Blackout Page 2
I unbutton the top of my shirt to let my neck breathe. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
“But I’m flipping exhausted, and I smell like a train depot from an era before antiperspirant became common hygienic practice, and the Narc is making me draft my report tonight.”
Yellow scrunches her nose. “Tonight?” She glances at the clock. “Doesn’t she realize it’s after midnight?”
“Of course she does,” I say, starting toward the bathroom. “But apparently that memo she sent around about starting immediately wasn’t a joke. I’m taking a quick shower. I assume whatever you wanted to talk about can wait until the morning?”
There’s a knock on the door.
Abe.
The door opens, and Indigo walks in and shuts the door behind him. He stops in front of me. Like Yellow, he’s ridiculously good-looking. Her hair is blonder, but they both have the same piercing blue eyes. The first time I saw Indigo, I was instantly attracted to him. It’s one of those things you can’t control—like when you’re walking down the street and you pass a guy who looks like he could walk a runway. Your heart rate speeds up, your face flushes, your hands get clammy. It’s a natural human reaction.
But then I actually got to know Indigo, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that we’re only friends. He’s more like a brother to me, actually. And he’s way too wholesome—too aw, shucks—to handle me.
“You kind of smell,” Indigo says.
“Then get out of here so I can take a shower.” I glance over my shoulder at Yellow. “And take your sister with you.”
“Ouch,” Yellow says.
I grab the towel from the bar and whip it over my shoulder. “You know I like you both, but—”
“I just got in,” Indigo interrupts. He looks at Yellow, who’s looking back at him with wide, eager eyes. I get the distinct impression I’m missing something here.
I look from Yellow to Indigo. “What? Hot date with one of the FBI analysts?”
Indigo shakes his head and drops his voice to a whisper. “I had dinner with my godfather.”
Yellow claps like someone just told her she won a lifetime supply of cotton balls. And, trust me, that girl goes through a lot of cotton balls. She spends most Saturday nights flipping through trashy celeb magazines with a jam-packed makeup bag in her lap, copying red-carpet looks, then scrubbing her face and starting again. She’s been hounding me to let her make me up as “vintage Elizabeth Taylor,” but I’ve declined. Repeatedly.
I sigh. “Look, unless your godfather is someone seriously important—” Indigo’s face lights up with a mischievous smile. “Your godfather is someone seriously important, isn’t he? Why am I not surprised?”
“He and my dad go way back,” Indigo says.
“Who and your dad go way back?”
“Ted Ireland. Regional FBI field director for the Boston office. Super-high clearance. I asked him about my dad.”
My chest feels light, and I forget how exhausted I am, how much I have to do, how desperately I want to shower. I drop down onto my bed beside Yellow.
“Start talking,” I say.
It’s been four months since Alpha, Annum Guard’s former leader, was killed. Shot in front of me by my old headmaster—Vaughn—at the Peel Academy because I discovered that Alpha was selling Annum Guard missions on the side and that his biggest client was Vaughn and a company called Eagle Industries. Four months since Zeta—Yellow and Indigo’s father—was removed from his position as temporary leader of Annum Guard and replaced with Jane Bonner. And two months since anyone has heard from Zeta. The official word is that he went to a breakfast meeting with a friend in government contracting—and then just vanished.
I decide I don’t want to wait for Indigo to start talking. Let’s cut to the chase. “Does the Narc know?”
“Are you kidding me?” Indigo says. “Of course she doesn’t know. I told her I was going for an evening jog and that I’d be gone a few hours. She knows I used to run cross-country. I promised I’d be a good boy and not make any detours. She didn’t seem suspicious.”
“How far did you go?” Yellow asks.
“Newton Centre,” Indigo says. Yellow opens her mouth to protest, but Indigo adds, “I cabbed it home. I had the driver drop me off on Arlington Street. I jogged the last few blocks to work up another sweat. Stop giving me that look.”
“You shouldn’t be running all the way to Newton with your bad knee.”
“Dude, calm down. You’re not my mom.”
I hold up both hands, one pointed at each sibling. “You guys, stop. What did your godfather say? What’s his name again?”
Indigo crosses his arms over his chest. “Ted. The investigation is pretty classified—more than even his clearance will allow. But he pulled a few strings at Quantico, and he found something.” He reaches into the zippered side pocket of his running shorts and pulls out a phone with a familiar cover—an ivory background with a handlebar-mustached penguin in the middle, wearing a top hat and monocle.
“Your phone?” Yellow asks in a clipped tone. “He found your phone?”
“Will you both have a little patience?” Indigo types in his code, and the phone unlocks. “They found something in Dad’s study. The FBI did. It was in a sealed envelope set perfectly in the center of his desk. They think it’s some kind of message or warning. Here, I took a picture of it.” His finger swipes across the screen as he scrolls, then he holds up the phone so Yellow and I can see.
And then I stop breathing.
It’s a picture of a plain white piece of paper with two even creases, from where it was folded. The only thing on the page is a small handwritten symbol:
I see it right away. XP.
The code name Alpha whispered to me before he died. The code name of the person behind Eagle Industries. The code name I’ve been ordered by everyone—Bonner, the defense department, even the vice president—never to mention because it’s “sensitive information.” And I haven’t. Among the rest of my team, XP is still my own little secret.
“What the heck is that?” Yellow asks.
My mind is racing. Is Zeta dead? Did XP have him killed, just like Alpha? No. I refuse to accept that. But still, my hands are shaking.
“Ted didn’t say,” Indigo answers.
Yellow raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say or wouldn’t say?”
“I got the impression that it was wouldn’t, although he tried to pass it off like he didn’t know.”
“What does it mean?” Worry creeps across Yellow’s face.
It means Zeta is in some serious trouble.
“I don’t know,” Indigo says.
I do.
Indigo looks at me. “Iris, what do you think?”
“I don’t know either,” I lie, and I feel like such a bad friend. Maybe I should tell them what I know. But then again, leaking sensitive information is a federal crime, and our government doesn’t look too kindly on that. If I were to be prosecuted and convicted, there would be no slap on the wrist. No, it would be years in a supermax prison for me.
I decide to change the focus. “Did you ask Ted about Bonner?”
“I did. He knows nothing about Bonner. Literally nothing. He’s asked all of his contacts at Quantico and Langley, and no one’s heard her name before. It’s like she just appeared out of nowhere.”
“That’s weird,” Yellow says. “Who gets a high-profile appointment from the defense secretary out of nowhere?”
“That’s more than weird,” I say. “That’s suspicious.”
None of us say anything for a few moments. We’re all trying to come up with some reason why our new leader doesn’t have any sort of paper trail, and I’m trying to get rid of that sinking feeling in my stomach that I’m the worst friend in the world. But then there’s another knock, and the door opens a second later. I jump off the bed as Abe looks from me to Yellow to Indigo, then pulls the Post-it from my door.
“McLean called while you were out,” Abe interrupts. “I fielded the call for you.”
And just like that, all the air is sucked from the room.
Yellow stands up. “Yeah, okay, we’ll just let you guys talk. We can finish this conversation tomorrow.”
Indigo nods. “See you, New Blue.” Yellow squeezes my shoulder as she leaves, and Indigo shuts the door behind him.
I look into Abe’s eyes. I know he hates being called New Blue. Officially, he’s just Blue, but the rest of the Guard has taken to calling him New Blue since he replaced Tyler Fertig. Tyler never wanted to be a part of the Guard—not after he watched the physical effects of time travel slowly kill his mother—but Alpha forced him. After Alpha’s corruption began to unravel, Tyler lost it. He shot Yellow, then tried to shoot himself. He’d probably be dead if I hadn’t deflected the shot at the last second.
I don’t know if it’s the association with Tyler or the “New” part of the nickname that bugs Abe, but right now, it’s like he didn’t even hear Indigo say it. His eyes are focused only on me, and they’re filled with sympathy.
“Did they say why?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“They wouldn’t tell me, but . . .”
“They’re kicking her out.” I flop backward onto my bed and shut my eyes. It’s the same damned show I’ve been watching for years. Mom starts treatment. She swears it will be different this time, that this time she’ll stick with it. All is well for a few weeks. Then Mom decides her art is suffering, goes off her meds, and slips back into our regularly scheduled bipolar programming. I’ve been tuning in for over ten years.
“They didn’t say that.” Abe sits down next to me.
“Oh, come on, what else is it?” I snap. Immediately I add, “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” And incredibly overwhelmed. My dad. My mom. XP. Zeta. Bonner. “Thank you for taking the call. You didn’t have to do that. You don’t have to do any of this.”
Abe reaches out and touches my knee. It’s such a simple gesture. Fingertips against cotton, nothing more. But it fills me, grounds me. Reminds me I do have some stability in my life, even if it doesn’t come from family.
I look up at him. His eyes are the color of roasted chestnuts, the kind you can buy from street vendors in the fall. And they’re looking at me with the same warmth and comfort. But there’s something else hiding behind them. A hesitation. An uncertainty.
“Just say it,” I whisper.
There’s more hesitation. “It’s just . . .” Abe’s fingers find mine, and he interlaces and squeezes. “I really hate seeing you this way. Over and over again. All the pain, all the sadness. It kills me to watch.”
I squeeze his hand back. I know there’s more he wants to say. Abe’s a problem solver. I know he wants to fix this, fix my mom. We’ve talked about it before, when we were both at Peel. Late nights in my dorm common room, afternoon study breaks in the library, Saturday morning jogs across campus. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said to Abe that enough is enough, that if she pulls her crap again, I’m done.
But I’m never really done. She’s my mom. And Abe’s never called me out for my repeated empty threats.
Until now.
“Maybe it’s time,” he whispers. “You’re almost eighteen. And really, you’ve been on your own for three years. Your mom’s had more second chances than—who am I thinking of? That actress with all the DUIs and arrests? The one who got kicked off the plane after getting all pilled up and making a bomb joke?”
“I don’t know.” I untangle my fingers from Abe’s. “I just . . . I can’t, Abe. Trust me, I want to. More than anything in the world, I wish I could walk away, but . . .” My voice trails off as memories of Mom flood my mind. The trip into Boston to see Cirque du Soleil when I was ten, the Sunday morning yoga classes we took together in the park some summers, the paintings that fill our Vermont home. My crappy seven-year-old paintings, mixed with her MFA-trained paintings, hanging on every wall of our house.
It would be a different story if every memory I had was negative, if all my mind could dwell on was the drinking and the mania, or the cruelty that could come from a low. But that’s not how it is. And I can’t help but feel like my mom is a victim in all of this, too. She knows about Annum Guard. We had a long talk about it the first night she was in Boston. But she has no idea about the corruption. In her mind, her husband died a hero. And I’m not going to shatter that illusion for her. Not now. Probably not ever.
There’s another knock at the door. Three short, hard raps. Anger erupts in my chest because I know who it is this time. She’s always there. Always interrupting. Always pulling me back, pulling me away.
“What?” I growl as I jump up and swing open the door.
As expected, it’s the Narc. She’s still wearing the same matchy-matchy sweater set she had on earlier, not a hint of tiredness on her face. Instead, she’s wearing a smug smile. “All done with the report?”
“Working on it,” I say.
“You understand the new policy, do you not? That all mission reports are to be completed—”
“Immediately. While the mission is still fresh in the Guardian’s mind. Yeah, I got it.”
“Do you have any questions about what the word ‘immediately’ means?”
“Nope.”
“I trust you should need only, what? Two hours to complete it?” She glances at the clock on my bedside table. “I’m going to retire for the night, but I’ll look for the time stamp on your report to be no later than three a.m. Is that clear?”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Crystal.”
“Excellent,” Bonner says before turning her attention to Abe. “Blue? Are you lost?”
“About to retire for the night myself, ma’am. I just wanted to make sure that Iris returned from her mission safely.” I’m realizing my boyfriend is kind of like the male version of Yellow. Everyone inherently likes him, and he’s so much better than I am at masking his disdain for certain people.
“How touching,” Bonner says. “Well, good night.”
Abe and I hear her stupid, boxy heels stomping down the staircase to the second floor.
Who is she?
“Remind me again why I thought staying in Annum Guard was a good idea?” I say.
Abe jumps up and kisses me on the forehead. “Because you want to bring integrity back to the Obermann name and get to the bottom of this conspiracy.” I close my eyes and lean into his chest. He’s right. “And because you are a good person, a strong woman, and you’re always going to rise above whatever challenge life throws at you.”
“I must have been really good in a past life to deserve you in this one.”
Abe squeezes my shoulders, then scoots around me and into the hallway. “Hang on, I almost forgot.” He reaches into his back pocket and slides out a protein bar. The kind of thing that tastes like a chemically enhanced piece of tree bark with a vague hint of peanut butter. Abe buys them in bulk with his parents’ Costco card, and even though I usually rag on him for eating these, I swear I’m about to tackle him to the ground if he doesn’t hand this one over. He smiles and tosses it to me, and I rip open the wrapper.
Abe reaches out and wipes a crumb from my lips. “Bang out your report and get some sleep.” All talk of my mom is gone. Not forgotten, but I know Abe won’t bring it up again.
It’s what I need.
“Love you, Abey Baby.”
“Love you always, Mandy Girl.” He turns back to me. “Oh, but maybe take a shower, too. You smell like the urinal trough at Fenway.”
And then he shuts the door before I can chuck the rest of the bar at him.
CHAPTER 2
My alarm wails at six and I want to cry. I open one eye, only to find it burning in pain. The other follows suit. Yep. This day is going to blow.
I push myself to a seated position and drop my head to my chest. I’m dizzy. Not nearly enough sleep. I open and close my mouth a few times, then stick out my tongue and make a clucking sound. Dehydrated, too. It takes every ounce of strength I have—physical and mental—not to lie back down. But the Narc is serious about her 6:30 a.m. daily debriefings, and I still haven’t taken a damned shower yet.
I let the hot water rain down over me, but it doesn’t wash away the fact that I’ve had only two and a half hours of sleep. There isn’t enough time to find my blow-dryer, much less use it, so I pull my hair into a messy bun at the base of my neck and throw on a pair of gray pants, a baby-blue button-down, and black flats.
That’s another recent change around here. Alpha didn’t really care how anyone dressed unless we had a specific mission scheduled. Then the Narc came in and immediately set up a boring, corporate dress code. She actually used the word “slacks,” and that’s when we knew we were screwed. There’s no wiggle room with people who use terms like slacks.
I run into Yellow on the stairs. She’s dressed in a tight, black pencil skirt, which she’s paired with a cream cardigan, lace tights, and black kitten heels. Her hair is perfectly flat-ironed, not a strand out of place.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I ask her.
“What?” she says.
I give her a grunt in return and follow her down to the briefing room in the basement. There’s a lectern at the front of the room and two rows of two tables facing it. Facing her.
At least there’s a nice breakfast spread out this morning. A few days ago, it was lemon Danishes and French vanilla coffee. Gag. I grab half of an everything bagel, fill a Styrofoam cup with strong black coffee, and slip into the empty seat at Abe’s table.
His hair is still wet, and he smells like my Abe—like the same “adventure-scented” bodywash he’s used since freshman year. I stifle a laugh as I remember the number of times Abe walked into Peel’s dining hall for breakfast, hands on his hips like a superhero, and proclaimed himself “Ready for adventure!” Somehow, it only got funnier every time he did it.