CHAPTER 23

IT TURNS OUT, I’M ACTUALLY not a very good shot. It took almost half my rounds before I hit anywhere inside the target, and by the time I was out of bullets, I still hadn’t hit the target. But I wasn’t the worst. That credit went to Houdini, which was no surprise considering the fact that he held the gun like he was worried it would bite him right up until the moment he passed it on to the next recruit. He only got one hit anywhere on the target, and it wasn’t anywhere near the silhouette man. And of course, Ammo won the extra points.

We shoot every day after our morning run, and by day three, I’m actually starting to make some kill shots. One by one, pairs of recruits are ‘abducted’ for their interrogation assessment, and one by one, they return to the group after caving.

Friday morning starts with a bang. Or rather a slam when I’m dragged from my bed at dark-thirty, gagged, and blindfolded. Looks like it’s my turn for interrogation. Mine and Legacy’s. I don’t fight as they carry me out of my room, down the stairs, and out of the house. We cross a lawn—or both lawns, I can’t tell—and enter one of the other houses. A quick couple of minutes later, they put me down in what could be a dining room chair. When they remove my hood, Sever and Matrix have me cornered in the living room of the former Matrix Manor. I’m in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, which they make short work of tying me to, and across the foyer, in what would have been the dining room, Wraith and Ruger have Legacy cornered in a matching chair and bonds.

Once they’ve finished tying her up, they each go to one end of the doorway and pull pocket doors from inside the doorframe. Wraith shuts herself out of the room, though, leaving Legacy alone with Ruger. Then Sever and Matrix do the same to close off the living room, and I’m one-on-one with a fierce-looking Matrix. They’ve given us a view of each other, then effectively cut us off. It’s probably a manipulation tactic to make us nervous, and in my case, it’s working.

“So, you and Legacy have gotten kind of chummy lately.” Matrix circles behind me to growl the words in my ear. “Funny. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person you’d normally be friends with.”

Truth: she’s not really, but not because of her cheerleader vibe. If I’d only met her in passing and never gotten to know her, never had to live with her and see past her façade of strength and bluff, I would have pegged her for superficial, shallow, and so incredibly full of herself. But spending four weeks living in the same house and seeing each other day in and day out has given me a peek at the girl under all that brash exterior.

But I keep my mouth shut. In fact, I don’t say a word through what feels like hours of questioning. Not when Matrix grabs my shoulders so hard I’m sure she’s leaving bruises and brings her face so close to mine that I can smell the coffee on her breath. Not when she tips my chair backward, and my head knocks into the wall with a thud. Not even when she unfolds a soft leather pouch on the window seat, displaying an assortment of what look like very sharp surgical tools and begins sharpening them further. I realize the second she puts the last tool back on the window seat that it’s all for show and that strengthens my resolve. Eventually, the sun comes out, and I start to hear movement in the house. The other recruits have arrived; the day has begun.

“We both like Ghost!” Legacy’s cry carries from the dining room, cutting through the din of quiet conversation and moving bodies. The whole house quiets in an instant. And I can tell from the heaviness in the silence that everyone heard exactly what I heard: Legacy giving up our secret.

Relief floods into my tight muscles, washing away the tension, and embarrassment prickles on my skin. Our assessment is done, but now everyone probably thinks Legacy and I are fighting over Ghost, not only that, but hearing her yell the words drives home just how immature our secret makes us sound. Here we are in a top-secret spy training program, and our first-class intel is that we both think the same boy is cute? My face flames with the shame of it, and I hang my head as Matrix unties me. My gaze is still glued to the floor when Ruger opens the doors, but a dozen pairs of solid black shoes dot my periphery.

“You’re free to go, Infinity,” Ruger tells me.

I get up from the chair and join the others in the foyer slowly. I want to be angry with Legacy for letting the cat out of the bag on this “Ghost is hot” thing, but when I look over at her, my stomach clenches. Matrix’s intimidation efforts might have been all bark and no bite, but Legacy has clearly been through an ordeal. Dried tear stains track down her cheeks, and blood is crusted at the corner of her lip. Her signature blonde ponytail is askew and several strands of detached hair cling to her black shirt as if they’ve been ripped from her head and dropped there.

I frown and will myself to stay calm, to not run to her and immediately try to comfort her. We may not be friends, but my nature is to comfort, my instinct to empathize. But Legacy’s stone-cold expression is the only evidence I need that she would not welcome my attention right now. So, I stay back and visually inspect her from afar.

Her shirt is ripped at the shoulder seem, revealing just a hint of white skin beneath. Angry, red scratches trail down her neck. But the worst of it is her hands. Each of her fingertips is stained red with dried blood, with the dark red crust caked under each fingernail. And I can’t tell for sure, but she seems to be favoring her left foot. How could Ruger do this to her? How is this allowed?

Now, more than ever, I feel the pressing urge to find a few minutes alone with Maverick, not just to explain things, but to press him for information about the program. But after my betrayal, would he trust me enough to give me answers. What would I even ask?

As we file into the ersatz gun range for more target practice, I try to run through conversation scenarios in my head, but the ones that don’t end with us doing more kissing than talking end with him storming out before I’ve had a chance to say anything.

I don’t get a chance to talk to Maverick—or Ghost—after Legacy spills the beans about our mutual affection, but I can’t silence the part of my brain that urges me to shout from the rooftops that Ghost and I are not an item. He’s not a bad guy, but what I feel for him pales in comparison to the feelings Maverick stirs in me. And right now, Maverick thinks I’m into Ghost. He won’t even look at me as we all file upstairs after coming back from lunch. Ghost, too, seems hesitant to approach me. Like he’s torn between me and Legacy now that he knows how she feels, so he keeps his distance from us both.

At the landing, Ruger leads us left and into the first bedroom, only it’s not set up as a bedroom. It’s an observation room. Two rows of chairs are lined up on one side of the room, facing a very large window.

“Take a seat.” Ruger moves into the room and leans against the wall next to the window. The room on the other side is dark, and all that’s visible in the glass is our own reflections as we file into the rows and quietly sit to await further instruction. When we’re all situated, Ruger straightens. “Now that you’ve all proven most of you can’t hold up under interrogation, let’s see how you are on the other side of the table.”

I’m still so annoyed with Legacy that Ruger’s dig almost seems specifically for her. If it had come from me, it certainly would have been meant for her. He flips a switch on the wall, and the room on the other side of the window lights up. The room is smaller than the one we’re in, maybe half the size of the bedroom that should be there, and is completely bare except for a metal table and three chairs.

The door to the other room whines open. Sever and Wraith enter, dragging a body between them—a man with a hood over his face. Like how they brought me in the night they drafted me. They lug him over to the table and drop him into the chair facing the window. Wraith tugs at the strings on his hood and then pulls it off him.

The guy is young, probably not much older than most of us. His skin is sallow and has a clammy appearance. His dark hair has a greasy sheen, and his cheeks are sunken. Dark circles underscore heavy-lidded eyes. How long have they had this guy in captivity?

Wraith and Sever work together to chain his ankles to the legs of the table and his hands to a hook on the underside of the tabletop. Then they leave him there.

“In this exercise, you will take turns interrogating this suspected terrorist,” Ruger explains. “You will work with the same partner.”

Great, I’m stuck with Legacy.

“You will be scored based on your implementation of interrogation tactics. Extra points if you actually get information out of the guy. Who wants to go first?”

“We will.” Legacy stands, and I bite my tongue to keep from negating her statement. She’s overcompensating for her mess up earlier. I used to think Legacy was overconfident, full of herself, but I realize now that her bravado is an act, a fake-it-’til-you-make-it charade. Maybe she’s hoping that by going first, we can erase our epic fail from fifteen minutes ago from people’s minds. Who knows?

The only thing I know is I’m not even slightly prepared to interrogate a real, live subject, but that’s exactly what she’s volunteered us to do. And now, I’m stuck.

Ruger considers us for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to go first?”

He’s given us an out. Take it, Legacy; please take it!

“I’m sure.” I’m almost positive there’s just the slightest hint of a waver in her voice, but we don’t get a second chance to back down.

“Alright, then. Get in there.” He steps out of the way and motions toward the door to the hall.

There’s a bounce in Legacy’s step, and her ponytail swings cheerily as she exits. My feet are considerably heavier, and I have trouble forcing my leaden appendages to move correctly. By the time I make it out into the hall, Legacy is already in the interrogation room.

Wraith hands me a folder on my way by, and I meet Legacy inside, claim the only empty chair left. Thank goodness our backs are to the observation window. Maybe I can convince myself it’s not there, that there aren’t twelve other recruits watching us.

I take my time getting comfortable in the chair, or at least as comfortable as possible on a metal seat shaped for a butt twice the size of mine. Then I open the folder. Inside is just a single page. It looks like what I assume a police report might look like. The guy’s picture is paperclipped to the left corner. He’s much healthier in the photo: no sunken cheeks or dark circles, and is clean shaven—just clean in general, actually. I compare the man in front of me to the man in the photo. He looks sick in comparison to his former self, and has a sparse growth of dark hair along his jaw and upper lip, a shadow of a beard. He’s been here at least long enough to grow that.

I remove the picture with gentle fingers and clip it to the inside of the folder. Then I read the report. Dante is his name. Last name: Morris. He’s as young as he looks, a measly twenty-two years old. I’m five years younger, but right now I might as well be forty. I imagine he feels a century old from the looks of him now.

“So, tell us why you’re here.” Legacy stands and looms over the table at Dante. He blinks in surprise, but doesn’t say anything. His silence seems to anger my partner, and she slams her palms down on the tabletop.

Is she bad copping?

Which means I’m going to be cast in the role of good cop. Joy.

“Do you know why you’re here, Dante?” I ask softly.

Legacy spins to face me, and judging from her expression, notices for the first time that I have a folder with actual information about this guy. Was she really planning to interrogate this guy blind?

“No,” he answers softly at the same time Legacy yanks the folder away from me.

She scans it for barely more than a minute, then closes it and tosses it on the table. “It says there, you’re a terrorist, Dante.” She starts around the table, her posture and tone full of menace. “I don’t like terrorists.” She stops in front of him, leans over, and presses her hand against his throat. “Terrorists killed my mother.” She uses her hand against his throat to tip his chair backward so his legs lift off the ground.

“Legacy!” I hiss. Everything about her tactics is making me uncomfortable.

“Okay!” he chokes out, and Legacy relaxes her hold enough to let him speak, but keeps her hand on his windpipe as insurance. “I’ll tell you everything! What do you want to know?” Dante screeches. “Please, I want to talk! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” His face is a mask of fear, and tears glisten at the corners of his eyes. This guy is completely terrified.

I’m a little freaked myself, but mostly because of how quickly Dante caved. Could he really have been that scared of Legacy? She shoots me a look that’s just as baffled and returns to our side of the table. Before she can sit, though, Wraith glides into the room.

“You’re dismissed, recruits. You may return to the group.”

I waste no time exiting the room, and Legacy is hot on my heels. When we get back to the observation room, twelve sets of eyes watch us intently—thirteen if you count Ruger who’s looking at me proudly. “Great job, recruits! The two of you will immediately move to the top of the murder board.”

“What about the rest of us?” Anomaly asks, resentment dripping from her words.

“The rest of you will have to rely on how you held up under questioning to determine your murder board rankings.”

Matrix steps into the room, but stops just inside the doorway. “Take a break, everyone. Be in the training room in the main house in ten minutes for week four rankings and elimination.”

I’m the first one out of the room and down the stairs. Legacy is right behind me when I step onto the porch, and we cross the lawn side by side. “That was weird, right?” she asks.

“Very.”

Ten minutes later, we stand at one end of the line of recruits waiting for this week’s rankings. When Wraith puts them up, I reel. I lean back against the wall behind me for support. I’m in first place, and Legacy is right below me. This is the first time I’ve been at the top of the murder board. I’m both thrilled to rank so high and distressed. Someone killed off two of the last three top-ranking recruits. Being in the number one spot ensures I stay in The Program for another week, but might also have put a great big target on my back. Suddenly, I’m picturing myself in place of the silhouette figure we’ve been shooting at all week.

I shake away the image and run my mental list against the one on the murder board, checking for my people. Ghost is four, Maverick five. And Sim sits safely at seven. At the bottom of the board sit Bug, Hazard, and Aspect, and I’m conflicted. I won’t miss Hazard at all, no mixed feelings there. But Bug and Aspect I actually like, but I’m so glad it’s them and not Sim. Or Maverick, or Ghost. Or Legacy. As much as I don’t want to admit it, the girl is starting to grow on me.

All of the people I care about here are safe. Except maybe me.