Chapter 5

JUST LIKE LAST NIGHT, THEY line us all up in the gym, facing the mirrored wall. Team Matrix, or whatever they’re calling themselves, is already lined up at one end. We file into the room—seven minutes late according to the clock on the far wall—in a sloppy single-file, and Sever’s jaw twitches as he surveys the other team’s perfectly straight, perfectly on-time row. Looks like he got stuck with the reject group. The B squad. And he’s not happy about it. A sense of satisfaction twists the corners of my mouth into the tiniest of smiles, which I immediately try to hide. But for a brief moment, I mentally run through ways I could possibly make our group, and thereby him, late again.

Today, Wraith stands to the side, and Ruger is at the center. Ruger is pure muscle; he probably snorts whey protein and eats whole chickens for breakfast. Before pumping enough iron to build a small bridge. When we’re all situated, he takes a step forward and clears his throat.

“Three decades ago, a group of kids was recruited by the government for black ops. They were the best their generation had to offer, and they earned the privilege to use their unique skills to serve their country. That group of high school students became the best agents this country has ever seen. And every year since, twenty-six new teens are chosen to train, to fight, to win. This year, it’s you.

“What if we don’t want to train, fight, win?” a guy from Team Matrix asks in a defiant tone. He took the words right out of my mouth.

Ruger looks almost insulted by the question, but answers calmly, “We’re not here to force anyone to participate in The Program.”

Says the guy who helped kidnap us.

“Consider this the official intake meeting. After this meeting, anyone who does not wish to stay, may opt to go home. But if you do, know that you and your family will be on every terror watch list in existence, and even some that don’t officially exist. Earning a spot in The Program is the best thing that can happen to any one of you. Let me show you.”

On his words, the lights dim, and a patch of mirror darkens into a screen. A video starts with a beach scene, and soft music plays in surround sound. The video flashes to children playing on a playground, then a family on a picnic. A fancy house; two teens, a boy and a girl, swimming in a private pool. Then the music changes and so does the theme of the images: an explosion, gunfire, destruction.

Ruger speaks over the music. “Life is fragile.” Emaciated children; a quarantine camp. Pain squeezes my heart like a rubber band. “It can be snatched away in the blink of an eye. But you have the ability to save lives. To protect your family, your friends, your neighbors. Each of you have been vetted and hand-selected for the privilege of saving lives. You’re here to hone your skills, to test your mettle.” Soldiers fighting; a high-speed car chase, then gunfire at a shooting range. “You are the best this country has to offer. And in return, this country will offer you its best.” Money, a skyline penthouse apartment, a private jet. The screen goes dark.

By the time the lights come back up, I’m left a little traumatized by the visual assault, particularly the starving kids. Is that why they showed it to us? To motivate us into action… into staying in The Program? But this is just propaganda. A commercial meant to sell us on The Program. And I’m not sold.

“What if we don’t care about money?” The question comes from Team Matrix, from the mousy girl who almost fell out of line last night. She sets her hands on her hips, and Ruger mimics the stance almost perfectly, right down to cocking one hip and sticking one foot out just a few inches farther than the other. But he’s not doing it to mock her. The action is more subtle, natural.

He’s mirroring her body language. I read an article on it once. It’s supposed to help one person influence another’s subconscious opinion of them. “But you do care about saving lives, right?”

Mouse deflates a little. “Well, yeah. Of course. But I’m seventeen. I’m not even old enough to join the military.”

“This isn’t the military.”

“But what about our families?” Her voice is softer and less sure than before. “They’re going to report us missing. If they haven’t already.”

My mom won’t be home from her work trip until tomorrow afternoon, but she probably won’t realize I’m missing until my curfew tomorrow night. But when she finds out… she’s going to unleash all sorts of maternal wrath on anyone she even thinks might be responsible. Mom can go from zero to mama bear in two seconds flat. A sliver of satisfaction sticks in my brain as I picture how she’ll handle this, handle these instructors. They might be trained government agents, but Mom is a hundred and thirty-five pounds of pure maternal rage and armed with a disproportionately large amount of snark for any one person.

“They know you’re here.”

Right. And Santa Claus helped plan our abductions. My mother would never betray me like that.

The room erupts in gasps and whispers, disbelief and surprise and confusion all at once. The noise drowns out my own snort of disbelief. Ruger waits for us to quiet before directing our attention to the screen. A dark-haired woman with soft wrinkles around her eyes and a soft, rosy complexion appears center-frame and smiles out at us kindly.

“Mom,” Prodigy whispers, and suddenly, he has the whole room’s attention as he watches his mom speak to him from a pre-recorded video.

“Hi, Prodigy! I can’t call you by your real name; this is your name now. I just want you to know, I love you. When they first came to me to talk about recruiting you, I wasn’t sure you were ready for it. You’re so smart, so amazing, but part of me will always see you as my little boy. But, at some point, I have to let you go. I have to let you live up to your full potential. And The Program will help you do that. I know all of this is probably coming as a big surprise to you, my amazing boy. But you are going to be amazing. I promise! I’ll see you in six weeks!” She tears up at the end, right before the screen goes dark again.

“Each of your parents are waiting to video with you. You will get to talk to them for fifteen minutes when we complete our training today. Your parents already know you’re here,” he repeats his earlier disclosure.

My heart becomes a sinking stone, heavy like granite. My mother agreed to this. Did she know what they were going to do—that they were going to break into our house in the near-middle of the night, scare me half to death, and spirit me away without anyone even seeing? Did she approve all of this? We’ve had our differences over the years, but I’ve never in my life felt so betrayed by her as I do in this moment.

And for as much as I want to go home, I kind of never want to see her again.

Mouse must not have an argument for Ruger because she drops her hands to her sides and sighs. He winks at her like they’re co-conspirators now, then goes back to addressing the group. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s get going.”

Just like that? His speech is over, and apparently, we’re all expected to just agree to participate in The Program. Although, I’m split 50/50—now that I know my other option would be going home to my own personal Brutus.

“Wait. You said we could leave if we wanted.” Houdini crosses his arms over his chest. Apparently, he has no qualms about running home to whoever turned him over in the first place.

Ruger eyes him like he’s sizing him up. “That’s true. You can. But if you drop out of The Program, everyone else here washes out. You all stay, or none of you stay.”

This revelation explodes in my brain like a bomb. Why didn’t they drop this little nugget last night when they talked about dropping out? Is he just making this up as he goes along to keep anyone from actually choosing to leave?

Legacy steps out of line to face Houdini. “Listen, Hocus Jokus. Some of us actually want to be here. I’ve trained my whole life for this, and if I lose my chance because you forgot to put on your big girl panties, so help me, I will spend the rest of my life ruining the rest of yours.”

The whole room is frozen. Who knew beneath that prom queen exterior lurked a ruthless predator with razor-sharp claws? And she’s staring Houdini down, daring him to make a move.

Ruger takes advantage of the silence to ask, “Do you really want to be that guy—the one who costs everyone else the chance of a lifetime because you want to go home to mommy and daddy?”

Houdini flinches. “No,” he mumbles without making eye contact. Ruger’s struck a nerve. Or maybe Houdini’s actually scared of Legacy. She smiles sweetly at him, flips her ponytail over her shoulder, and steps innocently back into line. The mask is back on, but now we all know what’s under her baby-doll façade.

“Anyone else?” Ruger asks.

When no one else speaks up, he points again to the screen. This time, it’s not a video, though. A list of our code names appears in two vertical columns. The list is numbered. Ruger steps closer to us, turns, and paces down the line, addressing each recruit he passes.

“This is the murder board. These are your rankings. Take a good look, recruits. For the next six weeks, you will live by this board, and you will die by it. Each week, the recruits at the bottom will be eliminated from The Program and sent packing. You will wash out. At the end of this week, six of you will be eliminated, and two recruits each week after until we’re down to six.”

Someone snickers, and I’m pretty sure Ruger’s eye twitches. “It may not seem like a big deal to some of you, but washing out of The Program is a permanent black mark against you. We call this the murder board, because if you get eliminated, life as you knew it will be over. Many, many doors will close to you. No government jobs, no security clearance, which means you won’t even be able to work with contractors. For a lot of you techies, that’s pretty much any search engine or tech company. Even the big box stores have government contracts. You will be blacklisted. Unemployable after college. If you even get into college.”

I haven’t even decided what schools I want to apply to, let alone what I want to major in. And an actual career beyond college is a blur so far in the distance of my future plans, it might as well be a mirage. I have no idea what I want to be or do. But having my chances ruined before I’ve even decided doesn’t sound like a road map to success. So far, that’s two points for staying, and eh, maybe a half a point for going home and seeing Brutus—er, my mom again.

Except, for the whole being held against my will thing. That burns my brain more than the ropes rubbed my wrists raw last night.

“These are your first rankings… the results of your first test.” Ruger reaches the end of the line and turns, paces back.

I scan the list for my name. Ten out of twenty-six. I push down a little swell of pride and focus instead on the fact that I don’t remember taking any test. “What test?”

“The abduction. Your first test was to see how you handled danger when you had nowhere to run and no one to turn to for help. Some of you,” he pauses in front of Legacy and looks at her proudly, “fought smart and fought hard, and almost got away.”

Hey, I almost got away, too. Why am I in tenth place? Jealousy is a foreign emotion for me, and I’m not prone to bouts of competitiveness, either. But here I am feeling jealous and competitive. Just a few minutes ago, I was proud of myself for making tenth place. But now, it rankles for some reason. “Those scores are based on more than just our first test.” They have to be for me to land in tenth place.

“Yes, they are.” He stops in front of me and considers me like he’s only just realized I’m there. “Each week, your rankings will be based on your test results along with three important factors.” He holds up three fingers to emphasize his words. “Attitude, aptitude, and adaptability.” Which means, Legacy must score better than me in some, or all, of those categories. As do eight other recruits. Prodigy is ranked first, which means he’s going to be even stiffer competition than Legacy.

Ruger doesn’t move farther down the line. Instead, he returns to the front of the room. As soon as he returns to his original spot, Sever steps forward and whispers something to him.

“It appears there is an adjustment to the rankings.”

Sever produces a tablet from I-don’t-even-want-to-think-about-where behind his back and taps a few times. When he finishes, the name at the end, Tally, slides up one spot. As do several names before it. The new number twenty-six is slow to appear. And then it’s there.

Sim.

I bite back a groan of frustration.

“In our line of work, the difference of a couple of minutes—of being on time or being late—can mean the difference between life and death,” he tells the room. Then he speaks to Sim specifically. “If this morning had been an op, your whole team could be dead right now, and it would be your fault.”

It’s a heavy statement to lay at a teenager’s feet, but Sim takes it better than I would have. I probably would have said something snarky about how if it had been an op, he’d have botched it simply by virtue of leaving us alone over here with so little instruction.

Sim just drops her head, showing exactly the right amount of remorse, but her shoulders stiffen just a fraction. She’s not as submissive as she’s letting on.

But Sever seems to buy it. “All right, recruits, partner up. It’s time to play a game.”