Revenge

by Meredith Wild

  “Okay. That makes sense. Why do you seem so apprehensive about that, though?”

  I stare down at my lap and trace the seam of my jeans back and forth. My dad’s part in Tristan’s enlistment has been haunting me since I found out about it. Unless my mother told my father about the letter I found, he has no idea I’ve been digging this invisible chasm between us. A space filled with a betrayal too painful to revisit until I absolutely had to.

  “I’ve been nervous about reaching out to him at all,” I admit. “Even connecting with my mom about the Halo files was difficult. But my dad…”

  “You still haven’t forgiven him.”

  I shake my head. “No, but I want to. When this is over, I need to let it go. I have to. I’m carrying so much of this shit around with me as it is. I can’t change what he did, and neither can he.”

  “Then forgive him. Let it go. Then we can ask for his help.”

  “There’s something else that’s been weighing on me. It’s not something we really have time to deal with right now. I don’t know how to ask my father for help when he doesn’t even understand what we’re truly up against.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You want to tell him everything.”

  “And that means telling him the truth about Mariana.”

  Tristan leans back and tosses his napkin on the table. “You really don’t think Lucia’s told him already?”

  “I think it’s something she’d take to the grave if I let her. I mean, she couldn’t even tell me until she had to arrange a fake funeral for me. She’s held this grudge on her own all these years. Not to mention she’s done things that would compromise my father’s career if anyone ever found out.”

  “She let him believe a lie that saved him the pain and anguish she’s carried around for the both of them.”

  “You’re right, but I don’t know if he’ll see it like that. At least not right away. This is… It’s not an infidelity. It’s almost worse. I don’t want to be the one to destroy what they have together, but I can’t hang on to this lie with her for the rest of my life.”

  “You shouldn’t need to.”

  “Well… That means telling him or convincing my mother she needs to.”

  “Then we’ll go to DC and regroup. Maybe you can talk some sense into Lucia, and we’ll cross our fingers that Morgan doesn’t go nuclear when he finds out. In the meantime, we’ll get Landon scouring Knight’s laptop for more information. Hopefully he can track the account number Mateus was given to a name.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Follow every sign that points to Simon.”

  There’s no lightness to Tristan’s voice when he says it. The end of this journey is the end of Simon. We both know it.

  “We can probably get a flight to Dulles tomorrow.”

  “Let’s book it.” He reaches for a croissant and breaks the flaky heaven in half. “In the meantime, I say we eat our way through this city.”

  The airport is teeming with travelers on a Saturday afternoon. Every culture and language seem to be represented as we go through the motions of checking in and advancing through the long security line. Through it all, I’m sweating, not only because we’re late being stuck in this rush, but the effort to look innocently calm takes more energy than I would have ever guessed. Ever since Tristan sent me home from Brazil with a fake passport—one that could have landed me in custody—I’ve appreciated not having to fly again. Until Paris.

  I hold my breath through the full-body security scanner, releasing it when the TSA agent waves me through. Tristan grabs our bags off the belt, and together we navigate the small terminal and hurry toward our gate.

  I check the time on my phone against the boarding time on the paper ticket in my hand. “We have five minutes.” The impact of running into Tristan’s back momentarily stuns me. “Tristan, what the—”

  He’s an unmoving wall. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His voice takes on a sobering tone that makes the hair on my hand stand up.

  I follow his gaze to a TV broadcasting the news from one of the gate’s sitting areas. I can feel the blood drain from my face as I recognize another flashed across the screen.

  “Crow,” I whisper.

  I walk closer to the TV to pick up the sound, doing my best to translate snippets of what the newscaster is saying. The mug shot of the man they’re referring to as Lorenzo Generazzo slides to the left half of the screen, making room for video of the charred Chalys building. It’s still standing in daylight, but the damage is significant enough that I’m shocked to see them replace Crow’s photo with Gillian Mirchoff’s corporate headshot.

  They know she was in the building.

  I’m not breathing again. If I move a muscle, I’m certain everyone in the terminal is going to know how guilty I am. They’ll know what I did. The segment plays out a little longer, listing out Crow’s height and build. The smallest amount of relief hits me when I realize they don’t have him in custody. They must have taken the photo in Berlin or God knows where else. I have a feeling this wasn’t Crow’s first brush with the law.

  I think the segment is about to end, but then they start playing a dark, highly pixelated video once at regular speed, then again in slow motion. Surveillance taken outside the building.

  I grip Tristan’s arm when he stands beside me again. Now I’m breathing so hard, I worry I might pass out. Because we’re in the video. Again and again, I watch as all three of us rush out of the front of the Chalys building and into Mateus’s waiting vehicle. I know it’s us, but the darkness and distance of the camera picking it up hide any detail that would clearly define our faces.

  Tristan turns away from the TV, pulls his phone out, and presses it firmly to his ear. “Mateus, are you out of Paris?” he says after a moment. “And Crow?” A pause. “Good. His face is all over the news. You’d all better lie low until we figure out what they know.” After a few more seconds, he hangs up. “Shit. This better not come back on Mateus.”

  “Did they get out?”

  “They flew out this morning. Already landed.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Probably the most obvious place Crow could think to go. Italy. Like they won’t find him there.” He rubs his fingers over the lines in his forehead vigorously. “I seriously don’t know why I care. He’s like one of those throwaway fish you win at the fair, except I’m that kid determined to keep the fucker alive. I swear he needs his own bodyguard just to talk him out of making the worst possible decisions.”

  “How do the police even know it was Crow? You can’t see anything from that grainy video.”

  “That’s the problem. They wouldn’t know unless someone told them. If they had decent footage, our faces would be up there too. Simon’s behind this. He knew they were holding Crow there.”

  “They didn’t mention Knight.”

  “He rode to the building with Mateus. Even if they can’t identify bodies right now, Gillian probably had her car in the lot. It doesn’t matter. They’ll find out about Knight eventually. We just need to get to DC before they do.”

  Tristan takes my hand, and we rush toward our gate at the end of the terminal. My thoughts are still flying as we join the growing line to board.

  “Do you think Simon knew it was us on the video?” I keep my voice low enough that the other people in the line can’t hear me.

  Tristan’s jaw is tense. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  I breathe deep, but my nerves are rioting. “If he can splash Crow’s face across the national news here, what’s stopping him from doing the same with us?”

  “For starters, Isabel Foster is already dead. And Tristan Stone has been missing for three years. Both of those are a can of worms Simon probably doesn’t want to open. Even if he did, he might know our faces, but he has no idea what aliases we travel under.”

  “Jay never knew?”

  He frowns. “Hell no. I’d never trust her to know that.”

  I force hi
s reassurances to override the sudden panic that we’ll be found out. I never thought I’d be so terrified of the police, but two months on the run with Tristan has changed all that. If anyone knew about us and what we’ve done to protect ourselves, we’d never see the light of day again. The authorities wouldn’t care if we were saving each other or ourselves. They wouldn’t care if the people who died were the worst kind of people. Murder is murder.

  I file my worries somewhere else, at least for a few minutes, as I get closer to the agent scanning passports ahead of us. I think of Alexandria and my parents’ pretty yellow house with the red door on Midday Lane. I think back to a time when I didn’t know all the things I do now.

  I hover in that imaginary place—the place I can never be again—as the agent holds her hand out for my passport. I give it to her and point my face into the camera taking my picture. The scanner beeps green, triggering a plastic smile from the agent.

  “Have a good flight, Miss Santos.”

  TRISTAN

  All that’s left of the day is a sliver of fire streaking across the horizon. Deep purples and oranges dominate the rest of the sky above the clouds. We’re chasing the sunset. Losing time. Going backward.

  It doesn’t really feel that way, though. We’ll find answers in DC. We’ll find Simon. I have no idea how I know. How does a panther know where to hunt its prey? When to go for the kill?

  I’ve circled around Company Eleven for long enough, unraveling who they really are, dismantling them piece by piece. With Gillian Mirchoff and Davis Knight gone, there’s only one thing left to do, and nothing can keep me from it.

  Being shorthanded, Simon won’t stay in Europe long. If he thought Berlin was a fire he had to put out, he’s facing an inferno now. I’m not going away with a meeting or a bribe or a promise.

  I’m not going away until this is over.

  The plane bumps through the air as we hit a patch of mild turbulence. Miraculously, Isabel doesn’t stir. She’s been so on edge…since Mushenko gave us the Felix files…since she blew a hole through her ex-lover’s mother before the bitch could do any more damage, to Crow or to me. I’m not sure what Gillian’s ultimate plan was. I’m sure it didn’t involve me showing up and interrupting her torture session. The irony that someone so evil could be charged with developing drugs designed to cure people is not lost on me.

  Maybe Isabel is right and Felix will fulfill all its promises. If it does, at least there’s one less monster in the mix to enjoy the profits. Soon enough, Kristopher will pass. Unless other arrangements were made, the company will be left to Kolt. He’ll inherit more than an empire. He’ll inherit all the dirty laundry Gillian and Vince aren’t around to cover up anymore.

  The plane bumps again, and the seat-belt sign goes on with a bing. But a couple of tiny bottles of the airline’s cheap wine seem to have given Isabel at least a temporary break from the emotional roller coaster she’s been on.

  Taking advantage of her nap, I find my phone and bring up the text conversation I had with Townsend this morning—one I decided not to share with her yet.

  I have a care package from Mushenko for you.

  Where should I send it?

  You aren’t going to hand deliver it?

  Believe it or not, my schedule doesn’t revolve around your shitty life. An address should suffice.

  I smirk to myself. Townsend is maddening, but at his best, he’s at least entertaining. Doesn’t change the very sobering situation I’m now faced with, though. The care package is the antidote. There’s nothing else it could be. The mere mention of it has my stomach twisting uncomfortably. The possibility of getting my memories back is still scary as hell, a dangerous cocktail of hope and desperation.

  I scroll farther down to where I directed him to Makanga’s post office box in Arlington. I need to touch base with Makanga anyway. Taking care of Devon Aguilera on short notice was a favor, but he typically likes to get paid for them. I connect to the airplane Wi-Fi and shoot off a text to Makanga now that it’s a decent hour in the States.

  I have mail coming your way. Are you in town?

  What kind of mail?

  Actual mail.

  Good. Otherwise I was thinking of setting up my own witness protection program and raising my rates. By the way, you owe me.

  When can you meet?

  Call me tomorrow.

  I power off my phone and glance out the window again.

  Contemplating what I’ll do with the antidote when I get it in my hands quickly consumes me. I should tell Isabel about it. I know I won’t. We promised transparency, but I’m a liar and a killer and I’m having enough trouble sorting through my own emotions when it comes to the demands I made on Mushenko. I’m not sure I can add hers to the mix and trust the outcome. Maybe the decision should be ours since she shares so much of my past—at least the moments that mattered the most—but in the end, it’ll have to be mine.

  I rest my head back and close my eyes. The dreams that hit me these days are random and uninvited, but they feel so incredibly real. The memories live on my skin and stay wrapped around me long after I’ve woken up. Sometimes I wonder if my mind shows me pieces of my past when I need them. The important things. The moments that try the hardest to break through the invisible barrier of these two lives I’ve lived.

  But I can’t know what I don’t know. Will opening up the floodgates of memories make anything better? Will I love Isabel the same? Will I be so different than I am now? Isabel once said that I was guarded before the mission and Jay’s lies turned me into someone else. Something tells me it wasn’t this bad.

  Isabel has made me feel things I never knew how to before my past went dark. It’s a journey I’m not sure will ever end as long as I’m with her. But is it enough? Bursts of remembrance? A disappointing but quiet acceptance that some things will always be lost?

  The thinning yellow thread of the sun finally ducks under the clouds, outrunning us but leaving us with a view so magical, it doesn’t seem real from this vantage. In Ipanema, I witnessed hundreds of sunsets melt behind the jagged mountains. No matter what brand of hell I was coming home from or running into, I could understand in those moments why people believed in heaven.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Isabel

  We’re home. DC was the closest place to home either of us ever really had. I register an unexpected relief being surrounded by signs I can easily read and people I can understand. Maybe it’s grogginess from the long flight, but routing into the line for US citizens is a small thrill.

  We move through the long line until an available customs agent calls us to the kiosk. As I hand over my passport, I glimpse at the man’s name tag. An unexpected smile forms as I recognize his face too. Officer LeBaron. His expression is the same as I remember, void of emotion. His severe haircut hasn’t changed either. He’d be more intimidating if I didn’t remember the smile he finally gave up last time he welcomed me home after I fed him a lie about my vacation in Panama.

  He slides my passport over the scanner, his bored stare aimed at the tinted computer screen.

  “How long were you in France?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “Short trip,” he says flatly.

  “We were there for a friend’s wedding,” Tristan adds.

  LeBaron doesn’t acknowledge this and proceeds to scan Tristan’s passport. “Where did you stay while you were there?”

  “The hotel Le Bristol in Paris,” I answer, trying to sound confident and normal, whatever that sounds like.

  The fatigue quickly dissipates as little pulses of worry hit me. What if I don’t end up getting LeBaron’s welcome-home smile because he’s figuring out we’re frauds right now? Seconds pass. He flips through Tristan’s passport pages casually, studying all the stamps.

  “What do you do, Mr. Gallo? Looks like you’re a heavy traveler.”

  “I’m a consultant for a pharmaceutical company.” Tristan delivers the answer like he’s given it a thousand times before.


  I rub my slick palms against my jeans.

  “What’s the company?” LeBaron swings his focus back to the computer screen.

  “Chalys Pharmaceuticals. Have you heard of them?”

  If I could get away with kicking Tristan, I would. Judging by the subtle grin on his face, he thinks this is funny. He probably gives customs agents a different story every time and they buy it.

  And LeBaron must be buying it, because a few seconds later, he’s stamping our passports loudly and gesturing us to pass through. No smile.

  I shoot Tristan a glare. “Really?” I hiss quietly.

  “What? I had to come up with something.”

  “Like you don’t have a dozen other answers at the ready for when they grill you like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Like I need more anxiety in my life.”

  I expect another snarky response, when his smile begins to fade. He looks straight ahead to where a young man in a light-gray suit stands between us and the escalators that will take us to baggage claim and the exits. He’s flanked by two police officers. All three of them are staring right at us.

  I look down. Swallowing over the sudden tightness in my throat, I pretend to be distracted before taking Tristan’s hand. He squeezes it. Reassurance maybe. More likely an unspoken confirmation that he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  What if they’re here for us?