CHAPTER 22
“INTERROGATION,” RUGER ANNOUNCES AT THE start of training Monday morning. And that’s the theme for week four. “This week, you’ll learn to interrogate suspects effectively and also to withstand interrogation. We’re going to start with the latter.”
And this is the week I’m going home. I can’t even lie to my mom with a straight face. Although, I’ve never really had to practice. Until she sold me into government servitude, we had a very sisterly relationship. And If I don’t get the hang of holding up under interrogation, what I go home to will, for sure, not be what I left behind.
“Pair up, recruits.”
I have some weird flashback to the first day of training. Will Ghost try to partner with me again? How will that affect this weird noncommunication thing Maverick and I have going on? And most importantly, why am I letting two boys define my experiences?
I catch sight of Ghost of the corner of my eye. I can’t tell from just that peripheral view if he’s headed my way or not, but I’m not taking any chances. I turn in the opposite direction and stop in front of the first warm body in my path. Legacy.
This is a mistake, my brain screams at the same time my mouth opens and “Hey, partner with me?” comes pouring out.
Legacy looks over her shoulder as if she’s searching for someone behind her, some other person I might be speaking to other than her. But there’s no one within at least a few feet of us. “What’s wrong? Fighting with your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I don’t know if she’s talking about Maverick or Ghost, but either way, it’s the truth.
She looks skeptical. “If you say so.”
“Do you want to be my partner or not?” Legacy’s attitude grates, but I’ve already stepped in it; no point in backing up now.
She looks around, then says, “Sure, why not?”
Awesome. Because what better way to ensure my failure than with a partnership that lives somewhere between lukewarm and animosity. Looks like I’ll be going out with a bang this week.
When seven pairs of recruits line the outer edges of the room, Wraith takes the lead. “We’re going to start today by having you each tell your partner something no one else here knows. You’re doing this to build trust with one another. Then, you will come up with a shared secret that only the two of you will know. You will each need to hold up under interrogation. If one of you breaks and gives up the secret, your team loses. The team that withstands interrogation the longest will be given five extra points on the murder board for this week’s elimination.”
She gives us ten minutes free time, during which we’re supposed to find a secluded place to talk, share a secret, come up with an entirely new secret, and return to the training room. Legacy and I spend almost five minutes just roaming in search of privacy. Obviously, inside the house isn’t an option, because cameras. We end up at least a hundred yards into the field across the street from the houses. The grass is freshly mown, though I don’t recall ever hearing a mower. As we sit cross-legged, facing each other, I’m picture Ruger out in the field in the middle of the night pushing a tiny helical mower. The thought makes me smile.
Legacy squints at me suspiciously.
“So, what’s your secret, princess?” she asks, taking her ponytail down so she can recapture errant strands and roll the whole thing into a bun at the crown of her head. With the bun and her skin-tight, black ensemble, she looks more like a ballerina than a spy, or government operative, or whatever it is they’re training us to be. And she’s got the nerve to call me princess?
I take a deep breath and let her not-so-sweet pet name roll off my back. Then I reach far into my brain for a secret that no one else here would know but is innocuous enough that I don’t mind sharing it with Sweetie McFriendlyFace here. “I wore boys’ jeans when I was in elementary because we didn’t have much money and our next-door neighbor felt bad for us, so she gave us her sons hand-me-downs.” There, that wasn’t so bad.
Legacy’s expression is blank, and she blinks at me a few times like she can’t quite process what I told her, like she can’t reconcile the poor girl wearing boys’ jeans with whatever impression of me she’s been holding onto in her head. “Kay,” she finally says. Then, “My mother died when I was two.”
Talk about dropping a bomb. What the hell am I supposed to do with that information? I mean, nothing, obviously… besides keep it a secret. But I don’t even know how to respond. Do I say I’m sorry? Do I try to give her a hug? Do I pretend the last ten seconds never happened? Dear God, please let it be option three. “I’m sorry.” I rush the words out, like saying them quicker is somehow going to make them mean more.
“Don’t be. I don’t even remember her. It’s not like I know what I’m missing right?”
Something in the casual way she says it breaks my heart, because I can tell by her tone that she’s truly not aware of what she’s missed out on not having her mom around. And in the next thirty seconds, I mentally relive my childhood, fast-forwarding from bedtime stories to having scrapes and bruises tended to girl talk about life and friends and boys. All the things my mom did for me that I can’t imagine being the same with only a dad around. Maybe it’s because my dad’s never been around. Or maybe it’s because I have an amazing mom.
A mom I’ve been feeling so betrayed by and hateful toward. As frustrated and upset as I still am that she let me be drafted into this crazy program, deep down inside, I know she was just trying to do what she thought was best for me. She’s never done anything else. Suddenly, washing out because I can’t hold up under interrogation isn’t looking so bad. I’ll at least be able to go home and hug my mom again.
Oh, and there’s the whole not being murdered thing, too. Huge bonus, there.
“So, now that we know each other better…” Legacy puts air quotes around her words for emphasis. “We need to come up with something else, a secret to share.”
“Got any ideas?”
She spears me with a direct look. “I’m pretty sure we both like the same guy. Does that count?”
Yep, I’d say that definitely counts. “Ghost?” I ask hopefully. For some reason, I feel much better about the idea of her being into Ghost than her having a thing for Maverick.
She nods, and I relax on a soft sigh of relief.
“Is that really the best secret, seeing as how he and I just got caught making out in the woods a few days ago?”
“I’m aware. We all are. But I didn’t get caught with him.” She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“Good point.”
“I know, right?” Her tone is mocking, and her expression matches.
“Careful, your sarcasm is showing.”
Legacy rolls her eyes at me and stands with fluid movements, all grace and lithe strength. I’m considerably more awkward getting up off the ground, and I’m sure we must look like quite the pair walking side-by-side back to the house. She’s tall and elegant, and I’m small and gawky, all knees and elbows.
We’re not the last ones back to the training room, but almost. Ghost and Redux enter just a moment or two later, and Ruger steps up to the front. “We’re not going to jump into the interrogations just yet. In fact, we’re not going to tell you when they will take place. If you expect it, you can plan. And that would skew the results, wouldn’t it?” His tone is smug, almost gleeful. “For now, we’re going to add a new level to your daily training: firearms and munitions. If everyone will please head to the house Team Matrix used to occupy, we’ll get started.”
Why did they have us meet back here if they were just going to make us house hop two seconds later? I purse my lips against the desire to voice my question. I know better than to offer any opposition out loud. The instructors don’t like it when the recruits don’t play along. So, I fall in and follow like a good little lemming over to Matrix Manor.
The inside of the house is vacant now. They’ve removed all furnishings, all the books from the shelves in the living room, even the area rug from the entryway floor. Where did they put everything? Could they have brought moving trucks in and packed everything into them without making a sound? Just like with the mowing of the lawn, I never heard anything.
The closet under the stairs stands open, two wide doors spread flat against the wall, leaving the interior exposed. The walls are floor to ceiling shelves, and those shelves are well-stocked. With guns.
Does this same stash exist in Sever House? The idea that we’ve been sleeping so close to so much fire power is both reassuring and terrifying. And now, they’re putting it all on display for us.
Ruger reaches into the closet and grabs a handgun. “This is a semi-automatic.” He turns it over in his hands effortlessly, and no matter where he points it, he never points it at any of us. Not even accidentally. “Safety’s here. Clip, barrel, trigger…” He runs us through the anatomy of a handgun in single words and clipped phrases. Which for some reason actually makes the information easier to retain. Then he hands the gun to Houdini. “Never ever point your weapon at another person unless you plan to shoot that person,” he tells Houdini firmly.
The boy takes the gun with a hand that shakes just the slightest bit. Then he holds the gun away from his body as if he’s afraid it’s going to spontaneously misfire. Yeah, a cold-blooded killer he is not. I’ll update my personal murder board with this new info as soon as I have a chance.
Ruger goes on to discuss the features of the gun as he hands out four guns total, something about single action and double action, three states: decocked and safe, decocked and ready to fire, and cocked and ready to fire. There’s more, but nothing I could repeat if I wanted to. I’m too caught up in the fact that he’s arming us.
They’ve let a killer loose on unsuspecting teenagers, given the wolf sheep’s clothing, and now they’re giving it the tools it needs to continue with the slaughter. Seems smart to me. As much as I want to convince myself I’m brave, the idea plants a seed of fear in my gut that threatens to blossom into full-blown terror if I feed it too much. What are the chances I can sneak one of these guns out of here and hide it away just in case?
When he sets one in my hands, I imagine I look just as uncomfortable as Houdini did. I’ve never held a gun in my life. In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to an actual firearm were the few times I’ve been in the same public area as a police officer or sheriff’s deputy. The metal is heavy and rigid and surprisingly warm in my palm, the shape hard and unforgiving.
When he’s finished handing out weapons, he directs us to the door that should lead to the game room—at least that’s where it goes in Sever House. Matrix and Sever flank the door, one with arms stocked with safety goggles, and the other with noise-cancelling headsets. Something tells me it isn’t a game room waiting on the other side of that door.
And I’m right. The room has been stripped—I assume, since I never actually saw the game room in Matrix Manor when it was still a recruit residence. Now, a counter separates a small area just inside the door from the other end of the room. The counter is cut into four stalls, and each lines up perfectly with a corresponding paper target at the far end of the room. They’ve created a shooting range.
“Those of you with guns, take your marks.” Matrix points to white tape exed on the floor in front of the stalls, and by the time I make my feet move, three are already taken. I take the mark at the far end, next to Redux. “You each have one full magazine. That’s fifteen rounds to get as close to center as possible. When every recruit has had a turn, we’ll compare. The winner will automatically move up one space on the murder board.”
“Ready?” she asks the four of us in a bored tone.
I widen my stance, ground my feet.
“Aim.”
I raise my weapon and point it. The target isn’t just a bullseye. Behind the series of increasingly smaller circles is the silhouette of a person, with dead center being a kill shot to the chest. I aim true, but conflict wars in my brain and makes my trigger finger itchy. It may just be a paper person, but I’m not quite ready to put a bullet through his heart.
“Fire.”
I pull the trigger.