Chapter 17

WE SPEND ALL OF WEEK three—with the exception of our morning runs and afternoon combatives training—in the dining room, which they’ve turned into a sort of makeshift classroom. The instruction is on cover. “Creating it, maintaining it, and not sharing your true identity with anyone,” Matrix tells us the first day.

“Isn’t that kind of what we’ve been doing here already?” Houdini asks.

“Indeed. Some of you better than others. So, for this week’s elimination, you’re going to be scored on three areas.” She holds up three fingers and ticks items off on each as she continues with, “Maintaining your cover, concealment, and combatives. Your score in those areas will be averaged and added to your total score to determine your ranking on the board this week. We’ll start with your covers.”

While Matrix is addressing us, Sever passes out tablets like the ones we used to video chat with our families that first day.

Once we each have one, she holds up one of her own. “On your device, you’ll find a list of your names. You will add anything you know about your fellow recruits to this list. All of your devices are linked, so you will be able to see what everyone else is writing about each other and about you in real time. You won’t be able to see who is adding information about whom, but we can. We will be tracking your entries and scoring you. For each factual entry you add about a fellow recruit, you will earn 1 point. For every fact entered about you, you will lose 2 points.”

That means for every one thing someone knows about me, I need to know two things about someone else. My confidence in my own abilities takes an immediate nosedive.

Matrix taps her tablet and a clock, set to 20:00, replaces our murder board rankings. “Ready? Let’s begin.” The second she finishes speaking, the clock starts counting down. 19:59.

19:58.

19:57.

I can almost hear the seconds ticking away, each one resonating in my mind, a countdown to my imminent failure. I wrack my brain for anything I might know about the others that I shouldn’t. What will earn me points in this game?

To the best of my knowledge, no one’s truly broken character. But I have, on occasion, heard Havoc and Hazard call each other Blair and Blake. And I think we’ve probably all let some little details about our lives before The Program slip. I scroll quickly to Havoc’s and Hazard’s names on the list and type in their real names. As soon as I finish typing, Legacy lets out a muffled curse, and when I glance up at her, she’s shooting visual daggers at me. I guess I beat her to that one. A little thrill starts in the pit of my stomach, and I search my brain for more information I can add.

All I have a little snippets of seemingly useless information. Houdini is left-handed. Legacy walks with a slight limp when she’s tired, maybe from an old injury? Cipher clinches whenever someone touches him when he’s not expecting it. I type that in, but leave out the fact that I suspect it’s because he’s been abused. They want fact, not conjecture. So there’s no reason to include that bit.

As I scroll through the list, examining names to see who I can add facts about, I come across my own code name. And the list of facts already showing there. Someone, or several someones, clearly had some facts on me I didn’t realize I’d given away.

She’s from a single-household, mom only.

She’s into drawing.

She’s an only child.

Her favorite color is purple.

The list goes on. Twelve items have been added about me. Twelve facts I didn’t realize I’d given away. And suddenly, I’m feeling desperate to add more facts about my fellow recruits. My fingers fly over the screen, scrolling through the list, tapping in information with the onscreen keyboard. Anything I can think of.

Until I come to Maverick’s name.

There’s nothing there. Not one fact.

My hand hovers over the screen. I’m locked in place, stuck firmly between my desire to mitigate the damage being done to my name and the soul-deep knowledge that by adding what I know about Maverick, I would be betraying him on a level that goes far beyond game play. Guilt makes my palms sweat, my pulse race with anxious energy.

My fingers dip to the glass and I take the plunge. But I start small.

He’s from a one-stoplight town.

He had an older brother.

His brother was once recruited into training for The Program.

I scroll back up to assess the damage done to me so far. I’m up to 19 facts. I scroll back to Maverick, and then I slide straight down that slippery slope into full on betrayal.

His brother washed out of the program.

I slide a guilty glance in Maverick’s direction the moment I finish typing the words, but he’s staring down at his own screen in concentration. From the looks of it, he hasn’t noticed yet. With any luck, he won’t go back and look at his own facts, won’t know what I did. I know it’s not likely, but I continue anyway, feeling like the biggest jerk on the face of the planet. But even feeling like a total schmuck isn’t going to stop me.

His brother committed suicide.

As soon as I see the words on the screen, I feel sick to my stomach. The weight of what I’ve just done drops down onto my shoulders, and I feel them slump under it. A bubble of shame forms in the pit of my stomach, and I rub at the space just above my belly button in an attempt to relieve the ache. But I know the only way to get rid of the ache is to undo what I’ve just done.

I tap at the screen, aiming for the delete button, but it doesn’t work.

I shoot a panicked look his direction and tap my screen again, refusing to believe what I already know to be true. No matter how many times I hit delete, the words I never should have typed remain, a permanent wound to my relationship with Maverick, whatever that may be.

And then he raises his head, eyes wide with shock and pain, and searches me out. When he finds me, our gazes lock. He stares into my soul for a long moment, then mouths one word. “Why?”

It’s a punch to the gut, sucking all the air from my lungs, from the room. And I completely deserve it.

But I don’t have an answer. I open my mouth, but I can’t make my lips move. My throat is tight, constricting any inaudible response I may have mouthed back to him. I’m almost relieved when he looks away. I slump against a wall and stare down at my tablet without adding anything else for the rest of the time. I don’t dare to glance back in Maverick’s direction either. I’m just done, waiting for the wall to open up and swallow me whole. It never does.

Matrix calls time, and we all turn in our tablets. I’m on autopilot as I pass mine over and reclaim my spot against the wall to await the results. As it turns out, I wasn’t in any real danger. Vita and Ammo both have something north of forty points against them, and there’s three other recruits between their scores and mine at a whopping twenty-five. Not only did I blow up any chances of Maverick every trusting me again, but I did it for no reason.

But I don’t have time to dwell on the enormity of what I’ve done because Ruger steps up and announces, “Later this week, we’re going to have a scored assessment of your concealment skills. A sort of tournament to test your ability to blend in and go unnoticed. With only one winner.”

Only one winner means Ghost and I don’t have to meet to talk about who we should partner up with. So, no locking ourselves in his pantry for a clandestine study date where I try to keep a straight face in front of hormone fueled imaginings.

“We’re also…” Ruger cuts in. “Going to have a combatives assessment today. Team Matrix against Team Sever. The winning team will be given an advantage during the concealment assessment.”

When we break for lunch, I’m torn between trying to hide from Maverick in the shame of what I’ve done to him and trying to find him so I can grovel at his feet. Finally, I opt for the latter. I move from room to room, catching snippets of gossip about the runaways. Some recruits are upset that the runaways are being allowed to stay in The Program; some are marveling at how brazen the three had been to take off like that. Havoc and Hazard, of course, are in the game room bragging about how if they’d tried to run away, they would have made it. I roll my eyes and keep searching. Maverick is nowhere to be found. It crosses my mind that he might be so angry that he’s planning to avoid me forever, and I can’t blame him. All I can do is try to find a way to make things right with him. But first, I have to find him, and that’s easier said than done. I even go upstairs, thinking he might be hiding away in his room, but the door is open and his room is empty.

When we all arrive back from lunch, Wraith directs us to the gym. An extra mat has been laid out in the center of the room, a perfect square atop the already padded floor.

Ruger stands sentry at the edge. “Welcome back. Who’s ready for a sparring match?”

Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together and figure out that this is what Ruger meant when said we’d be having a combatives assessment. In my mind, I just pictured us performing mock displays of what we had learned so far. I never imagined we’d actually be fighting one another. What are the odds he’ll let me sit this one out?

Judging from the hard lines on his face, I’m going to go with: nil.

“Who wants to volunteer to go first from Team Matrix?”

Silence. No one volunteers at first. Instead, they all look around, waiting for someone else to speak up. Finally, Ghost steps forward. “I will.”

Ruger nods his approval. “And from Team Sever?”

I consider stepping out of line. I have a strong suspicion that if I spar against him, Ghost will go easy on me. But a small part of me wants to see what I’m capable of when pitted against an opponent who won’t coddle me, and an even smaller part me of harbors the tiny worry that Ghost might actually give the fight his all. We might be working together, but he’s still in this to win a final spot. Is he willing to take me down to do so?

“The match will end in one of two ways, either you knock your opponent off the mat, or you concede the fight. Whoever is left standing fights the next person until everyone has gone.”

“What if we don’t want a turn?” Vita asks in a voice so quiet I almost can’t hear the question.

Ruger’s nose wrinkles, like he’s offended by the smell of her question. “If you don’t wish to participate in the challenge, you may opt to sit out, but it will cost you five points on the murder board.”

Vita drops her gaze, but the calculating expression on her face belies her thoughts. She’s doing the math, considering sitting out of the tournament.

Maybe so am I. I’m high enough on the murder board right now that sitting out probably won’t hurt me too much. And I’m bad enough with this whole combat thing that sitting out might actually benefit my team, increase our chances of besting Team Matrix.

“And someone will have to go twice to take your place,” Wraith throws in.

Oh. Looks like I’m fighting, then.

I step forward, deciding to take the chance. I like to think of myself as a pretty good judge of character, and I want to have faith in Ghost. I choose to believe my trust isn’t misplaced. He won’t hurt me. Better to fight him than someone who would be trying to hurt me.

As I enter the boundary created by the edge of the mat, the circle of recruits surrounding Ghost and me tightens, closing in, trapping me in this invisible cage.

I raise my hands defensively the way we’ve been taught, and the corners of Ghosts lips twitch. There’s a fatal flaw in my plan to fight him in hopes that he might take it easy on me: we’ve been sparring all week. He knows my moves, my strengths, my weaknesses. And his expression is bright with smug satisfaction.

He lunges for me, and I dodge. He advances again; I leap away, staying light on the balls of my feet.

We circle like this for hours, days, fifty years. My heart is pounding in my chest from the physical activity and the excitement of staving him off for so long. All I need to do now is figure out how to get him off the mat without him taking me out first.

As we circle around a corner again, I see my way out of this fight.

Ghost makes to reach for me as he pivots to stay within bounds, and as he does, his right foot crosses over his left. At the next corner, he does the same thing. The move isn’t enough to make him noticeably unstable, but if I shove low on his body and manage to displace the weight he’s balancing primarily on his non-dominant foot, I might be able to topple him over. If I do this close enough to the edge, he might fall outside the safe zone.

With my newly formed plan in mind, I bend into a half crouch and wait for my opportunity to strike. The second his right leg crosses, before he can even plant his foot on the floor, I launch myself at him, aiming my right shoulder for his gut.

His muscles are harder than I expected, and even though he grunts as our bodies connect, the force of our impact almost knocks the wind out of me. His fingers latch around my biceps as he falters, stumbles back, and finally pitches over toward the mat. But he’s taking me down with him.

Our gazes connect in the seconds it takes us to reach the ground, him first, then me right after. He lands hard on his back, and the crash jars me. But he holds me steady, as if the only thing he’s worried about is my safety, and cushions my fall with his own body. When the dust settles we’re prone on the ground with me lying over him. A quick look around proves that, while my plan to knock him off balance was a success, my aim was off. We’re still about six inches inside the boundary.

Ghost is faster on the recovery than I am, and before I fully have my bearings, he plants a foot flat on the floor and uses his body to thrust us up and over, effectively placing me underneath him, on my back. On the wrong side of the line.

I’ve lost.

He looks into my eyes with something like tenderness in his expression. I’m frozen in his gaze, torn between the feeling of intimacy being in his arms evokes and the public nature of being on display for all the other recruits to see. He must realize it too because he blinks once, twice, looks around, and climbs off me to stand.

“Are you okay?” He reaches a hand down, like a peace offering, to help me up.

My pride hurts, but other than that, I’m good. “Yeah.” I take his hand sheepishly.

“I’m next,” Maverick announces before I’m fully on my feet.

My stomach does a worried somersault, and I press a hand against my belly to still the sensation. Maverick approaches the mat, and Ghost, with a look of calculation. Ghost is sizing up his adversary, looking for weaknesses. Maverick is doing the same, but there’s something more, something darker lurking in his expression of intent. The air in my lungs becomes heavy, almost suffocating. This is going to be a serious fight.

“Ready?” Ruger sounds significantly more excited about this fight than my little scrimmage with Ghost as he steps up to the edge of the mat and raises his hand in the air. With a quick drop of his arm, as if he’s dropping a flag for a circa-1950s, greaser street race, he announces, “Fight!”

Ghost and Maverick take up matching stances, squaring off against each other with tense muscles and fists raised. Neither one strikes right away; each seems to be waiting for the other to make the first move.

My attention is torn between them. Ghost’s movements as he and Maverick circle one another are smooth and confident. But Maverick’s are fluid and marked by an air of lethality that Ghost doesn’t possess. Then Maverick’s jaw clenches, and suddenly, they’re a blur of black clothing, bronze skin, and golden-hued muscles.

Maverick slams into Ghost, almost knocking him off balance. My breath comes down to short, sharp inhales that get stuck in my throat. Ghost recovers quickly, wrapping his arms around Maverick’s chest from underneath, like a reverse headlock. Maverick pulls out of it, and they’re back to circling one another. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I don’t know who to root for. My gaze is continually drawn from one to the other and back again. I feel like I’m playing mental ping-pong. The two of them are pretty evenly matched, and neither is making much progress. Maverick throws a punch, and Ghost dodges it. Ghost lunges, and Maverick dances away. We’re going to be here forever. And the suspense is going to be the death of me.

Then Ghost charges Maverick, tackling him to the ground before he can evade. As his breath leaves him in a heavy whoosh, so does mine. I grip my fingers together tightly as Maverick and Ghost wrestle for many long seconds, each trying to gain the upper hand, each trying to drag the other toward the edge of the mat. It looks more like a schoolyard brawl than a sparring match between two at least semi-trained fighters.

They both seem to have abandoned any pretense of trained fighting and have resorted to angry jabs and fury-fueled blows. I’m surprised they don’t sink to hair pulling and face slapping. The fight feels too personal for a skills assessment, the stakes too high. The rest of the recruits must feel it, too, because the room exists in a bubble. The fight between Maverick and Ghost creates a vacuum, and the only sound to be heard is that of blows landing and of male grunts of exertion and of pain.

At one point, Ghost even headbutts Maverick. I wince, waiting for blood to flow from Maverick’s nose, but he shakes it off, proving the blow wasn’t as hard as it appeared. Finally, Maverick gets his leg between them, presses his foot to Ghosts stomach and shoves. The force knocks Ghost backward, and he lands on his butt. Just outside the safe zone. I all but collapse in relief that the fight is over. It might be my imagination, but I can almost hear the collective sound of everyone in the room resuming breathing at once.

“Winner,” Sever announces, his shoulders high and his voice thick with pride. Ghost gets up off the floor and, holding his stomach loosely, heads for the outer edges of the circle of recruits that’s formed around the mat.

One down; seven to go. Maybe Maverick can best more of Team Matrix.

“Who’s next, Team Matrix?” Sever sounds like he’s challenging the entire team to take him on personally. But it’s not him; it’s Maverick. And Maverick is looking awfully winded right now.

“I’ll go.” Cipher takes a slow step up onto the mat and rolls up the sleeves of his long-sleeve shirt. He has the same air about him that Maverick had when he first started his match against Ghost. Cipher’s about to give Maverick a run for his money—er, his murder board rank.

This fight isn’t as intense as the last one, and feels entirely less personal, but Maverick and Cipher are still pretty evenly matched. It takes several minutes for Cipher to best Maverick, giving me plenty of opportunity to peek over at Ghost. He seems fully recovered from his kick to the stomach, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s not in pain anymore.

Cipher does eventually best Maverick, pushing him slowly backward until his back foot slips off the edge of the mat. I suspect from the way Maverick’s movements have slowed and the sheen of sweat on his forehead that Cipher only got the better of him because he was already pretty worn out after his fight with Ghost.

“My turn!” Legacy hops up onto the mat without waiting for instructor encouragement.

Cipher looks nonplussed by her enthusiasm. His brow is drawn, and his mouth hangs a little. Like he’s not sure whether to laugh at her audacity or be intimidated by it.

As soon as Ruger calls, “Fight,” Legacy bounces up to Cipher, jabs him in the throat with her fingers, and dances away. Chuckles can be heard around the room, and I fight the urge to add my own to the mix. Her unexpected assault must help Cipher make up his mind about her as a legitimate threat, because as soon as he’s done holding his throat, he squares up into a defensive stance. The next time she comes at him, he kicks out at her to keep her from getting close enough to get at his neck again.

When she goes for him a third time and he kicks again, she grabs his leg and uses it to spin him to the ground on his hands and knees in a move so fast I can’t even register the logistics of it. Then she’s behind him, wrapping him in a choke hold. She so lightweight that even though she’s got an arm in front of his neck and an arm behind his neck and is conceivably cutting off his air supply, he’s still able to stand. He’s a million miles taller than she is, though, and to keep her hold on him, she has to climb onto him piggy-back style and wrap her legs around his waist.

Cipher pulls at her arms, tugs at her legs, tries anything he can to get her off of him, but nothing is working. And his face is starting to turn an unfortunate shade of purple.

“Give,” he finally chokes out. The second the word leaves his lips, Legacy releases him and hops down. She pulls her hair tie out and casually fixes her ponytail as Cipher slinks away in defeat.

“Next!” Legacy calls out, setting her hands on her hips and staring down the remaining members of team Matrix one by one. “Nobody?”

Ghost steps out of line but doesn’t immediately volunteer. He looks around at his teammates and when none of them make eye contact, he says, “I guess I’ll go again.”

Legacy’s calm front cracks the slightest bit, and a tinge of color creeps into her cheeks from her neck. Suddenly, she’s not as confident as she was two seconds ago. Does Ghost make her nervous?

Ghost steps up in front of her, and Ruger announces the start of the fight. Legacy doesn’t dart out to attack him right away though, like she did with Cipher. Something is giving her pause. When Ghost makes a play to grab for her, she dances out of reach, and they circle each other a few times before settling into a stare-down. When she does make her move, she’s not as spritely; her movements lack the agility she displayed with Cipher.

When he comes at her again, she tries to dodge, but he’s so much bigger than her, he grabs her around the middle, pins her arms to her sides, and just carries her to the edge of the mat. The whole trip takes maybe five seconds, and when Ghost sets her on her feet—just on the wrong side of the boundary—her eyes almost bug out of her head, and her mouth hangs open in an incredulous scowl. Like she can’t believe he bested her. Or maybe she can’t believe she let him get under her skin. I bite back a shocked snicker, but someone else nearby isn’t so circumspect. I guess I’m not the only one who didn’t see that coming. And liked it. She’s not exactly nice to anyone, though she doesn’t seem to dislike anyone in particular. She’s just generally unpleasant to everyone. So her being shown up like this in front of the whole group feels like the perfect comeuppance. Her face turns berry red, and she cuts through the line of recruits to hide behind them.

“Well, that was disappointing.” Ruger’s voice is deadly quiet, but he doesn’t seem to be suffering from the same shock the rest of us are. “Okay, Team Sever. Who’s next?”

Ghost has already fought three times, and won twice, though that second victory didn’t take nearly as much effort as I’m sure we had all assumed it would, based on Legacy’s victory over Cipher. Is he worn out enough that I might be able to take him now? We’ve been sparring together for a couple of weeks. I know his moves, his tells, his feints and redirects. But he still gets the better of me almost every time. And even if I do win, I’ll still have to fight someone else from Team Matrix.

Maverick steps onto the mat. Again? What is it with him wanting to fight Ghost?

Ruger starts the match, and much like last time, the guys circle each other for a long time. They make small plays toward one another, but each is considerably more guarded than they were during their first match.

Maverick makes a run at Ghost, swinging a punch at the same time, but Ghost kicks from the side to deflect him. Maverick takes a hard foot to the side, and I cringe, fighting the urge to look away. I’m almost positive I heard something crack when Ghost’s foot connects with Maverick’s ribs. He backs up, favoring his left side, but whatever damage the kick has done doesn’t stop him from trying again. This time, he and Ghost get head-to-head, each trying to lock the other one in a choke. Maverick gets the upper hand, but Ghost throws three quick punches into Maverick’s ribs. At the same place where he kicked him. Under his black tank, an angry red welt is already starting to form, visible through the arm hole when he bends and shifts. Ghost aims for the mark like it’s a bullseye, and acid churns in my stomach, climbing higher up my throat with every blow. Maverick backs up, presses a hand to his side, and Ghost charges him. “Dear God…” I silently whisper the start of a prayer for Maverick, but I don’t have the words to finish it. Then, they both stumble off the mat and land flat on the floor, and it’s over.

“This one goes to Ghost. Maverick left the mat first,” Wraith calls out. If I wasn’t so worried about Maverick, I might have felt a twinge of sadness that he lost this one, but the only feeling I can muster right now is an easing of the ball of anxiety taking up airspace in my chest.

Ghost jumps up triumphantly and reaches down to offer Maverick a hand up, but Maverick stays where he is on his back on the floor. His hand is covering his side, but even around his fingers, it’s not hard to see the promise of a bruise already spreading.

Matrix and Sever swoop in, nudging recruits out of the way to check him over. I catch snippets of their conversation as they look him over, words like “cracked rib,” and “maybe his spleen.” Then they help him up with care, and Sever helps him limp out of the room. I’m pretty sure they take every ounce of air in the room with them.

Ruger watches them go, then turns back to us. “All right, recruits, who’s next?”