Blackout Read online

  We ride most of the way home in silence. We don’t mention my mom; we don’t mention Tyler. It’s like we’re both going to forget any of that ever happened, which is exactly what I need right now. Selective memory loss.

  Abe pulls to the front of Annum Hall, and I hop out.

  “I’ll park and meet you inside?”

  I shake my head, then gesture across the street to the Common. “I’m going to take a quick walk. Clear my head a little.”

  Abe nods. He understands.

  “Love you,” I whisper before I close the car door. I watch him turn onto Joy Street, then into one of the four parking spaces behind the Hall. Once the Narc realizes Abe is back, she’s going to ask where I am, so I need to get moving.

  I tap my foot as I wait for the light to change. It’s the middle of the day, so traffic isn’t as bad as during rush hour, but there’s a steady stream of cars, trucks, and Duck Tour boats barreling down Beacon Street. Finally, the walk sign lights up, and I jog into the Common. I head to the Greek Pavilion, looking over my shoulder several times to make sure I’m not being followed. I seem to be okay, so I trudge up the steps, plop myself next to a pillar, and whip out my phone.

  Deep breath.

  The first few pages of testimony are all background, stuff I could have guessed. Zeta’s father—Yellow and Indigo’s grandfather—was one of the founding members of Annum Guard—first generation. He was code-named Five. Zeta didn’t join the Guard until after he had obtained an undergrad degree from Harvard with a concentration in physics. He then joined the Guard and started working on a PhD at MIT in theoretical nuclear and particle physics—which makes my head hurt just thinking about it—but had to abandon it due to time constraints. It was during the MIT years that he devised the idea for the gravity chamber to lessen the physical trauma of projection, and the government funded a research and development team at MIT to design a prototype for the chamber. Zeta remained a part of the team.

  I skim through these pages. Interesting, but not what I need.

  There’s a little bit more on a failed marriage that produced two children, which I already know, and then around page thirty, it starts to get really interesting. I slow down and take my time, relishing every word of the transcript.

  Sen. Wharton: Are you aware of any covert operations that took place during your tenure at Annum Guard?

  Masters: Well, that’s a pretty broad question, Senator, considering our entire agency is covert.

  Sen. Wharton: Allow me to rephrase. Are you aware of any operations outside the scope of Annum Guard’s stated purpose?

  I flip to the next image.

  Masters: Are you asking me again whether I was aware that Julian Ellis was selling every mission he could on the side to the highest bidder? Because the answer is no. Just as it has been the last hundred times you’ve asked me this question over the past two months.

  Sen. Wharton: Let’s put this matter concerning Mr. Ellis to the side for a moment—

  Masters: Put it to the side? The one thing you brought me here to talk about? Again?

  Sen. Wharton: Mr. Masters, I would like to know whether you are aware of the existence of any covert operation teams within the confines of Annum Guard.

  Masters: Covert op teams within Annum Guard? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  My hands tremble as I flip to the next image.

  Sen. Wharton: Really now? So if I said the words “Operation Blackout” to you, that wouldn’t ring a bell?

  Masters: Nope. Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Sen. Wharton: Please let the record reflect that Mr. Masters took approximately thirty seconds to answer the question and then did so with a clipped tone.

  Masters: No, let the record reflect that this line of questioning has nothing to do with the pretext under which you brought me here today.

  Whoa. Next image.

  Sen. Wharton: With all due respect, sir, I am the one asking the questions, and I will lead the questioning in the direction I feel it needs to go. Are we understood?

  Masters: (silence)

  Sen. Wharton: Are we understood?

  Masters: I understand what you’re saying, yes.

  Sen. Wharton: Good. So now be truthful with me, Mr. Masters. You have heard the term Operation Blackout before, correct?

  Masters: (silence)

  Sen. Wharton: Don’t feel like answering? Fine. You do have two children who are still members of Annum Guard, do you not?

  Masters: Are you threatening me, you son of a—

  I flip to the next image, but there isn’t one. No! No no no!

  I sit back and take a breath, then look up to see a young couple with linked arms laughing as they walk toward the small concession in the park. I read through those last pages again. Operation Blackout. My brain is zooming straight to one idea, and I don’t want it to be right.

  Blackout. Like black ops. Elite special forces. Unknown, unseen, unrecognized.

  And in many cases, an assassination squad.

  CHAPTER 5

  My brain wages a million intense debates with my heart over whether to tell Yellow and Indigo what I know. My heart says they have a right to know—and maybe they even have some information—but my brain always clobbers my heart with a quick right hook. I have no business even knowing Zeta’s testimony exists. I have negative business telling anyone about it. That could earn me a one-way ticket out of Annum Guard and into a federal detention facility.

  And so I try to stay focused on doing my job—on reading thousands of boring documents that I only marginally understand. And on waiting for Colton.

  On Monday morning, there’s a knock on Annum Hall’s front door. Abe and I are in the library going through a box marked “SPECTRA CAPITAL TAX RECEIPTS,” which is about as interesting as it sounds. We both look at the door, then back at each other.

  “Was that . . . the front door?” Abe asks. “Shouldn’t they be going through the security entrance downstairs?”

  “Probably.” I look toward Bonner’s door. It’s shut, so I grunt and stand. “I’ll pay you to do this.”

  Abe shakes his head. “Oh, hell no.” And then he smiles. “Just imagine what the vice president would say if she found out you were trying to pawn your babysitting job off on me.”

  “Babysitting job. That’s the most accurate description ever for this.”

  I swing open the door. Colton is standing there, his hair flopping in front of his aviator sunglasses. He’s wearing a concert T-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops, and he has one shoulder shrugged up high, like he’s posing for a catalog.

  There are two people behind him. A guy with olive skin like mine, dark hair, and dark eyes, and a girl with wildly curly red hair. They’re both dressed like they’re showing up for Day One of an important government internship. Corporate casual. That’s the term Bonner used when she described what she expects us to wear when we’re off the clock. The guy has on navy pants and a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and the girl, like me, has on black pants and a blouse.

  “Hey there,” Colton says. “We’re here.”

  “I see that. We were expecting you down through the security entrance.” For a moment, I debate being a stickler for the rules and telling them to go through the alleyway to the back door, but I decide against it. No need to start off on the wrong foot, and, besides, rules have never really been my thing. I stand back and let the three of them pass.

  Colton walks into the foyer and pops his sunglasses up on top of his head. His mouth chomps open and closed like he’s—hang on, he is chewing gum.

  “Nice place you got here,” he says in a condescending voice. Like he’s telling us that his house is better than this. More square footage, higher ceilings, more expensive furnishings.

  The redhead shoves her hand out. “Thank you for the opportunity. Really and truly. I’m looking forward to working with you. I’m so sorry about the door thing. I didn’t know. Colton handled the arrangem
ents.”

  She’s staring at me with these intense green eyes that are laser focused on mine. Then they flick down to her outstretched hand, which she moves just a few inches toward me. I take the hint and shake her hand.

  “Paige Wharton,” she says, grasping my hand so firmly I feel a bone pop.

  I twist my hand free. “You can call me Iris.”

  The other guy steps forward and extends his hand. “Mike Baxter.” I shake it, even though this is totally weird. I mean, all of them are in college. They’re at least two years older than me, and yet they’re looking to me like I’m their leader.

  I’m so not their leader.

  I clear my throat and walk toward the library as Yellow bounces down the stairs. “Hey, Iris.”

  Colton’s gaze lingers on her as she walks toward the back door, then down toward the situation rooms.

  “Who’s that?” he asks.

  I continue on as if I didn’t hear. “Let me get you guys all set up. You’ll probably just be in here going through boxes of financial documents. I can promise it’s going to be really boring.”

  Paige pushes past Mike to get shoulder-to-shoulder with me. “I’m sure it will be fascinating. And I aced both macro- and microeconomics, so I hope my skills will be useful to you.”

  Is this chick for real? She could benefit from a Xanax.

  And now I’m thinking of my mom. McLean called yesterday. They’re pressed for space, so she only has until Friday to vacate her room.

  In the library, Colton immediately plops down into one of the desk chairs.

  “Oh, hey, are these chairs Herman Miller? They look like the one my parents bought me for my desk in our summer house when I was, like, eight.” He rises and pushes his palms on the chair’s arms a few times before wandering toward the bookshelves.

  “I don’t know, Colton.” My eyes travel to Abe sitting on the floor, then I roll them so hard they practically disappear into my skull. Abe smiles and hops up. “This is Blue.” It sounds weird as I say it. I know I’m not supposed to call him by his real name, but . . . he’s my Abe.

  Paige nearly leaps over a box as she shoves her hand forward. “Paige Wharton!”

  “Um, hi,” Abe says.

  I tip my head to the side. “Mike Baxter and . . . Colton Caldwell.” Colton has his hands on his hips, loudly smacking his gum as he looks at the books.

  “Nice to meet you,” Abe says. “I’m sorry I can’t stay”—a flash of panic hits me—“but I have a briefing.”

  I look at him and my mouth drops open. Because he most certainly does not have a briefing.

  Liar! I mouth.

  Payback, he mouths as he gives me a wink and jostles his shoulder into mine on the way out. I stare at the door after he’s gone. Damn you, Night of the Living Dead. I sigh and turn around.

  I look down at the list Bonner gave me. Set up e-mail, show where documents are, teach cataloging system. “Okay, over here.” I show them the two computers on the far wall.

  I flick the mouse around to light the screen, then go to the page where I can add a new user. I type in Colton’s first name. “Colton, come pick a password. This’ll be your log-in to get on our system.”

  “Ooh, access to national secrets,” he says as he flops into the chair.

  “Not even close. Pick something with letters and numbers. The system requires it.”

  Just as I suspect, Colton doesn’t bother to hide what he’s typing. I watch him pick a password. And then I just can’t help myself.

  “Callaway007. Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “Hey! You’re not supposed to watch me type that!”

  “Of course I am,” I say. “You’re not supposed to be dumb enough to let me see it.” I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped out. But then Mike chuckles, Paige cracks a smile, and Colton relaxes and laughs, too, so all seems well.

  “Pick another password, double-oh-seven. Callaway, aren’t those golf clubs or something? Who are you, the secret agent of the clubhouse?”

  “It’s my middle name,” he says as he hunches over to shield the keyboard, which is a nice try, but I’m better than that. He types in HC1013LX3V and hits “Enter.” Interesting.

  “Hang on. Your parents named you Colton Callaway Caldwell? Do they hate you?”

  “Callaway is a family name. After my dad’s mom.” His voice is suddenly stiff, which makes me feel the teensiest bit of regret. Maybe I took it a little too far. Then I look at his flip-flops and what appear to be pedicured toes and forget it.

  Mike slides into the seat next. “Hey, man, I feel you. I got stuck with Teremun, which is a family name, too. No one can spell it or pronounce it.” And then he types in 2TREXARMS, which takes me a second to get, but then I do. I choke back a laugh that I try to cover up as a cough.

  “My middle name is Alexis,” Paige says as she sits. “My parents just liked it.” She hunches so far over the keyboard that I don’t even know how she sees the keys, then she stands and pushes the chair in. “I made sure to pick a combination with a mix of upper- and lowercase letters, numbers, and special characters.”

  I resist the urge to sigh. I knew plenty of girls like Paige at Peel. Bright-eyed and way too eager for their own good. “Come on, I’ll show you the documents.”

  Paige whips something out of her purse and has it in my hands before I even finish the sentence. “Wait, here’s the confidentiality agreement we were asked to sign.”

  I look down at it. “Um, okay.” Bonner didn’t mention confidentiality agreements, but that makes sense. I look back up. Mike fishes one out of his pants pocket and unfolds it.

  I take the paper. “Colton, do you—”

  “Nope.” He tosses his head back to get the hair out of his eyes.

  Shocking.

  “I’ll print you another one. In the meantime”—I point to the mound of boxes taking over the library floor—“have at it.”

  At the end of the day, Bonner calls me into her office. Red is slouched in one of the chairs; Bonner sits behind the desk with her arms folded. Red kicks the chair next to him over in my direction.

  “So,” he says as I lower myself, “how are our interns?”

  I look at Bonner, who has her lips pressed together in a line and one eyebrow raised, then over at Red, who has one elbow casually resting on the arm of his chair, his thumb and forefinger cradling his face.

  “Do you want total honesty?” I ask, still looking at Red.

  “Why would we want you to lie?” Bonner clucks her tongue. “Accurate reporting is part of your job.”

  I don’t even look back in her direction. “Paige is intense, but I haven’t quite figured out if that’s a good or a bad thing. She got through the most documents today by far and tabbed and highlighted everything she thought was important, but we’ll need the analysts to check that she’s on the right track and not just highlighting nonsense.”

  Bonner clucks her tongue again. “Well, obviously.”

  I grip the arms of my chair. “Mike seems to be a good fit, I guess? He’s personable and easy to work with, and he’s also really bright.” I think of his password, and it makes me smile. Then I think of the third intern and clear my throat. “Colton is useless. He’s barely literate. He asked me where the bathroom is twice. Who has to ask where a bathroom is twice? You did drug test him, right?”

  Red smiles, but Bonner makes a loud harrumph that causes both of us to look at her.

  “Do not antagonize Colton Caldwell. You know who his mother is.”

  “I’m not antagonizing him,” I say, even though I don’t think that’s the truth. “And besides, you asked for total honesty.”

  Bonner presses her lips together.

  “What I don’t understand is why we even have interns in the first place. I mean, I get that the vice president wants me to babysit Colton for the summer, but bringing along his two friends? To an agency that’s supposed to be a complete secret? Confidentiality agreement and background checks aside, is this reall
y something we should be doing? What about XP? Are we just forgetting about him?”

  Bonner’s chair scrapes back on the wood floor as she stands. Then there’s a finger in my face, and I flinch.

  “That is classified information and you are not to mention it. Ever.” Her eyes flick to the chair next to me. “Red, you can leave us.”

  I watch Red’s reaction. He was being groomed to take over Annum Guard back when Alpha was still around. He spent three years training for it, from what everyone else has told me. And then at the last minute, the DoD swept in and replaced him with an outsider. Red’s nothing more than Bonner’s puppet these days, here to take orders and follow them, no questions asked. That can’t be an easy switch. There’s a moment when it seems he wants to protest—probably to point out that he should be the leader of Annum Guard right now because that’s what he was hired to do—but then his face relaxes into a look of resignation. He stands without saying a word, and the door closes behind him.

  Bonner lowers her finger. She rests both hands on the desk and leans forward.

  “I must say, I’m disappointed. You didn’t figure out who the other two are?”

  “I . . .”

  “Michael Baxter, son of renowned venture capitalist Layla Baxter, and, more importantly, grandson of Francis Howe.”

  My mouth drops open. “The defense secretary?”

  “And Paige Wharton. As in daughter of Senator William Wharton out of Philadelphia, ranking member of the Committee of Homeland Security and Government Affairs, the committee which, I don’t need to remind you, is presently investigating this agency’s indiscretions.”

  Senator Wharton was the one who questioned Zeta. He knows about Operation Blackout.

  “I assure you, I did not say yes to babysitting a bunch of college kids this summer. I hired three promising young people whose performance this summer could save Annum Guard. Do you know how close you are to being shut down for good?”

  I blink. Once. Twice. Because I caught that—how close you are—not we. And everything about Bonner’s body language is telling me she’s anxious. She’s fiddling with a ring on her right hand, and she won’t make eye contact for more than a second. She’s pale, and her breathing is heavier than usual. Good. The upper hand is mine.