by Kieran Scott
“Sonofabitch!” he shouted.
Still on the ground, he grabbed one of the bricks and took a swing at me, catching my leg. The cut stung, but it was only a graze. I hit him with a front-kick under the chin and his head snapped back.
“Oliver!” Kaia shouted.
The thug collided with the ground, and this time his eyes fluttered closed. He was out cold.
Huh. That, I’d never done before. At least not for real. I was so hopped up on adrenaline I almost laughed.
“Not much of a fighter, are ya, big guy?” I commented, spitting on the ground. I’d seen dozens of badasses do this in movies, but it wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. I wiped my bottom lip with the back of my hand.
“What the hell was that?” Kaia asked, shaking as she came up beside me. “He has a gun!”
Startled, I looked down at my opponent. His jacket had fallen open and sure enough, he wore a leather holster with a pretty big weapon strapped into it.
“Well, he didn’t get to use it,” I said, my voice high and reedy.
“Oliver, where the hell did you learn to do that?”
Kaia shoved my shoulder with one hand—the hand that still held the bottle of chocolate milk. I still held the sleeve of donuts. We’d shoplifted and I didn’t even care. My chest heaved as I stared at Kaia.
“Still think I’m a liability?”
chapter 5
KAIA
Something crashed inside the building. Oliver and I locked eyes. There was no time for more questions. I grabbed his hand and we ran, taking off into the trees. All I could think about was putting as much distance as possible between us and that man. Scarface. I’d seen him in my nightmares countless times over the past year, leering at me, threatening my mother. His was a face I would never forget.
But what the hell was he doing here? Why was he looking for me? Was he who the German had meant by others? Did Picklebreath and Scarface somehow know each other?
Impossible. They were from opposite ends of the world. But it couldn’t be a coincidence that they’d both found me on the same freaking day. And what did they have in common? My parents. More specifically, my mom.
At the very base of my skull, I felt an odd sort of tingling. It couldn’t be…could it?
Maybe I should spend a little time trying to hack into the German’s tablet. At the very least, I had to figure out what those coordinates meant.
Under the thick canopy of branches and leaves, it was almost entirely dark, but I was still able to see the jagged white slashes I’d made in the trees along our route. My terror made me fast, and Oliver—ever the athlete—kept pace with me. It took less than ten minutes to get back to the cabin. We emerged onto the dirt driveway and I bent over, heaving for air, my hands and a bottle of well-shaken chocolate milk, braced above my knees.
One breath. Two. Three. That was all I’d give myself. I got behind the wheel of the Honda, praying the keys would be in the ignition. I didn’t have time to conduct a search. Thankfully, the keys were there. Another Thor key chain. Dad was nothing if not a die-hard fan. Of the comics that is, not the movies. After a few ominous clicks, the car started. I hit reverse and slammed on the gas, kicking up dirt. Oliver watched from a safe distance as I left the car door open, jogged into the house and grabbed the bags I’d left on the floor inside.
“What’re you doing? I thought you were staying here,” Oliver said.
“Not anymore,” I replied, tossing everything into the backseat and slamming the door.
Oliver blinked. I could tell he had a zillion questions as he looked over his shoulder toward the woods, but instead of grilling me, he asked, “What can I do?”
I hesitated before answering. “Back inside. I need more food.”
We raced into the cabin together. Oliver went to the cabinets and yanked out cans of soup and fruit. I found the camp stove under the sink—kerosene, a lighter, a can opener. With the items cradled in one arm, I paused on my way through the living room. Then I went to the closet and grabbed the second duffel—the one with my dad’s clothes inside—and another sleeping bag. Oliver and I walked outside together and threw everything into the backseat. Then I went to the truck and grabbed my skateboard. It was my oldest—and my favorite. It was a basic black board with lime-green wheels and a peace sign I’d painted on with a Wite-Out marker when I was twelve. At the time, I’d thought it would be a sign of rebellion to my parents. I’d named her Sophia because we’d been in France when Dad had brought her home for me. Well, to the hole-in-the-wall hotel we’d been staying in.
The car was still running. I pulled Henry’s truck into the garage and locked it. Back inside the cabin, my hand shook as I unlocked the gun cabinet. I left the shot guns and selected a sleek, little Beretta Pico—the exact gun I’d learned to shoot at the range back in Houston—and enough bullets to stop the Incredible Hulk. (The Hulk was never my dad’s favorite. He preferred heroes who had some level of control over their emotional shit.)
Back outside, I locked the door behind me and returned the keys to their hiding spot.
Oliver followed me to the car. He walked around to the passenger door. My hand found the handle on the driver’s side. We looked at each other over the roof.
I had clothes for him. A sleeping bag. But I could still change my mind. I could still send him home where he’d be safe. I had no idea where I was going, who else might be following me, what Scarface would do to me if he caught up. I might have to sleep in shelters or alleyways. I might have to pay off bookies or dealers to find Marco. I might have to fight for my life.
Could I do all of that with Oliver? Could I do it without him?
Without him.
The words reverberated inside my chest, tying my heartstrings into knots.
“Get in.”
Oliver smiled, and did as he was told.
I didn’t speak again until we’d navigated the twisty dirt driveway in the dark—no headlights so as not to attract attention—and made it out to the main highway. My palms were so slick they slipped on the wheel.
“Where did you learn to do that spin kick move?” I asked again, looking at Oliver from the corner of my eye.
Oliver smirked. The air whooshing through the cracked windows had turned cold, and he’d found a black, zip-front jacket in the bag. Classic Oliver. He preferred fresh air to a closed car, always—even if it meant bundling up. He looked gorgeous with the collar zipped all the way up to his chin. Older. More rugged.
“I could tell you,” he said, “but then I’d have to kill you.”
I smirked back, even as my stomach curled in on itself. I trusted Oliver more than anyone else in my life. I didn’t like to think he kept secrets from me, though I realized how big of a hypocrite that made me. “Touché.”
“So who was that guy back there?” Oliver asked, pushing back his seat. He ripped open the sleeve of donuts and offered me one. I shook my head. “Just the sight of him scared the hell out of you.”
My fingers regripped the wheel. I still couldn’t believe I’d actually seen Scarface. He’d been haunting my sleep for so long that seeing him while wide-awake seemed impossible. And yet…
“The last hit my parents were supposed to carry out…the trip where they disappeared,” I started, then trailed off. “It had something to do with a shady Mexican politician.” In fact, my dad had been paid to take out said shady Mexican politician. But that had never happened. “I’m pretty sure Scarface was one of the people involved.”
Another lie. I was totally sure it was him. Scarface had been there the day my parents disappeared. He might even know where they were, what had happened to them. But he wasn’t the type of person you walked up to and struck up a conversation with. He was the type of person from whom you ran.
“Scarface?” Oliver asked. “Is that his actual name?”
I shook my head
. “I don’t know what his name is. I made it up.”
“Appropriate,” Oliver joked.
“I thought so,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “And up until now, I was pretty sure he killed my mom.”
“Holy…” Oliver turned to look at me. Powdered sugar rimmed his lips. “Up until now? What’s changed?”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking…”
I was still having a hard time wrapping my brain around the possibility that she was alive. Saying it out loud would make that hope real. It had been a really long time since I’d allowed myself to hope.
“Why would that guy be looking for me?” I asked finally. “What reason could he possibly have for coming after me?” I took a breath and blew it out. “He either wants to kill me to send a message or kidnap me to use me as bait.”
“There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear you say.” He smiled, his cheek full of donut.
I tried to sound normal despite the tightness in my chest. “You’re taking all of this pretty well.”
Maybe too well. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but something was off. Or maybe it was the fact that my entire world had been thrown askew. Again.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, I just told you my parents killed people for a living and that there are criminals after me who probably want me dead, and you’re sitting there chowing on donuts.”
Oliver looked down at the last remaining sugar-covered O. “I eat when I’m stressed.”
“No you don’t.”
A pair of headlights appeared in the rearview. I eased into the slow lane to see if the car would pass. It did.
“Yes. I do. Do you not recall a certain extra-large buffalo chicken pizza I ate by myself studying for Crackpot’s history final last year?”
“Oh, yeah. That.” I wrinkled my nose. Crackpot was the nickname for Mr. Kirkpatrick, our school’s endlessly cranky US One teacher, known for writing essay questions not even a textbook author could answer. “I thought you were just hungry.”
“I was, but I also chased it with a box of Twinkies.”
I laughed. “How the hell did you keep all that down?”
“Believe me. It took some effort.” Oliver smiled. “So…you think that guy back there wants to use you as bait. For what?”
I pressed my tongue against the top of my dry mouth. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say, but it was the only logical explanation. Why else would Scarface be hanging out in the backwoods of South Carolina? Why would he describe me to random gas station attendants? I reached up to touch my hair. It might be time for a new cut. And a serious color change.
“I think that the fact that he’s here means one or both of my parents is still alive.”
“Wow,” Oliver said. “You think?”
“Well…who else could he draw out by coming after me?”
After more than a year of searching the Internet for mentions of my parents, forcing Bess to call old contacts in the army, scouring my brain for clues and finally accepting there was no way they would have left me for this long if they were alive, there was no way they would have missed a birthday and a Christmas…there was hope.
“Wow,” Oliver said again, swallowing.
My parents could still be alive. I might be able to find them. I might be able to see them again. To hear their voices. To hold them. My head felt light. I reached up to rub my mother’s locket between my thumb and forefinger, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to truly remember them.
I saw my father on the beach in Saint Lucia, grabbing my mother from behind and twirling her off her feet, the two of them laughing as the sun glinted off their tanned skin. I saw my dad sitting by my bed in the middle of the night, trying not to nod off in case I needed anything while I was fighting croup, and my mother bringing him a cup of steaming coffee accompanied by a kiss on the forehead. I saw my mother baking brownies for my birthday, my dad scooping batter from the bowl with his finger, then—when she got annoyed—offering it to her instead of eating it himself. A food fight had ensued, only ending when we were all covered in chocolate. We’d all showered, then gone out for ice cream instead.
My parents. Alive. It was possible. But if they were alive, where the hell were they? Where had they been all this time? Why had they left me?
“Are you okay?” Oliver asked. He placed his hand on my leg, the warmth of his palm permeating my jeans and tingling my skin.
“I’m fine,” I assured him.
But I wasn’t. My thoughts were racing in a thousand different directions, every zigzagging path ending in an unanswerable question.
As he pulled his hand back again, digging in the plastic wrap for the last donut, I eyed him surreptitiously. He really did look older with his slightly sweaty hair pushed back from his face, that black jacket hugging his shoulders. How much did I really know about Oliver Lange? Why did Mr. Popularity with the two varsity letters and straight-A average need to know self-defense? If he was taking martial arts classes, why didn’t I know about it?
My mother had once told me you couldn’t trust people who came into your life at the exact moment you needed them.
Real life doesn’t work that way, Kiki, she’d said. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
I’d never thought about it before. Why would I? Oliver was Oliver. Sweet, soccer-playing foster kid Oliver. But now I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.
My mom had basically paid the one friend I’d ever had to hang out with me. We’d been on a three-month recon mission in Italy when I was eleven, and my mother had suddenly decided I needed socialization, so she’d gotten me a nanny—Francesca—who’d come with her own daughter, Nita. Nita and I had done everything together. Had sleepovers, raced skateboards, created stupid skits and forced our parents to watch them. I’d thought we’d be best friends forever. But when the job was over, so was the friendship. I’d emailed Nita about four dozen times after we left Italy, but she’d never emailed me back. Not once.
Could Oliver possibly be more of the same? Was he another one of my parent’s contingency plans like Henry and Bess? A prearranged friend for their freak loner daughter in case they left me an orphan?
Honestly? I wouldn’t have put it past my mom. Her level of planning was absurd.
It occurred to me that I could ask Oliver. Did you know my parents? Are you actually a twentysomething manny posing as a seventeen-year-old? But it sounded absurd when I put it into words. And what if he’d been paid by someone else to befriend me? Another enemy who wanted to use me to get to my parents but was willing to play the long con? If I asked a question like that, he’d know I was on to him.
Oliver glanced over at me, and I flinched, training my eyes back on the road.
No. I knew him. I knew everything about him. So what if he had skills he hadn’t shared with me? That didn’t mean everything else I’d learned about him over the last year was a lie. Besides, I couldn’t let myself think about this. I had to concentrate on formulating a plan. I had to figure out my next move.
“So…where’re we going?” he asked. “What’re we going to do?”
I pressed down on the accelerator, revving the engine. “We’re going to find my parents. Wherever the hell they are.”
18 MONTHS AGO
The hollow thunk of bullets hitting the mattress and embedding themselves in thick down registered in the back of my mind as my mother tackled me to the floor. Feathers rose up like fireworks around us, while glass rained over the gray carpet. My shoulder hit the ground first, then my temple, then my mother’s weight settled over me. The Batphone slipped from her fingers and bumped across the floor, coming to rest near the foot of the bed.
The shooting stopped. Somewhere outside, brakes squealed. My mother groaned. I felt something warm trickle across my skin.
“Mom?”
She rolled over onto her back, her beautiful face contorted in pain. There was a hole in her sweater near her shoulder, and a thick stain was already spreading across her chest. But my mother was reaching for her leg. Another red stain blossomed on her shin.
“Mom! Are you all right?”
Dumb question, but it was a reflex. Clearly, she was not all right.
“Kaia, go back to your room!” she implored me, gripping the sleeve of my shirt in her hand. “Hide! You have to hide!”
“What? Mom, no. You’re hurt. What can I do?” I shouted, tears brimming in my eyes.
“Nothing. There’s nothing to be done. I need you to save yourself.” Outside there were random shouts in Spanish. A dog barking. A church bell marked the hour with five mournful tones. “Go, Kaia! Run!”
“Mom, what’s going on?” I pleaded.
“Listen to me, Kiki.” My mother pulled me close, staring into my eyes. The sharpness in her eyes made my breath catch. “He’s not coming back. Your father. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.”
chapter 6
KAIA
Blond. I was actually a blond. I had always promised myself I would never dye my hair. I was happy with the way God had made me. My mom’s hair and height, my dad’s eyes and freckles. And now, if I bumped into them on the street, neither of them would recognize me.
I’d chopped off my hair at the chin and now I pulled it back into the shortest ponytail ever, hoping that would make me feel more normal. The red, rectangular glasses I’d bought at the drugstore along with the dye were a nice touch. I looked like one of the library hounds from school—the girls who wore graphic tees with oversized cardigans and held a weekly book club out in the courtyard. I’d always wanted to approach those girls. But if there was one life skill you didn’t learn while globe-trotting with assassin parents, it was how to make friends.
Also, one of those girls had caught me talking to myself in the bathroom once—a habit I’d picked up over the many hours I’d spent by myself in strange hotel rooms—and I was pretty sure she thought I was insane.
