“Well, guess what? Life is not fair. Out of everything we’ve encountered in the last twenty-four hours, you have the fairest of lives,” my father replies, his voice raised, his tone bitter. The joy I felt five minutes ago seeps from my blood and is replaced by a flash of panic. It burns sharp and hot and thick against the walls of my veins, tensing every muscle.
Dad stares at me, his eyes angry, before he shakes his head and walks out of the room. His feet shuffle down the hall and the door to his office slams shut. I listen as his body collapses into his old desk chair. It squeaks under the weight of his 225-pound frame and the house is silent again. Mom stares at the doorway, like she’s hoping Dad will come back to help her explain.
“Mom,” I say, placing my fingers gingerly on her arm. She turns around, but her glassy green eyes still won’t meet mine.
Mom starts then stops. She takes a deep breath and wrinkles her brow. I watch her put the words together in her head before she speaks.
“We are going to have a Black Angel watcher with you for the next few days,” Mom says, reaching out and touching the shoulder of my thin red jacket. She straightens it and pulls it closer to my chest, dressing me like she did when I was little.
“Why do I need a watcher?” I ask, staring at her, waiting for her to stop fidgeting and look at me.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be completely undercover with you at school,” she says, still playing with my coat. “You won’t even realize they’re there. And I need you to carry your weapon with you wherever you go from now on.”
My weapon. Holy shit. We have a no-gun rule outside of the house. Sure, I have my little knife contraptions the Black Angels made me and weapons stashed near the school. But never, ever have I been told to carry my gun.
“My gun? Bodyguards? I don’t understand. Why do I need them?” I press her again.
“I also need you to memorize all the codes that identify you as a Black Angel,” Mom continues, staring straight ahead and ignoring my questions. “Our code right now is BA 178229. If anyone is questioning you or you need to get yourself out of trouble, just repeat BA 178229.”
BA 178229. BA 178229, my mind repeats over and over again until it’s locked in.
“My code name is Red Sunrise. Dad’s code name is Black River. Sam’s code name is Beacon. Your code name is Shadow.”
They’ve never told me my code name before. I didn’t even realize I had one.
“Mom, what is happening? Why are you telling me all of this?” I demand, grabbing her carefully by the shoulder and forcing her to look at me. Her eyes finally lock with mine. They are no longer glassy. The sadness has been replaced with something else, an emotion I cannot put my finger on.
“Just in case,” she says, her voice firm and cool.
“In case of what?” I ask, each word tightening my throat.
Mom takes a deep breath and gets up from the stool. “Just in case is all, Reagan.”
Before I can say another word, she slips out the garage door and closes it behind her. I hear the secret door slide open and she is gone.
I sit frozen in the kitchen, the refrigerator humming behind me. The searing heat I felt in my stomach with Luke has been replaced by a series of tiny knots, tied so tightly, it’s impossible to move. I slide Mom’s coffee across the sleek granite and take a sip. I stare into the cup and it’s then I get a flash of what I saw in Mom’s eyes. What had replaced the sadness and guilt: It was fear.
TWELVE
What the hell happened out there? What is going on? Who is after us? How long until we leave?
The nerve endings in my brain are violently thrashing, my mind spinning with questions my parents refuse to answer. I sat alone in the kitchen for ten minutes, drinking Mom’s coffee, watching the garage door, listening to the squeak of Dad’s chair, waiting for one of them to reappear and explain why I need my gun and body guards 24/7.
They never came back. Fine. I’ll find the answers myself.
As I sit down at my computer, the terror I’ve been trying to push away slashes deeper, making each breath a labored effort. I should have known as soon as I walked in the door, their soft voices in the kitchen, their tight smiles, the tension pulsing off their bodies, ping-ponging against the cabinets and countertops. They’re unequivocally shaken and won’t tell me why. They’ve been on a gazillion missions. Sometimes stuff goes wrong. But this time feels different. I’ve never felt this undertow of fear before.
I force my brain to focus on what Mom told me about the mission and the details come flooding back. Anna Taylor. Santino Torres. Drug lord. Colombia.
I type Anna Taylor’s name into Google and one hundred headlines pop up. The top one reads:
Senator Taylor’s Daughter Killed During Rescue Mission
The words knock me back in my chair. Shit.