Blackbird (20 page)

You scroll down to the picture, the woman with brown hair and eyes. She is looking at you, her face as clear as it was that day in the alley. Her makeup is done and she’s wearing the silver medallion around her neck. You’d recognize her anywhere.

Izzy’s still staring at you. “Seriously, since when do you have a phone?”

“I need your computer. . . .” You get up from the bed, fumbling through the clothes on her chair, looking for her laptop.

She pulls it from her nightstand and hands it to you. “Why?”

You flip it open, typing in the name from Celia’s text. Hilary Goss. You add
Los Angeles
, your hands shaking.

“What the hell is going on? You’re scaring me.”

You scroll down and for a moment your lungs are tight, the pressure in your chest like nothing you’ve felt before. There’s a
Los Angeles Times
article about a charity auction. You check the caption twice, not wanting to believe it.
Hilary and Henry Goss Host Charity Auction at Their Los Feliz Home
. They’re standing in front of their house, her in a summer dress, him in a pressed shirt and tie. They’re smiling. You can’t stop looking at him. He has the same eyes. The same pale, angular face. The same crooked scar cutting down his chin.

Henry Goss is the man hunting you.

Their street is listed in the story. In minutes you have the route mapped out. Their house can’t be more than two miles away, maybe less.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” You pass Izzy the computer, trying to stop the trembling in your hands. When you stand to leave she follows you.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

Within a few steps you are in the hallway, out beyond the living room, and to the door. It’s a pathetic lie but you say it anyway. “Nothing.”

You hear her stop at the end of the hall. Her eyes are on your back, as if one simple look can turn you around. You keep going, cutting through the empty living room, the door falling shut behind you.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE HOUSE HAS
a high metal gate around the perimeter. The surveillance camera points toward the driveway. You stay behind it, moving back along the wall, to where a lemon tree curves over the property.

You climb the trunk of the tree, grabbing on to the awning of leaves above. It curves up, its branches twisting together, making it hard to go much farther. The courtyard below is empty. There aren’t any cameras on this side of the house. You press your foot onto the top of the metal rail and push over, hanging down on the other side. It’s a fifteen-foot drop. You land hard, but on your feet.

The sun reflects off the windows and it’s impossible to tell if the lights are on, if anyone is inside. It’s a massive Spanish villa, with rough stucco walls and a red clay roof. You circle around back, where a fake waterfall cascades down rocks and into a still pool. You feel for the knife Celia gave you, in your pocket.

The back sliding doors are locked. Pressing your face to the glass, you can see the kitchen is empty. The counters are clear. The table doesn’t have a single thing on it. Around the side of the house there’s another door, this one with a window in the top half. The panes are only six inches by four, one just inside of the doorknob. You grab a rock from a garden a few feet away, aiming it at the thin pane. With one quick jab it breaks, and your hand is inside, turning the lock.

There’s no alarm—at least not one that’s audible. You’re aware that you may only have ten minutes, maybe less, that you should move through as quickly as possible. The house is quiet. To the right of the kitchen is a massive living room. There’s a leather sofa, chairs, a zebra-skin rug. Over the fireplace is the mounted head of a spotted cat. You move closer, examining it. It’s not until you touch it that you’re certain it’s real. Touching the fur, it makes a sick kind of sense. How long have they been hunting? Where? When did killing animals stop being enough for them?

The stairwell is covered in framed awards. There are several diplomas—business schools and law degrees, professional awards. You climb the twisting staircase to an upper hall. A glass case sits at the end of a long corridor. It’s filled with different size guns, some rifles, some handguns, like the one the woman, Hilary Goss, had with her the day she chased you.

You pass two bedrooms. Both the first and second have nothing in the dressers. The beds are made, the closets empty except for a few old suitcases. You cut across the hall to an office that overlooks the front yard. There are papers stacked on the desk. You sift through them, looking for something—anything—to tell you more about the game.

There are bills and contracts, most of which seem to be related to Hilary Goss’s business. From what you can tell she worked in finance, the letterhead from a company called Robertson Arthur, some detailing a recent merger. It’s all the same, paper after paper. The filing cabinets are all locked. There’s a glass award sitting on the windowsill, dated less than two weeks ago, honoring her.
HILARY GOSS. RECOGNITION IN OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT
, it says.

You move through to the master bedroom. You pull open the dresser drawers, toppling them onto the floor, sifting through shirts and socks. One by one you go down them, but there’s nothing inside except clothes. You move through the closets, sweeping aside the hangers. You pick up stacks of sweaters, search under the shelves, slipping your fingers along each ledge to see if there’s anything you’ve missed.

You take another swipe at an upper shelf and your hand stops on a pair of pants. They’re folded in a neat square. They don’t move. You push at them and tug, but still you can’t get them off the shelf. It’s not until you lift them up that the lever comes free. They’re part of a secret compartment in the top shelf.

You grab an armchair from the corner, moving it to the closet to stand on. From above you can see how the shelf has been hollowed out. The pants are fastened to a thin piece of wood that lifts up. When you move it aside you see the yellow envelope beneath.

You sit down on the floor, handling the envelope as if it’s made of glass. There’s another folder with a logo on it: A&A Enterprises. You empty the envelope first, the glossy photos spilling onto the floor. It’s you. The first one is just of your face, your hair pulled back, your top lip swollen and bloody. You’re looking right at the camera, but you don’t have any memory of when or where it was taken. The next two are close-ups of your scars—the one on your neck, along with a third crescent-shaped one near your left ankle. The third zooms in on the tattoo on your wrist. All of them are labeled
Blackbird
. All of them have the A&A Enterprises logo on the top.

On the back of the first one is a printed paragraph.

You move through the folder, trying to find more information on your background, but there’s nothing. No explanation of who you were before, no explanation of where you came from. Where was the island? Is the “alliance with another target” talking about the boy who saved you?

The folder is filled with paperwork. There’s not enough time to read it all. You scan through it, noticing a contract between Hilary Goss, Henry Goss, and the company. But it’s the letter behind it that raises the fine hairs on your arms. You see the heading from A&A Enterprises. It’s made out to Henry only, dated less than a week before.
Due to the nature of your wife’s death and your history with the target on the island, your request has been granted. You have been reassigned to “Blackbird.” According to her Watcher she appears to be in strong physical and mental health. Your hunt will resume on September 21 at midnight. Await word from your Stager, who will provide information regarding the target’s location.

Your stomach tenses and tightens, your hands bloodless and cold. Ivan was your Stager, tracking you to and from different locations, reporting your whereabouts. You were Hilary’s target, but when she was killed, her husband was reassigned to you—he
asked
to be reassigned to you. But who is the Watcher? The man with the black hat, the one Ivan reported to? How did the hunter find you the second time, when you were walking with Izzy that day? You think back to everyone you encountered on your walk, to the man giving the free stress test, and then you realize—that girl in front of the health-food store handed a coupon to Izzy. It was in Izzy’s sweatshirt on your walk. It must be how they tracked you.

You pause when you hear a noise from downstairs. You look around, suddenly aware of all the windows in the bedroom. There’s an open door right behind you, a bathroom to your left. You roll up the papers and tuck them into the back of your jeans. You reach for the knife.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

YOU START DOWN
the hallway when you hear a familiar voice behind you. “What the hell?”

Izzy is standing at the top of the stairs. She glances around, looking into the master bedroom, at the overturned drawers and the clothes scattered on the floor. “This is what you had to do? This is what couldn’t wait? You had to come rob these people?”

“Izzy, we have to get out of here,” you say.

She looks at the glass case behind you. “Yeah, you bet we do. This is what you’ve been doing? Ransacking houses?”

She doesn’t even finish the sentence when you hear it. The metal creak of the gate opening. You turn into the office, looking out over the driveway. His car—the same black Mercedes that followed you—pulls to a stop just beyond the front door. You turn to Izzy, grabbing her arm, pulling her toward the stairs.

“Just come with me,” you say. “Don’t say anything. Don’t make any noise.”

“What is it?” You can see in her face that she already senses the danger. Her arm is tense beneath your grip. “What’s wrong?”

You turn back, looking out the window, but the car is empty. There’s the sound of the key in the lock. Then the door downstairs opens.

“He’s here.”

“You know these people?” Izzy whispers.

There’s no time. You usher Izzy into the hall closet, pressing a finger to your lips. You close the door gently. You have barely made it a few steps before he appears at the bottom of the stairs. He lifts his pant leg, pulling a small pistol from a holster hidden at his calf. He doesn’t aim it, though. He doesn’t run up the stairs. He just smiles, as if he’s been waiting for you all along.

“Did you miss me?” he asks.

He climbs the stairs slowly, coming toward you. You’re aware of Izzy in the closet right behind you. You can’t leave her there. You keep your body positioned between him and the closet door, knowing you’ll have to lure him away.

“I remember what you did on the island,” you say, conscious of the knife tucked at your hip. He’s not close enough yet for it to be of any use. “You were choking me. I remember you.”

Goss shakes his head. “I’ve heard some of you were getting your memories back. I’ve tried to look at it as incentive to kill quicker, before there are any complications.”

“So do it, then,” you say. “If you want me dead why wait even a second longer?”

“Because it’s always the saddest part,” he says. “Right at the end. Because all that time, that waiting . . . it’s over. And there’ll be satisfaction, of course, but the joy of it is in the build.”

He reaches the top of the stairs, leaning casually on the banister, just a few feet from
you. His gun is still in his hand.

“So you remember the island? I’d tracked you for five days, right at the end. Everyone said you couldn’t be taken but I knew I almost had you. It felt close. I’d found where you’d been staying with that boy, that den you’d made. I was always just a few hours behind you.”

“The boy?”

Goss laughs. “You didn’t bring him, did you? You used to work as a pair then. Cal thinks that’s the only reason you survived.”

He takes the next two steps. You step back, hiding your right side from him. You bring your hand to your hip, feeling for the end of the knife. “I survived again, here. Twice.”

“It’s harder to kill here, you must know that. Too many chances for people to see. But on the island, it felt . . . unbridled. There was total freedom. I was sure I had you. I tracked you to the north end. You were below, on those rocks, sleeping—that’s where I found you.
Do I kill her while she’s asleep? Or do I wait for her to see me, to know that fear, to really see it as it happened?
I fired at the rocks below to wake you. But it was a mistake. By the time I fired again you were already up, diving off the cliff face.”

He’s closer now. His gun is still aimed at the floor. You could close the space in three steps. You’re trying to gauge how fast you can strike, how effectively, when there’s a thud inside the closet behind you. Goss’s eyes flick to the closet door.

He doesn’t hesitate. He raises the gun, firing once into the center of the door. You hear Izzy’s low, muffled yell, and something inside you breaks. You lunge, driving the knife into his side.

He jerks back, losing his balance, slipping down the staircase. One leg gives out, sending him skidding on his side.

You open the closet. Izzy is slumped against one wall, pressing her hand to her side, her fingers covered in blood. There’s a tiny hole in her sweatshirt, right beneath her ribs.

You tuck your shoulder under her arm, pulling her to stand. At the other end of the hall there’s a narrow staircase. You move her toward it, listening to Goss below, his stunned murmurs as he picks himself back up. “You have to try to walk with me,” you say. “I know it’s hard, but try.”