Flee (15 page)

DAY
91

Another
cow. Completely healthy.

I
shot it dead two seconds after being ordered to.

DAY
101

Balance
is improving. I can get through an obstacle course while walking on my hands. I
stood on top of a pole on one leg for six hours in a strong breeze. I can walk
fifty meters on a high wire.

The
other day, I was taken to one of the closed-off rooms of the compound and shown
an autopsy in progress. I had to participate, putting on gloves, using the scalpel.

It
didn't bother me like I felt it should have.

Later,
I had to take a test on various organs and bodily systems. I learned eight
different killing blows, and why they worked. Human beings are more fragile
than I thought.

DAY
121

I
think I'm starting to crack.

I'm
learning so much, so fast. I feel parts of my personality slipping away. Who I
am. Who I want to be. Instead, they're being replaced by cold, impersonal
training.

Maybe
I'm becoming a robot, like The Instructor.

DAY
130

Another
cow.

This
time, I wasn't ordered to shoot it. I was given the iron bar and ordered to
beat it to death.

I
followed orders, but I cried the whole time.

DAY
135

I
flew an ultralight today. Very cool. And much simpler than the Huey.

DAY
145

I
miss people. Men mostly.

I
find myself thinking of Cory. Not sexually, though for all of his psychotic
tendencies, the sex was good. I'm thinking about him because I'm such a
different person than the little girl he took advantage of. If I met him again,
I'd kill him.

Or
maybe I'd fuck him first. I'm that horny.

DAY
146

The
Instructor acknowledged something I've known all along; that he's been reading
my journal. He said that a healthy sex drive is natural in both men and women,
and he offered, in that flat, emotionless way of his, to have sex with me.

Like
he was asking if I wanted a cup of coffee.

I
almost agreed to it.

DAY
150

I
was forced to watch a snuff video.

It
was in Arabic. A fat, one-eyed man was interrogating a bound Pakistani. He
tortured him with electricity, a knife, and finally a blow torch, all the while
asking him inane, unanswerable questions.

It
lasted for three hours. I wasn't allowed to turn away.

I
threw up twice.

Afterward,
The Instructor brought me to a part of the compound I hadn't been to before.
The brig.

Sitting
in the cell was the one-eyed torturer.

I
was ordered to shoot him.

I
did it, quicker than it took me to shoot the cow.

DAY
151

After
the day's training, terrible thoughts swirling in my head, I told The
Instructor I wanted to take him up on his offer.

We
didn't kiss. The sex was passionless, perfunctory. But the orgasms brought me
back from the brink of insanity I felt I'd been heading toward.

The
Instructor didn't ejaculate. When I tried to make him come, he dismissed me.

DAY
152

No
talk about the sex. Business as usual.

I
vow I'll never sleep with the cold, heartless bastard ever again.

DAY
175

This
was the worst day of training, and maybe the worst day of my life.

For
the past week, I've been taught to resist interrogation. It started off
harmless enough, with verbal sparring. Techniques to avoid giving away anything
with body language. Psychological tests, stress tests, biofeedback while being
questioned.

I
was given a number. Six. I was ordered not to reveal that number if asked, no
matter what.

Then
I was forcibly abducted from my room while I slept—something I almost escaped
from by resisting until The Instructor told me to stand down. I was stripped
naked and thrown into a brightly lit, barren cell. It was cold, and a loud, piercing
tone was played at random intervals. It hurt my ears, and made it impossible to
sleep. I had a bucket for the bathroom. No food or water.

I
wasn't sure how long they kept me there. I stayed sane by reminding myself this
was training. But after what could have been ten hours, could have been fifty,
they pulled me out and strapped me to a table.

It's
called
waterboarding
, and according to the government it was considered
an
enhanced interrogation technique
, not torture.

Bullshit.
It's torture.

They
asked me my number. I didn't reply. So they put a cloth over my face and poured
water on it.

They
kept pouring until I couldn't hold my breath anymore. Until I had to breathe in
the water.

Suddenly
I was in the car with Cory again, and the water was over my head, and I was
choking, dying. The sense of panic, of helplessness, of pure fear, was enough
to drive me mad.

I
lasted less than three minutes, then I gave up the number.

But
they didn't stop.

I
wasn't sure how long it went on. They hit me in the stomach while it was
happening, to make me gasp for air. I passed out too many times to count,
drowning, possibly even dying once or twice only to be brought back so they
could do it again. Finally I didn't wake up.

The
next time I opened my eyes, I was back in my bed. My stomach still aches. My throat
and lungs feel like they've been scrubbed with steel wool.

The
Instructor came in to check on me, an hour ago. He brought hot tea, some
cookies.

I
told him to get the fuck out or I'd kill him.

I
meant it.

DAY
177

I
understand why it was done to me. At some point, I may be required to
interrogate someone. I needed to know what it was like.

But
the waterboarding changed me. I'm harder now. Less sympathetic.

I'm
also through with doing everything I'm told to do, unless I agree with it. If
they ever try to grab me in my sleep again, I'll fight to the death before I
let them take me.

DAY
203

I
finally understand what I'm being trained for.

Instead
of the usual 25k run, I was given a file.

It
includes a dossier of a man named Dalton Wick. He's white, forty-six years old,
single, a day trader. He lives in Peru, IL, in a gated community with a
state-of-the-art burglar alarm.

It
also includes over a dozen pictures of Wick engaged in sexual relations with a
crying, hysterical five-year-old boy.

I'm
ordered to kill Wick by tomorrow night. Whatever equipment I need will be
provided for me.

I've
spent all day thinking about it.

Planning
it.

DAY
205

Everything
went off without a hitch. I drove to Peru, bypassed his alarm, broke into his
home, and shot him with a suppressed pistol while he slept.

When
I got back to the compound, I thought I was okay. But during the debriefing, I
began to cry, and the next thing I knew I was on top of The Instructor, tugging
off his belt, pressing my lips to his.

This
time I rode him so hard he had no choice but to come.

DAY
345

Long
time between journal entries.

I'm
an assassin now. I've killed four people. All of them deserved it—murderers,
molesters, torturers, psychopaths. I was told I could refuse taking jobs if I
wanted to. One case I passed up was a pimp named Deevon. He was an asshole who
got his whores hooked on smack and regularly beat them when they didn't obey. A
true piece of human garbage, but I didn't think he was worthy of death. So I
turned it down.

The
next day the morning paper was handed to me, with an article about Deevon being
shot and killed.

Apparently,
I wasn't the only killer Project Hydra had trained.

I'm
close to leaving this place, which I never thought of as home, but I feel I
might miss. I'll be assigned a handler, given a new identity, and a new life as
an undercover black ops hitter.

I
have to cut off all ties with the past. That's fine, since I don't have a
family. But I refuse to give up Kaufmann. The Instructor says I'm allowed to
keep him as a friend, as long as I never reveal what I do, or who I am.

I'm
told I'm the second best student that Project Hydra has ever had.

My
codename is Chandler.

I
haven't slept with The Instructor again. And if I never see him again, I'm okay
with that.

"It was an honor training you," The Instructor said. "It's
doubtful we'll ever cross paths. If we do, it might very well mean I've been
compromised. Don't hesitate to kill me if you have to. I won't hesitate to do
the same."

I
dug through my duffel and readied another syringe of amobarbital with trembling
fingers. I wasn't nervous, exactly, but along with hearing the sound of The
Instructor's voice, and its accompanying memories, came another upswing of
adrenaline, and after so many of these swings in the past hours, my system was
struggling to cope.

I
found a woman's jacket in Victor's closet, pulled it on, and concealed the
syringe in the right sleeve. Noticing Victor's wallet and keys on the dresser,
I stuffed them into my pocket. Easier to use keys to get in and out of the
building than pick the lock. My gun slipped neatly into the back waistband of
my jeans. I checked on Kaufmann, still sleeping, and then walked down the hall
and passed through the living room without sparing Victor a glance.

I
paused at the door, listening to check if the hall outside was clear. Victor
called to me, "Going somewhere?"

"Out."

I
wanted to tell him more, but I knew the urge was selfish on my part. I had no
idea what The Instructor had in mind. If something went wrong, the less Victor
knew about me and where I'd gone, the better off he'd be.

But
despite my better judgment, I turned and looked at Victor over my shoulder. 

He
sat on the edge of the couch, pants pulled up over his hips but fly gaping open,
hand still cuffed to the radiator. But while some men might be annoyed that I'd
left them naked and without use of the two hands necessary to zip and button,
Victor appeared slightly amused. He gave me a questioning lift of the brows
that was more than a little sexy. "You'll be back?"

I
probably shouldn't have felt so pleased that he cared, but I managed to keep
the smile off my lips. "Yeah, I'll be back."

I
turned to the door, checked the peep hole and listened for movement outside.
Sensing nothing, I slipped out to face my past.

I
took the stairs to the street level, then kept on going. The Instructor had
said he was parked out front, but I wasn't about to take the direct route. I
doubted anything I did would truly surprise him, but at least I wouldn't be obviously
predictable.

I
emerged in the below-ground parking garage. It reeked of oil, stale exhaust and
damp concrete. The space was small, with room for just a handful of cars. I
moved at a fast clip, senses tuned for movement, detecting none.

Striding
up the short ramp, I emerged from a side door into an alley. The air outside
was brisk, cool, and wind kicked a Starbucks cup across the sidewalk in front
of me. I moved to the corner of the building and peered down the intersecting
street that passed in front of the building.

It
was easy to pick out the car, a black sedan that practically screamed
government
issue
. I noted the silhouette of a man in the driver's seat. Both of his
hands clutched the wheel, showing me he wasn't holding a weapon. A good sign.

The
distance to the vehicle wasn't far, but I wouldn't be able to cross the gap
unseen. As soon as I stepped out from behind the corner of the building, I
would be vulnerable.

What
could The Instructor possibly want? I didn't know how he'd found me, but it didn't
surprise me he had. It also wouldn't surprise me if he'd been the one to call
the police to my apartment in an effort to take me in.

Then
again, he might also have been the one to call the assassins.

I
could walk away. Disappear. But that would be the same as putting a bullet into
Kaufmann and Victor myself. And if I did run, not only would I have to run the
rest of my life, but I'd never know what the hell was going on.