

“Give me your earpiece,” She says. “Don’t talk.”

I can hear Sacha asking what’s happening in my ear but I can’t answer. I pull my earpiece out and give it to her and she crushes it with her boot. Jaclyn then lifts up my jacket and pulls my gun out from my waistband, putting it in her pocket. I try to glance through the tree branches at the office rooftop to see if Khaled can see us, but the building isn’t visible from this awkward angle, and it’s still snowing.

A solemn feeling comes over me as I realize I hadn’t heard him on the comms piece since just before I saw Jaclyn in the stairwell. “What did you do to Khaled?”

Jaclyn doesn’t answer. “We only have ten minutes to do this, so we have to get started.” She puts her free hand on the back of my neck and swings me around, now pressing her gun into my back.

I know better than to ask what we have ten minutes to do. She orders me to unlock the gate, which I do, and I find myself in the backyard of the Senator’s home. I can see her sitting at her kitchen island through the window. She’s on her laptop, sipping from a mug.

“Get down,” Jaclyn instructs, pushing me to the ground beside a snow-covered shrub. She also drops to her knees and uses one hand to yank off her backpack.

She points at the bag with the barrel of her gun. “Get the steel canister with the blue lid out of the bag. Fast.”

“Okay,” I reply hesitantly, digging through the bag until I find it. I find it in the bottom of the backpack and go to hand it to her.

“No, hold it,” Jaclyn says, leaning over to get a better look at the home. “She’s still in the kitchen. Go in and pull the pin on the canister. I’ll monitor outside so she can’t get out.”

“Jaclyn…” I search her eyes, trying to figure out her motives. “I’m not doing this,” I say forcefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“We don’t have time for discussion. Do it now or I’ll shoot,” Jaclyn cocks the gun and points it at my forehead. Her eyes are dark brown, full of an energy I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s almost manic, with a hint of fear.

“Shoot me then,” I say, calling her bluff. But even if she’s serious… what’s the point of living this life if I get tossed around for the sole purpose of committing atrocious acts against mostly innocent people? Hell, even if they’re guilty; why do I have to be the one who deals in vengeance? My mind runs in a million places. Is everyone in on this? Is it just Jaclyn?

Jaclyn sighs in frustration and glances back at the house. “We only have a few minutes,” She forces me to stand up by digging her nails into the back of my neck and pulling up aggressively, marching me over to the back door of the house. My neck aches in pain. I wonder if I could disarm her, but even if I did, could I take her? She’s a half foot taller than me and has been working as long as I have, from what I can tell. Plus, she’s trained with AGK and knows her body and its abilities better. I’m barely over the side-effects. But I need to try.

I raise the can up in my hand and hit it against her head, the sharp metal edge breaking the skin on her forehead. I do it twice, hoping to startle her, but her determination in her gaze is so strong and she barely reacts to the force. Her expressions changes to one of anger and she takes the gun and clocks me against the side of my head with it. I raise my fist and hit her across the face, but she retaliates with a knee to my stomach which all but knocks me out of breath. It’s back and forth for a minute, her using all her force to restrain me while I try to knock her down hard enough that I can get away. But it’s useless – I was right. She’s stronger than me, and despite me trying to disarm her, I can’t.

“I know you were calling my bluff,” She says, standing in front of me, her hand on my throat, my back up against the house door. “But I wasn’t bluffing.” Jaclyn raises her foot as if to kick me and I brace myself for impact, but she kicks just to my right, forcing open the door of the house. I fall backwards onto the floor in the home and I can hear the Senator exclaim in shock as she sees me on the floor. Then, Jaclyn fires, a bullet entering my right shoulder. I’ve been shot before, and I think the AGK helps with the pain, but it still feels excruciating, like a hot, metal rod was shoved through my body. I gasp, swearing, as I sit up and try to get my bearings. Senator Neilman is screaming, and I can see her to my left trying to find a phone to call someone. I turn to Jaclyn, who’s standing in the doorway, her gun still trained on me.

“Do it!” Jaclyn shouts, her eyes gazing at the canister in my hand, which is pooling with blood from my shoulder. I look to the Senator, who is hiding behind the kitchen counter, peering over the granite.

“You should run,” I shout to the Senator, working on getting to my feet. Senator Neilman hesitates for a second, then stands upright, looking for the nearest exit. I know it’ll probably be the last thing I say, and that Jaclyn will shoot to kill this time. I prepare myself for it, ready for the welcome embrace of nothing, but instead I hear the sound of metal breaking open. The canister in my hand explodes into small metal pieces and pain sears up my arm. Worse than that is the faint, grey steam that’s leaking out of the canister when it exploded. It feels like fire on my skin and burns my lungs.

The door slams – Jaclyn has shut us in the house. I toss the canister away from me, and I hear it clink as it hits the wall. Senator Neilman has run to the front of the house to try and exit the front door, but can’t open it. Somehow, Jaclyn must have barricaded it.

I struggle to my feet, marveling at how the gas has filled the entire house in under thirty seconds. I know there’s only a few more seconds left before me and the Senator are unconscious or dead. Neilman is already collapsing on the floor, seemingly choking. I make my way to her, but start to feel woozy. The pain from the bullet wound isn’t too debilitating, I think the adrenaline is helping, but I’m still losing a lot of blood.

I pick up the Senator by using my good arm to hoist her to her feet, and find the nearest window – the large bay window at the front of the house that we could see into from the office building. My lungs feel like they’re constricted, and I’m unable to get any oxygen. With only a few seconds left to stay conscious, Senator Neilman is now knocked out, I hurl myself at the window, breaking the glass and rolling onto the snowy lawn outside. The fresh air hits me as I gasp for breath, but it’s painful, like putting alcohol on an open wound.

Neilman is on her stomach where she landed when I flung us through the glass. I flip her onto her back so that she can breathe and then I take her pulse. It’s faint, but there.

I flop back onto the ground, trying to take a moment to breathe, but I know Jaclyn is here somewhere, and I need to go. Hearing sirens in the distance which I hope are for Senator Neilman, she must’ve been able to reach a phone after all, I stand up shakily and walk out of the front garden. I notice that the Senator’s neighbour, the older man who was walking the dog, has come out to inspect what the commotion was all about. After all, he did just hear gun shots. I’m too exposed and was clearly involved in the event seeing as I’m bleeding profusely, so I use the rest of my energy to run to the office building before he can see me, tucking myself under the staircase on the first floor once I arrive.

I’m trying to keep myself conscious as I formulate what to do next. Do I try to find the comms piece in the snow and hope that it still works? Do I turn myself in to the authorities making their way to the Senator’s? As I’m thinking, I take deep breaths, trying to stop my lungs from feeling like they’re on fire. I look at my shaking hands, which are cut deeply due to the exploded canister, and there’s pieces of small metal lodged into my skin. I do the best I can to tend to my wounds, but the attempts are feeble. Five or so minutes later, as I’m trying to wrap my hand up, I hear the sound of slow footsteps making their way down the staircases from overhead. I hold my breath, sure that it must be Jaclyn. But as the footsteps come closer, I realize it sounds like someone’s limping, and the steps are too heavy for Jaclyn.

The person reaches the ground floor and I peer out from being the staircase. It’s Khaled, his right leg completely bloody and a large bump already protruding from his forehead. Quietly, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Khaled!” I call out, dragging myself just far enough out that he can see where the voice is coming from. Khaled turns around, clearly disoriented, but he smiles when he sees me.

“I thought you were dead,” Khaled sighs, making his way over to me. He’s wobbling on his feet, a red spot on his upper thigh darkening, where it looks like he’s been stabbed.

“I thought you were dead,” I say, and my voice cracks. My mouth tastes like copper, and I wonder if the gas actually burned my throat and lungs. “I might be dead,” I add somewhat sarcastically, mentally assessing my injuries.

Khaled notices my bloody arm. “Jaclyn did this to you?”

I nod, gesturing for Khaled to sit down beside me as I lean my head back against the wall. We’re well enough concealed that no one could see us if they come in. He does so, taking a look at my shoulder.

“The bullet’s still in there,” He says, after he gingerly takes off my coat and inspects the injury. I look down at Khaled’s leg.

“She stabbed you?” I ask, as I use the jacket he just took off me to make a makeshift torniquet around his leg to stop the bleeding as much as possible.

“Yeah. Then hit me in the head with a cement block from up on the roof. She probably would’ve done worse but I think she heard you coming. I just woke up.”

“Shit,” I say, realizing that we’re both in bad shape, loosing too much blood, something that AGK can’t help with. “Give me a second to try to figure out what to do,” I say, hearing the emotion break in my voice. Just as I finish my sentence, we hear the door open. Khaled looks at me with wide eyes, both of us fearing the same thing – Jaclyn, or the cops.

Khaled peers out around the corner, trying to get a glimpse who just came in through the door. He breathes out loudly. “It’s Sacha. Sacha!” He calls out, crawling out from behind the staircase so that she could see him.

“Oh my god,” Sacha says, her voice full of relief. “What the hell is happening? Are you okay?” She pauses as if forgetting something. “One second, I’m going to get the others,” she runs out of the building and returns a few seconds later with Iain and James. I can hear their footsteps and breath. I haven’t yet made my move out from beneath the staircase, not sure if the team will trust me if I show myself. They don’t know it was Jaclyn and might suspect me. They could shoot on sight.

In the meanwhile, Khaled has gotten to his feet and approached the group. “Jaclyn’s off the rails,” He says in angry disbelief. “I don’t know where she is but she stabbed my damn leg and knocked me out. And Aur-,”

“Where is Emilia?” James interrupts.

“There,” I hear Khaled say, assuming he’s pointing under the staircase. I bite my lip, knowing that I need to show myself now. I struggle to my feet and come out from around the corner.

“Oh good, she’s alive,” Sacha says, making her way over to me. “We were worried.” She embraces me briefly, which I was not expecting. It shoots a pain down my arm and back.

Over her shoulder, I notice that Iain is looking out the door, towards the Senator’s house. Sacha lets go of me and smiles, though it quickly turns into a frown when she notices that my blood is now all over her jacket.

“This place is going to turn into a crime scene real soon,” Iain says. “Ambulance and Fire are here and cops aren’t far away. We gotta go. Khaled, is there still equipment or any evidence on the roof?” Khaled shakes his head, telling us that Jaclyn seemed to clean all of it up after she knocked him out.

The five of us pile into the red sedan in the parking lot, with Iain driving. Sacha opens the back door for me and I slide in to the middle seat, Sacha getting in behind me. James gets in on my right hand side and Iain guns the car into drive.

“Let me see,” James says looking at my arm. He applies pressure to the wound on my shoulder and inspects my hand. “You need a medic.”

“We can’t go to the doctor,” I say quickly.

“Yeah, I know,” James sighs in defeat. “And we can’t go back to the hotel. Jaclyn might go back there.”

“Has anyone updated Lana on all this?” Sacha asks.

“Yeah, Abby did,” Iain says from the front. “But we haven’t heard back from her yet.”

“Okay,” James breathes out. “Iain, just find a motel or hostel near here where we can at least get Khaled and Emilia cleaned up. Sacha knows a little bit of First Aid.”

“Will do,” Iain replies as Sacha smiles charmingly at me, proud of herself for her medical accomplishments. I’m trying to keep from screaming – the longer I sit here, the more pain my body feels.

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Chapter 12

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Iain drives us to a run-down motel in a rough area of Fargo and goes to get us rooms. James reminds him to use cash so we can’t be tracked. “Ask them for a first aid kit if they have one too,” he adds.

Meanwhile, I’m trying my best to not to show the pain I’m in the back seat, biting the inside of my cheek to try to distract myself. Normally, I’d be passed out right now, but I think the AGK is helping me hold onto consciousness.

“How you doing?” Khaled asks from the front seat, turning around as much as he can as we sit in the motel parking lot.

I can only bring myself to nod, not sure if I could even formulate a sentence if I tried. James continues to keep pressure on the wound but I’m starting to lose feeling in that part of my body. “You?” The word burns my throat as it comes up.

“Peachy,” Khaled says with a small smile and I can’t help but smile too, thinking he’s warming up to me.

“There’s Iain,” Sacha gets out of the car, looking to Iain as he exits the front office with room keys and a white and red first aid kit. Sacha opens Khaled’s door and helps him out, bringing him over to the room Iain is currently unlocking.

James gets out of the car and I slide over the seat to get out. Looking back at the car, I’m shocked at the amount of blood on the seats.

“You good?” James asks as I stabilize myself and stand up. I nod and slowly walk into the room with Sacha and Khaled, James walking behind me.

“We could afford two rooms with the cash we had. I had to give the guy a bit extra for the first aid kit,” Iain says. “I got adjoining ones though.” He disappears to open the other door and then opens the doors connecting the two rooms.

There’s two beds in the room we’re in and Khaled is already sitting down on one, Sacha helping him take his pants off so they can look at his wound. I sit on the other bed and lay down, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.

“Abby?” I’m able to muster up the energy to ask Sacha, realizing she’s still at the hotel.

“Um, I don’t know where she is,” Sacha answers, too focused on Khaled. She looks briefly to James as she finds some gauze in the first aid kit. “James?”

“She doesn’t have a vehicle,” James says, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll send her our location and see if she can get here discreetly. She can probably get a taxi.”

“Okay,” Sacha says, finishing wrapping up Khaled’s leg. “I think this is good for now until we can get you stitches. You’ll need quite a few, she cut vertically. You probably have a concussion but there’s nothing I can do about that,” She says to him, then comes to stand beside me. I’m still laying down on the bed, trying my best not to pass out. I’m replaying an old Frank Sinatra songin my head to try to keep myself distracted.

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Who can explain it, who can tell you why?

Fools give you reasons, wise men never try

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“I don’t even know where to start,” Sacha says, looking at my shoulder and hand. “There’s these injuries and I think she’s ingested something I don’t even know what it is. Have we heard from Lana? We need her to get us a doctor.”

“Nothing from Lana,” James voice is full of impatience. “I’ll call her again.”

“Good,” Sacha says, standing above me. Her long, blonde hair hangs like a curtain over her face as she looks at me. Her facial features start to blur. I don’t feel good, I want to say, but I don’t think I can out loud. “I’m not taking the bullet out cause that might cause more damage. Maybe we try to clean up her hand? There’s metal pieces in it,” She mumbles, but seems to be talking to herself. “But there’s burns around it… I don’t know what to do.”

“Is okay,” I mumble, raising my good hand to squeeze hers but I miss and my hand just falls through the air. The world is all topsy turvy.

“Just wrap everything up to stop the bleeding as much as we can,” Iain says. “Let’s just try to keep her comfortable until we can get to a doctor. Are there any pain meds in the kit?”

I hear Sacha rummage around the kit. “There’s Advil.”

“Give her a shit ton of that,” Khaled’s voice says from across the room.

I hear the sound of a tap running and a glass filling up, and then someone props me up so that I can try to take a sip of the water and force the pills down. I try my best, but as soon as the water hits my burned throat I cough it up, and the water is pink as I spew it out of my mouth. Sacha tries again, and the same thing happens. I shake my head.

“Not in pain,” I lie, just trying to get them to stop. The pokes and prods and force just makes it worst. Whoever is propping me up lays me back down gently on the bed. Then, finally, I black out.

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When I wake up, I’m in one of the motel rooms alone, the curtains drawn and the lights low. I can hear voices in the next room; James, Khaled, Iain, Sacha, and I think I hear Abby too. The television is playing a cereal commercial and they’re talking quietly about Jaclyn, guessing what happened to her and why she did what she did.

I sit up on the bed, a sharp pain going through my arm. It’s a good thing, since it’s no longer numb. Slowly, I make my way to the bathroom. My black sweater looks even darker, drenched in blood, and there’s gauze taped over where my wound is. Sacha must have done that. My face is pale, the result of losing so much blood, and there’s small cuts all over my face and neck, probably from the window glass. I bring myself to look at my hand. It’s full of gashes with small silver pieces stuck in between the cuts in my skin; fragments of the exploding canister. Worse than that is the blistered skin that is my entire hand. It looks like I shoved my hand into a fire and let some layers of skin burn off. I turn the bathroom tap on so that a small stream of cold water comes out and, as best I can, start to wipe off the blood from my face with a scratchy towel. I use my uninjured arm, which thankfully is my dominant one. I manage to get some of it off, though I’ll need a shower and soap to remove the crimson that seems dyed into my skin. I take one of the paper cups sitting on the bathroom counter and fill it with water, forcing it down my throat. It’s still incredibly painful, but at least a bit better than when we tried before.

I don’t think Sacha wanted to touch my hand because of the burns and the fact that it’d probably leave major scarring. But I’m worried about infection, so I find the tweezers in the first aid kit that Sacha left on the bedside table and head back into the bathroom so I can use the fluorescent light to see better. Then, I start to carefully remove the small metal pieces.

It’s agony. Even the AGK doesn’t dull the pain. Simultaneously, it feels like being burned by fire and stabbed with a white-hot metal knife. I bite down on a towel to stop from yelling or biting my own tongue. I’m able to get most of the bigger pieces out. Some were too deep to remove myself. After I do that, I rinse my hand with cold water, which causes my hand to start bleeding again. I wrap my hand with the leftover gauze, wondering what Jaclyn used to hit the canister. It couldn’t have been a handgun, or else the bullet would’ve gone straight through to my hand. Did she have a detonator? I realize it doesn’t matter, and I sit on the bathroom floor, exhausted.

The television that I’ve been doing my best to ignore in the other room transitions from a news broadcast to a commercial.

“Someone should wake up Emilia,” Sacha says, her voice somewhat muffled through the walls. “She’s been out for a good hour now.”

“I’ll go,” I hear Abby say. I consider getting up from the bathroom floor so I look less tragic, but can’t bring myself to do so. She finds me in the bathroom, and her eyes widen at the mess of towels, blood and gauze I’ve made on the floor.

“Oh, you’re up,” Abby smiles gently at me. “Thank God. Did you commit a murder in here?”

“Was just trying to clean myself up,” My voice sounds like sandpaper and I still taste the copper in my mouth. “Don’t I look nice?” I smile wide, like I’m posing for a photo. I know I look like I’ve been through hell.

“Gorgeous,” Abby laughs a little. She moves aside a towel so she can sit beside me. “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay.” Her tone takes a sober edge.

“Thanks,” I reply, relishing the opportunity to not lie. “Have you heard from Lana? Or Jaclyn, for that matter?”

Abby pauses, like she’s trying to find the words to break something to me. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” She says, finally.

I’m taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“The news… There’s footage from Neilman’s laptop camera of you in the Senator’s house with the canister. They think you’re the one initiating all the chemical attacks.”

It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. “So they think it’s Sarah Murray?” I ask, referring to my cover.

“No,” Abby says slowly. “They have your name. Emilia Davis.”

Another punch to the gut. “How would they even have that?” I haven’t gone by Emilia in years, except in the past week.

“I don’t know,” Abby admits.

“Technically, I’m supposed to be in a private prison in New York, according to the media. Even to people like Senator McCormick. So how could I be in North Dakota committing a chemical attack?”

“The news is saying you never made it to the prison and escaped the transport vehicle. Someone must have told them that.”

“Huh,” I say in disbelief. It’s disorienting trying to keep up with all the lies being told about me, stories about what I am and what I’ve done that I’ve had no say in. It’s like there is no Molly Vance, no Emilia Sutcliffe, no Emilia Davis. There’s just an empty shell of a person that people can use to get whatever they need.

Abby gets to her feet and reaches out to help me up. I grasp her hand with my good one and she pulls me to my feet, my body aching. “Let’s go talk to everyone else,” She says.

I follow Abby into the other room, where everyone is sitting around looking at the television. The curtains are drawn in this room too. Khaled is sitting beside Sacha on one of the beds, his leg propped up on some pillows. Iain was sitting on the other, with James on the ground, leaning back against the bed.

“Look who I found,” Abby says, making it a grand entrance as everyone’s heads swivel around. Embarrassed, I shoot her a look of contempt and take a seat in the wooden chair in the corner of the room, the short walk winding me. My lungs still felt blocked, like I can’t get enough oxygen. Iain shuts off the television.

“How are your injuries?” Sacha asks, coming over and checking the gauze on my shoulder. She notices that my hand is wrapped up. “Did you do that yourself?”

I nod, “I didn’t want it to get infected,” I cough, bringing my hand up to my mouth. When I withdraw it, there’s a few speckles of blood. I quickly wipe it on my pants, fast enough that no one seems to notice. “I feel okay. But that doesn’t matter right now. Abby told me there’s a warrant out for my arrest. And before we do anything further, I just want you to know that I didn’t do it.” I launch into my account of what happened with Jaclyn at the house, something I wasn’t able to do before with my throat so swollen and raw.

When I finish, the room’s silent for a second.

“Yeah, we know you didn’t do it,” Khaled says, as if making my account obsolete. “You think we’d take care of you if we did?”

“To be fair, she’s pretty much taken care of herself,” Abby says, sitting beside Iain on the bed.

I exhale. “I just wanted you to know. Because you don’t really have any reason to trust me.”

“We know what went down. Khaled backed up your story. That means, at this point, I trust you more than Jaclyn,” Sacha says as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “Jaclyn’s the one we’re against right now. Not you.”

I clear my throat. “I appreciate that,” I say. “But from the sounds of it, Lana doesn’t trust me.”

“We didn’t say that,” Abby contests.

“I know, but she was the one who gave the authorities my name. And she didn’t give Jaclyn’s,” I can tell from their faces that they’re surprised I said it. “Am I wrong?”

James stands up from his spot on the floor. “No, you’re right,” He sighs. “I talked to her on the phone and tried to tell her that it was Jaclyn who forced you, not the other way around. But she didn’t buy it.”

“I mean, it makes sense,” I say. “Lana and Jaclyn seemed pretty close.” I think back to how they interacted back at the manor. “She probably gave her babysitting detail on me because she didn’t trust me. Does Lana know I’m with you?”

James shakes his head. “No. She just knows we’re getting Khaled sorted out before we fly back.”

“Okay, good,” I say, nodding. “That’s good. When you get back to New York, just don’t tell her you helped me at all. I’ll figure out something here.”

“What do you mean, you’ll figure out something?” Khaled says, gingerly swinging his leg over the edge of the bed to face me better.

“Well I can’t go back with you. I’ll stay here. I’ll try to find Jaclyn and get her to confess… or something.”

Abby scoffs. “By yourself? Good luck with that. You’re barely able to breathe right now.”

I shrug, which causes an ache in my shoulder, only proving Abby’s point. “There’s no other option.”

The team falls quiet, probably trying to figure out an alternative. But there isn’t one.

“Hey,” I say, snapping everyone out of their brainstorm. “Is Neilman okay? Did anything happen to the Congressman?”

“Congressman Shaeff is fine and Lana’s sent the authorities to do protection now that we’re out of commission. Neilman must’ve been the extremists’ – uh, Jaclyn’s – target. And Neilman’s fine. In critical condition at the hospital but they,” Sacha points at the television, “think she’ll be okay.”

“Good,” I nod.

James’ phone rings and he picks up, holding the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end starts talking right away. It sounds like Lana.

“Okay, we’ll let you know when we’re wheels up,” He says, hanging up the phone. He turns to Abby. “Lana wants us on the plane back in an hour. She has the pilot waiting.”

“Why so soon?” Khaled asks.

“We need to do debriefs with the DOD since we were in contact with the suspect,” James is referring to me. “And we’ll probably get detained if we stay much longer and they find us.”

“No shit,” Iain says. “North Dakota sent us here to help and one of our own ended up doing it.”

“So what,” Abby says, standing up from the bed. “We’re just gonna leave Emilia here?”

“No,” James presses his palm against his forehead like he’s thinking. “She’s coming with us.”

“That’s a bad idea,” I say. “The minute Lana sees me on the plane we’re all screwed.”

“Not if she doesn’t see,” James replies, sounding like he’s thinking. He turns around and faces the group. Every time he’s spoken to me, or about me, it’s like I’m not here, as if he’s speaking about someone who’s not in the room. “If she stays here she’s dead from the injuries, captured or killed. It’s our best shot.”

“Agreed,” Sacha says, the rest nodding.

“I’m not letting you all risk your lives and your jobs for me,” I say, trying to be as loud and assertive as my voice will let me.

“Jesus,” James exclaims, turning around quickly to look at me. This time, he looks right at me, almost through me. “You’re such a martyr. You don’t have a choice in this. I’m telling you that we’re doing this. Want us to trust you? Then listen to me for once.”

“Take it easy, James,” Sacha says, her voice like a warning.

“Musi nam zaufać, jeśli mamy jej pomóc,” James says to Sacha hastily, with a slight European accent. Is his speaking Polish?

“Uważaj na swój temperament,” Sacha replies, confirming my theory that I think they’re speaking Polish. Even though I can’t understand, and it looks like the others don’t either, I can tell she’s challenging him on something. The dynamic between the two of them is odd – like they both respect the other’s leadership, but don’t want it.

James turns back to me, his expression still one of frustration. “Your stubbornness is going to get you killed. You’re being an idiot."

I glare at him, annoyed at his outburst and his assessment of me. But I’ve been wanting them to trust me, and I know I wouldn’t be able to accomplish much here if I can’t rely on them for intel. I guess this is what I have to do.

“Fine, I’ll go on the plane,” I respond, equally as mad at him for his outburst as he is at me. “But once we’re in New York, it’s my decision what happens next.”

James sighs, ignoring me. “Let’s just get everyone back to New York.”

“Alright then!” Sacha says peppily, clapping as if to break the tension in the air. “We’re all agreed then. Let’s get moving.”

The next ten minutes are a flurry of movement, as each of the team members pack up their stuff and clean the rooms so there’s no evidence of us being here, specifically the mess I made in the bathroom. Sacha redresses Khaled and I’s wounds – “to be safe”, she says with a smile.

Iain goes to check out from the motel. It’s a bit suspicious since we just checked in a couple hours ago, but Sacha notes that it’s pretty common for places like this. We pack up the car, which only seats five. Since there’s six of us and I’m the one we’re smuggling in, I offer to get in the trunk of the car.

“It’s only a twenty minute drive from here,” Abby says as she helps me get in. It’s small, and my arm has to lay at an awkward position. I wince. As I settle in, I can see the sun setting and darkness approaching. Abby hands me her phone, which is already on the line connected to Iain’s. “Keep the speaker phone on so we can talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, and Abby closes the trunk over me. Immediately I feel claustrophobic, especially with my lungs barely getting any oxygen to begin with.

“Good?” Abby says through the phone.

“Yep,” I reply. I feel the car take off and start to make its way through the streets of Fargo. Whoever is driving is going fast, and we go over a speedbump. I try to hold it in, but a sound of pain escapes my mouth.

“Slow down, Sacha,” I hear James scold over the phone. Minutes pass and the air starts to get hot in the trunk.

“How much longer?” I ask into the phone, feeling sweat gather on my forehead.

“Five minutes,” Khaled replies.

I hear Abby quietly speaking to James. She probably thinks she’s being too quiet for me to hear, but I can. “She’s going to need a doctor. Can someone survive a flight with wounds like that?”

“I don’t know,” He sounds indifferent. “I asked Lana to put someone on the plane with medical training. I said it was for Khaled. Let’s hope she does it.”

“And how are we going to get them to help Emilia?”

There’s no answer that I can hear.

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453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIVgyyvBsIT

It was only a twenty minute car ride but by the time the trunk opens it feels like I’ve been in there for hours. It’s James who opens the trunk, and I notice the sky is almost completely dark now. I go to get out but he puts his hand out to stop me.

“We just have some bags back here that we’ll unload,” James is saying to someone I can’t see, beyond the car.

“Okay,” A woman’s voice responds. I assume she’s the pilot. “We’re cleared to take off in fifteen.”

“Got it,” James replies. I can hear the rest of the team get out of the car, walking towards what I imagine is the plane. Abby appears besides James.

“Let’s get you up,” Abby says, putting her arms under mine and hoisting me up. A surge of pain travels down from my shoulder. “Keep your head down.” It’s a good thing it’s dark out, because on a tarmac there’s no place to hide. James and Abby flank me on either side so at least I’m not totally exposed. We make our way to the stairs of the plane and walk up. Once we’re on the plane, they quickly guide me to the back of the seats, where I sit on the floor so no one can see me.

“That was easy enough,” Abby says.

“I’m more concerned about getting her off of the plane,” James mutters as he walks away to talk to Iain. I watch from in between the seats as Sacha comes out of the cock pit with a small, bespectacled woman who is holding a leather bag. She must be the doctor Lana sent.

“Sorry, I’ve just always wanted to see a plane control board,” Sacha says, making it clear to me that her role was to keep her and the pilot busy while I got on the plane. “I thought you might want to as well!”

“Where is the patient I’m supposed to look at?” The woman says, sounding annoyed at Sacha’s antics.

“Over here,” Khaled says, pointing to his leg. “Can you stich this up?”

I watch as the doctor examines his leg and gets out everything she needs for sutures. “I won’t be able to finish before we get up in the air,” The doctor says. “So let’s wait until then. The pilot said we’re leaving soon.”

Just as she’s finishing his sentence, the plane starts to taxi and the team takes their seats. I’m surprised when James sits in the aisle where I’m crouching on the ground. I realize it probably won’t be the most comfortable during take-off.

“Sit in front of me, in between my legs,” James says quietly, “I’ll hold onto you or else you’ll hit against the seats.”

I scoot around so that I’m sitting in front of James, his legs on either side of me, as the plane starts to catch air. He puts his hands on my shoulders, gently, on the wounded one, bracing me for the pull of gravity as we jet upwards. His touch feels foreign, not like the morning in the library. Once we’re level and the seatbelt sign is off, I scoot back to where I was before. I hear the rest of the team chat with the doctor as she gets ready to stitch Khaled up.

“How are you feeling?” James asks me quietly.

“My shoulder is killing me,” I respond honestly this time, wanting for the pain to go away as soon as possible.

“Okay,” James nods. “I’m going to try and get the doctor to look at you.”

“How are you going to do that? Does she know about AGK?” I ask both questions, feeling anxiety since this could go terribly wrong. A normal person with these injuries would be dead or at least on their way out. She’ll be suspicious.

“We’ll figure it out,” James says, unbuckling himself and standing up, going to join the rest of the team where they are gathered around Khaled as he’s being stitched up.

About fifteen minutes later, I hear the doctor say that she’s finished with Khaled. I peek through the crack in between the seats, just in time to see James whisper something in Iain’s ear. He nods and goes to stand in front of the door of the cock pit. I realize he’s guarding it.

“We have someone else on the plane who needs medical attention,” James says, looking to the doctor. The doctor looks up, confused.

“Is one of you ill?” She asks, packing up the materials she just used on Khaled, looking around at the group. I’m holding my breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“There’s another person on the plane,” James says. “You need to take a look at them. And you’re not going to tell anyone.”

The doctor looks up, a mixture of dread and worry on her face.

“I was told by Sherwood that there would only be five passengers on the plane,” The doctor says matter-of-factly.

“You just need to treat her. We’ll land back in New York and you’ll fly back to Fargo. And that’s all you need to do. You don’t need to tell anyone,” Abby says, and I’m surprised by how persuasive she sounds.

“Well, who is it?” The doctor asks, looking around the plane. I duck farther behind the chairs though there’s no way she could see me.

“It’s Emilia Davis,” Sacha says.

“The person who attacked the Senator?” The doctor says, raising her voice. She stands up, and I can see that she’s panicking. I see James reach for the gun at his side and Iain, at the door, go to move as if to incapacitate her. So I do the only thing I can do to stop them from threatening or hurting her; I stand up and whistle to get everyone’s attention, putting my hands up in surrender, my shoulder screeching in pain. The doctor’s head whips around to look at me.

“Doctor,” I say, swaying a bit as I lose my balance as the plane hits minor turbulence. I keep my hands up and try to stay upright. “I know you have no reason to believe me. But I didn’t do it. And I’m hurt,” My voice is pleading, and just standing up without help reminds me of the pain I’m in. “I would be grateful if you could help me.”

I don’t really know if what I’m saying will help. The doctor has no reason to believe me. But I just hoped that being upfront would do something, even if that something was keeping the doctor from being threatened. The team looks stunned and James looks irritated at my appearance.

The doctor, now standing, looks at me with wide, stunned eyes, probably calculating what her response will be. I’m not sure if it was my words, or more likely, my bloody and broken down appearance, that makes her eventually mutter, “Fine.”

“Thank you,” I reply, moving into the aisle of the plane and walking up to the group, bracing myself on the seats as I walk. When I get to them, I plop myself in the closest seat, my body exhausted.

“Where are you injured?” The doctor asks.

“She’s been shot in the shoulder, her hand was hit by metal debris and she breathed in some type of chemical gas,” James replies, standing over the doctor who is now examining me. She takes scissors out of her bag and uses them to cut my clothing away so she can see the wound better.

“Okay,” The small woman nods. “But let’s have her answer from now on.” The doctor gets to work removing the gauze from my shoulder. Like Khaled and Sacha, she notes the bullet is still in my shoulder and says she can’t stitch it up until it’s out.

“If you’re feeling stable, I think we should do that last since it’ll be the messiest,” The doctor notes. “You’re on AGK I assume?” The team looks as shocked as I feel when she asks. She notes our surprise. “It’s not as much of a secret as you think. It would be impossible to survive injuries like this without it or some other type of synthetic drug.” She looks up at me, peering over her glasses. “I won’t tell.” She starts to unwrap and dress my hand.

Sacha, Iain and Abby, seemingly content that I’m being looked after, sit back in their seats and start to chat quietly. James takes Iain’s position at the door, making sure the pilot can’t come out and find me. I can tell by the gentle snoring that Khaled is already knocked out, probably from the metric ton of pain meds the doctor gave him. After a while, after the Doctor has injected me with morphine and I start to feel a bit more like myself, I ask her what her name is.

“Doctor Boomsma,” She replies curtly, finishing up with my hand. “Open your mouth,” She instructs, and I do so as she peers into my throat with a small flashlight. She tsks. “Do you know what kind of gas this was?”

I shake my head. “I’m assuming the same one used in the attacks the first time.”

“I figured so. It’s burned your throat, and lungs I would imagine. There’s nothing I can do for that except to give you pain meds and antibiotics, and give it time to heal,” She says it like she’s worried I’ll kill her for saying so. “The AGK should help. Have you coughed up blood at all?”

“A bit,” I say. “But I can wait it out.”

“So now it’s time to deal with the bullet,” Doctor Boomsma says. “You’re going to have to lie down on the floor because I can’t do anything with you sitting up.”

I nod and lay down on my back on the floor of the plane, sandwiched between the rows of seats.

“We’re going to need two people to hold her at her head and her feet,” The doctor says. “It’s not ideal to be doing this in a plane with turbulence.” Stating the obvious.

Sacha kneels at my head, holding my neck firmly in her hands, and Iain sits at my feet, pressing down on them with his full body weight so I’m unable to move.

Doctor Boomsma is getting her equipment out, laying them carefully on a sterile piece of fabric – a scalpel, forceps, gauze, and everything she needs for sutures. She puts a towel underneath my shoulder.

“You’re on morphine and AGK but this’ll probably still hurt a lot,” She says. “Are you ready?”

I nod, and she picks up the scalpel, slicing into my shoulder. I exclaim a bit at the searing pain, then bite down on my cheek to stop myself. Blood floods my mouth.

“Stop,” I hear James voice from above my head. “Abby, mind the door,” He says, before I see him kneel down beside me. He takes his sweater off, revealing a grey t-shirt underneath.

“Bite on this,” He says, putting it near my mouth. I do so, grateful for something to stop me from biting my cheek. “If you alert the pilot, we’re dead.”

I nod, and Doctor Boomsma goes back to work, slicing into my shoulder. I feel the sticky, hot sensation of blood running down my arm, catching on the towel she put down. I’m biting hard on James’ sweater, trying to distract myself from the pain.

“She’s almost got it,” Sacha says a minute later, smiling down at me.

“I have visibility on the bullet,” Doctor Boomsma says. “I’m going to recover it now.” I feel the stabbing of the forceps entering my body, digging for it. Then, as if to spite how well it was going so far, the plane hits turbulence and the doctor accidentally stabs the forceps deeper into my body. My back automatically arches in response to the pain and tears stream down my face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Boomsma stutters, straightening herself up and steadying her hands on the forceps as the plane evens out again.

“Just do it, fast!” James says in a whispered yell, and Boomsma pulls the forceps up, bringing the bullet out with it.

“Got it,” Boomsma says.

Though it’s still painful, the worst of it seems to be over, and I release the tension I was holding in my jaw. Doctor Boomsma cleans then stitches the wound, and dresses it in clean bandages.

“Done,” She says, sitting back, exhausted. Sacha and Iain let go of me and exhale.

“Let’s never do that again,” Sacha says, getting to her feet.

“Agreed,” Iain echoes, joining her back at her seat. I take James’ sweater out of my mouth and look at Boomsma.

“Thank you,” I say to her.

“If you tell anyone I did this to you, I’ll be killed, or arrested,” Boomsma says. I look her in the eye and realize she’s begging.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I respond. I sit up, handing her the equipment which she throws haphazardly into her leather bag. She’ll probably burn it once she’s back in Fargo, ridding herself of this whole situation.

“You should know I couldn’t do a good job,” She says, standing. “Your shoulder will probably never feel the same.”

I nod. “That’s okay.” At this point, I’m just glad to be alive. Without another glance, the doctor goes and sits at the front of the plane, probably choosing to ignore us for the rest of the flight.

We’ve only been on the plane for a couple hours, and still have a few more ahead of us. Abby, Sacha and Iain join Khaled in sleeping and James goes around, turning the cabin lights off so the plane is mostly dark. I’m sitting at the back of the plane where I can easily duck and hide in case the pilot chooses to make an appearance. James turns off the last light and takes a seat beside me, where we sit in silence for a while.

“Is this how you wanted to spend your New Year’s Eve?” I ask, quietly, after I can’t take the silence anymore. I’d rather have awkward small talk than do what we’re doing any longer.

He glances at his watch, which reads 10:30 p.m.. “I guess it is still New Year’s Eve,” He says, almost to himself, then adds, “I don’t usually do anything. But at least it’s not dull this year.”

“Yeah, this has all been very exciting,” I say, half-sarcastically. Another moment passes in silence. “I always liked New Year’s Eve. I remember one time when I was little, my mom drank too much and fell asleep before dinner. I couldn’t read clocks at the time so I didn’t know when New Year’s was, and I just ended up putting myself to bed.” I have no idea why I’m telling this story; it must be nerves or exhaustion. But James is looking at me, so I keep going. “But then she woke me up the next morning and she felt terrible, so she re-winded the New Year’s Eve show that they put on all the news channels, and we celebrated midnight at like 11 a.m. in the morning.”

James is quiet for a moment, looking at me intently. I can’t read what he’s thinking. “Was she a good mom?” James asks me.

“She did her best.”

“Was her best good enough?”

“No,” I respond. “But there were good enough days. And that was a good enough day.”

He nods, then turns away from me. “You should get some rest. Take a nap. I’ll wake you up if the pilot comes out.”

Not long after that, I drift to sleep.

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That night, I dream of an old job I did with Brianna. It was her fourth one since she joined Kingston, and she was still in training. It was the job where I shot the fifth person I’ve ever killed. Everything is the same in the dream, it’s almost like a memory, but it’s somehow worse, because I know what’s going to happen. Brianna and I are on a rooftop, listening to a group of people Chris was hired to watch because the client thought they were planning to take out an American tech mogul. It was an easy enough job, which is why I asked Chris to put Brianna on it with me. Just as we’re setting up to capture audio with the mic, I hear a shot fired and look up to the rooftop adjacent to us, noticing a person on the roof. Instinctively, I grab my gun and fire back at the shooter, and they fall to the ground. I look to Brianna, whose grey shirt has a large pool of red growing across it.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say to Brianna, though I’m flustered, trying to find something to stop the bleeding. It’s spring, and I don’t have a jacket.

“I am okay,” I remember Brianna replying, with a calm smile. She was the type of person who would always act like everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.

“You’re crazy,” I reply, laughing slightly, reaching up to my earpiece and phoning in the injury to Kington. Since it was supposed to be a covert surveillance operation, there was just us two, no one to help us. A moment later, Chris’ voice rings through my earpiece.

“How bad is it?” He asks.

“Bad,” I reply, putting pressure on her stomach, my heart beat racing. I remember feeling an odd sense of fear of losing Brianna, even though I didn’t know her that long. I’ve been training her, I feel responsible. Why didn’t I double check the other roof top twice?

“Are there other shooters?”

“I don’t know,” I reply hastily. “I don’t think so.” Mendoza doesn’t answer for a moment. “Chris?” I yell into the earpiece, as Brianna falls unconscious.

“Leave her,” Chris says in the earpiece. “See you back at Kingston.” Then the connection in my earpiece ends.

I remember feeling so angry in that moment, at Chris, at the world. I know why he wants me to leave her – that’s protocol. Don’t risk two lives if one is already gone. But I trained her. I’m not leaving her here.

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I shock myself awake, the kind of return to consciousness that makes your body jolt.

“What was that?” James asks beside me, eyeing me studiously. I’m back on the plane, and it takes a minute for me to get my bearings.

“Nothing,” I say, sitting up straight as my body aches from the awkward position I must’ve been sleeping in. The plane is still dark, and I can hear the team sleeping, taking longer, deep breaths. “What time is it?” I inquire.

James checks his watch. “12:09.”

“Oh,” I breathe out, trying to exhale the memory of the dream away. “Happy New Year, then.”

“Happy New Year,” James says back to me.

Sitting in the back of the plane with him, with the lights low and the hum of the airplane keeping everyone lullabied asleep, it feels safe enough to ask.

“Are we going to talk about it?” I expect him to plead ignorant, to ask, What are you talking about? But he doesn’t. He knows what I mean. James opens his mouth like he’s about to talk, then shuts it, clearly trying to formulate something to say.

“Let me go first,” I say, interrupting his thought process. He looks at me, his already-dark blue eyes accented by shadows on his face. It looks like it’s been forever since he slept. “I’m not sure what that was in the library. But let’s just forget it happened.”

A look of what I think is relief falls over James’ face.

“So you can stop ignoring me now,” I add.

“I haven’t been ignoring you,” He says, offended.

“C’mon,” I scoff a little. “You wouldn’t look me in the eye for a day and barely spoke to me before we got on the plane.” I can tell he’s getting mad, because I notice a crease start to grow more pronounced in between his eyebrows. “You don’t need to get mad,” I say.

“I’m not mad,” James says shortly.

“Okay,” I say. “Then let’s be friends.”

“Weren’t we already friends?” He asks.

“Definitely not,” I retort with a smile.

James scoffs jokingly, and I can tell the weight of the awkwardness of that moment in the library has been lifted. We spend the next couple of hours chatting, and it’s nice, a quiet moment of retreat before I return to trying to save my life. He tells me that Abby and him grew up in a small town in England before immigrating to the States with his parents, who are still alive and living in Massachusetts. He joined the army out of high school, he mentions briefly that he got in some type of trouble when he was younger, and worked his way up to where he was eight years ago, when he joined the Sherwood Company and got AGK.

“Why’d they pick you?” I ask.

“They didn’t. They were asking for volunteers to be leased out to a private company for a trial. It was so early in the process back then, they would’ve taken anyone and I volunteered. I was just a lab rat.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Abby was sick. And Sherwood was offering a lot of money.”

“That’s why Abby was recruited, isn’t it?” I say it as I make the realization. “You wanted her to take AGK to see if it’d help.”

“Well we tried the kidney transplant first, which is why I needed the money,” He says. “Her body was rejecting the organ. She had cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must’ve been hard.”

“It was hard for her,” James says, looking down at the floor. “But the AGK helped.”

I nod, noticing the sun was starting to come up. It reminds me that eventually, this plane will land, and I’ll need to have a plan.

“What are the chances Boomsma tells on us?” I ask, peering at her head over the seats. She seems to be sleeping.

“Low,” James says. I give him a sceptical look. “Okay, it’s pretty high,” he admits. “Would’ve been lower if you let me use a little force.”

“That’s the martyr in me,” I say dryly, calling back to James’ outburst in the hotel room.

James looks at me, sizing up my feelings on this. “Well, you are,” He rolls his eyes, then adds in a more serious tone, “It’s going to get you killed.”

I shake my head in frustration. “I should’ve been dead, or rotting in jail, ten times over in my life. And they’re all of a result of decisions I made. How am I supposed to reconcile that with people risking their lives for me?”

James thinks. “If people are willing to do it, then let them. We’ve been willing.”

“I don’t get that,” I say, frustration coming out in my voice. “You’ve known me for a week.”

James raises his eyebrows. “Well, I was tailing you before that. So it feels like longer.”

“Funny,” I say, scrunching my face at him. “I’m serious though.”

James shrugs. “Some people you just trust. They trust you.”

I leave it at that knowing he’s too stubborn to listen to anything I have to say about it.

“What happens when we land?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Let’s wake everyone up and figure it out,” James answers, breathing out slowly as if taking in this last minute of quiet before returning to the problem at hand. I feel the same way. Though I know we have too, I don’t want to return to the problem at hand. I’d rather stay here, talking quietly about other things. With a small smile to me, James stands up and starts turning on the lights, much to the dismay of the team, who groans. Abby throws a plastic cup at James and it bounces off his head. I can’t help but laugh.

“When we land, Lana will be on the tarmac to pick us up since we have to go right to the DOD,” Abby is saying, the group of us sitting around in the back of the plane, out of earshot from Dr. Boomsma. “How do we get you out of the plane without being seen?”

“Does anyone have a suitcase Emilia would fit in?” Khaled jokes, the colour now back in his face thanks to the doctor’s work.

“Har, har,” Sacha rolls her eyes. “Any legitimate ideas?”

“Are the pilot and Doctor Boomsma getting off?” I ask.

James shakes his head. “They’re gassing up the plane and then flying right back to North Dakota.”

“I guess I’ll have to get off when they’re gassing up then. I’ll sneak off as best I can,” I say. “Just do your best to get Lana off the tarmac as fast as possible. I don’t think the rest of the airport staff, even if they see me, will know who I am yet.”

“That’s a big risk,” Iain says.

“And where will you go once you’re off?” Sacha asks.

“I’ll make my way a few hours north and hole up in a small town somewhere. And I guess hope that they find out I wasn’t the one who did it and drop the charges.”

“I’m going to tell the DOD that it wasn’t you,” Khaled says. “I’ll tell them what Jaclyn did and I’ll convince Lana too.”

“Thanks, Khaled,” I say, though I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be.

“This is a terrible plan,” James says suddenly. “Even if we get you off the plane without anyone seeing you, how will you survive? With what resources?”

“James is right,” Abby agrees. “How would we stay in contact?”

“Let’s get her back into the manor,” Sacha says. “We know the place good enough and there’s enough places for you to hide. Abby knows the security system pretty well and can override it,” She looks to me and Abby, as if seeking approval.

“That’s riskier,” Iain pipes in.

“It’d only be for a few days,” James says.

“Sri can help cover us,” Abby adds in.

“Good. You’re just going to have to get back by yourself,” James looks to me. “Hotwire a car from the airport parking lot and drive towards the manor – but park far enough away that people won’t see you. I’ll come get you.”

“Okay,” I nod, fine with this plan. I look around at the team, who were all wearing determination on their faces. “Thank you all. For doing this. I owe you.”

“Damn right,” Khaled says, somewhat humorously.

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Chapter 13

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I’m hiding, crouched behind the last line of seats as the plane lands and taxis on the tarmac. Khaled, who seems almost completely better and is only walking with a slight limp, is at the front of the plane talking to Doctor Boomsma, reminding her not to say anything about me being on the plane. Boomsma just nods. The plane comes to a stop. James is sitting behind me – he was stabilizing me when the plane descended.

“Here you go,” James says quietly, passing me a handgun. “This is Abby’s. She won’t need it. You shouldn’t either, but just in case.”

“Where should I meet you?” I ask.

“Peters Park. It’s a few miles out from the manor.”

I nod. “See you soon.”

James gets up and grabs his bags, joining the rest of the team as they walk off the plane. Boomsma and the pilot are still on the plane, but will probably get off before they gas it up. I get to my knees so I can peek through the window and see what’s happening on the tarmac. Lana is standing outside a black car, welcoming the team as they walk down the stairs. She hugs Khaled and I can see her mouth something like “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then they get in the car and drive away.

I wait ten minutes until, eventually, the pilot exits the cabin and tells Boomsma that they have to get off while they gas the plane up.

“I’m just going to check the plane and I’ll meet you outside,” The pilot says. My heart skips a beat. I have nowhere to go – tucked behind this seat is the best hiding place in this whole plane, save the bathroom, which she would’ve checked anyway. I grip the gun James gave me tighter in my hand, thinking of a plan. Is there any way out of this that doesn’t result in me getting exposed? I don’t want to shoot her, but she’ll definitely tell someone I was on the plane.

“Someone just came up and told me they wanted to speak with you immediately,” Boomsma’s voice travels to the back of the plane. “Said it was urgent, something about you changing the flight plan?”

“Really?” The pilot inquires, sounding aggravated. “I didn’t change anyth- okay, one minute, I’ll go talk to them and come back.”

Boomsma nods, watching as she scurries off the plane. I watch her start to cross the tarmac, walking towards the airport’s office.

“Come on out now,” Boomsma says, sounding disappointed about what she just did.

I stand up gingerly, tucking the gun in my waistband, coming out from behind the seat and walking up the aisle. “Off you go,” Boomsma gestures to the door.

I look out the open plane door, glancing at the staircase down the tarmac. Besides the pilot, who’s just about to walk into the airport building, it’s empty.

I turn back to Boomsma, feeling a sense of gratitude. “Thank you,” I look directly in her eyes, wanting her to know that I mean it. Her face softens for just a moment.

With that, I jog down the stairs, keeping my eyes peeled for people. The parking lot is northwest, so I run across the pavement, keenly aware that people could see me right now; from the airport, from the tower. It’s still a bit dark and the sun isn’t completely out yet, but there’s light posts throughout the area. Hopefully, if people do notice me, they don’t put two and two together. It feels like an hour, with my heart beating anxiously, but eventually I reach the parking lot and I duck behind the wall of one of the buildings. I look back across the tarmac. No one is chasing me and the pilot is now walking back to the plane, probably wondering what Boomsma was on about. There’s only a few cars in the lot, probably that of the handful of staff who work here. I’ve never had to hotwire a car before but I remember what Will did – picked the oldest one.

I approach an old, dark purple truck and try the doors. They’re locked, so I use my good elbow to break the passenger side door’s glass. It shatters and, thankfully, no alarm goes off. I unlock the driver’s side door and slide in. I have trouble getting the car to start, hotwiring it takes a minute longer than it would’ve with Will, but I get it started and I race out of the parking lot.

My heart is beating quickly, barely able to believe that I just pulled that off. If it wasn’t for Boomsma, everything would’ve been over.

Now I have to remember where the manor is so I can try and find Peters Park. I only drove to the manor once, and it wasn’t from this airport. James gave me the address on the plane but I really have no idea where I am, and I can’t risk pulling over and asking for directions.

I take a deep breath, thinking of how I got from the manor to the airport. We drove east, I think, so this time I drive west. I drive around aimlessly, just hoping I’ll get to where I need to go for fifteen or so minutes. Then, I see an old road sign that reads Peters Park - 2 miles. I breathe a sigh of relief when I eventually reach the park.

It’s a small park, the kind of one that a family might stop for lunch on a cross-country road trip. There’s a washroom, a vending machine, and two picnic tables. But that’s about it. It’s run-down and empty, so I get why James wanted me to meet him here. I imagine it’ll be a while until he gets here. He has to go to the Albany base and back to the manor, and needs to get out without Lana noticing.

I ruffle through the car’s compartments looking for anything that can help keep me warm – the cold air is coming in through the broken window. I find an old jacket that says O’Hannigan Municipal Airport on the back and I put it on gingerly, careful not to extend my shoulder and arm too much. I also find a five dollar bill, which I use to buy water from the vending machine. I chug it, and my stomach growls. I need to eat soon.

I sit in the car for three hours, but besides a couple cars whizzing by, nothing eventful happens. I suck on a few old mints I find in the console, and start to worry. I busy myself reading the car’s manual, trying to ignore my anxiety and the ache in my shoulder and hand. James needs to get here soon or I’ll have to leave… assuming something terrible has happened to him or the team. The thought makes my stomach coil, but I decide I’m going to give him to 1 p.m. The clock reads 12:04.

Just before the clock turns 12:58, a black car speeds into the parking lot and slams on the brakes right behind the truck I’m in. Thank God, I think, recognizing James through the window. I quickly get into the car and look at James, who looks gaunt.

“I was getting worried,” I say as I get in. “Is everything okay?”

James shakes his head, kicking the car into drive. “Everyone just got fired.”

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“What do you mean you got fired?” I ask incredulously, as the car speeds down the road.

“We got to the base and the DOD debriefed us – we told them that Jaclyn should be their main person of concern – and at the end they said they’re suspending the contract with Lana as they ‘no longer need Sherwood’s assistance.’”

“What did Lana say?” I inquire, shocked.

“She felt terrible but she said there’s nothing she can do. She’s just a contractor there, she has no power,” James voice is fraught, angry. “She says she can’t keep us on payroll anymore. She gave us two weeks to leave the manor but as of this afternoon we longer work for Sherwood or the DOD.”

“Does that mean that you no longer work at the DOD either?”

“I was given an OTH discharge. That’s why it took so long for me to get you… I had to go clean out my apartment on the base.”

I’m shocked, but it makes sense. There’s no way the Department of Defense would keep a contractor, or Captain, who was on a job with someone who committed an attack like this. Even if they were innocent. Even if the DOD’s contract with Sherwood is under wraps from the public, internally at the Department it would cause an uproar.

“What did Pollard say?” I ask.

“He wasn’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. James and Pollard seemed close, and they’ve probably worked together for the better part of a decade.

“So am I,” James takes a sharp turn, the car slipping a bit on the road. The force makes my shoulder slam into the door, and I wince – it’s still sore. “Sorry.” James takes his foot off the pedal a bit, and the car slows down from the high speed it was going at before.

“All good,” I reply, letting the car fall to silence, because I can tell he doesn’t feel like talking. A few minutes later, he takes a deep breath, as if working up to telling me something.

“They didn’t drop the charges against you.”

“I figured.” It would’ve been the first thing he told me if they were. “Any news on Jaclyn?”

“Nope. Lana said she hasn’t heard from her either.”

We continue driving along the wooded streets until I can see the gates of the manor at the end of the road. “Lana’s not coming back here. She’s going to Washington to try to talk to some people about what happened in North Dakota.”

“Yeah, it can’t play well for her reputation or Sherwood that one of her most recent recruits attacked a Senator,” I sigh. We get to the gates of the manor, and James rolls down his window, pressing the red button on the speaker.

“It’s James,” He says into the voicebox. A buzz later, Sri comes on the intercom, telling us to come in. The gates swing open and we go up the driveway pulling right into an open garage. James presses a button in the car and it closes behind us.

“Is everyone here?” I ask.

“Yep,” James replies, as we exit the garage into one of the manor’s many hallways. “They should be in the den.” We make our way up the staircases. The house is eerily dark – they must be keeping the lights off out of an abundance of caution. James and I find the team, and Sri, sitting around the fireplace in the den quietly.

“I can’t believe this,” I say to the team as I enter the room, taking a seat beside Sacha on the couch. “I didn’t want you to lose your jobs.”

“Wasn’t on my bucket list, that’s for sure,” Khaled says, almost laughing. He takes a swig from the beer bottle he’s holding.

“Well, we can blame Jaclyn when we find her,” Abby retorts. “At least we have somewhere to stay for a couple weeks.”

“Besides me, the only people that are ever here are you all and a couple cleaners every other week. Lana only comes if she needs to talk to you, so she certainly won’t now,” Sri says, who is sitting on the arm of Abby’s chair. Abby gazes up to her, looking puzzled. “I’m saying that you can stay here as long as you want. I still have a job maintaining the property and can cover for you all.”

“That’s kind, Sri,” James says, sitting down in front of the fireplace and grabbing an offered beer from Iain’s outstretched hand. “But hiding six people is hard enough. Harder when one of them is a fugitive.”

Abby must’ve told Sri what happened, because she doesn’t seem to react at the word.

“Does the DOD know you all live here?” I ask.

“We don’t think so, since this is just one of Lana’s properties,” Sacha shakes her head. “And Abby recalibrated the security system once we got back so we should be okay for a while. At least we’ll know if anyone comes knocking. But there’s no cameras inside recording.”

I notice Iain seems glued to his phone, scrolling and reading intensely, the blue light reflecting on his face.

“What’s the news?” I ask. Iain hands me the phone and I read the headline and introduction. “The DOD has named me as the perpetuator of both attacks,” I read out loud. “They say there’s video evidence of me at both crime scenes… that’s impossible – I was working for Mendoza during the first one.” I pause in the middle of my sentence and scroll down more to find security camera footage of, what looks like me, at the scene of the first attack. The photo is captioned that the DOD has released this footage in the hopes of locating me. It’s clearly fabricated, somehow. “How is this happening?” I pass the phone to James, whose hand is outstretched, and he scrolls through the article.

“This is insane,” Sacha says, leaning her head back on the couch.

“The extremist organization, they’re officially calling themselves Guerilla, has released a statement saying that they are taking responsibility for the attacks,” James reads off the phone. “And that they identified you as their leader.”

It feels like the blood in my veins turns cold, and I feel sick. I don’t even know what to say. Khaled looks at me, as if to convince me that I didn’t do it. “Someone is framing you.”

“Looks like it,” My voice sounds curt, angry.

“Are you sure you haven’t had any contact with this group, Guerilla?” Iain asks.

“Iain!” Abby scolds, as if he shouldn’t have asked. But he should’ve.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “No one else has even claimed to be a part of this extremist group. Besides Jaclyn, I don’t know anyone’s names or even what they want. It’s possible this is retribution for an old job I did with Mendoza… but I can’t think of anyone whose interests are aligned to a chemical attack on politicians. And I never met Jaclyn before last week.”

“What about the girl that Jaclyn tailed that night at the bar? She knew about the attack in North Dakota,” Sacha asks.

“I don’t think that was real intel,” James sighs. “Only Jaclyn heard it, and decided to tail Maria. It was clearly just a way of trying to get us to go to Fargo.”

“Let’s just operate on the fact that it’s Jaclyn whose trying to frame you then,” Khaled says. “For all we know, you were just the nearest scapegoat.”

Iain nods. “It makes sense. For now, anyways. We can start trying to track her down and see what we come up with.”

James stands up. “Okay. We only have two weeks until we’re dead in the water without resources or a place to gather securely. So let’s try and find her fast. Abby, you lead surveillance with Iain and Sacha’s help. I’ll see if I can figure out anything from the DOD or Lana without causing any suspicions. Emilia and Khaled, make sure you do some rehabilitation on your injuries because we can’t have you injured if this comes down to a fight. And remember, no one knows Emilia is here. Including Lana. If anyone comes even as close as a mile of this place, I wanna know.”

“Yes sir,” Sacha says, putting her fingers to her template in a mock-salute as James strides out of the room. “Even fired, he’s bossy.”

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Sacha, Iain and Abby all slept on the plane, so they are full of energy and ready to jump into tracking down Jaclyn. Meanwhile, I am physically and mentally exhausted, so I excuse myself back to the room I stayed in the first night. Though I’d only come to be in the manor for a couple days, I feel oddly attached to it; as I pass the library, I wish I could walk in there and plop myself in front of the fireplace. It would certainly be much easier than living my life, right now. But right now, all I really want is sleep.

When I get to my room, I keep the lights off and close the blinds and curtains, cautious that no one should see me here. I collapse in the bed, pulling the covers up over my head so I can try and block out the external world.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. The anxiety over what’s happened and the fear of what’s to come is overwhelming. Questions float through my head, accompanied by the worrying scenarios that could result from the mess I’m in. I do what I always do when I struggle to sleep – I think back to my mom’s house.

My childhood home was another place of anxiety and worry for me, but one that felt much more familiar, and more manageable. I knew how to take care of my mother, of myself, back then. The challenges were about paying rent and finding some liquor for mom. I would give anything to be able to worry about those types of things again. The days were more-or-less the same, and I knew how each evening was going to end; my mom and I sitting in front of a fire, her quietly snoring on the couch as I cleaned or watched television. I like thinking back to that time, because that girl was innocent – her only crime stealing food or booze from the corner store. What chaos I am in now.

It’s 5 a.m. when I wake up from a dead sleep. It was the kind of sleep I yearned for, one not muddled by dreams or restlessness. I figure it was the morphine. Feeling rested enough, I decide to get up to do some rehab on my injuries, knowing that my sleeping schedule will probably never stabilize with the life I’m in now.

I change quickly and walk through the quiet manor to the kitchen, where I go down to the training room. A light is already on, and Khaled is there.

“Hey,” I say. He’s boxing against a punching bag, which swings heavily as he hits it.

“Hey,” He replies, hitting the bag with one last, forceful punch.

“I think you’re supposed to be focusing on your leg, not your arms,” I say playfully, noticing that he’s not favouring the leg much anymore.

“It feels pretty much back to normal,” Khaled says, wiping sweat off his brow. “Boomsma isn’t a terrible doctor.”

“Yeah, she kind of saved me back on the plane,” I say, recounting what Boomsma did to keep me from getting discovered by the pilot. “Anyways, I’m feeling okay now too,” I add at the end of my story.

“Let me see your shoulder and hand,” Khaled says, taking the punching bag off the hook and placing it on the ground. I take off the hoodie I’m wearing so he can take a look at the injuries. There are aches and pains in my shoulder and cuts that were still healing on my hand, but it didn’t seem too bad. It looks like it’s a few weeks post-injury, rather than a day or so. Khaled takes my hand and looks at it carefully, moving my arm up and down to check my mobility.

“That AGK is some serious shit,” I say, after he’s done, and I put my sweater back on.

“Yeah, it is,” Khaled agrees, sitting down on a bench and drinking some water out of a bottle.

“Why wasn’t it commercialized? Or used in medicine?”

Khaled shrugs. “I’m not sure if the world is ready to know stuff like this exists.”

I nod, agreeing. Being able to improve the human body is something that can be used for terrible things. And humans are already terrible enough.

“And how’s your throat and lungs?” Khaled asks.

“Better,” I say. “It still burns when I talk or breathe, but not nearly so bad as when it first happened.”

“Good,” Khaled says, taking another swig of water and standing up. “Well, you better get training. I expect to take you on in a rematch soon enough.”

I laugh. “Deal.”

Khaled and I spend the next couple hours stretching, lifting, running in the training room. I still experience pain, and my lung capacity is definitely reduced, but overall I don’t feel completely incapacitated. Khaled was stand-offish when I first met him, but I’ve come to find out that he has a decent sense of humour. At one point during our work out, as I’m struggling to do some push ups, he starts quizzing me on how to spell certain words, distracting me from the pain.

“Spell hippopotamus,” He says, his voice stern like a teacher.

“H, i, p, o -,” I start.

“No!” Khaled yells, cutting me off. “Try steroid.”

“S, t, a -,” I begin, pushing up, the pain in my shoulder searing.

“No!” He yells again, half laughing. “Do you know how to spell anything?”

“S, c, r, e, w, y, o -,” I began, but Khaled takes his water bottle and sprays me in the face to shut me up. I laugh and collapse on the ground, tired. I breathe in and out, amused by his antics. “I didn’t go to school. I don’t know anything academic.”

“Spell academic,” Khaled jeers at me.

“Spell annoying,” I say back at him, both of us now sitting on the mat breathing heavily.

“Fine. No more quizzes.” Khaled checks his watch and I catch a glimpse of the time. 7:35 a.m.

“Why were you up so early anyway?” I ask him.

“Same reason you are, probably. There isn’t much sleeping in this line of work.”

“Fair.”

“Tired?” Khaled asks. I nod. “Well that’s too bad,” He slaps me on the leg. “Get up, let’s go hand-to-hand. You can relax when you win.”

I groan. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Khaled says. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Oh wow, thanks for your generosity,” I say sarcastically as I stand up. “It’s not like I was just shot or anything.”

“We’ve all been shot, get over yourself.”

I roll my eyes and take a drink of water before positioning myself to start. We both raise our fists.

It takes about fifteen minutes for me to beat Khaled – he’s a good fighter, and I’m sore and tired.

“There ya go,” Khaled says once I let off the pressure on his neck, after I finally take him down. “You win.”

“Finally,” I gasp, now completely exhausted again.

“You’re not bad, but your technique could use some work,” Khaled says, grabbing two towels off a shelf and throwing one to me.

“Whatever,” I reply, grumpy that he’s criticizing me in the state I’m in now.

“Well, you never went after my leg injury. That was an easy way to take me down.”

“That would’ve been a dirty move.”

“I went after your shoulder,” Khaled says.

“Yeah,” I say, widening my eyes at him like this was obvious. “That was a dirty move.”

He chuckles. “How anyone could think you’re an extremist is beyond me.”

His words are like a jolt back to reality. For a while, I hadn’t been thinking about it. Apparently it shows on my face.

“Sorry,” Khaled says.

“All good,” I respond, getting up. “I’m just glad you’re on my side. Where’d you train?”

“I was a Navy Seal. Lana hired me on after I was discharged.”

“Why’d you decide to leave the Navy?”

“I didn’t,” Khaled says in a tone that asks me to not pry. I don’t.

“You all have quite the backstory I’ve noticed.”

“Well, you kind of have to, to end up in a place like this. Most people won’t inject themselves with an untested concoction and do this job if you have a family or life to go back to.” He shrugs.

Khaled and I clean up the training room then head back upstairs, saying hi to Sri who’s preparing breakfast in the kitchen. “See you in a bit,” Khaled says once we get back to the floor with the residences, disappearing into his room.

I take a quick shower in my room and change into a red hoodie and jeans before heading back to the den. Everyone must still be getting up because it’s empty, but I take a seat and turn on the television while I wait.

The news channels aren’t reporting anything we don’t know already, though it’s terrifying to see my photo and name plastered all over the screen. At least nothing has changed overnight. I change the channel to an old cartoon, not wanting to look at the news anymore. It’s an old show, the one with the bird who gets chased by the coyote, who keeps getting hurt by his own traps.

“I liked this show when I was a kid,” James says from behind me, sitting down on the couch with a cup of coffee he must’ve gotten from Sri. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday and looks even more exhausted since when I last saw him.

“Me too. It played on Saturday mornings,” I say. “You look tired,” I add.

“I am,” James replies, leaning his head on the back of the couch.

“Did you sleep?”

“No,” James answers. “I was on the phone with some friends who work night shifts at the DOD to see if I could find anything out. No luck.”

“Hm,” I mutter. “Thanks for trying.” I look over at him, his dark circles contrasting heavily against the redness of his eyes. “Why don’t you go to bed? Everyone else isn’t even up yet.”

“They probably won’t be for a while,” James says. “Abby, Sacha and Iain were up all night looking for Jaclyn too.”

“Khaled and I trained this morning so he might be sleeping as well.”

There’s a quiet knock at the door and Sri comes in with a tray of waffles. “No one up?” She inquiries.

“Nope,” I shake my head. “Sorry Sri. I’ll take a waffle, though.”

Sri hands me a steaming hot cup of tea and a couple waffles on a plate. “I’ll just leave this stuff here then,” She says, and scurries off, probably to join Abby. I smile a little.

“I like her and Abby together,” I say to James, who takes a slow sip from his mug.

“Me too,” He says. “I’m happy she has someone. Makes life easier.”

We sit and watch the cartoons for a few minutes – the roadrunner has outsmarted the coyote again, and That’s All Folks splashes across the screen. I look over to James, who is slumping on the couch half-asleep. His eyelids are heavy, and his face is resting on his fist, which is propped up on the arm of the couch. His other hand barely holds onto his coffee, the liquid almost sloshing out onto the ground. I take his mug from him and put it on the table, muting the television.

“At least take a nap,” I say quietly, getting off the couch and swinging his legs around so he can lay down. I hand him a pillow and he’s asleep within a few minutes. I sit in the armchair across from the couch and watch the muted tv for a half hour – it’s an episode of The Jetsons. The episode ends, and my gaze drifts to James, who is knocked out cold. The room is quiet, I can hear him breathing as his chest rises and falls. The moment feels peaceful, somehow unaffected by everything that’s happening. I am caught off guard by the pang I feel in my chest – an odd, heartsick twinge I didn’t expect, like a nostalgia for a life I want to leave. I close my eyes, trying to rid myself of the feeling, but it sits within me, beckoning to me.

Wanting to distract myself, I take one last glance at James and venture off to the library to see if I can find the copy of Little Women I wanted to try and read. I stop at Khaled’s room along the way and press my ear against the door, but it’s silent, so he’s probably sleeping.

I’m able to find the book easily enough, but I decide to bring it back to the den, not wanting to stay in the library. That morning, just a few days ago, I had thought that my life was turning around and I was finally going to be on the good side of things. As usual, I was wrong.

Back in the den, I’m able to get through some of the book without interruptions, unless you count James’ light snoring. It was nice to escape into a world where life seemed so simple, and where people had sisters, even if they did bicker, to look after them. I don’t read much so it takes me a while to read just a few chapters. Just before lunch, Iain, Abby and Sacha wake up and we go down and train some more. I’m still exhausted from training with Khaled, so I do some target practice with Iain for a while. It’s a good thing I do, because I have to adjust my stance to account for my injured arm, which shakes ever so slightly when I hold it up. I notice that, for primarily working surveillance, Abby is pretty good at hand-to-hand. Her and Sacha are almost evenly matched.

After that, we get to work on tracking Jaclyn in Abby’s room. Her room is similar to mine, in that it has the same furniture, but it’s a bit more personalized – you can tell she’s lived here for years. There’s a couple photos, of her, James and who I’m assuming is their parents, and her and Sri, and small personal items laying around. Most notably, there’s a desk with two monitors on top of it, which must be where she does most of her work.

No one was able to find anything last night, even though Abby looked through some surveillance footage from the area. We track her real name and the cover she was under for us, ‘Annika’, but there’s no trace past the fact that she checked into the hotel with us. We call the front desk, and she never checked out.

Eventually, James and Khaled join us in Abby’s room. They get annoyed when we mockingly jeer “thanks for showing up” at them as they walk in the room, their eyes filled with sleep. After a few hours of dead ends, we take a break and Sri brings us a late lunch of toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.

“I feel bad, Sri,” I say as I take a big bite out of my sandwich. “You shouldn’t have to cook for us.”

“I like doing it,” Sri says. “And I’ll do it until Lana tells me to stop, which she hasn’t yet.”

“Thank God,” Khaled says, who has already devoured his first sandwich and moved onto another.

“Have we heard from Lana?” Abby asks James, who shakes his head, no.

“Pollard?” Iain asks.

“Nope,” James says. He’s sitting on the floor and leaning against Abby’s bed. “I’ve left messages.”

“So,” I swallow my bite of sandwich. “What did we know about Jaclyn right now?” I want to recap every piece of knowledge we have so far.

“She never really told us anything,” Sacha says. “She was pretty secretive.”

“And how long did she work for Sherwood?” I look to James.

“Four, five years ago now?” James estimates.

“Yeah, it was about a year after I joined,” Sacha says. “I remember Pollard saying they recruited her from the Marine Corps. But that’s really all she told us. I just figured she was private. She never talked to us much.”

I nod, taking the last bite of my sandwich. “So what are the chances Jaclyn is her real name?”

“Low,” Iain admits.

“Does Lana keep any files?” I ask Abby. “Or Pollard? Could we get into their systems without them knowing?”

“I can try,” Abby says, looking to James as if for confirmation.

James shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”

Abby spends the next couple hours trying to get into Sherwood and Pollard’s Cloud files but they have strict security measures. The rest of us continue going through security camera footage from Fargo or tracking possible leads.

I’m just about to suggest we take a break, it’s getting into the late evening now, when I notice James has sat up, looking at his phone. After a minute, he swears in frustration.

“What is it?” Iain asks, looking up at James.

“The DOD just issued a press release,” James says. “And we’re all implicated.”

“What do you mean, implicated?” Sacha asks.

“It says that we’re accomplices of Emilia Davis, wanted for questioning regarding Guerilla and the attacks,” James says.

“That makes no sense. They already debriefed you and let you go,” I say. The team looks at each other in disbelief, digesting James’ news.

James opens his mouth to say something, but Abby’s computer beeps. She glances at her screen. “The security system says six cars just turned onto our road.”

“I guess the DOD does know where we live after all,” Sacha groans. It’d be almost comical if my stomach didn’t feel like it’d just been pulled out of my mouth.

“What’s the plan?” Khaled says, turning around to look at James, who looks like he’s trying to run a million different scenarios through his head. He pauses for a second too long, seemingly in disbelief.

“Sacha and Iain, go down to the training room and grab as much artillery as you can. Sri, do your best to clean up any evidence that you knew we were here. We don’t want to involve you. Say we threatened you to help us if she has to,” I say, the words coming out of my mouth like they’re rehearsed. “Khaled, make sure two cars in the garage have gas and the keys are in them. Abby, disable the security system now and open the gates. They’ll be able to easily get in, but they would’ve anyway. And we’re going to need to get out quickly. Plus, hopefully the lack of security will throw them off.”

“This place is massive. There’s a lot of points of entry, especially if we disable the security,” James says. “I’ll start a fire in the west end of the house, forcing them to go to one end instead of the other.”

“Everyone meet in the garage as soon as you can,” I add.

“This’ll be fun,” Khaled smirks as he leads the team out of the room, on their separate missions.

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Chapter 14

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I pack up the laptops we were doing our research on and put them in a bag, knowing we’ll need them to keep tracking Jaclyn. I’m making my way down to the garage a couple minutes later when I run into Sacha and Iain, who have two bags each, full of various weapons.

“Here,” Sacha says, handing me a sniper rifle.

“Thanks,” I take the gun and we run to the garage, where Khaled has the two cars running. I throw my bags in the black car besides two of Sacha’s bags, and Iain puts his in the other car. Abby bounds in, breathing heavily, her face flushed and her eyes red.

“They’re almost at the gate,” She says. “I opened them. Sri’s going to go out to the gates, to say she didn’t see us here.”

“Good,” I say, looking to Khaled. “James hasn’t shown up yet?” He shakes his head. “Shit,” I mutter, then look at the team. “You’re going to have to leave now. Take one car together, and we’ll follow you in the other. I’ll cover you so you can get out. And I’ll try to find James.”

“Where are we going anyway?” Sacha says as the team clambers into the car, with Iain taking the driver’s seat.

“None of you have any safe houses?” I ask in surprise. I thought one of them would in this line of work.

“None that the DOD wouldn’t know about,” Khaled replies.

I nod, racking my mind trying to think, geographically, if there’s anything close. “There was one in Pennsylvania,” I say, thinking back to one I stayed at a couple years ago when I was working with Mendoza. “I’m not sure if it’s still secure but it’s better than nothing.” I give them the address and tell them James and I will meet them there when we can. “Don’t pull out until you hear gun shots.” I instruct as I run out of the garage.

I make my way up the stairs, noticing that smoke is starting to fill the halls – James must have started the fire. On the third floor, I position myself in a window where I can see the gates at the edge of the property, and aim the sniper at the vehicles who have just turned onto the driveway from the long laneway to the gates. I see Sri walking down the lawn, her arms up in surrender, but she’s far enough away to be out of danger. I steady myself, making sure to position my arm in a certain way so it doesn’t shake, and look through the peephole. There are six vehicles, and each look like they have two or three passengers. I don’t have the ability to hit them all as moving targets, so I strategically aim at the engine of the car leading the line of vehicles, and shoot. My shoulder aches as I try to be still, and the bullet hits the car hood, which comes to a screeching stop, the cars behind it slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending each other. I fire a couple more shots, aiming this time for the ground beside the cars. My goal is to get them distracted enough that they’ll focus on me, rather than the car the team is in.

A couple people get out of the cars, using the doors as shields, and aim their guns at the house, but they probably don’t know which window I’m in yet since they’re quite far away. A few bullets hit the bricks of the house, but none hit close enough to me. I hear the sound of tires screeching, and I know it’s Iain, so I position myself more visibly in the window and continue firing, aiming at the cars, which appear to be armoured. The smoke in the building is now getting thick in the halls, and the people below notice the flames in the west end of the building. Two of the cars straighten themselves and then speed off away from the inferno. Another two take off in the direction of the sound of Iain’s car – shit, I think, but find solace in the fact that I know the team can handle themselves. Three men now remain on the driveway, shooting towards my direction. As they’re reloading, I shoot and hit one of the men in the leg. I faintly hear his yell as the bullet collides with his body.

I leave the windowsill, now on a mission to try and locate James so that we can hopefully get out of here without having to incapacitate anyone else. The smoke is now thick in this wing of the house.

“James!” I yell, heading west through the house. As I do so, the air gets hotter and hotter. I hear the sound of the doors being busted open somewhere not too far from me and shouts from the men in the cars. I stick myself to the walls, hoping the smoke will conceal me. I check the boardroom, the bedrooms and the den, and don’t find him. I’m coughing, so I drop into a crawl on the floor, where the air is a bit clearer. I need to find him soon or we’re both screwed.

I keep roaming the halls looking for him, keeping tabs on the sounds of the DOD operatives in the house. Eventually, I push open the door to the library and find James, who looks dazed, talking to Pollard. The sight of Pollard here makes me stop in my tracks – was he one of the men in the cars? Pollard sees me right as I see him, but he doesn’t make a move to raise the gun in his right hand. I don’t raise mine either. I want to ask why he’s here, and if he knows what happened, but the humidity in the air and the sound of gunshots outside reminds me that it’s not important right now.

“James, we have to get out. Now.”

James looks back at me, sweat appearing on his brow and soaking the front of the t-shirt he’s wearing. “I know,” He says, sounding rushed. He looks back to Pollard and gives him a curt nod before pulling me out of the room, into the hall. He’s about to start running but I yank on his arm, making him stop.

“The DOD is in the house. I don’t know how we’re going to get to the garage.”

James looks down at the gun, which I’m holding in my hand.

“You have a gun. Use it,” He says shortly.

“These people aren’t our enemies. I don’t want to kill them.”

“They aren’t allies either. It’s them or it’s us. I don’t want you to die. Do you want me to?” James’ voice is hoarse. He’s been breathing in too much smoke. I hesitate for a second. “Or I’ll do it,” He adds, reaching for the gun. I jerk my arm away.

“I’ll do it,” I respond, feeling a sense of dread but wanting to control the situation. I push past him so I can lead the way down and position the gun so I can shoot on sight. I’ll try to aim to injure, not kill. The smoke makes it difficult to see anything farther than a yard in front of me and we still have three floors to go down to get to the garage.

We get down to the second floor without seeing anyone, but I stop in my tracks as I see two pairs of feet just a couple metres away from me, walking slowly under the cloud of smoke. I flatten myself against the wall, as does James, and try to make out the bodies through the smoke. Eventually, as they come closer, I see their silhouettes and I aim and shoot one of their shoulders. I hit the first person, a woman, who yells and stumbles to the ground. I miss the other, who points their gun in our general direction and shoots. Their visibility seems to be worse than ours. They miss.

James propels himself towards the man and knocks him to the ground – the lack of visibility must’ve given us an advantage, because the armed man drops his gun to the ground. I pick it up so I can give it to James later, and James wrestles the man to the ground. I turn to the woman, who is bleeding on the carpet. I can make out the red blood pooling on the floor even through the smoke. I’m not sure where her gun is, but if she still has it she isn’t using it. All I hear is the woman’s grunts as she bleeds. James must have knocked the man unconscious because in a second the sounds of a struggle stop, and he’s back by my side.

“All good?” I ask, and James nods.

I hand him the man’s gun as we continue down the staircase to the first floor. It’s less smoky down here though not by much. I can see the door to the garage on the other side of the hallway and James starts to sprint towards it. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man with his gun trained on James, setting up to shoot. He must not have seen me yet. I raise mine and shoot him square in the chest. His body hits the ground, lifeless. James stops at the sound of the gunfire and spins around to look at me, a look of fear on his face. He wasn’t sure who was shooting who.

“Let’s go,” James calls out, when he sees that it wasn’t me who was hit. I jog to meet him at the door and we hurry down the stairs into the garage, where the car, miraculously, is still here with the keys in the ignition. The fire and the other car must’ve distracted the DOD operatives, keeping them away from the garage.

“I’ll drive,” James says, getting into the driver seat, and I slide into the passenger side. “Ready?” He asks, and I nod. He presses a button in the car which opens the garage door, and we reverse quickly out of it.

Three people are there waiting for us, and they shoot at the car almost immediately.

“Shit!” James yells and we both duck – the bullets hit the glass which cracks, but doesn’t shatter. It makes sense that Sherwood’s cars would be reinforced. James continues reversing back, just to get away from the gunfire, but he can’t watch where he’s going. The back of the car hits a tree, which sends us both lurching forward, whiplashing my neck.

“Shit, sorry,” James mutters, trying to peek over the dashboard. I do too. The three men are approaching the car with their guns drawn. “I’m going to pull forward.”

“No, wait,” I burst out, trying to think of another plan, one that’s better than wrecking our escape vehicle by plowing through them. “Open the sunroof.”

James clumsily looks around the dash until he finds the button, which he presses. I pause, glancing over the dashboard and memorizing the placements of each of the men as they approach the car. James looks at me impatiently, wondering if I’m going to do something. Then, quickly, I climb out of the hidden position I was in and stand on the console in the middle of the car, my upper body poking out of the sunroof, and I shoot three times.

They weren’t expecting gunfire from this angle; their guns were pointing at the windshield of the car, so my shots hit them cleanly.

“Go!” I yell at James, who throws the car into drive and speeds around the bodies, onto the driveway. I’m still half out of the sunroof so I turn around, steadying myself so I have visibility of the manor. It’s almost completely engulfed in flames. I survey the area, but don’t see any assailants. There’s a car that’s been flipped on its side, laying on the front lawn. The team must’ve caused that one. I continue monitoring from the sunroof until we’re past the gates of the house, back onto the road. Then, I slump back into the passenger’s seat, exhausted. James glances at me, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

“Holy shit,” he says.

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We drive north-west for a few hours, trying to get as close to Pennsylvania as we can in this car before we have to ditch it somewhere. We take backroads, because the back of the car is so busted people would probably call us in if we were on the highway. We don’t stop for water, though both of us are basically coughing up ash, and we drive until its dark. Then, we pull over at a truck stop, where there’s a gas station that’s sign is flickering, a diner and a run-down motel.

“I’m getting déjà vu,” I say to James as he puts the car into park.

“Hm?” James replies, distracted. He’s barely said a word the whole time, despite my repetitive questions. I gave up asking about an hour in, knowing he’ll tell me when he’s thought through whatever he’s trying to understand right now.

“A gas station,” I point at the dimming neon sign that says Shell in bright yellow and red letters. James looks up at the sign and gives a small laugh, seemingly breaking from the trance he’s been in the past few hours.

“Oh, right. Want me to fight you in the bathroom again?” He asks the question jokingly, but he’s distracted.

“Not particularly,” I reply. “Do you want me to drive for a bit?” James didn’t tell me why we pulled off the road.

“No. We should probably find another ride.”

“We shouldn’t steal another car,” I say. “We’ll just put more cops after us.”

James nods. “Do you think a bus comes by here?”

“Probably. I can go in and ask,” I note that I’ll have to obscure my face somehow, just in case the gas station attendant recognizes me. “But before I do… are you going to tell me what Pollard said?”

James sighs and stares up at the car roof, leaning his head against the seat. He doesn’t respond.

“Well, he didn’t try to kill me on sight. So he must believe I’m innocent on some level… right?” I add, trying to nudge an answer.

James turns his head to look at me. “It’s Lana.”

“What’s Lana?”

“The attacks. The person Jaclyn was working for,” James rubs his eye aggressively, like he’s trying to burn an image out of his mind. “The one who’s framing you.”

I figure that I should be shocked. But I’m not. As soon as he says it, it’s like a puzzle piece falls into place. It makes too much sense. Why else would Lana want to recruit me? I was a criminal who was about to go to jail for life. I was, scratch that – am – the perfect person to take the fall for an attack. And Lana was the one who stuck me with Jaclyn on the North Dakota trip.

I slowly nod. “What went wrong with her plan?” I ask monotonously. James looks confused at my lack of surprise. “Something must have gone wrong. She wanted me to be the fall guy. But now the whole team is down. So, what was it?”

“Jaclyn and Lana thought you’d work for them willingly. It makes sense. All those questions Jaclyn was asking you… she was trying to figure out how to get you to work with them without forcing you. But you didn’t do any of it voluntarily. And then we covered for you, so Lana had no choice but to save face with the DOD and strike us all down.”

I think of Jaclyn – all the interactions we had… the hotel room, the rooftop, at the manor. It all makes sense. “If Pollard knows all this, why doesn’t he tell the rest of the DOD? How did he find all this out?” I ask.

James shrugs, not responding. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Eventually he says, “We still don’t know why Lana’s facilitating the attacks.”

I consider prying, asking about Pollard again, but I don’t. James doesn’t tell me anything unless he wants to and knowing why Pollard did what he did won’t change the fact that it’s already done. Again, I’m left in the dark.

“Well, we’ll find out soon,” I reply to his inquiry about Lana. I rummage through the car and find a winter toque in the glovebox, putting it on and stuffing all my hair inside it, then opening the car door. “Let me go find out about the bus schedule.” I go to the trunk, which is smashed up but opens after I kick the handle, to pull out some cash from the equipment bag that Abby had the smarts to put in.

The air is brisk tonight, and I can smell the chance of snow. I quickly walk into the convenience store beside the gas pumps, wanting to get warm. It’s mostly empty, except for a teenager behind the plexiglass at the desk. I take a quick look around. There’s no televisions in this store, and one visible security camera in the corner. I make an effort to angle myself away from the camera, but I wave at the staff member, wanting to appear non-threatening.

I find the wire carousel of pamphlets and schedules in a musty corner of the store, and pull out the one with the Pennsylvania buses. There’s a bus at 8:08 p.m. leaving from the stop a mile or so away, and one at 6:43 a.m. in the morning.

“Can I bother you for the time?” I ask the attendant.

The teenager checks her phone. “9:30.” Shit.

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing some waters from the fridge and a bag of beef jerky from the shelf before going up to the counter. “Can I get two tickets for the 74B bus tomorrow morning?”

The girl, a slim red-head with glasses, nods and starts typing away on the register. She hands me two tickets to the bus line, which has a stop in Harrisburg, close enough to the safehouse I sent the team to. I pay for the tickets and food and walk out. If the girl recognized me from the news, she didn’t let on.

“What’s the plan?” James asks as I get back in the car.

“No bus until tomorrow morning. Should we keep driving instead?” I hand him the water bottle, which he drinks entirely, almost instantly. I take a big gulp of mine too, the cold water welcome on my scorched throat.

“No,” He says, after downing his water. He grabs the bag of beef jerky off my lap and rips it open, grabbing a piece. “We should take the bus and ditch this car. They’re going to be looking for it. It’s registered in Lana’s name.”

“I have to say,” I sigh, looking across the gas station parking lot. “I’m getting tired of motels.”

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The motel we check into is sketchy. They didn’t even ask for our names at the front desk, we just had to pay in cash. We ended up driving the car far down the road, parking it way off the curb so it was barely visible, then walking the 30 minutes back down the street to the motel with our belongings on our back. It wasn’t ideal, but hopefully enough to keep us from being found while we wait for the bus.

The room is pretty terrible, even for a motel. There’s an old television on a dresser, two single beds with blankets as thin as paper, and stained walls.

“Lovely,” I say as we walk in, putting our bags on the floor.

“It’s just for a few hours,” James reminds me.

“I know,” I reply, sitting down on one of the beds, which is comically squeaky. “It’d just be nice to spend the night somewhere that doesn’t have mystery stains on the bed sheets.”

James chuckles. “Fair. Just sleep on top of the blanket.”

“Yeah, I’m not sleeping,” I say stubbornly, finding the remote and powering on the television. There’s only three channels available. “At least we have good entertainment.”

“I’m going to have a shower and try to get the smoke off my skin,” James locks the door of the room and shuts the curtains before heading to the bathroom. “Keep an eye on the door.”

I nod as he shuts himself in the restroom. The water starts to run a few minutes later. I watch a rerun of Friends that’s on one of the channels, keeping an eye on the door out of the corner of my eye, paranoid that it could burst open any minute and I could be dead. It’s an anxiety I’m going to have to learn to live with. After ten minutes, the water shuts off and James emerges from the bathroom, wearing clothes that are soaking wet.

I almost laugh. “Did you shower with your clothes on?”

James looks down at himself, pulling at his shirt and wringing out the excess water. It drips down onto the rusty red carpet.

“I was trying to get the smoke out of it.”

“Oh,” I actually laugh this time. “Did it work?”

“No,” James replies, frustrated. “I feel like my skin smells like a barbecue.”

“Well, it’s my turn now,” I get up from the bed and hand him the remote. “This is a good episode.”

James is right. The smell of smoke won’t come off my skin. I scrub for a good five minutes but can still feel the ashy grime clinging to me. The water turns cold and I have to get out before I’m done, shampoo still in my hair. I wrap myself in a towel and rinse the extra lather out of my hair in the sink instead.

“You could’ve left me some warm water,” I call out to James through the bathroom door.

“Sorry,” He replies back ruefully, though I can hear humour in his voice.

I get dressed and come back into the room, irritated. “You’re the worst.”

“If you wanted hot water, you should’ve gone first,” James says as he lies back against the bed’s headboard, crossing his feet. “God. We sound like an old married couple.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply.

“My parents are like that. Constantly bickering.”

“I’ve heard it’s a sign of affection,” I comb through my wet hair with my fingers, trying to get the knots out as I sit on the other bed. “It’s probably better than not talking at all.”

“True,” James changes the channel to the channel guide. It’s a scrolling list of all the channels, overlayed with old music from the fifties. Seems pointless since we only get three of them. “I never want to get married,” James adds, like I asked.

“Yeah, it’s not in my plans,” I reply.

“No?” James inquires, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Just not something I’ve ever wanted. Or kids.”

“I’d have kids,” James says, sounding like he’s just convinced himself.

“I don’t think the world needs more stubborn, temperamental people running around,” I blurt it out before I even think about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” James counters, his voice taking on an irate tone.

“Nothing,” I respond, shaking my head.

James glares at me. “Tell me.”

I cross my legs as I sit on the bed, wanting to shrink into myself. “You just… run hot and cold. I never know what you’re thinking.” He doesn’t say anything, so I continue on, wanting to justify myself. “Like one minute you’re barely looking at me. Then you’re yelling at me, telling me I’m a martyr. Then you want to be friends.”

I look up at him, feeling the anger fuel my words. I’m not sure if I’m really mad at him, or if it’s just the chaos of my life coming to a point. Regardless, the rage feels real.

“You were the one who wanted to be friends,” James says. I breathe out, trying to have some composure. How was that the only thing he heard?

“Fine,” I reply loudly, getting up from the bed and moving away, wanting to be far from him. “We don’t need to be friends. But we’re in this shit together.” I look him straight in the eye. “You know, I don’t need you to like me. I know I’m not a good person, and I’ve done terrible, awful things. But I haven’t done those things to you or your friends. In fact, I’ve saved your life a couple times. So tell me. What’s your problem with me?”

I’ve mouthed off to James before, but I’ve never shouted like I did just now. If I’m being honest, I haven’t yelled at anyone like this for years, having to be a quiet cog in Chris’ machine. As I finish my question, I’m breathing heavily, standing and glaring at James who is a few feet away from me. He stares back, looking shocked that I would yell at him like that.

“I feel bad for you,” James says eventually, in a soft voice, a harsh juxtaposition to the tone I just took.

“You feel bad for me,” I repeat, annoyed at his condescension.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I ask, practically spitting the word.

“I chose my life,” James says. “You were forced into yours.”

I know he’s right. It’s a sentiment I’ve thought many times. But still, I say - “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“I know,” he says simply.

“So don’t,” I counter.

“I’m trying,” James says. I’m not sure what that means. “You don’t need my pity.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” I cross my arms defensively. I no longer want to prescribe to other’s feelings about me. “I don’t want to be measured by pity,” I add.

“I know,” He says again in a reassuring voice. Again, I’m confused by his reaction. When I think he’s going to be kind, he’s not. When I think he’s going to be angry, he isn’t. We stand there for a few seconds, as if in a stand-off. I lean against the wall, observing James as he looks at me. He breaks with my gaze and sits down on the bed, flipping to the next channel, which is replaying another sitcom. With that, the conversation, if you could call it that, is over.

We spend some long hours watching bad television, waiting for the morning and barely saying a word to each other. Every once in a while I catch James looking over at me, like he wants to say something. I ignore it. Eventually, the red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table read 05:30 and I get up from the bed.

“We should get some breakfast before the bus,” I say. It’s the first full sentence we’ve really said to one another since the argument.

“Okay,” He says, putting his stuff together and turning off the television. “It’s a half hour walk to the bus stop so we should have some time.”

We leave behind the motel room and make our way to the front office where they said there’d be breakfast in the morning. It’s bad coffee and stale baked goods, but it’s something. We each take a cup and a couple donuts, being mindful to keep our faces low so no one recognizes us. Besides the older woman at the front desk, there’s no one else here anyway. We hand her our room key and leave without saying more than a word of thanks. The receptionist doesn’t bother to look up from the computer screen.

James and I start to walk towards the bus stop, which is down the road a few miles. We stay quiet most of the way there, looking away when the occasional car drives by. The bus stop is empty, consisting of a bench with a plastic cover over top to protect travellers from the elements. There’s also a pay phone. We sit, and I dig out the tickets from my bag, handing one to James.

“Is there any way we can call the rest of the team to see if they’re okay?” I ask as we sit.

“Everyone left their phones at the manor,” James says. “Even if they had them, they’re easily trackable. Is there a phone at the safe house you sent them to?”

“If there is, I don’t know the number,” I sigh. “I’m just concerned for them.”

“They can handle themselves,” he replies, seemingly unworried. James glances at me, reading my face. “And it’s not your fault.” I know he’s right, but I feel immense guilt that they’re in this situation because of me.

“Mhm,” I reply.

“So, what is this safe house anyway?” James inquires. I see the headlights of what must be the bus way down the road.

“Mendoza had one in pretty much every state. Ohio, Jersey, California, D.C. They’re just shitty apartments with cheap rent that he pays so that there’s a place we can hide out when we’re on jobs. I stayed at this one a couple years ago after I returned fire on a weapons dealer in Maryland. They had people looking for me.”

James nods. “Any chance Mendoza’s people will be there? Should we be worried?”

I shake my head, standing up as the bus approaches the stop. “I think everyone who worked for Chris is dead. And the addresses were kept under lock and key.”

We get on the bus, nodding at the driver who glances quickly at the tickets and then keeps going without much of a delay. There’s only one other person on the bus, an elderly women sitting at the front. I walk down the aisle, sitting in a row in the middle beside the emergency door, just in case we have to use it. James puts our bags in the overhead then sits beside me.

“How long will this be?”

I look down at the ticket I’m holding. “This one is four hours and there’s a transfer. Then another two.”

“Oof,” James exhales. “Long ride.” I nod in agreeance and James looks at me sideways. “Maybe we can finally play I Spy.”

I laugh quietly, breaking the tension between us as I remember the drive to the military base in Albany. “That seems so long ago.”

“Yeah.”

“You definitely didn’t trust me then,” I say, keeping my voice low so the others on the bus can’t hear me.

“If I remember correctly, the feeling went both ways.”

I shrug, taking the last sip of cold coffee from my cup and pulling out the donuts from my bag. “I trust you now, I think,” I say, handing him one and wiping the powdered sugar on my pantleg. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“It does, thank you.” His tone is a mix of sarcasm and sincerity. We both look out the window, the world still dark since the sun hasn’t risen yet. The silence of the bus is calming, and I watch cars’ taillights come and go. In the quiet, I think back to the motel room and almost want to apologize for yelling at James. Despite how hot-headed and stubborn he is, I know he’s a good person. So far, he’s only done what’s right for me, for the team. I don’t want to though, because what I said was true.

“I’m not going to apologize,” I say quietly, feeling the need to address the argument somehow. James turns his head to look at me.

“Didn’t expect you to,” He replies with a half-smile, seemingly knowing what I meant.

“Good.”

“So we’re still friends?” James teases.

I nod. “Still friends. I guess we’ll just have to accept each other’s flaws. I’m a martyr. You’re a stubborn jackass.”

James laughs. “Deal.” We shake hands jokingly, though he doesn’t let go of my hand for a bit. His is warm in mine, his hands surprisingly softer than I was expecting. After a moment, he lets go and I break the eye contact.

“I have to be, you know,” James says.

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He nods. “And stubborn. It’s part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“Being the leader, or whatever,” He says the word in disdain. “You have to be confidently stubborn when making decisions. Or else your team second guesses you.”

“I get it,” I reply, feeling bad at my judgements towards him.

“As for being an asshole, that’s just me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t really think you’re an ass,” I say quietly. “Well, most of the time.”

“Nah, I think you’re right. Abby’s been saying it since we were kids.”

“I can’t imagine a little James,” I say, trying to picture him as a kid.

“I can’t imagine a little Emilia,” He replies. “What were you like?”

I think, trying to remember back to my childhood days in that little house, the one now reduced to ashes.

“Angry,” I reply, admitting it to myself. “I was mad at my mother, how I had to grow up. I wanted to be like the other kids I met, with parents and an education. I tried to make the best of it but looking back… I was just mad at the world. What about you?”

“About the same,” He nods. “Watching Abby be sick our entire childhood made me mad. I acted out in high school and then got mad because I got what I deserved.”

“I guess we’re just two angry souls.”

“I guess so,” He agrees. “I don’t blame you for being mad at the world.”

I shrug. “Well, for you either. But sometimes it’s hard to see the good parts – for a long time all I saw was the bad.”

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“People,” I reply. “Sometimes someone comes into your life and reminds you that it’s not all that bad. Brianna did that for me. Did you ever have that person for you?” I turn my head to see his reaction, curious.

James is already looking at me as the bus continues driving in darkness over the bumpy road.

“Yes,” He replies after a moment, and even in the dim light of the bus, I can see how serious his expression is looking back to me. The air between us feels heavy, like something is being left unsaid. My heart is beating just a bit faster than usual as I register the tension between the two of us. Does it mean anything?

“Don’t go saying it was me,” I half-chuckle, wanting to break whatever feeling is hanging in the air. James’ face breaks from its seriousness and he grins.453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmVr72WLnbj
“No, never,” He laughs, and the other person on the bus clears their throat as if to tell us to shut up.

“Okay, good,” I say quietly, “Do you think we’ll always be on the run from now on?” I ask, changing the topic and resting my head back on the seat.

“Maybe,” He responds. “I hope not. I’d like to get a life at some point.”

“That’d be good,” I nod. “Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to care about everyday things. Booking a dentist appointment. Figuring out what to make for dinner. Deciding what movie to see at the theatre.”

“I think it’d be boring,” James says. I roll my eyes at him. “But in a good way.”

“Well, what would you want to do with your life?” I ask. James turns his head towards me, his eyes only a few inches from mine.

“Ask me again when there’s a chance we’ll have one.”

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Chapter 15

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“At least these seats were comfier than the other bus,” James says, reclining his chair back the couple inches it’ll let him. We are on the second bus now, only a half hour from Harrisburg. We kept a low profile when we were at the transfer, though James was able, through the glass of a bus terminal, to see the news channel saying that the rest of the team was still at large.

“We should start figuring out what we’re going to do once we get to Harrisburg,” I say, quiet enough that the half dozen or so passengers wouldn’t hear me.

“Mhm. I’m guessing this place isn’t in walking distance,” James states.

“It’s a small town called Marietta. It’s a forty minute drive from the station. I don’t think we should walk it. It’d take too long.”

“We’re going to have to find a car then.”

“I don’t think we should,” I reply. “I’m sure all stolen vehicles are being investigated quite intensely right now.”

“It’s a completely different state,” James counters. “A stolen car in Harrisburg won’t be a tip off.”

I sigh, thinking, then agree, “Fine.” I don’t have an alternative idea anyways.

When we get off the bus, we make a concerted effort to walk behind all the buildings, trying to stay hidden from security cameras. I’m ahead of James, and just about to tell him which way to the parking lot when he pulls on my arm and spins me around.

“Wait here,” He says. “I’m just going to go grab us some water in the convenience store.” James nods his head towards the bus station’s kiosk.

“Are you sure?” I ask impatiently. “I think we can wait.”

“I’m dying of thirst. It’ll just take a second,” He says, ducking into the store across the street. I wait anxiously for a few minutes, but he reappears and hands me a bottle of water, then continues to the commuter parking lot. It’s full of cars because it’s the middle of the work day, and James picks a black truck, which looks pretty new. I look over the parking lot as James hotwires it. I’m surprised at how quickly James does it, and that no alarm goes off, but I figure that he’s stolen cars plenty of times before. Soon enough we’re on the road again, driving toward Marietta. It’s quick drive south of the city and there’s not much traffic.

I’m driving, so I reach out and turn on the radio, tuning it to a news station. James turns it off.

“Hey!” I call out angrily, moving to turn it back on. James grabs my wrist to stop me.

“I don’t want to listen to the news anymore,” He says sullenly. “They’ll just be spewing bullshit.”

“Fine,” I say, as James releases my wrist. I change the station to an old country channel. “Better?”

James nods, looking out the window. “How much farther?”

“Check the map,” I say, nodding to the fold out we found in the glove compartment. He opens and glances at it, then sat the street signs we pass.

“Just a few miles more.”

“Good,” I reply, sighing. “I hope they’re there.” James doesn’t respond, instead staring out the window. He must be nervous. We could get there and find out that his team, his sister, didn’t survive. The anxious pit in my stomach grows.

After a little bit longer, we arrive in Marietta and I pull over and park behind an old post office.

“The safehouse is just a few blocks that way, the address is-,” I gesture to point up the street, but James interrupts me.

“I’ll get the bags,” he says, getting out of the truck and slamming the door behind him. Hesitantly, I hop out of the truck.

“Thanks,” I call out as I shut the door, walking over to his side. He looks nervous, his forehead creased. “Hey,” I say gently, putting my hand on James’ forearm to assure him. “I’m sure everyone’s fine.”

James makes eye contact with me, and his gaze doesn’t seem familiar. His eyebrows are furrowed, a look of guilt on his face. I take a step back, dropping my hand from his arm.

“What did you do?” I ask. The anxiety in my chest turns to cold anger. He doesn’t answer, and I think back. “Who did you call someone at the convenience store?”

“Pollard,” James replies immediately. “You have a half hour before he gets here with the DOD.”

His answer isn’t what I’m expecting, and I’m taken aback. It feels like he’s just slapped me across the face.

“They never implicated you,” I realize, mad at myself for not noticing sooner. “You weren’t included in the news release they put out before the fire, were you? You were never even let go from the DOD.” I press my palm on my forehead, thinking back. No one but James saw the message he got before the cars starting arriving at the manor.

“No,” James replies, as if he’s ashamed of it.

“So you were… what? Leading me here to be caught? What about the team?” I’m practically yelling now. I’m aware of the fact that I’m in a public place, but I’m so angry I don’t care.

James shakes his head. “I’ve given you a chance here,” He says forcefully. “I’ll tell them you went to the safehouse in Jersey and that I followed a bad lead here after you escaped from the manor.”

I want to scream, to punch him square in his face. “Why are you doing this?” I ask angrily, through gritted teeth. “I don’t understand.”

“Telling you why won’t make it any easier. And there isn’t time.”

I stare at him, willing him to explain. He doesn’t. I reach for one of the bags in his hand. “Give me the equipment.” As I go to seize it, he jerks it away.

“I can’t,” James replies, then adds. “You’re going to be fine.”

I look up at him, livid. “I am?” I ask, my words filled with vitriol. “How can I be fine? You’re the one who dragged me to Albany, to the manor, who had me work for Sherwood. All for what, so I can be arrested and killed? If that was what you were doing, you should’ve just let Chris kill me.” I exhale angrily. “You said you felt bad for me, that I’ve always been forced into doing things. But that’s what you’re doing now,” I yell. James looks back at me, his face blank, unaffected by my anger. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them. A self-serving coward. Screw you, James,” I spit at him before turning and walking away, heading towards the safehouse, leaving him behind.

All I can do now is hope that the rest of the team is still alive.

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I find the building where the safehouse is. It’s an old seniors’ apartment complex that looks half empty. I know I can’t go in through the lobby, so I climb the fire escape up the back of the building until I find the window to the apartment. It’s slippery and I have to be careful to grip my hands firmly against the cast-iron railing, though it’s cold to the touch. I remember which apartment it is because there’s still cardboard and duct tape on one of the glass panes where I had broken the window years ago. I peer through the window and don’t see any movement. I look a while longer and spot a bit of blonde hair from around the corner. Sacha.

I knock at the window, and Sacha jumps, turning around to face me. A look of relief falls upon her face as she notices me. I hear Sacha call for Khaled as she comes to the window, opening it to let me in. I clamber in, dropping to my feet. As I do so, I see Khaled come out of the bedroom.

“We weren’t sure if you made it out,” Sacha says, gazing at me like she’s not sure I’m actually here. Khaled smiles sheepishly as I look to him. They both look okay with the exception of a few bruises and scrapes. I pause, waiting for Abby and Iain to come out. I notice they’re waiting for James to come in behind me.

“Abby and Iain went out to get us some food,” Khaled says, answering my unasked question. I nod, looking around the apartment, which is layered with dirt and dust. With the exception of the bag of equipment in the corner and a couple empty plastic water bottles in the kitchen, it looks like it’s been frozen in time.

“Where’s James?” Khaled asks.

“He sold me out,” I reply, my voice strained.

Khaled and Sacha look at each other in surprise. “What do you mean?” Khaled asks.

“Before we got in the car to come here. He called the DOD and said he knew where I was.”

“So we should leave Marietta?” Sacha asks instantaneously.

“Not necessarily,” I shake my head. “He said they’d tell them he followed a bad lead here but that I’m in a safe house in Jersey. But we’ll have to keep a low profile here if we stay. I didn’t tell him where the safehouse is yet so they wouldn’t be able to track us down easily.”

“It’s not really selling you out if he misdirecting them, no? I just don’t know why he’d do it,” Khaled says, taking a seat on the old couch.

“I don’t know. He feels bad for me,” I say resentfully, repeating what he told me in the motel. “Obviously not enough,” I add spitefully.

“That doesn’t sound like James,” Sacha looks to Khaled.

“It doesn’t,” Khaled agrees.

I bite the inside of my cheek, not wanting to say anything that’ll anger Sacha and Khaled. For whatever reason, they seem to side with James.

“When should Abby and Iain be back?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

Sacha glances at the clock on the wall. “Anytime now. When I heard you knock, I thought it was them.”

I sit on the couch besides Khaled, defeated.

“I have some unfortunate news for you,” I say to Khaled and Sacha, launching into James’ revelation that Lana is the one behind the attacks and Guerilla. Both of them are surprised, confused and angry, but after a few minutes of back-and-forth, agree that it doesn’t change our situation much right now.

“Does the television still work?” I ask after I answer all their questions, nodding across the room towards the old set in a cabinet.

It does, and we spend the next hour or so watching the news coverage about me, and the crimes I’ve supposedly committed. We keep the television set quiet, so as not to arouse suspicion from any elderly neighbours. As time passes, and we watch news reporters show blurry shots of me and the rest of the team – no James, though – stating that we’re criminals, Sacha grows restless. She stands up from the couch and paces the room, glancing at the door every few seconds. Abby and Iain aren’t back yet.

“Stop pacing,” Khaled instructs, still looking at the television where a reporter is at a bus stop in Jersey City, talking about how this is where authorities last thought they saw me. James must’ve told them. I try to settle the fury sparking in my stomach.

“They should be back by now,” Sacha says, biting her lip. “Something’s happened to them.”

Khaled gestures towards the television. “We would’ve heard about it by now.”

“I’m not sure about that,” I say to Khaled. “In this situation the news will probably be the last to know.”

“We should go look for them,” Sacha states, reaching for her jacket. I immediately stand up from the couch.

“No,” I blurt out. “We can’t keep splitting up or eventually we’ll all be alone. Then probably arrested.” I don’t want to have to face this by myself.

Sacha glances at me, her brows furrowed, chewing on her thumbnail anxiously. “Fine. For now,” she adds, anxiety spilling into her voice. She looks over my shoulder to Khaled. “But if they’re not back by tonight, one of us is going out looking.”

Despite Sacha agreeing to wait it out, she’s still incredibly nervous. Eventually we convince her to take a nap, saying that we’ll wake her up if we hear anything or they return. She heads into one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind her.

“I’m worried about Abby and Iain,” I finally admit to Khaled, about a half hour into Sacha’s nap. He’s sitting at the small, oak kitchen table playing solitaire with a deck of cards he found in a drawer. Khaled looks up from his game as he flips over one of the cards.

“Me too,” He says.

I pause for a moment, almost scared to ask. “What are the chances Abby or Iain have ratted me out too?”

Khaled sighs, staring down at an ace of spades in his hands. “They wouldn’t do that. Not the type.”

I scoff. “I didn’t think James was the type of guy to sell me out either.”

Khaled shrugs. “He technically didn’t. You’re still here.”

Technically, he’s right, but the betrayal feels the same. “He left us.”

Khaled doesn’t reply, instead placing a few cards face up on the table. It’s quiet for a few moments. Snow starts to fall outside and the sky shows signs of dusk.

“If they aren’t back in an hour I’m going to go look for them,” I decide, watching as Khaled shuffles to start a new game.

“No, I’ll go,” Khaled contests. “You’re more wanted than me right now. If I get caught I have a better chance at making it out alive.” He says it like he’s simply talking through a solitaire strategy; unaffected and unemotional. “Besides, Sacha’s getting sick of me.”

“Can you blame her?” I joke, getting up from the floor where I’m sitting and taking a seat in the chair beside Khaled at the table. He looks up from his game with a small hint of humour in his eyes. Instantaneously, I feel a wave of guilt for everything that’s happened to him and the team over the past week. “I want to apologize…” I start abruptly as we make eye contact, but I can’t seem to finish my sentence, unable to find the words.

Khaled doesn’t ask what I’m sorry for. From the look on his face, I’m sure he knows what I mean. He just gives me a small smile and squeezes my hand.

“I know.”

Khaled and I sit quietly as the hour ticks by, and then we decide it’s time to go look for Abby and Iain. We wake up Sacha, and convince her Khaled is the best one to go looking for them. After she agrees, the two of us help him get ready. We pick out equipment to take and find a dusty jacket, jeans and a hat in the closet so he’s wearing unidentifiable clothing.

“If you can’t find them within the hour come right back,” Sacha says as we stand inside the door, Khaled about to leave. Khaled nods and puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Okay,” He says. “And don’t leave here unless you have to. I have no way to find you both if you leave the apartment. And neither does Abby and Iain.” We nod, agreeing. “Alright then. See you in a bit,” Khaled says, planting a quick kiss on Sacha’s cheek, then opening and closing the door behind him.

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Chapter 16

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It’s been two and a half hours, and Khaled hasn’t returned. It’s completely dark outside now and snowing heavily. I’m standing in the kitchen, watching Sacha in concern, who is sitting quietly on the couch. Besides the sound of boiling water, I’m making us tea, the apartment is quiet. We’ve turned all the lights off to avoid drawing attention to us, so I can only see Sacha’s face by the illumination of a candle we found.

“He’s not coming back,” Sacha says decidedly, as if to make it final. “He would’ve returned by now. And Abby and Iain…” she trails off, not completing her sentence.

“That doesn’t mean something terrible has happened to them,” I reason, pouring the hot water into a couple of mugs. The tea bags in the cups are old and virtually the only thing left in the kitchen cupboards, but at least it’s something. As I watch the water start to colour with the tea leaves, I realize that I’m not going to convince Sacha. I can’t even convince myself. I bring the mugs over and hand her one. She takes a small sip and scrunches her noise, clearly not enjoying the murky taste.

“I should’ve gone. Not Khaled,” Sacha says, placing the mug on the table. “I’m supposed to be the leader of the team when James isn’t here, which he usually isn’t, and now they’re all…” She shakes her head. “Anyways, I should’ve protected them from all this.”

“Khaled will be okay. You agreed he has the better tracking skills,” I reply. “And there was nothing you could do about what’s happened. How can you protect people from something you don’t even know is a threat?”

“You find out what the threat is. That’s the job.”

“Well then I’ve failed too. How many threats have I ignored over the past week? How many things have I missed?” I take a sip of the tea and want to spit it out. It tastes like bark. “I should’ve known James was going to sell me out the minute I saw him talking to Pollard back at the manor.”

Sacha shakes her head at me in disbelief. “I’ve known James for years. It makes no sense that he would do that.”

“Look where we are, Sacha,” I gesture to the empty apartment. “Nothing makes sense. You were hired by the DOD and now they’re calling for your head.”

She doesn’t say anything, taking another sip of her drink. “Let’s figure out what we’re going to do now that it’s just the two of us.” She says after a moment. “We have to take care of each other.”

The next morning, Sacha and I wait for one of the elderly neighbours to step out and we break into their apartment, trying not to leave a trace. We take just enough food to get us through, and find an old, dusty iPad their grandchildren probably gave them sitting in the bottom drawer of the tv stand. The laptops were in James’ bag, which he wouldn’t give to me. Sacha leaves a twenty dollar bill she had in their change bowl. Then, we spend the next few days searching for Jaclyn, Lana or the rest of the team but there’s no trace of them on the internet. None that we can find on an iPad anyway. Sacha and I take turns sleeping, though I can barely shut my eyes, my stomach in a knot of nerves. On the fifth day, after no sign from Abby, Iain or Khaled, we notice that there’s less and less news about us, on the internet and the television. Despite the fact that none of us have seemingly been caught, there hasn’t been an attack since North Dakota. It’s comforting to know that, maybe, there wouldn’t be any more.

Eight days in, we finish the food we collected from the first apartment and break into another one, taking a few cans of spaghetti and crackers. While we’re there, Sacha finds two unopened bottles of vodka. She stands up, holding them in her hand with a big smile on her face like she’s won a trophy. “I think we’ve earned it, no?”

That night, Sacha makes me turn off the television, which I’ve been keeping on twenty four hours a day. We sit, and talk, and drink, each of us with our own bottle. Sacha mentions that AGK makes it harder for us to get drunk, insisting we get to the bottom of our respective bottles.

“What are the chances everyone’s still alive?” Sacha asks once we’re halfway through our drinks, her eyes solemn but slightly clouded by alcohol.

“Low,” I respond, slurring a bit. “But not zero.” I watch as Sacha’s face turns solemn. “You’re like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re soft.”

“Soft?” Sacha scoffs at the word. “I don’t think many people would agree with you.”

“No?”

“Do I care about and trust the people I work with? Yes. Does that make me soft? Hell no.”

“That’s not what I was told,” I think back to the first day at Kingston. “To trust is to be fooled. To be trusted is to make a fool of someone else.” I repeat the words Chris told me when I told him my mom was dead and that I missed her, the day after I was recruited. He was always grandiose.

A giggle bubbles out of Sacha’s mouth, then she throws her head back, laughing loudly. I lean forward on the couch we’re both sitting on and clap my hand over her mouth, shushing her, but I’m half-laughing at her reaction. She stops when she realizes we’re supposed to be quiet.

“What kind of bullshit I that?” Sacha laughs quietly, clearly entertained at Chris’ words. “That’s some poetic crap. Who told you that? Shakespeare?”

“Mendoza,” I reply drunkenly, taking a swig from the bottle. It burns my throat on the way down.

“There’s nothing wrong with trusting people, Emilia. In fact I think it’s half the reason we’re survivors,” Sacha says. “I trust Khaled. Abby trusts Sri. The whole team trusts each other. And that includes you,” She points her bottle at me and the clear liquid slops around within it. I roll my eyes. “Do you think we’d have your back like this if we didn’t? I think it’s what makes our team work well together. We care enough about each other to not let anyone go down for anything. Well, except Jaclyn,” She adds the last part with an ironic laugh.

I lean back, resting my head on the couch’s arm, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t understand why you have my back.”

“We are in a precarious line of work,” Sacha says, tapping her long fingernails against the glass of the bottle. “You gotta trust the people in it with you.”

I prop myself up on my elbows and glare at Sacha. “How did that go for you? It hasn’t gone well for me.”

“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?” She replies indignantly. “Abby, Iain and Khaled didn’t betray you.”

“That we know of,” I say under my breath. Sacha grabs a pillow and throws it at my head. I duck and it soars over me, hitting the wall with a soft thump. When I look back at Sacha, she seems legitimately mad.

“They’ve risked everything to save your ass. You could be grateful.”

Her words give me pause. Abby and Khaled – even Iain – have been nothing but kind to me, though they’ve been through so much, and dealt with all the conflict and violence that I’ve caused. “You’re right,” I confess.

After a moment, the anger falls off her face and is replaced with a smile. “Good,” Sacha leans back on the couch and tucks her hair behind her ears. “You just have to find the right people to trust. Then they won’t make fools of you.”

I nod, half-way agreeing with her, though her sentiments are the opposite of what I was raised on.

“Screw Mendoza,” Sacha says, raising her bottle up. I clink mine against hers.

“And Jaclyn,” I add.

“And Lana.”

“And James,” The name slips out of my mouth without me really thinking about it. As I say it, my stomach tightens. I have thought about that moment at the truck at least once a day over the last week and a half. The more I think about it, the more I realize he didn’t really sell me out, so I can’t figure out why I’m so angry at him. The betrayal still feels real.

Sacha doesn’t say anything, taking a long sip from her bottle as she maintains eye contact with me. When she finishes, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You really believe he betrayed you?” She says the word betrayed like it’s an outrageous statement.

“Tell me when you find a better word,” I reply, taking a long drink from the bottle.

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The next day, I feel miraculously fine. A benefit of the AGK, I assume. The night with the vodka has broken the ice between me and Sacha because we spend the next few days talking endlessly. She tells me about how she was a Special Operative until she was recruited by Lana – the third one to join the team after James and Pavitra. When I asked her what convinced her to join the team at Sherwood, she simply said that she thought she’d have more impact there than in the military. Her parents are Polish, but have passed away, and she’s an only child. She shows me a few combat moves she’s taught the others over the years, and I learn them quickly. I tell her about what happened to my mom, the things I did for Mendoza, my entire past. As we talk, we watch the news and crawl the internet, looking for some ounce of news. With each day, I come to know the kind, fierce, loyal friend she is. The last time I even dared called someone a friend was Brianna, and even then, we never opened up to each other the way Sacha and I have, hiding away in our apartment.

“Getting cabin fever?” I ask Sacha one day, as I find her staring out the apartment window, her chin resting on her hand.

“Hm?” She turns her head to look at me. I’ve clearly pulled her out of some deep thought.

“It’s been a while since we’ve gone outside,” I say. “Are you going stir crazy?”

Sacha laughs, pulling her legs up onto the chair she’s sitting on and resting her head on her knees. “Yeah, I think so,” She says, looking out the window again. “Do you ever imagine what life would be like in one of these towns?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the team and I are always in some random town or city, on a job. Whenever we’d arrive somewhere, I’d wonder what life would be like if I grew up there. Like there,” Sacha points out the window towards an old diner across the way. “Would that have been my favourite place to eat? Would my high school best friend have worked there washing dishes to save money for college?”

“Why do you do that?” I ask, her thoughts reminding me of my own, of how I imagine what it would be like to have a normal life.

“It’s a temporary reprieve, I think,” Sacha shrugs. “Imagining it makes it easier to do the work. Like living two lives at once. I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything.”

“Would you want that normal life, if you could have it?”

Sacha laughs. “No,” she replies. “I’m an adrenaline junkie. I need the drama.” She winks at me. “Plus, I don’t think I’d be as good at doing anything else. Do you think about it? Getting out of this line of work?”

“Yes, I do,” I nod. “I wonder what it’s like to have a normal life. I think it’s what I want,” My mind drifts back to that conversation I had with James on the bus. I try to push it out of my head. “I never really had the option of having one.”

“Well if you had the option, would you take it?”

“It depends,” I ask. “What’s the cost?”

“No cost, in this theoretical situation.”

“There’s always a cost,” I reply.

Sacha studies me, as if trying to gauge what I mean. “Has everything in your life come at a cost?”

I nod. “Pretty much.”

Sacha tsks, then sighs, looking away from me out the window. “I think that’s sad.”

On day fourteen, Sacha wakes me up as I’m sleeping on the couch – it’s three a.m. and her turn to take the night shift. When I wake, her bright blue eyes are anxiously looking into mine. “There’s been an attack.”

“What happened?” I ask frantically, her words waking me up, and I look over her shoulder at the television. There, a reporter sits behind a news desk, a red banner on the bottom of the screen: Third Guerilla gas attack on Washington Senator: One dead. It feels like a rock has been dropped into my stomach and I sit up. Sacha increased the volume on the television.

“It has been confirmed that another gas attack has been made at the apartment of Senator Quinton in Washington. We have received reports that they have been killed. We’re going to Olivia Hampton who is at the scene.” The television shifts over to another reporter standing in front of an apartment building.

“Thanks, Gabriel,” The woman says, holding the microphone to her mouth. “You are correct, we have received confirmation Senator Quinton has been killed. There are also reports that this attack follows the same methodology of the previous Guerilla assaults, which we know are led by extremist leader Emilia Davis. The warrant is still out for Davis’ arrest, as well as for other members of the extremist group Khaled Faheem, Iain Brooks, Sacha Abrons and Abigail Kennedy.”

Sacha looks pointedly at me, and I glance away from the television and meet her gaze.

“It must be Lana and Jaclyn,” Sacha says.

“Must be,” I murmur, rubbing my eyes.

“This is good news. We have more information to go off of now.”

I nod. “You’re right.” I breathe out, trying not to let the anger I’m feeling consume me. “Let’s start looking.”

Over the next few hours, there’s hundreds of articles online about the attack and thousands of social media posts with spectator images, thoughts, opinions. Sacha and I comb through it. There’s fabricated photos of me, albeit blurry, at the scene. There’s other photos of dark figures near the apartment building last night, but they are too far away to make out. The news says it’s me, Abby, Sacha, Khaled, or Iain, but it’s obviously not Sacha or myself, and there’s no evidence that it’s the other three. Again, all evidence that the news is sharing points to me as the culprit.

After hours of searching, I take a break to shower. As I undress, I realize that my body hasn’t changed at all, even though it should have. I’ve only been eating half a can of cold canned pasta every day for two weeks. Though I’m hungry and my stomach rumbles multiple times a day, the AGK must be able to keep us strong. However, I do notice that my face has changed. I have deep circles under my eyes and I’m getting pale, the result of weeks of not seeing direct sunlight. We only have one bar of soap, and I use it sparingly, trying to use it on my body, face, and hair, desperate to try and wash the stress of today off me. Of course, it doesn’t work. Just as I’m stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around me, Sacha bursts through the bathroom door.

“Come!” She says, grabbing my wet arm and pulling me out of the bathroom. I almost slip against the tiles.

“What?” I ask as she drags me through the hall towards the living room. When I see what’s on the television, I stop in my tracks and my heart starts to beat quickly.

It’s James, being interviewed by a reporter at the scene of the accident.

“Turn it up,” I instruct Sacha, who does so, as I sit on the floor in front of the television.

“We have Captain Kennedy here from the Department of Defense, who is assisting the Washington Police Department with the investigation. Captain, can you tell us what you know?”

As James goes to speak, I take in the fact that he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. His hair is longer, and he’s started to grow a beard.

“Thanks, Maira,” James says. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me about this. At approximately 11:45 p.m. yesterday evening…” James launches into the details of the attack, all things that the media has been saying for hours.

“Why is he doing this interview if he has no new information?” Sacha asks, as James nears the end of his answer and the reporter goes to ask another question.

“Is there reason to believe that Guerilla and Emilia Davis are still active?” The reporter asks, shoving the microphone into James’ face.

“Absolutely, Maira,” James recounts all the reasons I am a suspect. “When she is captured, her – along with any members of Guerilla – will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” James looks into the camera. “You can trust me on that, Molly,” He realizes he’s slipped up. “My apologies, Maira.”

“No problem Captain Kennedy, I’m sure it has been a long night,” Maira says, not showing offense at the mispronunciation.

James nods at the camera, “Is this going on the Sunday news?” He asks Maira. Sacha and I look at each other in confusion; a weird question to ask on a live news broadcast.

“Uh, no, sir,” Maira replies, obviously thrown off and trying to maintain an air of professionalism on the camera. “This is live.”

“Right, right,” James says, flashing a smile to the reporter. “I’ll be seeing you then,” James shakes Maira’s hand before walking away.

“That was… odd,” Sacha says slowly, turning the volume back down on the television.

I barely hear her, because my brain is churning. So many things are out of place in that interview… context and things said that seemed irrelevant or incorrect. And his last words… “It was a message,” I almost shout, as soon as I realize it.

“What do you mean, it was a message?” Sacha inquires, turning off the television as it goes to commercial.

“He called the journalist Maira multiple times… then all a sudden switched to Molly when talking about trust.” Sacha cocks an eyebrow at me. “Molly was my name when I worked for Mendoza,” I continue. “And he said ‘I’ll be seeing you’.”

“How would that mean anything?”

“Back at the manor, before everything happened.. that song was playing when we were both in the library-,” I cut myself off, but Sacha’s quick to understand.

“So when he asked about what day it was going to air… you think that was him telling us to meet him somewhere?”

I nod. “Sunday, in the manor’s library.”

“It’s almost completely burnt down,” Sacha says. We looked that up on the iPad the first day we got it.

“Yeah, and it’s been searched and condemned. No one is going to go near that place,” I reply excitedly, the first thing we’ve been able to put together in weeks.

“So you’re saying we should trust James?” Sacha asks.

I shake my head. “Not particularly. But we haven’t had a lead in weeks. We should go see what he wants. He might know where the others are.”

Sacha nods. “I agree. We can’t sit here any longer,” She stands up off the floor. “I still trust him, you know,” she adds, looking at me as I stand up, still grasping the damp towel around me.

“Let’s see if he’s worth it,” I reply, heading into the bathroom to change.

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Two days later, Sacha and I are trekking through the snowy forest just outside the manor. We were able to clean out the apartment quickly and Sacha left an anonymous, encrypted note taped to the fridge in case Khaled, Abby or Iain were to return. Then we stole a car from a parking lot in Marietta. Somehow, we were able to drive from Pennsylvania back to upstate New York without being caught. When I remarked on the miracle of it all as we parked the car on a random side road a couple miles out from the manor, Sacha just said, with a sly smile, that we must be getting good on being on the run.

I spent the whole car ride thinking about the team. Wishing that Abby, Iain and Khaled are okay. Hoping that I wasn’t leading Sacha into a certain death by going back to the manor. Wondering if I should trust James at all. Sacha, on the other hand was steadfast and confident. She has no qualms walking back into the manor, and no shadow of a doubt of James’ intentions. I admired her tenacity and conviction. As we’re dredging through the forest, I watch as she walks, with no hesitations, toward the manor. It’s dark now, almost 10 p.m. on the Sunday night. We figured that it was the safest time to show up, cloaked in darkness. We didn’t dare drive the car up the driveway so we figured walking was the best solution.

I can see the manor now and the one wing of the building is completely burned down. The wing with the library is still standing, albeit barely. The fire department must’ve gotten to it on time. It’s so dark, a beast of a building illuminated only by moonlight. There are no cars in the driveway, and the garage is completely burnt to the ground. Either we’re alone or, like us, James has decided to come by himself.

“Are we sure about this?” I ask Sacha, stopping just at the treeline.

“I am,” Sacha says, turning to me. “Besides, it’s not like we can’t defend ourselves if it goes bad.” She pats her gun, which is saddled to her hip. Mine assumes the same position on my person.

I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Sacha and I start jogging towards the building, trying to get to cover as we cross the manor’s empty lawn. We get there without any shots fired. If we’re being watched by enemies, or if the manor is, they either didn’t see us or have been told not to engage.

We enter the manor through one of the back doors and Sacha coughs softly as we walk in. The smoke has dissipated, but it still smells strongly of fumes and burnt wood.

“Let’s clear it before we go to the library,” I say, and Sacha nods. Together, we make our way through the existing parts of the manor, ensuring it is empty. We don’t come across any people, and I realize the dead bodies would’ve been taken away. As we walk up the stairs to check the other floors, we’re careful where we step. I almost put my foot through a hole in the half-destroyed staircase. Eventually, we finish our sweep at the library door, which is closed.

“Open it,” I say to Sacha and we both cock our guns at the door, prepared to shoot in case we don’t like who we see. Sacha opens it, and the rotting door creaks open, barely hanging onto its hinges. I’m surprised to see three small candles lit within the room – and Iain, sitting on the couch. When he sees Sacha, his face lights up.

“Iain!” Sacha calls out, holstering her gun and running towards him. Iain stands up and envelopes her in a hug, a smile on his face that I’ve never seen on him before. He seems ecstatically relieved. They embrace for a few seconds, neither wanting to let go. As I watch them, I register a small pang of disappointment that it wasn’t James. I try to put the thought out of my head.

“I see the gangs back together,” A deep voice says from the hallway behind me and I turn around to find Khaled and Abby, smiling at me. I’m so relieved to see them that I let out a small cry and embrace them both.

“Oh, shush,” Khaled says to me, “We’re fine.” I nod and let go of them, and they come into the library. Khaled closes the door behind him.

“It’s good to see you,” Abby says, smiling at me. She reaches out and squeezes my hand.

“You too,” I say with a smile. I notice that Khaled and Sacha are hugging, though she gives him a swift knee to the groin after they release one another.

“You were supposed to come back,” Sacha says to Khaled, who looks slightly annoyed, but not hurt, that she hit him. “We thought you were all dead. Why didn’t you come back?” She looks to Abby, Khaled and Iain, demanding an answer.

“Because of what’s in the basement,” Iain says, pointing to the floor.

“Could you be more cryptic?” Sacha asks impatiently.

James? My mind inquires.

“It’s Jaclyn,” Abby says from behind me, perched on a half-burnt lounge chair. I spin around and look at her, shocked. Jaclyn?

“That’s where we all were. Finding her,” Khaled says, almost like we should’ve known.

“How?” I inquire. Wanting to ask the question beats my instinct to run into the basement where Jaclyn is and ask why she’s done this to us.

“In Marietta… when Abby and I went to go get food, James found us as we were on our way back and gave us a lead,” Iain says. “We left right away. He wouldn’t let us go back for you,” He looks to Sacha.

“And then he found me later that day and sent me to join them,” Khaled says.

Sacha runs her hand through her blonde hair. “How did he even know you were going to leave the apartment?” She asks Khaled.

“He didn’t,” Khaled replies. “He stuck around in Marietta waiting for the DOD to get there so he could take them to Jersey. But I noticed him there. He wasn’t hiding.”

“So you found Jaclyn, where? Washington?” I ask, wanting to get the conversation off James and onto the issue at hand. Khaled nods.

“Doesn’t the DOD know you have her? Is she not a criminal now?” Sacha asks.

Iain shakes his head. “Everyone at the DOD, except Pollard and James, still believes it was Emilia.”

“Pollard?” I ask.

“Him and James are the only good people left in that shithole,” Khaled says through his teeth. Sacha looks at me, as if waiting for my reaction to the confirmation that James didn’t really sell me out. It should be a feeling of relief, gratitude even. Instead, I feel frustration. Why didn’t he tell me?

“James sold me out in Marietta,” I blurt out, looking to Abby, who seems shocked at my outburst. “Why?” It comes out as more of an accusation than an inquiry.

Abby’s eyes glance over to Iain. “He didn’t sell you out,” Abby says slowly, as if defusing a bomb. “Lana threatened to kill our parents if he didn’t tell the DOD where you were. And if you recall, he actually led them away from you, which could’ve actually jeopardized everything.” It’s the first time since I’ve met Abby that she sounds angry. I immediately feel ashamed.

“Are they okay?” I say softly, barely able to look her in the eye

Abby nods. “James sent them to stay with our grandparents. They should be alright.”

“Where is James now?” Sacha inquires.

“He’s still employed by the DOD but he’s been back and forth between Albany and Washington. He’s been helping us track Jaclyn from the inside, which is how we were able to find her. But everyone except Pollard thinks he’s been looking for you,” Iain explains, nodding at me.

Khaled shifts his weight impatiently. “And now we talk to Jaclyn,” he says, making to move to leave the library.

“No, wait,” Sacha raises her hand to stop Khaled, bringing him to a halt by grabbing his shoulder. “We can’t go into an interrogation without a plan. We should figure out what information we need to know.”

“Why is the obvious question,” Iain says. “Why is she working for Lana, why are they committing these attacks?”

Abby nods in agreement. “And she needs to tell us where Lana is. James said no one has seen her for weeks. But she’s clearly still planning these attacks. I also want to know if Guerilla is even real.”

“And what’s the plan once we have all this information?” Sacha asks, and I can practically see the gears in her brain moving.

“We find Lana and get her to confess or we find enough evidence that James can take it to the DOD,” Abby says.

“That or we revenge-style murder them,” Khaled says, now almost charging towards the door. “Let’s do this.”

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Chapter 17

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It turns out that, even though the fire took the kitchen, it didn’t take out the weapons room, which is where the team has been the last few hours, waiting for Sacha and I’s arrival. In the dark, Abby has to lift up the debris so we can access the hidden staircase, but below the earth it doesn’t even look like the fire touched it. The room looks the same, with weapons and equipment everywhere, save for a few sleeping bags on the floor where the team must’ve been sleeping.

As we walk in, I’m surprised to see Sri sitting on the chair, in front of a closed door which I think leads to a supply closet.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say to Sri when she stands up to greet the group. Abby is already at her side. “Have you been here this whole time?” Despite looking a bit weathered, Sri looks uninjured.

“No, I crashed at a few friends’ house. I came back a couple days ago when I got a message from Abby,” Sri says, looking to her with a small smile. “I made sure this room wasn’t burnt to the ground and then once they got here, they needed help guarding the asshole behind the door.” Sri jerks her head back towards the closet.

“Open it up,” Khaled says impatiently, reaching around Sri to open the door with the handle. He yanks it open, almost pushing Abby and Sri aside, revealing Jaclyn tied to a chair in the closet. She looks up at us in annoyance and anger, but something shifts in her eyes when she notices me there.

“Miss me?” I ask dryly, registering a look of contempt in her dark eyes. She can’t say anything. Someone’s put duct tape over her mouth.

“Bring her out,” Iain says, and Khaled and Abby drag the chair Jaclyn’s sitting on out of the closet, so she’s sitting in the middle of the almost empty equipment room. Jaclyn’s black hair is matted, and there’s a bandage on the temple of her head, someone’s lazy attempt to repair an injury. She has AGK so I have no doubt she’ll be fine.

I’ve been told that no one has spoken to her at all since they got her and knocked her out in Washington. She just woke up about an hour ago. The team looks at me as if waiting for me to start, and I take the cue. I walk up to Jaclyn’s chair and lean down so I’m face to face with her, pressing my hands into her thighs, laying down all of my body weight. Jaclyn looks back at me, her face twisted in anger. In a swift motion, I rip the duct tape off her mouth and she yells out in frustration.

“Why did you kill the senators?” I demand immediately, not wanting to give her time to justify or make excuses. I can see in the reflection of her eyes that Sacha and Khaled have drawn their guns and aimed them at her, in case she tries anything. Though her hands are tied behind her back and her feet are secured to the chair legs, she probably still could.

“Why would I tell you?” Jaclyn replies defiantly.

I straighten myself out, releasing the pressure I put on her legs. I kick her in the chest and she starts to fall back, unable to brace for the crash since her hands are tied. Just before she hits the floor, I grab her shirt and pull her back up.

“Fine. Tell me about Lana,” I spit at her.

“No.”

Behind me, Khaled moves to approach us but I hold up one hand to tell him to stop. He does.

“When was the last time you heard from her?” I ask.

Jaclyn doesn’t say anything, but for the first time her eyes divert from my gaze. I take it as a cue.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it?” I ask, but it’s not a question. Again, she doesn’t answer. “I know. We know.”

Jaclyn looks at me, and I can see she’s wondering what we know. I can tell by her body language, she blinked twice when I said Lana’s name, that she’s not sure where Lana is.

“Where’s Lana, Sacha?” I ask loudly, not turning to ask her the question. Without hesitation, without me telling her the plan, Sacha lies perfectly. “She’s dead.”

“Who killed her, Khaled?” I ask, watching a flash of panic across Jaclyn’s face.

“Me,” Again, Khaled lies like we planned this.

“And did we get all her files, Abby?” I ask, tilting my head as I watch Jaclyn’s reaction.

“All of them,” Abby replies, as if rehearsed.

“How else do you think we knew where to find you?” I say, leaning closer to Jaclyn’s face. Her brow is now furrowed, thinking.

“You’re lying,” Jaclyn spits, but I can tell she doesn’t believe her own statement.

I laugh manically. “Why do you think it was so easy for us to grab you after the Washington attack? If Lana was alive she would’ve protected you.” I’m not sure exactly when Lana and Jaclyn lost contact, or why, but if there’s anything that will drive Jaclyn crazy it’s that Lana abandoned her. “She ditched you. Just like she ditched me. Just like she ditched the whole team. The minute you’re not useful to her is the minute you lose all your worth.” I practically spit the words in Jaclyn’s face. It’s silent for a moment as Jaclyn registers this. It’s almost pathetic to see the traitor we know her to be fall to the realization that the one person she sought validation from doesn’t care.

“I’ll ask again, Jaclyn. Why are you committing these attacks?”

Jaclyn seems to think, opening her mouth like she’s about to say something, but then she closes it again. After a second, she asks – “Can James get the DOD to protect me if I tell you? You’re still in contact with him, right?”

I straighten up and look back at Iain, where I can see just a small amount of surprise register on his face. Jaclyn must know James well enough that, even now when we don’t work for the DOD anymore, he would still protect us. I’m shocked at how fast Jaclyn will switch allegiances.

“He’s there right now,” I say it in a way as if to say ‘yes’ to her question. There’s no way the DOD will protect her, but that’s not my fault. It’s all I can do right now to get an answer from her. I hear a small beep as Abby hits record on a device, so that we have evidence of whatever Jaclyn is about to tell us.

“It’s the AGK,” Jaclyn says, blurting it out as if she’s been holding that sentence in her whole life. “Lana’s been selling it overseas to weapon manufacturers. She worked with some people, including Senator McCormick, to try to sell it to an arms dealer in the Czech Republic. But some officials in the EU find out and everything began to fall apart,” Jaclyn breathes in, thinking. “Somehow some other senators started to put it together. Bailey was first, and Lana needed to shut it down before too many people realized it was her. So she had the senators killed.”

I try to keep a neutral look on my face as I take this all in, not wanting to give away exactly what I didn’t know. Though truthfully, I’m shocked.

“Lana needed someone else to blame for all this because she said she wouldn’t let me go down for it. She respected me,” Jaclyn says the last part arrogantly. I wonder if it makes her feel better. “Then she found out the DOD was already looking into that Mendoza guy, and I guess she researched you and figured you’d be the perfect person to blame this all on. And then she sent the DOD and James to arrest you, since they wanted you already for intel on Mendoza. Lana’s a skilled manipulator. She’s brilliant,” Her twisted adoration for Lana is apparent. Jaclyn ends her long winded story with an air of defeat, like she’s been holding in a secret that was eating her from the inside out.

“So, this Guerilla group. It’s not real?” Iain asks.

“No,” Jaclyn replies. “Just a made up name to try to scare the public and government. It’s just a front.”

“Why did you help her?” Sacha inquires urgently, speaking up from behind me like she’s been wanting to ask the question for months.

Jaclyn glances at Sacha, who looks visibly irrate. It’s hard to imagine that these two were colleagues, probably friends, for years. Sacha must feel so betrayed.

“I didn’t know I was doing it,” Jaclyn says.

“What do you mean, you didn’t know?” I ask.

“The first attack. The one a couple months ago, in Colorado, I thought it was a sanctioned mission from the DOD,” Jaclyn answers. “Lana tricked me.”

“You thought Lana and Pollard sent you on a one-person trip to Colorado to kill a senator?” Sacha asks sceptically, not buying it.

“I didn’t even know it was a senator’s house. I was told it was sanctioned. All the information I got was from Lana,” Jaclyn says, desperately trying to justify herself.

“Well that’s ignorant of you,” Iain snarks. I get the feeling that Jaclyn was the type of operative to do what she was told, no questions asked. It certainly backfired on her this time.

“Wait, was this the weekend that the rest of us were on that job in the city for the NSA?” Khaled asks, and I can see him putting it together. “Lana said she only needed a few of us. James and Pavitra didn’t even come, they were back on base.” It’s quiet for a moment as everyone seems to silently agree.

“But you did it again. Willingly,” I say forcefully, since it sounds like Jaclyn’s trying to absolve herself of blame.

“Lana blackmailed me. She said that if I told anyone that she’d give them the evidence of me doing the first attack, and say she had nothing to do with it. It was my word against hers.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sacha asks angrily.

“I did. I told Pavitra. Look how that turned out.”

“Of course you told the dead woman,” I scoff. “The one person we can’t verify this with.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Iain says. “Blackmailed or not, you still did it. You had a choice.”

“Well, you’ve been protecting her,” Jaclyn nods towards me. “She’s done terrible things. She had a choice.”

I feel sick to my stomach, because Jaclyn’s right. Like her, I’ve been put into impossible situations in my life where I had some semblance of choice, despite the fact that choosing one path – saying no to Mendoza, not going with Jen all those years ago – would’ve been devastating… I still could have made the better choice. The choice that would’ve made me a better person, even if it resulted in my demise.

I look to the team, expecting them to be thinking along the same lines of me. But they just seem angry.

“Emilia didn’t take us down with her,” Khaled replies.

Jaclyn scoffs. “I would’ve liked to see what you’d have done. If it was you Lana did this to.”

“She never would’ve asked us. Lana probably knew you were a snake from day one,” Iain replies. “You were always only looking out for yourself.”

“Just make sure you tell the DOD that I was blackmailed into this,” Jaclyn replies, ignoring Iain, looking to me as if to call James up to get the DOD to absolve her right now.

No one answers, not wanting to lie again. I change the subject.

“Where was the last place you saw Lana?”

“Why does that matter?” Jaclyn shakes her head, annoyed.

“We need to know,” I say.

Almost immediately, she seems to realize we lied. He facial expression changes from a look of defeat to a look of anger. “Shit,” Jaclyn says under her breath, glaring at me. “Well you better find her before she finds out you’re all alive and together, or else you’re all dead.” She doesn’t say it like a threat. More like it’s a matter of fact.

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It takes a few more hours of interrogating Jaclyn before she finally tells us where she last saw Lana. The Hilton Hotel in D.C., the evening before Jaclyn committed the attack. Khaled ended up having to stab her in the foot in order to get her to tell us. I didn’t like having to do it, but it was necessary. After she told us, Jaclyn looked down at the floor, teary-eyed and watching the blood spill out of the wound on her foot. She hasn’t made a sound since.

I’m watching Sacha reluctantly bandage Jaclyn’s foot when Abby comes in from the other room. Her burner phone, one of a few James had recently gotten for them, rang five or so minutes ago.

“Emilia?” Abby says, pulling my attention away from Jaclyn. “James wants to talk to you.” She holds out the phone. I look at it, not knowing if I should pick it up. I don’t move to take it from her, unsure of what I’d say. Abby blinks at me impatiently. “He only has a few minutes left before he has to report back to the DOD,” She pauses to see if I take it, then urgently adds. “So you better pick it up.”

I clumsily take the phone and walk to the adjoining room, closing the door between me and the rest of the team. I put the phone up to my ear.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” James voice comes through the phone, and I immediately feel an unexpected sense of relief wash over me. “I don’t have a lot of time but I wanted to talk to you-,”

“How are your parents?” I ask hastily, cutting him off.

James stutters, startled by the question. “They’re fine, but you do know that’s why-,”

“I want to say something,” I cut him off again, anxious to get this out. “I wouldn’t have yelled at you and said the things I did if I’d known that’s why.” I pause for a moment. “You should’ve told me.”

“If I stayed with you I couldn’t protect my parents, and if I brought you with me I put all of us in danger. I did what I did because it was the most likely way both you and my family made it out alive,” James says in frustration. “I won’t apologize for that.”

“I don’t want you to,” I stutter. “I’m the one apologizing.”

“You don’t need to. You didn’t know. I don’t blame you for being doubtful,” he says. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Right.”

“Abby says you have Jaclyn and can start tracking Lana now.”

“Yes.”

“Try and keep me in the loop as much as you can. When you find Lana, I’ll see if I can get away from here and help.”

“Okay,” I say, though I know he just told Abby this. I heard it through the walls. I wonder why he’s repeating it to me.

“I spoke with Pollard and the confession from Jaclyn won’t be enough. We need Lana too. So we can’t screw this up. And the DOD has orders to execute you if they find you.”

“I know,” I reply, clearing my throat. “But even if I get Lana and Jaclyn to confess, I’m still going to go to jail for everything I’ve done, both with Lana and Mendoza. There’s no way the DOD is going to hold up the deal Lana and Pollard made for me. If I come out of this alive, I’m going to jail.”

“I’ll get you a pardon,” James says confidently, as if it’s already done.

“There’s no way I would get one.”

“Then we leave.”

“Leave?”

“Well, I’m about done with this DOD place and it’s bullshit. This situation with you has just made me realize it,” James says, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “And so has the rest of the team. We’d leave.”

“And go where? And make everyone fugitives for the rest of their lives?”

“Does it matter? Is it really all that different than how we’ve been living now?”

I pause, considering his proposition. He’s not wrong, though I don’t want to ask anyone to sacrifice anything more for me. But I know James won’t take no for an answer here. Besides, it’ll be me who has to make the call, when it comes down to it. I’ll always have the option of leaving by myself. “Okay,” I say, just to end the back and forth. I know he doesn’t have much time.

“Good,” James replies, and then a moment passes in silence. “You know, I was worried you wouldn’t pick up on my message to you,” He says, referring to the news interview.

“It wasn’t that slick,” I say sarcastically, almost laughing. “Why would you think I wouldn’t pick that up?”

“The song. I didn’t know if you’d remember what was playing.”

“Of course I remember,” I reply quietly. “It’s a good song.”

“Well just promise you’ll stay alive long enough that we can dance to it again.” I feel my face grow hot as he says the words. They surprise me.

“Why, so you can run out of the room and leave me standing there alone again?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my voice. I almost regret it, but I hear him laugh softly through the phone.

“No,” James replies almost immediately. “If you let me, I don’t think I’d leave you again.” I’m about to answer him when there’s a loud sound on the other end of the phone, like a door hitting a wall after being thrown open. “I have to go,” he says urgently. “I’ll be seeing you.” And then he hangs up the phone.

I stare at the phone, trying to comes to terms with the conversation we just had. The comfort I felt just speaking to him through the phone all but confirmed what I haven’t even admitted to myself is true. That I was mad at James not because he sold me out – he didn’t – but because he left me. I was angry because I didn’t want him to leave me. Despite the fact that he’s had no reason to trust me, James has been there for me since before we even met. He introduced me to Sacha, Abby, Iain and Khaled, who, despite not knowing them for long, I feel an instinctive bond with. The fact that he even thought I was worthy of working with them, these selfless people that have risked everything to help me, makes me feel a deep sense of gratitude. I should’ve known from that moment in the library, when we danced and the whole world fell away, that I could trust him. I promise to myself now that I won’t ever doubt James again. I owe him that.

Sacha comes in the room, interrupting my train of thought and shutting the door quietly behind her. She wipes off a bit of Jaclyn’s blood that’s stained onto her hands on her pants.

“All good?” She asks, perhaps noting the emotion on my face.

I nod. “You were right. He didn’t betray us,” I admit.

“I knew that,” Sacha says with a smirk. “The team wants to talk to you,” She adds.

I follow Sacha back into the equipment room, just in time to catch Khaled and Iain putting Jaclyn back into the closet. They close the door and Iain stands in front of it, guarding in case she were to get out.

“What’s up?” I say to the team, passing the cell phone back to Abby, who is on her laptop, with a nod of thanks.

“We think we know where Lana is hiding out,” Iain says, who is sitting backwards on a chair, resting his forearms on the back rest. “A loft just outside of downtown Washington. It’s leased under a fake name, one that Lana’s used before. Not far from the Hilton Hotel.”

“Okay,” I nod, a feeling of excitement grow in my stomach. We’re one step closer to ending this. The room falls quiet as I wait for someone to say something. “So, what’s the plan?”

“That’s up to you, boss,” Khaled says, leaning back against the closet doors and crossing his thick arms over his chest, looking at me. “Lana’s screwed you over the most.”

“You should be the one to make the plan,” Abby says from the bench, shutting the cover of her laptop and looking at me. I look to Sacha and Iain, who both nod.

For the first time in my life, I stand with almost complete agency in my life. I am no longer bound by the illusion of a choice, a life where a decision or path is not predetermined by horrific consequences. I am no longer alone, a single person working against the beast that was Mendoza or the system that is the DOD. I have a team of people who are willing to help me. It’s freeing.

“Okay. Here’s what I’m thinking,” I begin.

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Chapter 18

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The next morning, Iain wakes me up from a dead sleep.

“It’s your turn to guard the door,” he says in a hushed voice, crouched down beside me, his arms resting on his bent legs.

“Okay,” I whisper back, throwing the sleeping bag off me and standing up. “What time is it?”

“Four a.m.,” Iain replies, straightening up and rubbing his eyes. “We should give them a couple more hours of sleep before we leave. But we need to get out of here before the sun rises.”

I nod, agreeing. “I’ll wake you up. Thanks again for letting me use your sleeping bag.”

Iain looks intently at me, and I wonder if he’s going to say something. He doesn’t, so I move to go towards the closet to guard it.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” Iain asks, almost so quickly I don’t hear it.

I turn around to face him. “Yeah, I think so,” I reply, knowing he’s talking about the plan we devised hours earlier.

“You need to be certain,” He says, his voice raising from a whisper and hinting towards aggression. I knew Iain never particularly liked or trusted me, and it was clear in his face right now.

“Come,” I say, leading him into the adjacent room. I close the door just a bit, enough so that I can still see the closet where Jaclyn sits, but enough that we hopefully won’t wake anyone up.

“I’m as certain as I can be,” I offer to Iain once it’s safe to, keeping my voice low. I pause, then add. “You don’t need to come, if you don’t want to. I’m sure we can find a way to get you somewhere safe, with new identification.”

Now, anger truly flashes across his face, followed by offense. “No, I’m coming,” Iain says assuredly. “Just not for you.”

“Okay,” I reply slowly, unsure of what he means. Iain looks back at me, as if waiting for me to understand.

“I mean that if it comes down to them,” He nods towards the team, sleeping on the ground, “or you, I’m picking them.”

“We’re on the same page then,” I reply.

“I mean it literally,” Iain says, his brows creasing as he awaits my reply.

I realize now that he means that, in a choice of who gets to live, he’d choose me to die. It’s what I expect, but I still feel a pang of hurt in my chest.

“They’ve never done anything wrong,” Iain continues. “They are in this situation because they covered for you. None of them had to.”

“I know.”

“So I’m asking you… if we get into a situation where, by going to jail, or.. or dying, or whatever it might be – if that saves them… if it absolves them… will you do it?”

I’m surprised by Iain, but not at the question, which is one I’ve already asked and answered myself. I’m stunned at his earnestness, his clear purpose to keep those he loves alive.

“Yes,” I reply. “I will.” As I say it, a wave of guilt crashes over me – not because I’m lying to Iain, but because of James. He asked me to stay alive, and I’ll try to, but if Iain’s anxiety is any indication, that might not be a likely outcome. I feel like the last conversation I had with James, I had my fingers crossed behind my back.

Iain studies me, searching my face to see if I’m genuine. I am. After a moment, he nods stoically, the emotion now gone. Then, he walks out of the room, going back to the sleeping bag. I follow, assuming my position at the door, guarding Jaclyn.

Iain seems to fall asleep quickly, and for the next couple of hours I enjoy the peace. Abby and Sri are sleeping side by side, their hands inches apart; they must’ve been holding hands. Khaled and Sacha are on the floor at the other end of the room, Sacha’s head at Khaleds’ feet. They all breathe deeply and rhythmically, Iain snoring quietly. Despite the anxieties of tomorrow, my worry for wherever James is, and the guilt I feel for numerous reasons, I know this is the calm before the storm. I’m not sure where I’ll be able to sit in silence again, when and if I do. The only thing that invigorates me is that Lana is going to get what she deserves.

A couple hours later, everyone is awake and getting ready. We give Jaclyn some water and a granola bar, and she complains that she’s been locked in the closet for the better part of 24 hours. I would feel bad except she doesn’t seem to want to take any responsibility for what she’s done.

We’re going to leave the manor before daylight, just in case anyone is watching. Sri’s car is a couple miles away, so we’ll walk to it then drive it to a rental shop, where Abby has rented two vehicles in fake names. After that, we head to Washington, to the loft where Lana will hopefully still be hiding. Abby and Sri are going to stay in a motel to run intel and surveillance, and Sacha, Khaled, Iain and I will go to the apartment building with Jaclyn. We’re going through the plan in detail when Abby’s phone rings.

“One sec,” She says, holding up a finger to stop me as I tell everyone the plan again. Abby raises her phone to her ear. “Hey.”

I hear James’ voice on the other end of the line, and I’m thankful that whoever interrupted our call hadn’t harmed him. He speaks quickly, asking if there’s been another update.

“We’re going to D.C. We’re leaving soon,” Abby replies. “Supposedly Lana’s there.”

“Okay,” I hear James reply, muffled through the phone. “I’ll try to be there for tomorrow. Pollard might be able to spin a story that we’re tracking Emilia there.”

Technically, I will be there, I think, but don’t bother saying it out loud.

Abby gives him the address to the motel they’ve got a room at, telling him to meet them there if he can.

“Okay, if I call make sure you pick up,” He demands, and Abby agrees. “Talk to you soon. And tell everyone I miss them. It’s going to be okay.” And with that, he hangs up.

“When did James get so sentimental?” Khaled chuckles, packing up his sleeping bag and putting it into a backpack.

Sacha rolls her eyes. “C’mon, Khaled,” she says, shooting him a small smile. “He’s always been that way. Remember when we were in Arkansas last year and he got so drunk when we were doing karaoke in that bar, he sang a love song to Iain?”

The team bursts out in laughter. “Oh my god,” Abby’s bent over in a laughing fit, “He was so bad. What song was it again?”

“It was an old one… wasn’t it like L is for the way you look at me… O is for something something something…,” Sri chimes in, a grin on her face. “Remember, you thought it was so funny, you played it for me when you got back.” She laughs, looking to Abby.

Khaled’s bent over laughing, a goofy grin slapped across his face. “Yeah it was that Nat King Cole song.” His booming chuckle seemingly makes Iain, Sacha, Abby and Sri laugh louder.

“He was so embarrassed the next morning,” Sacha adds. “We didn’t let him live it down for months.”

“I know,” Iain chuckles, breaking his stoic exterior. “I don’t think we’ve seen him that drunk since, what, St Patrick’s in 2018?”

“Don’t get me started on that,” Sacha says, pointing at Iain as if to reprimand him, but she’s amused. “You would’ve loved it Emilia, we -,” Sacha launches into a story about how, after a job in Chicago, they stopped by a pub to wait out the parade and James ended up winning a drinking contest.

I can’t focus on her story much, though, because I’m so taken aback by the pure joy on their faces. Despite everything that’s happened, what’s going to happen, and that an ex-colleague, now adversary, is still stuffed in the closet, they look so happy. I knew they cared for one another, but here, now, is when I realize that they are truly a family. How each of them play an integral role in keeping the others alive. I feel like such an imposter in this moment, a burden who showed up out of nowhere and changed everyone’s lives for the worse.

“Emilia?” Khaled asks mid-laugh, snapping me out of my thoughts. The team has turned to look at me, their laughter dying out slowly, though a couple of them still have half a smile etched on their face. “You okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. Sacha tilts her head, silently asking what’s wrong. I ignore her. “We should go,” I tell the team, who all nod and finish their preparations.

Ten minutes later, we’re in Sri’s van, one of the large white, catering ones, with Khaled driving. Jaclyn is in the back, her feet and hands still bound. Sacha is sitting with her, her gun aimed at Jaclyn. We drive for a half hour, until we reach a rental place in a small roadside town, where we park across the street. Sri and Abby go in to get the keys to the cars they rented for us. They get everything without a problem, proving Abby’s technical prowess, and we split up into two cars. Me, Jaclyn, Sacha, Khaled and Iain in one, and Sri and Abby in another.

“Remember,” I say to Abby, watching as she and Sri load up into their car. “If anything goes wrong, if we lose contact, go to RFK stadium. If we’re not there by 10 p.m., you leave.”

“Got it,” Abby says, shutting her door then rolling down the window. Sri sits in the driver’s seat. I look to her, smiling gratefully.453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ288re5p0F1
“I owe you, Sri,” I say. Out of everyone, she has the least to gain from helping us with this. It’s a testament to how much she loves Abby. Sri winks at me and they drive away, speeding down the road. I turn and clamber into our car, sitting in the back seat with Sacha and Jaclyn. Jaclyn sits in the middle, looking disgruntled and annoyed, with duct tape over her mouth. It’s a good thing it’s barely 7 a.m. and we have tinted windows, so that no one could see her.

“Ready?” Khaled calls from the front, putting the car into gear.

“Let’s go,” Iain says from the passenger seat. “Make sure you take the I-81, because Sri’s taking the I-87.” We had carefully picked out routes to D.C., making sure that no one could connect the two cars. Abby and Sri used two different names, with different trip manifests, to rent the vehicles, just in case. We take off, coasting down the road.

It’s a long, seven hour car ride. At the four-hour mark we stop to use a diner’s washroom, keeping our heads low, but it’s only staffed by a lone gentleman in his early sixties. Jaclyn spends most of the time glaring at me, and every once in a while grunts in annoyance or frustration.

Eventually we arrive in D.C., without any issues. It’s almost worrisome. A voice inside me says that something should’ve gone wrong. Iain, who switched off with Khaled a few hours ago, is now in the driver’s seat, and he puts the car into park in a grocery store lot just across the road from the loft we think Lana is in. It’s mid-afternoon now, so it’s busy outside, which is what we were hoping for.

“Does everyone remember the plan?” I ask. The team nods. God knows we’ve gone over it enough times. Jaclyn, still sitting in between me and Sacha, grunts. I’m sure she wants to know what’s happening.

“Should we tell her now?” Sacha asks.

“Not yet,” I reply. “Let’s make sure Abby and Sri are situated.”

Iain rummages through his bag and pulls out the phone. “I’ll call them.” He opens the door and walks a bit away from the car, far enough that Jaclyn shouldn’t be able to hear.

Jaclyn grunts again, this time louder. She stares at me in anger.

“She’s been making this noise for seven hours. Jesus,” Khaled complains, reaching back from the front of the car and ripping the duct tape off Jaclyn’s mouth. “Just say what you want to say.”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHNo43bs3oU
I look disapprovingly at Khaled, but figure she can’t do much harm since she’s still tied up and Sacha and I are both armed.

Jaclyn licks her dry, cracked lips. “What is this plan of yours? Going to kill me?”

None of us reply, too smart to give her an answer either way. It’s best that she remain in the dark on any aspect of our plan.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Jaclyn says indignantly. “But I think you’re forgetting that me and Lana have worked with you all for a long time. She’ll be five steps ahead of you.” Jaclyn looks pointedly at Sacha and Khaled.

“I don’t think you’d be tied up with two-inch nylon rope if she was,” Khaled replies.

“If I were you guys, I wouldn’t even bother trying to fix any of this shit,” Jaclyn glares at me. “You’re just as far down the rabbit hole as me. Even if we get James’ help, we’re all going to jail for at least ten years. And that’s the best case scenario.”

“You don’t know anything,” Sacha retorts, though Jaclyn isn’t entirely wrong, at least not for me.

The whole car ride to Washington, I kept thinking back to Iain and I’s conversation. To what I spoke about with James. No matter how I think about it, how much I strategize, I don’t see myself getting out of this one. But, if the plan I’ve crafted goes perfectly, with the one or two details I’ve kept from everyone else, I can help the rest of the team.

“If we leave now, we can all go our own separate ways. Go into hiding,” Jaclyn says. I realize that she’s in the bargaining phase, trying to construct a way out of this. “I have money hidden. We could use it and -,”

“Oh, shut up,” Khaled says, slapping the piece of tape back over Jaclyn’s mouth. She exclaims under the duct tape in frustration, like a petulant child.

A couple seconds later, Iain gets back into the car, and shows us the cell phone where he’s typed out a message so that Jaclyn couldn’t hear. Abby and Sri at motel. James on his way from Albany. His intel confirmed that Lana has been renting unit 607 in the building.

Khaled, Sacha and I nod, and Iain deletes the message. “Ready?” Iain asks.

We get out of the car, and I shut the door. I’m starting to feel anxious; this won’t be a normal job. I won’t have someone in Kingston or Abby in my ear feeding my intelligence. And my objective is different than everyone else’s. They just don’t know it yet. Sacha rolls down the window and looks up at me. “Good luck. See you in twenty.” She reaches her hand out the window and I give it a tight squeeze. As I walk away towards the apartment building, covering my face with a thick winter scarf, I look back and nod at Khaled.

I’m going to go in first and ambush Lana, alone. She doesn’t know I’m with the others, and the element of surprise might benefit us there. I walk across the road, keeping my face tilted down. There’s a lot of people walking on the street, which means people are less likely to notice me at all.

I enter the building, an upscale apartment complex with marble floors and silver embellishments. Even in hiding, Lana is in luxury. I know I won’t be able to take the elevator without a fob key, so I find the stairs and start climbing. Each step I climb, my heartbeat gets faster and faster. Though I’m angry at Jaclyn, and she was the one with the bloody hands who forced me into the situation I’m in now, it was Lana who is really to blame. By the time I’m on the sixth floor, an indescribable rage is burning in my chest.

I draw my gun as I approach the door with the number 607 engraved into the white wood. I make sure the hallway is empty, then draw my gun, pointing it at the door. I use my foot and kick at the door three times. I wait, and then a few moments later the door opens.

“Hey, Molly.”

It’s Chris.

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Chapter 19

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“Well, come on in,” Chris says, stepping aside as if to make way for me to enter the apartment. My gun is still pointed at his face, though my hands sweat at the sight of him.

“I thought you were in prison,” It’s all I can say, and my voice is frail, and small. Something I always felt around Mendoza.

Chris tsks, his eyes full of something playful and malicious. “Isn’t that where you are supposed to be too? You’re not the only one who can work the system,” He laughs at my ignorance. “Oh, well, come on in,” He grabs my shoulder tightly, the one I was shot in, and pulls me into the room. Though the AGK has mostly healed it, it’s still sore, and the way he pressed into the wound makes me drop the gun. He pushes me against the wall, and bends down to pick it up.

“You won’t need this,” Chris says, putting it in the waistband of his pants.

The initial shock of seeing Chris has started to fade, and I will my mind to clear. As it does, I’m left with only crazed emotions and all I want to do is hit him. So I do. My punch lands perfectly on his jaw, but he seems to absolve the force of the blow. He raises his hand and rubs where I hit him with the edge of his thumb.

“Well, the AGK definitely worked on you,” He says. “Much stronger than you were before.”

“Yeah,” I reply, sticking out my chin. “I am.”

“Me too,” Chris retorts with a grin. From his tone, I know he’s taken AGK too.

“Since when?”

“A while.”

I study him, taking in his appearance. Chris was always a large man with a lot of muscle. I thought that it was a consequence of the line of work he was in. But he looks the same now as he did when we first met, which means he must’ve taken AGK years ago. Chris stares back at me.

“You’ve been quite busy since we last saw each other,” He says casually, like we’re talking about the grocery list over afternoon tea.

“Not of my own volition.”

“Maybe not entirely,” Chris says, his voice low. “Though you did agree to sell me out.”

“Didn’t do much good,” I reply. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’re not in a prison.”

“Well that’s not thanks to you. That’s because of her,” Chris points across the room and I follow his hand to the living room floor of the apartment, where a body lays on the ground, covered by a blanket. I look back to Chris, who lets me go, and I apprehensively cross the apartment to the body, careful not to step in the puddle of blood. One of the arms isn’t covered up completely, and I can see bruise marks around the wrist. Then I lift up the blanket so I can see the face. It’s Lana.

“Oh my god,” I exclaim, almost gagging. From the look and smell, she’s been dead for a while. My first thought is that we’re all screwed. If Lana is dead, we can’t get her to admit anything. I feel sick.

I stand up and look to Chris. “You did this, I assume?”

“I’m not saying anything. You’re recording this, aren’t you?”

Chris is right. There’s a recording device in my back pocket, courtesy of Abby. But by his tone, I know he did it. The frustration I feel is like a balloon in my chest, about to burst. In the course of a few minutes, everything has been ruined. The team’s plan, mine. Without Lana, we’re back to square one. I feel like I’ve missed a step going down the stairs and my entire world has come up from under me.

“Give me it,” Chris says, putting his hand out so I can give him the recording device. I don’t move. “Now,” He adds, pulling the gun and pointing it at me. I know he’ll kill me if he wants to, so I reach into my pocket and hand it over. He takes it and crushes it in his hand, rendering it useless.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” Chris says, walking up to me. I take a step back, wanting to put space in between us. “I figured you’d come for Lana after what we did to you.”

“We?” I ask, feeling completely lost.

“Lana and I were business partners. Well, maybe not partners. We worked together to sell AGK. It’s always good to have one person on the outside and one on the inside,” Chris smiles menacingly, winking like he’s telling me a juicy secret. My mind starts to unfurl. Lana and Chris knew each other this whole time? “Anyways, I’m not going to explain it all to you. I’m almost done cleaning up everyone who knows.”

I nod slowly, piecing everything together as much as I can. “So they’re all gone then? Everyone from Kingston.”

“I just said I’m not going to explain it to you.”

I know that, but I’m stalling, hoping someone – Sacha, Iain, Khaled – will arrive.

“What are you waiting for then?” I ask. “You were ready to kill me in that gas station bathroom. Go ahead and finish the job.”

“I will,” Chris says, his hand tapping impatiently on his gun. “But I need you to tell me where Jaclyn is.”

“Jaclyn?” I shrug. “Haven’t seen her.”

“That’s what she said too,” He says, pointing Lana’s body with the shaft of his gun. I wonder if Jaclyn will feel reassured that Lana didn’t sell her out. She was just dead and couldn’t protect her. “But I think one of you two ought to know.”

“I’ve been in hiding since North Dakota,” I reply. “I just got to Washington. I haven’t seen her.”

Chris studies me, to see if I’m lying.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Molly,” His use of my old name is like a weapon. “You think I don’t know when you’re lying?” He scratches at his eye impatiently. “You haven’t been alone since Fargo. Someone’s been protecting you. Who, the other Sherwood operatives?”

“No matter what I say, you’re going to kill me, Chris. Why would I bother telling you?”

“So that’s a yes, then.”

“No,” I reply, anxious that he’s reading me like an open book. How can he not? Everything I know I learned from him. Now, I dread the moment Sacha, Iain and Khaled will arrive, with Jaclyn in tow. Our plan was to surprise Lana with Jaclyn in our possession, hopefully getting a confession out of her with enough threats on the one or both of them. That’s all out the window now. Now, the moment they show up Chris will kill me and Jaclyn, and probably the others too.

“Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” I ask, trying to buy myself some time to come up with an idea. Do I try to fight him right now? I don’t think I’ll win that fight, especially without a gun. The apartment we’re in is pretty much empty except for some white leather furniture. There’s nothing I could use effectively as a weapon. “Did you know Senator McCormick?”

Chris laughs. “I really thought you were smarter than this. I thought you would’ve put it together.”

Again, I feel small, like a child being told off by an adult for misbehaving. I start to rack my brain. What is he referencing? What should I have put together?

“You tell me something and I’ll tell you something about Jaclyn,” I say, now bargaining.

Chris tilts his head and looks at me, sizing me up. He sighs, then seems to agree to play my game, even if just out of boredom. “Fine. You first.”

“Jaclyn’s alive,” I offer first, a small piece of obvious information.

Chris looks exasperated at the information I offer up, but he still says, “It was Lana and I who sent you to the Belmara,” He says it as if to say ‘gotcha’. Another effective psychological weapon, because I wasn’t expecting it.“McCormick was our connection to the Czechs. We needed evidence to frame him once the EU found out about the sale,” Chris pauses. “Where is Jaclyn?”

“She’s with Abigail Kennedy,” I lie. “So you and Lana were both working different sides of the government to sell it then?”

“Yes,” He replies shortly. “Is it just this Abigail?”

“She’s the only one who has been in contact with me,” I say. “Why’d you kill everyone at Kingston?”

“Where is Abigail?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Chris is exasperated, and his face is growing red, the colour I know it does before he loses his shit. It’s been almost twenty minutes, and I know the others are coming, so I reposition myself so I can see out the windows out of the apartment, hoping that I’ll see the team before Chris does so I can signal to them not to come in.

“The plan was always for me and some select Kingston operatives to go to Sherwood, once Sherwood was in good enough with the DOD. But the bitch,” I can tell he’s talking about Lana, “Double-crossed me and starting giving out information about my operatives, and me, to the bastards at the DOD.” He laughs humourlessly. “So I disposed of them.”

I shake my head, feeling sick at his use of the word ‘dispose’. “You’re a psycho,” I say, spitting the words.

“Awh, Molly,” Chris says, condescending me. “You knew what business you were in. Where is this Kennedy girl?”

“Just outside of Washington,” I reply.

Chris pauses and looks at me intensely. I wonder if he’s seeing through my lies. “Where’s that James guy? That’s his sister right? Lana always liked him. Said he was a good enough operative but was too straight to get him to do our work outright. Is he involved in this?”

His mention of James takes me by surprise. “What do you mean, outright?”

“We had all of you doing jobs selling AGK for years. You just didn’t know it. We had a few of you do a cover job and then another one of you do the work for AGK – Thomas, Nina, some of the others, they knew,” Chris laughs loudly then stops in his tracks, like he’s realized something. “Look at me, rambling on, telling you all this shit.” He walks up to me quickly, pressing the barrel of his gun against my forehead, his hot breath in my face. “Where’s Kennedy?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I say, a bit shaken. Having Chris touch me makes me want to crawl out of my skin. “It’s my turn.”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKt1jr2352C
“No, I’m done answering your questions,” Chris says, his face now the shade of an apple. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Khaled, crouching on the apartment balcony. He must’ve hopped the railing from the next door neighbour. He sees me, held at gunpoint, and Lana’s body on the floor. I can tell he’s stunned. We make eye contact for a brief second, then he disappears. I readjust my gaze and look at Chris, who didn’t seem to notice the second-long interaction. Too angry.

“Where’s Jaclyn?” Chris yells, and I notice something in his voice I haven’t before. Desperation. I take advantage of it.

“What are you going to do once you’ve killed the two of us?” I ask, taking on a interrogating tone. “You’ll have nothing left.”

Chris pushes the barrel of the gun so aggressively into my forehead I can feel the metal cut skin.

“That’s fine by me,” He says, his voice low. “You have one more chance to tell me or I kill you and find her myself.”

I hear the door creak open and Chris’ brows furrow as he turns around. Khaled, Sacha and Iain are at the door, their guns drawn, and they shoot. I hit the ground, trying to get out of the gunfire. I see Chris start to shoot back, and I crawl along the floor, trying to get away from him. Sacha runs past the fighting men, but Chris grabs her and throws her to the ground. She’s able to kick him hard enough in the stomach and get away and then he turns his attention back to Khaled and Iain. Sacha runs towards me, and drags me out to the balcony.

“Why is Mendoza here?” She asks, out of breath.

“Do you have a gun?” I ask, ignoring her question for time’s sake. “He took mine.” Sacha hands me a glock. “Where’s Jaclyn?”

“With James,” Sacha replies. “He just got here.”

As she says the words, my worries feel a bit lighter. “Okay, make sure she doesn’t come up here. Chris wants her and she’s the only piece of leverage we have right now.”

Sacha nods, “I’ll go back to the car and -,”

Her sentence is interrupted by a gunshot hitting the glass door of the balcony and shattering. I lift my arm up to shield myself from the glass, but feel a few pieces slice at my skin. I raise the gun that Sacha just gave me and fire back, aiming at Chris. From what I can see, both Iain and Khaled are okay, but the apartment is a mess, with bullet holes riddling the walls.

I look to Sacha, who is seemingly unharmed. “Go!” I yell, and she hops the railing to the neighbour’s balcony, disappearing through their door. I hear someone yell in shock as they watch her sprint through their door.

I am zeroing in on Chris, who is aiming at me, and watch as Khaled is able to hit him hard in the back of the head, forcing Chris to drop his gun. Iain kicks it away from him, and the two of them wrestle Chris to the ground. I run back into the loft, pointing my gun at Chris as Iain and Khaled manage to restrain him. Each of them have one his arms in a lock and Chris is now kneeling down on the floor, completely helpless.

Chris looks up at me, almost in amusement. “Are you going to shoot me, Molly? Even at Kingston, you were never one to kill.”

“It’s Emilia,” Khaled says gruffly. The blood vessel in his right eye must’ve burst. It’s dark red and there’s a gash on his eyelid. Chris tries to pull his arm free from Khaled but is unable to, and Khaled holds on tighter. I keep my gun trained on Chris, but I don’t know what to do next. Do I kill him? He’s the only person who knows the truth about what’s happened. Not that he’d ever admit it. I have to, I think, he has it coming. He’s killed dozens of people, my colleagues at Kingston, Brianna. He’s just as responsible for everything that’s happened as Lana or Jaclyn. Over the last few weeks, I’ve killed more people than ever before in my life. It shouldn’t be hard to kill Mendoza, the man who was behind all of it.

I’m about to do it when Chris says, simply and non-urgently, “If you shoot me, the blonde’s dead.”

“What do you mean?” I ask Chris, looking him dead in the eye. Is he talking about Sacha?

“I put an IED in her pocket,” Chris replies, smirking. All the confidence I had just a moment ago falls away.

“He’s lying,” Khaled barks.

Iain shakes his head, slowly realizing what’s happened. “He did grab her.”

I exhale. “Raise your hands,” I demand to Chris, and Khaled and Iain slowly release their grip and Chris does so. I see in his left hand, between his thumb and pointer finger, a small device.

“You can shoot me but I’ll hit this button before the bullet reaches me. You know I will,” Chris says, always a step ahead. “What’s your move?”

“He’s not faster than a bullet, Emilia,” Khaled counters, looking at Chris’ hand. “Just do it.”

I look to Iain, who makes immediate eye contact with me. This is what he warned me about. His eyes are insistently pleading, trying to tell me something I already know. It’s Sacha or it’s me. And I know who I’m choosing.

I lower my gun as Khaled makes a frustrated noise. “I’ll come with you. I’ll lead you to Jaclyn. She’s with Abby,” I say to Chris. “Just put the remote down.”

“Oh, well,” Chris chaunts. “If you insist.”

“Emilia-,” Khaled goes to reach out to me but I put my hand up to stop him.

“I’m going. Just make sure Sacha’s okay.” I extend my palm to Chris. “Give me the remote.”

“Get rid of your goons first,” He demands.

“Promise me you won’t kill them. Any of them. You just get Jaclyn,” I retaliate. I know his promise doesn’t mean much. He can turn around and break it in the blink of an eye, but I need some type of reassurance.

“Fine,” Chris replies.

“You can go,” I say to Iain and Khaled, without breaking eye contact with Chris.

“Uh, no, we’re not leaving,” Khaled resists, but Iain grabs his arm.

“We gotta go, man,” Iain says convincingly. “It’s Sacha. We don’t even know where Jaclyn is, and we don’t owe Emilia anything.” I’m not sure if he’s added that last part to fool Chris, or if it’s a jab at me.

I don’t stop looking at Chris, not only because I don’t trust him and know I can’t take my eyes off of him, but mostly because I can’t bear to look at Khaled’s face right now. Knowing how much he loves Sacha, I know he’ll make the right move. A couple seconds later, I hear the door close.

“It’s just me and you now, Chris,” I say. “Give it to me.” Chris takes the gun out of my hand and then places the remote in my palm. I breathe out in relief. “Now what?” I ask in defeat.

“Well, we’re getting the hell out of here. The police will be on their way,” Chris stands up. “And you take me to Jaclyn.”

I know that Chris won’t spare anyone’s lives even though there’s been a temporary deal. If he sees Iain, Khaled, Sacha or James again they’ll be dead. Same goes for Abby and Sri. Chris was always a vengeful man, and now he’s been wronged by Lana – and therefore, us – and he won’t be satisfied until we’re all gone. I’m sure he knows we can’t live if he does too.

I told Chris that Jaclyn was with Abby to hopefully tip off Khaled and Iain that I wanted them to go to the stadium where I told Abby we’d meet her if anything went wrong. I just hope that they caught my message.

“Let’s go,” Chris says, shoving me out the door of the apartment with the gun aimed at the small of my back. Surprisingly, there’s no one in the hallway, though they’re probably sheltering in place after all the gunfire that was exchanged. Faintly, I hear sirens which sound like they’re a few blocks away.

At the bottom of the staircase, Chris opens the exit door into the parking lot and he leads me into the passenger seat of the car. He keeps the gun trained on me as he walks around and gets into the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” He asks, pressing the button to start the engine.

“RFK Stadium,” I reply, “But not until 9 p.m. They won’t be there until then. That was the meet up time I gave them yesterday.”

“Jesus,” Chris groans, reversing the car. The sirens are getting louder now. “You better hope the cops don’t find us before then.”

Chris speeds through the parking lot, almost hitting a minivan. Just as he pulls into the road, I look across the street and see the team in the grocery store parking lot. Time seems to slow down, and my heart feels lighter when I see Sacha, unharmed, sitting on the hood of the car. She’s not wearing her jacket anymore, so they must’ve located the IED and removed it. I see a dark figure in the backseat, Jaclyn, and Khaled, Iain and James are standing around the car. James and Iain looking like they’re arguing. Khaled is in between the two of them, creating space between them. The tires of Chris and I’s vehicle spins as we enter the icy road, and the three of them turn to see where the sound is coming from. I’m not sure if they see me through the windshield before Chris turns the corner, and they’re gone.

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Chapter 20

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Chris speeds through the streets of the city for about fifteen minutes, eventually pulling up behind a church. We weren’t followed by any cars, and the parking lot is sleepy, only occupied by one another empty vehicle. He turns the car off and turns to me.

“So we have to wait four hours?” Chris asks, then swears in agitation. He looks to the clock on the car dashboard, which reads 5:04 p.m.

“I have no contact with them. Even if I wanted them to get there faster, I wouldn’t know how to reach them,” I reply, still conscious of how fast my heart was beating. Sitting in this small car with Chris is the last place I want to be. He grunts in response to my explanation.

“Aren’t you going to restrain me?” I ask. I’m heavily aware of the fact that I could open the car door and bolt, though I know Chris would shoot me in the back as I ran.

“I know you, Molly. You’re not going anywhere as long as you being here keeps your friends safe,” Chris replies shortly. “But if it gives you comfort.” He reaches over and opens the glove box, pulling out a pair of metal handcuffs. There’s dried blood already on them. They must’ve been on Lana. Chris puts one loop on my left hand and yanks my body around so I’m half-twisted in my seat. He puts the other loop on the metal bar of the headrest.

“Happy?” He asks dryly.

“So if I get you Jaclyn, you won’t touch the others?” I ask, ignoring his question and wanting confirmation of the deal we made in the loft.

“I’ve never been one to keep promises,” Chris replies, distracted as he pulls out a cell phone and reads a message.

“I know you’re killing Jaclyn because you’re worried she’ll talk. And you’re right, she probably would. The others wouldn’t. Just let them all go and you’ll never hear about them, or from them, again.”

Chris scrolls absentmindedly on his phone, almost ignoring me. “I’ll see how I feel next time I see them.”

His cavalier attitude hits a sore spot and frustration boils in me, and I raise my foot and maneuver myself sideways, kicking him in the arm.

“Ow,” He says monotonously and unceremoniously, like a mosquito just bit him.

“I’m serious, Chris,” I say angrily. Chris finally puts his phone down in his lap and looks at me, like a parent scolding a child for asking for ice cream. Upon meeting my gaze, his tone shifts to one of exasperated reflection.

“You did always care too much,” Chris says, his words dissecting me like I’m a frog. “I should’ve taken you out first. I left you for last, ‘cause… well, to be honest, you were one of my favourites.” His words make me want to vomit. I know that he means I was just his favourite to torture. “You were just so good at the job and you did it without making too much of a mess. That’s valuable, y’know. Probably why Lana picked you to be the fall guy, because its believable that they didn’t catch you the first time.” Chris shrugs. “All that to say is that you’ll be dead as soon as we get Jaclyn, so I wouldn’t worry about your friends.”

His words affirm what I’ve known since the minute I started working at Kingston. That Chris is a psychotic asshole. But after everything that’s happened, using me and everyone at Kingston, killing Brianna, Pavitra, Will and countless others, framing me, and his desire to kill anyone that stands in his way of becoming some sort of warlord, something broke inside of me. In this moment, I want nothing more than to lunge across the car and plunge a knife into his chest. I want him to feel the blood leave his body as he has to lay there, watching me – Molly, Emilia, whoever I am– have the final say. I’m no longer his operative, his scapegoat. I want him to die knowing that I have power over him.

But I can’t. I don’t.

The handcuffs around my wrist serve as a potent reminder that I’m not only physically restrained, but bound to do right by Abby, James, Sacha, Khaled and Iain. I have to play my cards right here. Even if I end up dead, I have to at least try to get everyone else out of this alive.

Chris doesn’t seem to notice my inner monologue, though I’m surprised he can’t see the obvious look of rage that I’m sure is plaguing my face. He’s still scrolling through his phone, unbothered. I wonder who he’s talking to, Lana and everyone at Kingston is gone, but I realize that this whole situation must go deeper than I can even fathom. There must be more people at the DOD who know. If McCormick is any indication, there’s others in the House and Senate. And that’s just here. Who knows what accomplices Chris has stashed throughout the country and the world?

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The next few hours are unbearable. Sitting in the car with Mendoza feels like my own particular form of torture, sitting this close to the person who threatens to take so much from me. I spend the time counting the panels of woods that make up the fence around the parking lot, staring up at the sky, which snow has started to fall from, and thinking about my friends, and James. Besides the conversation when we first parked, we talk only once more.

“How’s your bad wrist?” Chris asks. Him asking me only fuels the anger in my stomach.

“The AGK made it better. No thanks to you.”

“You should thank me, you know,” Chris says, his voice cutting across the eery silence we’ve been sitting in.

I scoff. “Thank you? For what?”

“You were living on the street. I gave you a home. A job. A purpose. Now look at you, all bad ass and girl power. You wouldn’t have that without me,” Chris grins at me, and I know he’s goading me. I close my eyes for a second, trying to compose myself so I don’t lose my shit.

“I used to think that,” I say, opening my eyes to stare at Chris’ smug face. My words are slow and calculated so I don’t trip over my anger. I remember all those times, sitting in my room at Kingston, thinking about how lucky I am to have made it off the street, and into somewhere that isn’t Child Protective Services. “That I should be grateful to you. But after careful consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather be dead than be anything to you ever again.”

It’s not a particularly strong statement, but it rolled off my tongue like I’ve been thinking it for years. For some reason, it seems to strike a chord with Chris, and he promptly hits me across the face, his face twisted in anger. It stings slightly, but I just smile. Somehow, I’d gotten to him.

After the confrontation, Chris gets out of the car to take a phone call and walks so far away I can’t hear him. I notice he keeps his hand on his gun the whole time, watching the car like a hawk. Otherwise, I keep myself occupied by playing songs in my head; my mom’s favourites and the ones that played in the library. It brings me some sense of peace.

Around 8:30 p.m., Chris finally says we can leave. We pull out of the parking lot and into the quiet streets. I think it’s a Tuesday, so most people must be home from work now. It’s a quiet car ride, and it feels strange being driven to my almost certain death. I just hope that the team has prepared as best they can for what’s about to happen. I think I gave them enough time. When we arrive at the stadium, which looks deserted, there’s no cars in sight and it doesn’t appear that there is anyone near here. Abby and I picked the stadium because its defunct now, and due to be demolished soon. It’s one of the only places in Washington we could go where no one would be watching.

“Where do we go in?” Chris asks once we park the car. I can almost feel the excitement radiating off him. So eager to kill.

“We didn’t get that far,” I say. “I’m sure they will make it obvious to us once we get inside.”

Chris doesn’t seem too happy with my answer, but uses a small key to unlock the handcuffs. My shoulder groans in relief. Having one arm locked to the head rest made it sore.

“Out of the car,” Chris demands, pointing his gun at me. I slowly open the car door and get out, putting my hands up to remind him that I’m not going to do anything. It’s dark and snowing quite heavily, and I hope that the team is able to see us.

“You first,” Chris demands, and he gestures for me to walk towards the stadium. I make my way towards the entrance, three pairs of doors under the sign Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium. There’s another sign that reads DO NOT ENTER: DEMOLITION WORK IN PROGRESS. There’s chains on two of the sets of doors, but one of them is already broken, and I take it as a confirmation of the team’s presence. As I walk into the stadium, something catches my foot and I almost trip. Managing to keep my balance, I look down, and see, as my eyes adjust in the dark, a man in his thirties, lying on the floor. The word Security is stitched in white threat onto a black uniform just above his heart. I crouch down and put my fingers to his neck . He’s still breathing. Someone must’ve knocked him out.

“Keep going,” Chris says impatiently behind me. I step over the man carefully and continue. The entryway inside is completely dark.

“Where are they?” Chris yells, his voice angry. I feel the barrel of his gun on the back of my head.

“Over here,” I recognize Abby’s voice immediately. I turn and see her standing in a doorway, which is lit by a lone, red emergency light overhead. “Jaclyn’s in here.”

Normally timid, Abby’s voice is low and dark, seemingly livid.

“How many of you are here?” Chris asks, always analytical. He wants to know how many he has to take out.

“Enough,” Abby replies.

A gun shot fires and I jump in my skin. I realize Chris shot at the ceiling as pieces of drywall and stone fall into my hair.

“No games!” Chris shouts from behind me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He clears his throat. “I’m assuming all of you then. Give me Jaclyn and maybe some of you get to live.”

“We’ll give you Jaclyn,” Abby replies, unshaken. “But you give us Emilia.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Chris shouts, irate. The barrel has returned to its home on the back of my head. “You have five seconds to give me Jaclyn before I kill her now and then you.”

Abby stares at Chris, sizing up his threat. He starts to count down – “Five… four…”

“Stop!” Abby replies quickly, cutting him off. “Jaclyn’s this way.” She turns and disappears through the doorway, and Chris pushes me to follow her, which I do. The door takes us to the inside of the stadium. It’s lit by a few lights and I can see the green turf beneath our feet and thousands of broken orange seats all around the stadium. It feels unnerving, to see something so large so empty, but I notice two people in the center of the stadium. As we approach, I realize it’s Jaclyn, who is tied up and kneeling in front of James. It’s the closest I’ve been to James in weeks but he doesn’t look at me. His gaze is trained on Chris.

“There she is,” Chris says sneeringly, staring down at Jaclyn, who is sobbing. Jaclyn looks up at me through wet eyelashes, then her eyes flicker to Chris. They’ve taken the duct tape off her mouth, which is fine since no one could hear her here, no matter how loud she screamed.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Jaclyn cries, looking to Chris. “I didn’t even know it was you!”

“Well, that’s not the point,” Chris replies. “You know now. Too late.”

Chris moves the gun off my head and points it to Jaclyn.

“Stop!” James shouts, and he’s pulled a gun and aimed it at Chris. Abby has too. “You’re not doing anything yet.”

“What, you want to figure out what happens once I pull the trigger?” Chris asks, sounding bored. “I think I should just go ahead and we can play it by ear.”

“You’re pretty confident for a guy who’s outnumbered six to one,” Abby sneers. I jerk my head up, my eyes scanning the stands for the others. I think I can see Iain, but the rest must be hidden.

“Who says I’m outnumbered?” Chris laughs. “You know what, we can figure this out after this one’s gone.” He looks to Jaclyn. “Unless, you’d prefer I kill Molly first?” Jaclyn continues sobbing as my stomach turns to knots. “Why don’t you pick, Molly?” Chris looks to me, mischief and malice in his eyes.

Both Abby and James look at me worriedly, like they aren’t sure what my answer will be. I look to Jaclyn, her red eyes teary and her forehead creased as she breathes heavily. Her body shakes, and I realize I have to decide if this will be one of the last moments of her life. My whole life I’ve never had a true choice and now I have to make this impossible, cruel one.

Tears pool in my eyes as I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say to Jaclyn, and as I say those words, I hand her a death sentence. Chris smirks and maintains eye contact with me as he pulls the trigger, and a gunshot rings out. Jaclyn’s body crumples to the ground.

In the immediate aftermath of Jaclyn’s death, a lot of things happen. Firstly, Chris turns his gun to me, aiming between my eyes. I duck and hear a gunshot, but the bullet misses me. Then, gunfire breaks out everywhere. James, Abby and Chris are all shooting, but I hear it come from other places in the stadium. I realize that Chris must’ve called in back up when we were waiting. Of course he did, I think. Why didn’t I realize earlier? Iain, Khaled and Sacha must be exchanging gun fire with them.

I’m now crawling on the turf, trying to get out of the way of James, Abby and Chris. Without a gun, I’m useless. As I crawl, I put my hand in something sticky – I realize it’s Jaclyn’s blood. I gag, but try to stay focused.

“Let’s go!” Abby yells, somehow at my side, picking me up and covering me as we follow James, who is running out of the green back to the stadium halls. It’s too wide open to stay in the field. Chris is following us, shooting at our backs. If the lights were on, we’d be dead, but it’s hard to aim in the dark at a moving target, and I think someone is shooting at Chris from the stands. Abby and I reach the hallway and keep running around the bend of it. James must stay behind us to deal with Chris.

“Take this and hide,” Abby says, handing me the gun. “I’m going to see where the others are.” I nod, and she starts to walk down the hallway. I still hear the exchange of gunfire and I don’t want to hide, so I make my way back around the bend, back towards Chris and James. I stop in my tracks when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around and see Sacha, running towards me. Her body collides with mine as she flees whatever, or whoever, is behind her.

“Hide!” Sacha whispers breathlessly, looking over her shoulder the way she just came and pulling me into a doorway so that we’re hidden from view of her pursuer.

I look down the dark hallway, but don’t hear anything coming. Sacha, who is breathing heavily, holds her breath, and I do the same.

I understand, now, what Iain meant by the effects of AGK when the adrenaline hits you. The minute Chris turned his gun on me in the green, my senses felt even more heightened, and the world almost seemed a bit slower. Right now, I feel like I can do anything. I’m banking on it, for all of us to make it out of here.

The sound of footsteps start echoing down the hall, and I peer down it, able to see a dark figure moving. I aim the gun Abby just gave me at the body, who also has their weapon aimed down the hallway, ready to shoot at whoever is there.

I’m about to fire when Sacha puts her hand on top of mine, pushing the gun I’m aiming down towards the floor. I look at her in confusion, and she slowly shakes her head – no.

No? I mouth the word back at her. The footsteps get closer, and I stare at Sacha asking silently, what do you want me to do?

“The more you shoot, the more people show up. There’s a lot of them. They follow the sound of the gunshots,” Sacha whispers, almost inaudibly. I nod, understanding, and put the gun in my waistband, just in case I need to use it. Then, just as the person is close enough – they haven’t realized we’re hiding in the doorway – I attack. I jump onto the person’s back, wrapping my arms around their neck, restricting their airway. They grab at my arms, walking backwards, and they slam my back against the concrete of the hallway. It’s a woman, but I don’t recognize her. Though I’m trapped against the wall, the woman is still restrained and Sacha takes the opportunity to start hitting the woman in the face, kicking her in the stomach. The woman’s strong. She uses her foot to push off against the wall and throws me over her shoulders, and I’m thrown at Sacha, the both of us going down to the floor. I feel the breath get knocked out of me, but I get up, looking to Sacha who is getting to her feet as well. Without thinking, we lunge at the woman, knocking her back against the wall. Her head snaps back, and I hear the sound of her skull against the concrete.

Still conscious, she swipes her fists at us. I duck, but hear as one hits Sacha.

“Get her arms!” I yell to Sacha, who grabs a hold of the woman’s arms and twists them back behind her. As she does so, I kick her head, aiming for her vulnerability, and watch as the woman’s eyes go cross-eyed.

“Again!” Sacha yells at me, noticing as well. I do so again, using one of the kicks Sacha taught me back in Marietta. The woman’s body slumps, unconscious, and Sacha lets go, breathing heavily.

“Nice one,” Sacha exhales, tucking a piece of hair that fell out from her braid behind her ear. “You okay? I gotta go, I need to check on Khaled.”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Go!”

In a second, Sacha is gone. I turn my attention back down the hallway, walking back until I can see Chris and James, who are standing and facing each other. Neither are shooting and I see their guns both on the floor a few metres away. I wonder if they were somehow disarmed or if they ran out of bullets. I double check the one Abby gave me. There’s only two left.

“Shit,” I mumble to myself. I’ll have to make do. I peek down the hallway again, I’m hiding behind an old vending machine, and see that they’re now fighting one another. Chris lands a hard blow on James’ temple, and he falls to the floor, but is able to recuperate by knocking Chris off his feet and kicking him square in the stomach. Chris pulls out a knife from his pant pocket and starts swinging it at James, who expertly maneuvers himself away from the blade. It’s happening so fast, a whirl of movement and grunts, I can barely understand what’s happening.

I aim at them, trying to lock in on Chris, but they’re moving too fast. I couldn’t be sure who I’d hit. Shit. I lean back against the wall, trying to think of what I should do. A moment later, the sounds of a struggle stop and my heart drops in my chest. What’s happened?

“Come on out, Molly,” Chris’ voice echoes and carries down the hallway, taunting me. “I know you’re there.”

I put the gun in the waistband and cover it with my shirt. Chris doesn’t know I have a gun yet and it’s best I keep it that way. I make my way out from hiding behind the vending machine and see Chris holding James at knife point, the tip of Chris’ blade at James’ Adam’s apple, already a small trickle of blood falling down his throat.

“Were you gonna run?” Chris asks.

“No,” I reply, walking slowly towards them, my hands up in caution.

“Eh, not too close,” Chris says as I approach them, yanking James back with him a couple steps, causing the knife to go deeper into his neck. James winces, but stares at the floor. I stop walking.

“Sounds like our people are pretty evenly matched,” I say, referencing the sound of gunfire still echoing throughout the stadium. “So I’ll make you a deal.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You already got Jaclyn. Let everyone else go. Call off your people and you can have me,” I offer, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. I wonder if they can hear it.

James looks up from the floor and meets my gaze. He looks conflicted. Chris doesn’t answer, which means he’s considering it.

“They don’t know shit about your operation and they aren’t dumb enough to tell anyone. I think they know you’re serious.”

I pause, waiting for a confirmation I don’t receive, then continue.

“C’mon, Chris. You know it’s me you want to kill,” I say. James’ face is pale, and the stream of blood coming from his neck is thick.

I know that Chriss is forming another plan in his head, one where he kills everyone, including me, but it doesn’t matter. My plan is the only one that matters now.

“Fine, I wi-,” Chris begins to respond and just for a moment he lifts the pressure off of James’ throat. The second I see it lifted, I reach back and pull the gun out of my waistband, aiming it at Chris. I see a look of shock register on his face. I was right, he didn’t know about the gun. James pushes away from Chris, and I shoot. The bullet lands in Chris’ upper chest.

Chris falls to the floor, yelling in pain. The shot didn’t kill him, and I move to shoot again, to deliver the fatal blow. I raise the gun, focusing on having deadly aim, and –

“Emilia!” James yells at me, looking to me in panic. Then I feel something hit the back of my head.

I fall to the ground, and it feels like my brain is spilling out of head, painfully, excruciatingly. I can’t hear anything but a high-pitched ringing. I turn my gaze, trying to figure out where Chris is so I can aim again, but a man, the person who must’ve hit me, picks up my gun from my hand and shoots at James, hitting him in the thigh. There’s a yell. I don’t know if it’s from me or James.

Chris is on the ground still, yelling to the man. I look to James, who is still trying to fight, despite the pool of blood coming from his leg. The gun’s empty now, I think, the only solace I have as I watch this hellscape play out in front of me. The man kicks James in the leg, causing him to fall to his knees. Then he hits him twice in the head with – is that a baseball bat? – and James collapses, unconscious. Sound is slowly starting to come back to me, and I hear myself yell out.

“Kill her!” Chris screams at the man, who turns to look at me, and I recognize his face. It’s Thomas, from Kingston. He’s still alive? Thomas approaches me and I try to move, but I can barely support my own body weight on my hands. He approaches me and grabs me under the armpits, dragging me along the concrete. We pass James’ body, but I can barely make out his face to see if he’s alive. My vision is starting to go black around the edges. I try to struggle, to free myself from Thomas’ grip, but it’s too tight and I can barely move.

“Do it and then get me the hell out of here!” Chris screams, putting his hand on his wound. I can tell from the blurred red spot on the floor that he’s losing a lot of blood.

“Got to get a gun first if you want me to do it right,” Thomas replies monotonously, releasing his grip on me and letting me fall to the ground.

“Fine, get me out of here and come back for her,” Chris grunts. I watch as Thomas picks Chris up and throws his arm over his shoulder, walking him out of the building. I’m a few metres from James now, and I try to crawl towards him, to see if he’s okay. But I have no strength, and can barely see; black rings appear around the edge of my eyesight. I’m a few minutes into dragging myself along the floor when Thomas comes back.

“No,” I mutter, as he picks me up again. “No!” I scream, the sound guttural.

Thomas doesn’t reply, instead just continuing to drag me through the hallway. He finds a door and opens it, revealing a supply closet, and pulls me into it. He crouches down at my eye level, looking studiously at me. Then he stands up, grabs the item, yes, it’s definitely an old baseball bat, and strikes me in the head.

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Chapter 21

All I see is black, with little fireworks of colour. My head feels like it’s been cracked open. I realize my eyes are closed and it takes every ounce of willpower to open them. When, I do, I find myself staring at what I think is a concrete ceiling. I blink, and as my eyes adjust – just enough that I can make out shapes – I realize I’m still in the closet. I prop myself up on my elbows, but it takes all my effort to do so. I breathe in, trying to think but it just causes a sharp pain up my spine into my head. Carefully, I raise my hand – which feels like it’s made out of lead – to my head, where it hurts the most, and feel globs of blood. It feels like I’ve lost a lot and I feel around with my hands on the shelves in the closet, trying to find something fabric. I can barely see, but eventually I feel something that must be like a towel. I take it and carefully wrap it around my head, tightening it enough to stop the bleeding. An intense migraine settles within my head. Then, carefully, I get up on my feet and open the door to the closet which is miraculously unlocked.

The lights are now off in the hallway of the stadium, and I can’t see anyone, though I’m having trouble seeing more than five feet in front of me. As I stumble into the hallway, I hear footsteps and pause.

“It’s okay, Emilia,” I hear a voice say, sounding like its underwater. I recognize it. Is that Pollard?

“It’s David,” The voice confirms. “Pollard.”

“Hmph,” I grunt, trying to locate where the sound is coming from in the hallway. Eventually, I see a dark figure approaching, which must be Pollard.

“Be careful.”

Eventually, Pollard walks close enough to me that his face starts to become more visible – he’s only a foot away now. My eyes focus in on his face as much as they can. His grey hair is matted down in sweat on his forehead, and he looks disgruntled.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he says. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Where?” I say, finally able to murmur a full word. I have to squint my eyes because the emergency lights in the hallway cause a piercing headache. I’m not asking where we’re going. I’m asking where everyone is. Pollard looks at me, somehow understanding.

“They’re all alive,” As he says it, I wish I could smile in relief. “Everyone. Including Chris and Thomas.” My stomach sinks. We’re walking through the hallway now, Pollard practically dragging me. We pass two puddles of blood semi-dried into the concrete on the ground, and the baseball bat Thomas used. He must’ve picked it up somewhere in the stadium. “So we need to get you out,” Pollard continues. “Before they come back. Or the DOD.”

“Thomas left me,” I say. My memory is blurry, but why would he not have killed me? Or did he think he did? I don’t understand.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not coming back.”

We reach the door to the parking lot and Pollard stops. He’s breathing heavily now, having to support my weight. He peers out the window. It’s almost light out, which means I was out for hours.

“Quickly, now,” Pollard pushes the door open and we step outside. It’s not snowing, but it’s freezing. There’s a layer of frost on the car windows. We half-jog to the car and Pollard helps me into the seat. He quickly runs around the front and gets in the driver’s side, turning it on. Then we speed out of the parking lot.

“I didn’t know,” Pollard says suddenly after a few moments of silence. I’m still trying to focus hard enough to put a sentence together.

“Hm?”

“That Lana was doing this,” Pollard says the sentence like it makes him nauseous. He shakes his head. “I didn’t find out what she was up to until just before the fire.”

I nod. His words make sense, I think, though truthfully I’m having trouble putting thoughts together.

“I thought she just wanted you to leak information about Mendoza not…,” Pollard doesn’t finish his sentence, like he’s talking to himself. “Anyways, I’m still with the DOD so if they find out I have you I’m dead.”

“Mhm,” I agree. I pull down the visor in the car and look at myself. My left eye’s pupil is huge, almost erasing all the hazel in my eye, but the right seems normal. There’s a makeshift bandage wrapped around my head, what appears to be a ripped t-shirt.

“Not good,” I mutter, recognizing the clear signs of a severe concussion.

Pollard looks over at me as he switches lanes on the highway out of D.C. “No, not good.”

“What happened? Where are they?” I ask, this time determined to make the words come out of my mouth.

“They’re holed up in some abandoned building on the interstate. Abby called me to go check out the arena to see if I could recover you.”

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“Honestly, I thought you were dead when I found you,” Again, he says it like he’s talking to himself.

“So they think I’m dead?” I ask slowly.

“Abby said the last thing Sacha saw was you being dragged away by Thomas.”

“Let me call them,” I demand, reaching for Pollard’s phone, which is laying in the cup holder.

“Abby called from a burner phone. Don’t have the number,” Pollard says, and I retract my hand. I’ll have to wait, though it makes me sick to think that they all think I’m gone.

“How far?” I ask. I have to carefully calculate each word out of my mouth, sluggishly climbing a mountain to speak each sentence.

“Twenty or so minutes. I’ll drop you off but I can’t come with you. And you guys are going to have to go. I don’t know where… but between the DOD and Chris there’s no way you can stay.”

A sense of dread fills my body, knowing that we’ll be on the run again. We drive for a while, and I fight the urge to fall asleep and fall unconscious, knowing that it’d be taking a chance on if I wake up. Eventually, we drive out of the city – at one point passing five police cars with their sirens on, almost definitely heading to the arena – and reach an empty parking lot with a disheveled and rundown office building on the lot.

Pollard parks and shuts the car off, then turns around and pulls a backpack out of the backseat, placing it on my lap.

“I took these from the manor before the fire,” Pollard says. He unzips the bag and pulls out a handful of glass vials.

“AGK?” I ask in surprise, recognize the liquid.

He nods. “It’s the last of Sherwood’s supply. I think. Unless Lana has more hidden. Anyways, I think you should take another dose. And take the rest with you just in case.”

“Another dose?”

“I don’t know what will happen, but your head’s pretty bad,” Pollard coughs, “I’m pretty sure the AGK is the only thing that kept you alive. We don’t have time to talk it out. Go.” He leans across me and opens my car door, unbuckling my seat belt.

“Tell Abby to keep me in the loop as much as possible, but only call the untraceable cell number. I’ll try to help as much as I can from Albany.”

I nod and get out of the car, watching as other cars whizz by us on the highway. I bend down so I can see Pollard clearly.

“Thank you.”

Pollard gives a curt nod and then drives off. Alone now, I turn around and look at the abandoned office, a two-storey brick building with hardly any windows. The front doors are boarded up and there’s a faint sign that reads Peterson’s Printing. I hoist the backpack onto my shoulder and cover my eyes, the morning sun too bright, then walk towards the building. I peer into a spot in between two wooden boards on the door but don’t see anything, so I clumsily walk around to the back. There, a door is slightly ajar and I open it, revealing a long tiled hallway. I hear voices at the end of the hallway but can’t make out who between the shrill sound of the fluorescent lights and the ringing in my ears. Quietly walk down the hall, I feel sweat accumulate as the adrenaline in my body fights for me to move, until I locate the door which the voices are coming out from.

“We have to leave soon,” I hear a male voice say. Iain.

“We haven’t heard back from Pollard,” Sacha’s voice replies.

“We can only wait a few more minutes,” Iain says.

I push the door open, and the first thing I see is James and Abby sitting on two plastic chairs. The first thing I notice is that James looks unwell. His face is pale and his eyes red and teary. His elbows are resting on his knees and he has his head in his hands. There’s a bandage around his thigh. Abby is beside him, looking concernedly at him, her hand rubbing his back. Neither of them see me. I turn my gaze to Iain, Khaled, Sri, and Sacha, who are standing together to my left. Sacha sees me first.

“Emilia!” She screams in disbelief and runs at me, almost knocking me off my feet in a messy embrace of blonde hair. Over her shoulder, I stare at James, whose eyes finally land on me. I see shock register in his face, then confusion. I don’t see what happens next, because Abby runs towards me, hugging me and Sacha, blocking my view of him.

“Oh my god,” Abby says as she pulls away, looking at my face. “We thought you were dead.”

“Me too,” I say slowly, almost chuckling.

“I don’t think anything could kill Emilia,” Khaled jokes, smiling and squeezing my shoulder gently. I look over his shoulder to Iain, who looks unbothered by my appearance, maybe even a little disappointed. He doesn’t move to welcome me. Sacha and Abby finally let me go, and I look to find James, but he’s not sitting in the chair anymore.

“Where’s James?” I ask. Sri turns around, looking to the chair he was sitting in.

“He was just there,” She replies quietly.

“I think he went in the hallway,” Iain says shortly.

“I’m going to find him,” I reply.

“Be fast, we need to be out of here in five,” Iain says and I look at the team, who is smiling at me, almost goofily. Seeing them together and alive… my heart swells.

I turn around and enter the hallway, where I find James at the end, leaning against a wall. He looks up at me as I approach him. He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he’s in shock, or if his head injury was so bad he has memory loss.

“Hey stranger,” I say softly, and by his reaction, a small smirk, I know he remembers me. “Are you okay?” I ask as I reach him, noticing there’s a large bump and gash on his forehead. I reach up and touch it gently with my finger. It’s an inch wide, but he doesn’t flinch as he should. Instead he just stares back at me with a look of disbelief. I realize it’s the first time we’ve been alone since the parking lot in Pennsylvania, that we’ve talked since the phone call in the basement of the manor. Even here, in this abandoned building and feeling like my head has split open, I feel a sense of peace by his side.

“Are you?” He asks, interrupting my thoughts, his eyes shifting their gaze from my face up to the bandage wrapped around my temple. He breathes in. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not,” I say, as if to reassure him, though my presence already should.

“Can I look?” James asks, his fingers about to untie the wrap around my head. I nod and he takes it off gently. For such a large man, his touch is surprisingly tender. I look up at him as he focuses on the injury, first looking at the gash on my temple then the one at the back of my head, the one that hurts the most. All I look at is his face, making note of all the ways it’s changed since I last saw him. As he assesses my head, he sucks in through his teeth.

“What?” I ask, though the sharp pain on my scalp is indication enough. 453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP2ZeJHSCaU
“It’s not good. I think the asshole actually broke your skull cap.”

“Pollard said it was bad,” I reply, gingerly touching the back of my head to see if I can feel what he means. I do. There’s a bump on the back of my head, one that doesn’t feel like just a goose egg. “He gave me some AGK doses. Said I should take another dose to help me recover.”

James’ brow furrows. “Do we even know what would happen if you did that? I don’t think Sherwood ever tested that.”

I shrug. “Pollard didn’t say.”

Just as I reply, I hear Sacha call from down the hallway. “We’re leaving in two minutes!”

“Coming,” I turn around and yell back to her, before facing James again. “What were you doing out here anyways?”

He clears his throat. “I needed a minute,” James says, his voice low.

“What’s wrong?”

“We all thought you were dead.”

“I’m not,” I repeat.

“But I thought you were,” James says impatiently.

“I’m not,” I say forcefully, grabbing his hand as if my physical touch could convince him. “I’m here. In fact, I’ll probably going to annoy you all day.”

“Okay,” James replies quietly, ignoring my sarcastic comment. He raises his hand and places his thumb on my eyebrow, just above when I’m cut. Despite my aching head, all I want to do is kiss him, so I do. His mouth parts my lips and his hand moves behind my neck, gently, pulling me closer to him. I can feel his heart beat against my chest, and his arm around my back. I raise my hands up, ignoring the pain in my body, and run my fingers through his hair, wanting to hold every part of him in my hands. A few moments later, though it feels much longer, James pulls away, then uses his one hand to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

“We should go,” He says with a smile, and I nod wordlessly. Then he takes me by the hand, limping just a bit, and pulls me down the hallway back to the rest of the team.

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Chapter 22

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That evening, the seven of us arrive at a small cabin in a summer resort in northern Maine. We drove for hours in search of somewhere to stay, where no one would find us, at least for a while. The summer camp we found was remote enough, and only open June, July and August, so we don’t think anyone would find us here for a couple weeks. The car ride was long, and I kept drifting in and out of consciousness, with James or Sacha waking me up every fifteen minutes. Despite the length and the headache, the ride was relatively peaceful, the first time that all of us were heading to the same place, knowing exactly what was ahead: a lifetime of being on the run. At least we were together.

Now, we’re all sitting in the cabin’s small living room, a fire in the hearth, just big enough to keep us warm, but small enough that there wouldn’t be enough smoke to tip anyone off. I’m drinking a cup of tea Iain made us and watching as Sacha unpacks the backpack. My vision still isn’t good. There’s a black ring around the edges and anything farther than five feet from me is blurry.

“So Pollard wants you to take an extra dose?” Khaled asks, picking up one of the vials and examining it.

“Mhm,” I nod. “I think it’ll help with my head.”

“Are we even sure what will happen if you take it?” Iain asks skeptically.

“I’m assuming I’ll get better,” I reply. “But no, I don’t.”

I’m sitting on the ground with James on a chair behind me, his warm hands on my shoulders. He looks under the wrapping on my head again.

“Who’s to say the AGK you have in your system won’t heal it already?” Abby asks, who is sitting on the floor in front of Sri.

“Maybe it needs more time,” Sri adds, who is braiding Abby’s hair mindlessly, like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

“I don’t think there’s time to give,” James says, gently replacing the bandage. “You’ve already lost a lot of blood, and you’re barely staying conscious.”

“Let’s do it then. I’m game,” I say assuredly. “Sacha?”

Sacha gives me a small smile and fills a needle from the vial of liquid. She walks over to me, then crouches so she’s at eye level. I pull off my hoodie, carefully so as not to hit my head, and angle myself so she can access my arm. She cleans it with a bit of rubbing alcohol we found under the bathroom sink, and then plunges the needle into my arm. Once again, I feel the hot serum enter my veins. Sacha hands me a piece of cloth.

“Put some pressure on it,” She takes the needle out of my arm and puts it on the table. I use my other hand to put pressure on the injection site. “There ya go.”

“Feel okay so far?” Abby asks.

“So far, so good,” I laugh.

“I think it takes more than a second,” Iain says sarcastically. I chuckle as Khaled puts another log on the fire.

“Anyone hungry?” Abby asks, standing up and going over to the small, wooden kitchen. She searches through the cupboards.

“Me!” Sacha pipes up, and Khaled, Sri and Iain nod.

Abby shuts the cupboard she’s looking in and pulls open another. “Beans!” She reaches into the cupboard and pulls it out, holding up the can like it’s a prize. “Emilia?” Abby holds the can out, asking me if I want some.

“I’m really tired,” I say, standing up haphazardly. “I’m going to sleep a bit, if it’s okay.” I’ve had my eye on the quilted bed in one of the rooms since we arrived, and it’s almost midnight.

“I’ll come with you. Someone should probably wake you up every so often, check for side-effects,” James says, abruptly getting to his feet. “I remember the first dose didn’t go so well.”

“We’ll be out here,” Khaled says, getting up to help Abby in the kitchen. “Call if you need anything.”

James nods and follows me into the room, where there’s a double bed with a red and green rustic blanket, a small bedside table with a lamp and a rocking chair in the corner. This must be the camp manager’s cabin, because there’s personal touches here and there; an old sweater hanging on the back of the door, a framed photo of a dog on the table. I lay down on the bed, welcoming the feeling of the soft mattress.

“Are you okay?” James asks, closing the door behind us.

I nod. “You don’t need to ask. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

“Okay,” He replies, walking around the bed and sitting down beside me. He watches as I slowly take off my shoes and socks, and climb into the covers. “Are you going to make me sleep on the ground this time?”

“No,” I chuckle. “You can sleep here.”

“Good,” He replies, sitting up against the wireframe of the headboard and putting his arm around me. I gently lay my head against his chest, listening to the sound of the fire crackling in the other room, of my friends chatting quietly. I hear James’ heartbeat and breath slow down as he settles. Within a few moments, I’m asleep.

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I wake up to the sound of James and Khaled quietly talking. As I open my eyes, I see Khaled in the doorway, leaning against the frame. I’m still resting on James’ chest, and I shuffle, self-conscious of Khaled seeing me and James like this. Graciously, he seems to ignore it, or he doesn’t care.

“Abby’s going to try to get in touch with Pollard,” Khaled is saying. “But we all agree that the best idea is to just keep traveling, switching locations every week or so.”

“Agreed,” James says. “What about what we’re going to do with all those vials?”

“Iain says we should keep them. In case there’s more injuries. I think it’d be stupid to get rid of them.”

“Yeah,” James nods before looking down at me as he notices that I’m awake. “Good, I was going to wake you up. It’s been a couple hours.” I sit up, immediately noticing that my head no longer aches.

“How are you feeling?” Khaled asks.

“My head doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say. I blink a couple times. “But my eyesight is still a bit blurry.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Khaled smiles. Suddenly Abby appears behind him with a blue plastic bowl, bundled up in one of the camp’s sweaters.

“You need to eat,” She says, giving me a dish full of black beans.

“Thanks,” I say, picking up a spoonful and swallowing some. I don’t feel as nauseous anymore. We had to pull over a few times on the car ride here so I could be sick. Now I’m just starving.

“Well, I guess she was hungry,” Khaled laughs before ushering Abby out of the room. “Let’s leave them to it.” He closes the door behind him.

“No symptoms,” I say, answering the question I know James is going to be asking next. He nods. “What about you? How’s your head and leg?”

“Better,” He replies, touching the wound on his temple, which already looks smaller than it did earlier. “Wasn’t as severe. Sacha’s getting good at stitches.”

“Hm,” I nod, now scrapping the bottom of the empty bowl.

“Did you always eat this fast?” James asks, amused.

“Maybe,” I reply as I lick the spoon. “Why, are you having second thoughts about me? I hope not, because we’re kind of stuck together.”

“Har har,” James taunts. “No. I’m not.”

I’m not either, so I put the bowl and spoon down, and kiss him. It’s only the second time I’ve ever done it, but it feels so familiar, normal. Like I should’ve been doing it forever. I pull away after a minute.

“I’m going back to bed,” I say with a yawn, and James laughs.

“Alright,” He says softly.

Soon after I lay back with my head on the pillow and fall asleep.

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As I wake up, I can immediately tell that the AGK did its job. When I open my eyes, I’m alone in the room, though I can hear the soft chatter of the others in the den, but I don’t have a splitting headache anymore and my vision is back to normal. I sit up on the edge of the bed and feel the back of my head. My fingers graze what feels like a scar, but there’s no pain, just dried blood. I must’ve been sleeping for a while, because it’s bright outside and the sun streams through the curtains. I get up and make my way to the small powder room attached to the bedroom and use the water coming from the tap to clean myself up as best as I can.

Once I’m done, my hair damp with water and my skin finally clean, I stare at myself in the mirror. I look about the same as I always have, though there are new scars and cuts on my face. But I’m a wholly different than the person I was in Kingston. Though I’m still tired, my eyes don’t have the same dullness to them that they used to, when I walked through life steered by the hands of someone who I thought controlled me. It’s disorienting, feeling like there’s a stranger in the mirror looking back at me, but I like this person better than anyone else I’ve been before. No longer am I the little girl, trying to keep her mom alive through fire and alcohol, or the obedient operative who is tasked with impossibly terrible assignments. They were characters, personas I thought I had to be. No longer will I pretend to be them. I take a breath, stabilizing myself in this new shell of a person, a stranger I want to get to know.

A few minutes after I finish in the bathroom, I find Abby, Sacha, Khaled and Sri in the den.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Sacha says, looking up from the chess game she’s playing with Sri. “You look a lot better.”

“I feel a lot better,” I say, smiling. “How are you all?” I sit in front of the fire, watching over their chess game.

“Oh, we’re good,” Sri replies, moving her queen on the board.

“As good as we can be. I miss Sri’s cooking,” Khaled says. He’s eating canned peas with a fork, looking somewhat disgusted. But he smiles.

“Well, I’m personally a bit worried that we’re going to run out of food,” Abby eyes Khaled. “But Iain thinks we should leave by tomorrow morning anyway. To be safe.”

I nod. “Where are Iain and James anyways?”

“They just went outside, Iain wanted to talk to James about something,” Sacha replies, taking Sri’s rook. “But James has been waiting for you to wake up. You should go see him.”

“Okay,” I reply, standing up, and grabbing one of the blankets off a couch, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Save some peas for me!” I point at Khaled jokingly, who is now just slurping the vegetables directly from the can. I open the door to the cabin and see James and Iain standing in the distance, at the bank of the small, frozen-over lake. I’m surprised at how mild the weather feels here, despite the foot of snow. I start to approach them, but stop in my tracks when I hear what they’re talking about. I’m more than a half mile from them, which is farther than I could ever hear any other people before. It must be the second dose of the AGK.

“We have to tell them,” James is saying, his voice urgent.

“What good will that do?” Iain responds.

“Probably nothing,” James seems to admit. “But there’s been too many lies. I don’t want to keep this from them. From Emilia, specifically.”

Iain sighs, and I can tell he’s frustrated. “If you tell her, you know she’s going to want to do something. And everyone will want to help her.”

“Rightfully,” James says.

Iain turns away from James, looking out at the lake, then back towards James. Even from this distance, Iain looks exasperated.

“You’d risk everything? You’ve known Emilia for what… a month? And half of that you weren’t even in the same state.” I feel my heart seize in my chest as Iain asks the question. All of a sudden, I realize I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. It’s private. I go to turn away, to head back to the cabin, but then James answers.

“Think of everything she’s been through. The things she’s been forced into. She’s had to do horrible things because she had no other choice. But she’s come out of it kind. She takes responsibility for the things she’s done. She tries to be better,” James says. “You told me you asked her to sacrifice herself if it came down to it. And it did, and she did it. Does that not prove anything to you?” His voice sounds angry now.

Iain exhales. “I don’t understand how you can go from arresting her four weeks ago to caring this much about her. We have our own people to care about right now. I don’t want to add another person – another liability – to our problems.”

“The first thing she did when we met was save my life. Mendoza almost shot me in the back. And she had no reason to. I owe her. She is our people now.”

I almost laugh. I knew James didn’t know Mendoza was behind him. I make a note to tease him about it later.

“Fine,” Iain replies, his voice strained. “We can tell them. But I’m not bending over backwards to help her anymore. That’s up to you.”

James goes to speak but Iain turns around, ready to head back to the cabin, and he spots me in the distance. James turns too, and he waves to me. I don’t think they know I can hear them. I walk towards them, meeting them lakeside.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say once I reach them, feeling hesitant to be in Iain’s company after he just admitted his contempt for me. James puts his arms around me and pulls me close to him.

“Your head better?” Iain asks, sounding disinterested. He eyes the back of my head.

“Yeah, I think the AGK fixed it completely,” I reply. “I feel fine.”

“Okay,” Iain nods. The interaction only confirms his disdain for me.

“So, we need to tell you something,” James says slowly. He removes his arms from around me and spins me around so he can look me in the eye. “You’re probably not going to like it.”

“Okay,” I brace myself for the news. What could it possibly be now?

“Well, we might as well tell everyone together. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing out here anyways,” Iain says, interrupting James as he starts to walk back to the cabin. James nods and we follow him back in.

Back in the cabin, Sacha and I go into the kitchen to start making some food, and the rest of the team gathers in the den. Iain’s standing, looking anxious.

“Get on with it,” Khaled chirps at him from the couch. Sacha pulls down some more canned vegetables from the cupboard and starts opening them.

“Turn on the stove, will you?” Sacha asks quietly, as she glances at Iain in suspense. I turn on the gas and use an old match from the drawer to light the stove. I look back at Iain, waiting for him to say something.

“I called Pollard this morning,” Iain begins. “And the DOD has no idea where Mendoza is.” Immediately at the mention of Mendoza’s name, a rage starts to build again inside my chest. I glare at Iain, willing him to continue. “But Pollard does. He said that when he and James were tracking Emilia at Kingston they also made contact with another operative. I think he said her name was Brianna. Anyways, she’s still working with Mendoza but defected and contacted Pollard to rat him out. Pollard said she heard about you. Maybe on the news,” Iain nods towards me.

“Brianna?” I ask, shocked. My heart pounds in my chest as my mind registers that she’s alive.

“You knew her?” Abby inquires.

“We worked together. I trained her,” I reply quickly. I know now, what James and Iain meant when they said I’d want to do something. “I need to go. And get her,” I’m already thinking about next steps, what I need to do next. “And kill Mendoza, while I’m at it.”

“Okay, hold on,” Iain puts up his hands as if to stop me.

“What?” I ask, exasperated. “I’m not asking for anyone’s help. But I need to do this. Not just for Brianna. For me. You don’t know what Mendoza’s done to us.”

“I know! I know,” Iain says defensively. “But -,” Iain stops at he turns to look at me, and his eyes widen. “Emilia, your sleeve!”

I look down at my arm, which is completely engulfed in flames. The stove caught my shirt on fire.

“Oh shit!” I hear Sacha yell, and she immediately starts to fill a bowl with water in the sink. I, completely shocked, start to try to take off my sweater, to put the flames out, which are now reaching my shoulder. I yank it off and throw it on the ground. James runs over and turns the stove off, and Sacha dumps the water on the burning sweater. The kitchen fills with dark smoke.

Everyone is now standing up in the den, turned to stare at me.

“Are you okay?” Abby asks, walking around the back of the couch and making her way to me. She grabs my arm and inspects it. There’s burn marks and blisters all up my forearm and shoulder, but as I look, they start to heal. Abby’s mouth hangs open.

“Aren’t you in pain? Why didn’t you react?” James asks incredulously.

“I… I didn’t feel it,” I mumble, grabbing my burnt arm and squeezing. I don’t feel that pain either, just the pressure of the squeeze.

“How about this?” Sacha says, throwing a cup of water she filled from the tap on me.

“Hey!” I exclaim as it hits my chest, annoyed that I’m now drenched.

“Cold, right?” Abby asks.

“No,” I shake my head. “Room temperature.”

Sacha laughs dubiously. “No, the water here is freezing. There’s no water heater.”

I breathe out in exasperation. “Is this the AGK?”

“It must be,” James replies. “And you didn’t feel any pain?” His voice almost sounds impressed.

I shake my head – no.

“Okay, how about this?” I watch as Iain picks up the fork Khaled was using to eat his peas and throws it at me. I don’t react, watching as the fork spins towards me and sticks itself in my upper thigh. I feel the pressure of it piercing my skin, but no pain. I yank it out, and blood seeps through my pants.

“Really?” James asks in disbelief of Iain’s throw, handing me a napkin to stop the bleeding.

“Nothing,” I say, shocked. “Did any of you know this could happen?”

They all shake their heads, stunned.

“What does it feel like?” Sri asks, watching me from the couch in the den.

“I guess… it feels like I’m numb. I can feel the pressure of the hit, but I don’t feel temperature or any of the pain,” I reply, trying to register all of this. But then my mind goes back to Brianna. “We can figure this out later. Where’s Mendoza?” I look back to Iain.

“I’m not telling you,” Iain replies and I scoff. “Yet. Let’s figure out what we should do first.”

“I’m going, Iain. I’ll call Pollard myself. You don’t need to come,” I repeat the same sentiment I’ve told him before, back at the manor, and Iain looks exasperated by my determination.

“Is this Brianna worth saving?” Khaled asks. “I don’t think everyone from Kingston is necessarily deserving of a rescue operation.”

“There are some people that I would not do this for,” I reply, thinking of Nina, John, Thomas and a few others. “But Brianna… she’s like me. She didn’t choose this. And she reached out to Pollard. That should tell you about who she is.” I pause, and no one objects. “Plus, what else would we do. Hide for the rest of our lives in case Mendoza finds us?”

“She’s right,” James says, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows. “As long as Mendoza is alive he’s going to try to find us. We should find him first.”

“Iain,” I plead, walking across the den so we’re face to face. I pick up his hand and put it between mine. “We can do this right. You have to trust me.” I search his eyes, and will him to believe me.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if in contemplation, then opens them and looks at me in defeat. “We can do what we can, I guess. But let’s figure you out first.” He looks down at my arm, which doesn’t look like it was ever burnt.

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Chapter 23

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We spend the rest of the day testing out what the second dose of AGK does. We quickly confirm that temperatures don’t affect me. After a series of tests, where the team poked and prodded me, we find out that this is happening all over my body. It takes anywhere from two to three minutes for me to fully heal from severe burns, cuts and stab wounds. The first dose of AGK could only lessen symptoms. The team, including James, takes turns stabbing, hitting and punching me. It’s almost a sort of twisted fun group activity – the team laughs, makes recommendations on what to try next. I do seem to have about the same strength, but my senses have been heightened even further.

“How far should we go?” Khaled asks, after he plunged a steak knife into my abdomen and we watched as it healed. “Do you think if we cut your hand off it’d grow back?”

“Ugh, Khaled!” Sacha laughs in disgust, perched on the kitchen counter. “We’re not doing that.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Abby agrees, standing up. “I think we should call it. She’s healing from all these things but we don’t know the long term effects.”

“That’s true,” Sacha nods, “Let’s see how you feel tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do with the extra doses?” Sri asks, eyeing the unopened backpack on the coffee table. We all turn to stare at it, a seemingly innocuous bag full of something that can make a person feel no pain.

“I don’t want it,” Abby says, throwing her hands up as if to say she wants no part of it.

“Me either,” Sacha agrees. “At least not yet.”

James and Iain nod, though Khaled looks slightly disappointed.

“What, so I’m the guinea pig?” I laugh.

“Guess so,” Iain shrugs.

“Next time Pollard calls, you should tell him,” James adds, talking to Abby and Iain. Iain nods as he rinses the blood off of one of the knives he used.

“Speaking of Pollard,” I interject. “Tell me where Mendoza is now.”

Iain finally gives it up. “Apparently he’s at one of his safehouses in Idaho.”

I laugh, somehow unsurprised. “Of course he is.”

“Why Idaho?” Sri asks as she sits on the couch, wrapping her arms around Abby.

“Idaho is the least regulated state,” I reply. “Less laws for him to follow. Mendoza never really follows the law anyways, but he always spoke about how Idaho was his favourite state just because of that.”

“So do you know where the safehouse is?” James asks.

I shake my head. “I doubt he’d pick one that I knew about. He’s smarter than that. But we can find it.”

“I’m sure Pollard can help too,” Sacha adds.

“Okay, well. Let’s get a good sleep and we’ll leave for Idaho in the morning,” Iain says, like he can’t believe he’s agreed to do this.

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James chuckles as we enter the bedroom, getting ready to go to sleep.

“What?” I ask in amusement, sitting down on the bed and inspecting James.

He rubs his eyes, and joins me on the bed. “Nothing. This is all just a bit weird.”

I laugh. “You’re right. Who would’ve thought you’d enjoy stabbing me in the hand?”

“It was a good stress reliever,” James says. I raise my eyebrows at him. “Kidding.”

“You’re hilarious,” I scold, but I’m laughing.

James watches as I take off the sweater I’m wearing and fold it, leaving just a tank top on. I gaze at my body, amazed that there’s no scarring from any of the tests from today. “I guess you won’t be cold, even though it’s freezing in here,” He remarks as we get under the blankets.

I laugh. “Guess not.”

The room falls silent for a minute, and I sit up, crossing my legs under the sheets and looking to James. It feels like he wants to say something. I want to go first.

“Look… going to Idaho,” I start out, trying to gauge his reaction to what I’ve decided today. “The whole team doesn’t need to come. It’s not their fight. You don’t need to come.” I pause, waiting, then continue. “The DOD would probably still have you back if you wanted. I don’t want to take your career from you.”

Now, James laughs, a loud, endearing, booming one that seems to take up all the space in the room. “I don’t want to go back to the DOD. And as for the team… I’ll let them decide. But I’m coming with you. You can handle yourself, but I want to help you.”

“Okay,” I say, relieved with his decision, but then a sense of guilt washes over me now that I remember I eavesdropped. “I overheard you and Iain today, down by the lake. I thought you should know.”

“Yeah, I figured. I meant what I said.”

I shift my position so that I can see his face and his dark blue eyes gaze back at me. “I’m grateful that it was you. Who came to get me in that gas station bathroom.”

“I’m glad you chose to shoot Mendoza instead of me.”

“Well, if I could go back in time…” I tease, and James hits me lightly on my arm. “I’m glad I did too.”

James smirks, and then his face falls into seriousness.

“What?” I ask.

“I know this won’t make much sense. We haven’t known each other that long and for most of it, we were fighting or you thought I betrayed you. But when I thought Chris killed you… I was devastated and then when you showed up at that office alive and I saw you – I don’t know,” He breathes out. “I’d never felt that type of joy in my life, except for maybe when I found out Abby was in remission.”

I open my mouth to answer him, but he keeps going.

“I started working for the DOD because I wanted to right all the wrongs of the world. I was a young kid, and angry, and thought the world was a shitty place. For years, most of the people I met confirmed that. There were exceptions… Sacha, Khaled, the team… but everyone who was supposed to do bad things never surprised me. They did the shitty thing,” James nods, like he’s remembering a laundry list of all the things he’s witnessed. “And when I met you, I had seen what people were capable of. I thought I understood what made a bad person, a criminal. The first time we said anything to each other, in that shitty Best Western hotel, I expected you to be harsh and indifferent. I was a stranger, and you were on the run and you weren’t the villain I was told you’d be. You were just a person. Then I arrested you, and I was still anticipating this unfeeling, cruel criminal who took pride in the things they’ve done. And that wasn’t you. It threw me for a loop. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my life, and known people to do terrible things. I mean, you know. You’ve done them. But you’re just so determined to be better. And -,”

“James,” I say, almost too loudly, interrupting him. “Do you remember, on the bus, when I asked you what you would want to do with your life?” He nods, but doesn’t seem to know where I’m going with this. “Well I don’t think either of us know the answer to that yet. But let’s just say that I hope your answer includes me. Because mine includes you. I’ve never felt at peace. But with you, I do.”

James smiles and kisses me. “Good.”

“I don’t know why, though,” I add sarcastically. “You’re a stubborn jackass.”

James laughs again and shoves me playfully. “Whatever.”

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The next morning when I wake up, James is still sleeping. He looks so carefree, the crease between his eyebrows finally at ease. His mouth is hanging open a bit, which makes him look harmless and gentle. He is, and I know that, but it’s definitely not the impression you get when you first meet James. As I look at him, his eyes moving behind his eyelids as he dreams, I want nothing more than to have that normal life with him, the one where we make dentist appointments and dinner plans, where we have to figure out what to watch on television and what shirt to wear. But that’s for another life.

I slowly get out of bed, not wanting to wake James up, and make my way into the den. Sacha, Abby and Sri are there, perched on various pieces of furniture, sipping tea.

“Good morning,” Sri says quietly, passing me a cup of tea, like they were expecting me.

“Morning,” I reply, taking a seat beside Sacha in front of the fireplace. I take a sip of the tea – peppermint. “Where are Iain and Khaled?”

“Loading up the car,” Abby replies. “We’re leaving in a half hour.”

I nod, thinking someone will have to wake James up. Just as I’m thinking it, the door to the bedroom opens and he saunters out, scratching the back of his head sleepily.

“Hey,” He says, his voice groggy. “We’re leaving soon?”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUjxnyPhASf
Sacha nods. “Get your ass out there and help pack the car.”

James gives a half-laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” He mutters as he pulls on some boots and a jacket, walking out to help the guys. As he closes the door, he looks quickly at me, giving me a smile.

Sri sighs, resting her head on Abby’s shoulder. Abby smiles a little, looking down at her. “Want to go for a walk?” Abby asks her. “Watch the sunrise before we leave?”

“Sure,” Sri replies, getting up and setting her cup down on the table. A moment later, they’ve left, bundled in coats and set off to walk around the lake. Abby takes a gun, just in case.

Once they’re gone, Sacha looks at me, putting her hand on my knee and squeezing it comfortingly. “How you doing?” She asks.

“I’m okay.” Somehow, despite everything, it’s not a lie. “You?”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0HVg9PIWJd
“Good,” Sacha says, nodding her head a bit. She looks at me, her bright eyes looking inquisitively.

“What?” I ask in mock impatience, when she doesn’t say anything.

Sacha shrugs, her now-tangled blonde hair falling on her shoulders. “You know I’m on board with everything. Finding this Brianna, getting Chris. You told me about how you started working for him, the jobs you went on… but you never really told me about him.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “You met him. I think you know what he’s like.”

“I do,” Sacha replies slowly. She doesn’t say it, but I know what she wants. To know what Chris did to me.

I breathe out slowly. “I didn’t see him much around Kingston,” I begin telling a story I’ve tried not to think about for years. “You only saw Chris when he wanted to see you.” I don’t want to tell Sacha everything – not because I don’t trust her, but because I’ve pushed those memories down for so long. So I plan to tell her one thing. Not the worst thing that he did to me, but the one terrible thing he did that I’ll let myself remember so that I can use it as motivation against him.

“Anyways, one night after a job he came to my room. It was when I was training Brianna.” Sacha looks at me intently, listening, so I continue. “He was mad at me. Brianna was shot and I was supposed to leave her there… and I didn’t. I brought her back, which put me in danger, and ruined the job. When Chris gets angry, there’s nothing you can do. He made me give him my arm and then – in a split second, he broke my wrist with his bare hands. He was on AGK then… I didn’t know.” I pause, cognizant of how odd it is to be telling this dark story in a such a pleasant environment; the bright sun streaming in, a fire roaring in the den of a quaint cabin, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea. I look to Sacha, whose eyes are wide and watery.

“I wasn’t allowed to get it looked at. I tried to bandage it the best I could. It healed after ten or so weeks. He still made me go on jobs with it broken, and it was excruciating, because my colleagues were instructed to make sure that I didn’t favour it.”

“He’s cruel,” Sacha says in a low voice.

I nod. “And then after it was finally healed, he called me back into his office. And then he broke it again.”

“What?” Sacha asks in disbelief.

“For a year, he did that. And it was fine, you know, because I got Brianna home and she lived,” I continue, speaking quickly, wanting this story to be over. “I only found out last year, that he did something similar to Brianna. He punished her because I made the decision to save her. How does that even work?” I breathe out in frustration, trying to rid my body of this emotion, but I think it only fuels my anger. “He would make her do push ups in his office every two weeks to reopen her stitches. So her abdomen never really healed.”

“I’m sorry,” Sacha says, her voice soft and low. She takes the mug out of my hand and places it beside hers on the table, then takes my hands in hers, holding them tightly.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I just want to find Brianna. The fact that she’s still alive is a miracle… he’s a sadist,” I say. “He’s always made me feel weak,” I add, almost an afterthought.

“Well, you’re not.”

“I know,” I say, half-laughing through the emotion. “But he doesn’t know that.”

The door to the cabin opens, and James pops his head in, his dark hair covered in a thin layer of snow.

“We’re leaving now. Let’s go,” He says quickly, before shutting the door.

Sacha stands up from the hearth of the fireplace, pulling me up with her by the hand. She envelopes me in a hug and I squeeze her back. Sacha pulls away, holding me at arms distance, looking me in the eye.

“So what do you want to do, boss?” Sacha asks me, her mouth turned up in a smirk.

“I want to make sure he knows.”453Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmsITa2qLC3

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