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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Allen Zadoff

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: June 2014

  [CIP to come]

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  RRD-C

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  COVER

  DISCLAIMER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  I STAND ON THE ROCKS HIGH ABOVE A LAKE.

  HE APPEARS IN A DREAM THAT DOES NOT FEEL LIKE A DREAM.

  THERE ARE SOLDIERS HERE.

  WE WALK FOR ABOUT A CLICK BEFORE WE COME TO A CLEARING.

  DAWN IS BREAKING OVER THE VALLEY BELOW US.

  FATHER INSTRUCTS ME TO HEAD DUE EAST IN THE HELICOPTER.

  FATHER STAYS BEHIND WHILE THE MAN LEADS ME DOWN A STAIRWAY INTO THE HOSPITAL.

  I WAIT FOR THE RESULTS IN A NEARBY EXAMINATION ROOM.

  I’M LEFT ALONE TO CHANGE INTO A FRESH SET OF CLOTHES.

  I CONSUME ENOUGH CALORIES FOR TWELVE HOURS OF HIGH-ENERGY WORK.

  IT’S A CLEAR SHOT NORTH ON 93 TO THE PENACOOK COMMUNITY CENTER.

  I’M SEARCHED AT THE DOOR BY A YOUNG SECURITY GUARD.

  MY FATHER IS IN FRONT OF ME.

  THE RIFT CLOSES.

  IT’S LEE.

  A DOZEN KIDS HAVE BEEN SELECTED.

  MOORE STANDS IN THE GLARE OF TRUCK HEADLIGHTS BEHIND THE COMMUNITY CENTER.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE?” A GIRL SAYS.

  WE MAKE OUR WAY UP A TWISTING MOUNTAIN PASS.

  “ARE YOU A GAMER?” LEE SAYS.

  CALCULATED RISK.

  THE MOON HAS DISAPPEARED COMPLETELY BEHIND THE CLOUDS.

  IN THE DARKNESS, I USE WHAT I HAVE LEARNED FROM THE GAME.

  SHE WALKS AHEAD OF ME, HER MOVEMENTS NEARLY SILENT.

  IT’S A COUPLE OF HOURS BEFORE DAWN WHEN I GET BACK.

  I DON’T SLEEP.

  IT BEGINS WITH A SINGLE SHOT.

  LEE IS WAITING FOR ME.

  BUT MOORE IS NEVER ALONE.

  WHITE VANS LINE THE ROAD LEADING OUT OF CAMP.

  THE VANS SPLIT UP OUTSIDE OF CAMP, MOVING OFF IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS.

  THEY NAP THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, BUT I DO NOT.

  THE ROAD IS DESERTED.

  ONE SENTRY DRIVES THE ROAD AT NIGHT.

  BELOW.

  WE MAKE IT BACK TO THE VAN.

  THERE IS A FIRE AT LIBERTY.

  I HEAR THE SOUNDS OF MUSIC AND KIDS LAUGHING IN THE DISTANCE.

  I CLOSE MY EYES FOR A WHILE AFTER THAT, BUT I DON’T SLEEP.

  IT’S MOORE.

  “YOU GOT THE BIG INVITE,” FRANCISCO SAYS.

  TWO BOYS WITH RIFLES STAND GUARD AT THE ROADBLOCK.

  I SCOPE THE NEIGHBORHOOD AS I GO, CHECKING FOR ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY.

  IT HAPPENS QUICKLY AFTER THAT.

  THE MALL OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.

  I STOP AT A BEST BUY INSIDE THE MALL.

  I TELL HIM TO TAKE THE TRAIN TO EXETER.

  HOWARD IS STANDING ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD BY THE EXETER TRAIN STATION.

  I RENT A SUITE AT THE HOLIDAY INN.

  I LEAVE THE SILVERADO IN THE LONG-TERM PARKING LOT AT THE AIRPORT.

  THE SUN IS COMING UP BY THE TIME I GET BACK TO CAMP LIBERTY.

  I PARK THE ACCORD AND JOIN A GROUP OF KIDS HEADING INTO THE MAIN HOUSE FOR BREAKFAST.

  PEOPLE ARE RUNNING THROUGH THE BUILDING.

  I MOVE WITH PURPOSE, PROJECTING A CONFIDENT ENERGY.

  HE IS HERE.

  WE STOP BY FRANCISCO’S ROOM IN THE MAIN HOUSE.

  FRANCISCO LEADS ME DEEPER INTO THE FOREST.

  “MY NAME IS FRANCISCO GONZALEZ,” HE SAYS.

  WHEN I’M SURE FRANCISCO IS DEAD, I DRAG HIS BODY DEEPER INTO THE WOODS.

  I HIKE OUT OF THE WOODS.

  I SLIP INTO THE MAIN HOUSE.

  HE IS NOT ALONE.

  I USE THE CONFUSION OF RUSHING BODIES TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

  I DRIVE THROUGH THE RAIN.

  I’M EXPECTING SILENCE.

  I OPEN MY EYES NOT KNOWING WHERE I AM.

  HOWARD USES VODKA FROM THE MINIBAR TO STERILIZE THE CUTS.

  IT’S NO LOUDER THAN A WHISPER.

  MIKE WALKS ME DOWNSTAIRS, THEN FOLLOWS ME AS I DRIVE AWAY IN THE TRUCK.

  A DOWNED TREE BLOCKS THE ROAD, HALF A DOZEN ARMED BOYS ON GUARD BEHIND IT.

  WE DRIVE INTO LIBERTY.

  I WAKE UP IN A CONCRETE ROOM LINED IN SHADOWS.

  MY FATHER IS IN A CHAIR IN OUR LIVING ROOM.

  “DANIEL.”

  ABOVE GROUND, LIBERTY IS A GHOST TOWN.

  I SLIP INTO FRANCISCO’S ROOM.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE DOORS TO THE WORKSHOP ARE OPEN WIDE.

  I POWER UP THE GAMING SYSTEM BACK IN MY ROOM.

  IT WAS MEANT AS A SYMBOL OF STRENGTH.

  IT’S A STRAIGHT SHOT TO BOSTON.

  SECURITY IS BREAKING DOWN IN THE PLAZA.

  I FOLLOW THE SERVICE CORRIDOR TO THE SUBBASEMENT.

  I RACE UP THE STAIRS, THROUGH THE NOW EMPTY KITCHEN, AND DOWN A SERVICE HALL.

  THE OBSERVATION PLATFORM.

  “WELCOME BACK,” HE SAYS.

  I USE A FIELD DRESSING TO WRAP MY BLEEDING HANDS.

  A G37 COUPE IS WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE GROCERY STORE OUTSIDE THE BASE.

  THE HOTEL TELLS ME HE NEVER CHECKED OUT.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I STAND ON THE ROCKS HIGH ABOVE A LAKE.

  The water below me is inky green, waves lapping gently against the banks of a shade-dappled cove. It’s a warm summer’s evening, but I know the water will be cool here under these trees.

  Cool and deep.

  We’re not supposed to be here at all, much less climb the rocks and high dive from the top. The camp counselors think it’s dangerous, and they’re right. If you angle it wrong, hit the shallow part, slip and tumble, and smack the rocks, you could hurt yourself.

  Or worse. You could break your neck. That’s why this place is strictly off-limits.

  Not that I care.

  It is the evening of the third day since I’ve come here—
a summer sports camp for boys located in southern Vermont near the New Hampshire border. I am here as a CIT, a counselor in training. There are campers and counselors who have met me, but they do not know who I am. My real identity.

  They do not know there is a soldier among them.

  I look down at the water below me.

  It’s dangerous to jump from up here. That’s what they say. Most kids are afraid to do it.

  Not me.

  I jump.

  There’s a thrilling sensation as I leap into space, open air around me, and then I am falling, falling, my speed increasing as I plunge headfirst into the lake. My angle is perfect and it sends me down through the water like a bullet. I kick to increase the depth of my dive, and the black bottom rushes up fast. For a second it looks like I misjudged, kicked too hard, and I’m going to smash into the lake floor and snap my neck. I stretch my arms out in front of me, brace for the sickening crunch of bone against rock.

  It doesn’t come.

  The water resistance slows me down just in time for my fingertips to lightly touch the bottom.

  I settle on the bottom. I pick up two heavy stones and hold them in my hands, using them to weigh me down.

  I stay where it is quiet and dark, where no people or thoughts can disturb me. My last mission was only a week ago, but it seems far away now.

  The girl seems far away. I can’t see her face in the darkness.

  I’m grateful for this.

  My lungs are burning, the oxygen depleted in my system. I let them burn. The pain feels good. It feels familiar.

  I am trained to deal with pain, to absorb its intensity, spreading it across my body until it disperses through the entire neural network.

  Physical pain is easy. It’s the other kind that’s new to me. The emotional kind.

  My body is screaming for oxygen, but I deny it, staying down an additional two minutes.

  Pain control. It’s good practice.

  When I’m done, I push off the bottom and hard kick my way to the surface. That’s when I see him. A boy standing on the riverbank, watching me.

  How did I miss this? Even underwater, I should be able to detect this level of attention directed toward me.

  The boy says, “You were down there so long, I thought you were dead.”

  “You wish.”

  He smiles and so do I.

  This boy’s name is Peter. He is a CIT in the bunk next to mine. I met him three days ago, and he has become my friend. An instant and easy friend.

  I am expert at making friends. It’s what I’ve been taught to do.

  Or at least pretend to do.

  “I saw you jump from the cliff,” Peter says, astonishment on his face.

  “That’s hardly a cliff,” I say.

  I climb out of the lake, shake water from my hair.

  “It looks like a cliff to me,” he says, looking up at the rocks. “A scary friggin’ cliff.”

  “Everything is scary to you. You play soccer with a mouth guard.”

  “I like my teeth. You can’t fault for me that.”

  “I like my teeth, too. But I’m not afraid to lose a couple for the cause.”

  “What cause? The stupid soccer league?”

  “Guess you’re not much of a team player, huh?”

  Peter laughs. The bell from the dining hall rings in the distance.

  “Is it dinnertime already?” I say.

  “That’s why I came to find you. That’s the second bell.”

  Two bells. We only get three. Then we miss dinner for being late. They’re trying to force some discipline onto the campers, and as CITs, we’re supposed to set a positive example.

  “Let’s get going,” I say. “I’m starved.”

  I pick up my T-shirt from the bank where I left it earlier. I slip it on as we head to camp.

  Peter turns his back to me, exposing himself to danger without knowing it. An attack from the blind spot is always the most effective. Before Peter realized what was happening, it would be too late.

  “What are they serving tonight?” I say.

  Peter looks back at me. I keep an appropriate distance, four feet. Nothing that will cause him to be alarmed.

  “It’s Fish Thursday,” he says. “That means excessive stink factor.”

  I grin at him.

  “You never laugh,” he says.

  “I laugh.”

  “You smile. You don’t laugh.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying.”

  This is why I limit my connection with people. They start to pay attention and ask questions. I look at Peter, the flop of brown hair that falls onto his forehead every time he moves his head. He is not a danger to me now. He’s just talking.

  “You seem serious today,” he says. “Something bothering you?”

  My thoughts drift to my last mission, a girl’s eyes looking up at me in a silent plea for mercy.

  “Have you ever done anything you regret?” I say. The words slip out before I realize what I’m saying.

  “That’s some question,” Peter says.

  Peter is sixteen like me. But he is a normal kid from the suburbs, a kid in eleventh grade, a kid who thinks he knows what’s going on in the world but who has seen nothing.

  I’m sixteen, but I’ve already lived two lives. I’ve seen people die. I’ve done the killing myself.

  “Forget I asked,” I say.

  He doesn’t speak, just walks with me through the forest that leads back to camp.

  “My brother,” he says. “That’s what I regret.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

  “You had a fight?”

  “He was using drugs a couple years ago and I found out and told my parents. Now he’s at boarding school on the other side of the country, and I’m the asshole brother who betrayed him.”

  “If he was using, you might have saved his life.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it was just a phase, and I ruined his life. Hard to know.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “That’s what the counselor at school told me. But I don’t know. If I was loyal, maybe I would have kept my mouth shut.”

  I look at Peter. I detect no lies, no subterfuge. He’s not trying to trick me or make me like him. He’s just telling a story, as friends do.

  “What about you?” Peter says. “What do you regret?”

  I asked the question, but I can’t answer it. I’m forbidden to give details about missions past or present.

  I live a secret life. Nobody knows the things I do or why I do them.

  “A girl.” That’s all I can say to him.

  “A hot girl?” he says.

  I smile. “Very hot.”

  “Did you two sleep together?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Peter is arm’s length away, inside the kill zone.

  “I just wonder what you regret about her,” he says.

  The dinner bell rings for the third time.

  “Everything,” I say.

  HE APPEARS IN A DREAM THAT DOES NOT FEEL LIKE A DREAM.

  My real father.

  I am twelve years old, the time before The Program changed my life forever. My father is next to me, his arm warm around my shoulders.

  When I am awake, I don’t think about my father’s death. My feelings about it are buried far away where they cannot distract me. But when I am asleep, the memories return, along with the incredible pain of losing him.

  In the dream, my father has something important to tell me. It’s something he needs me to understand, something critical to my survival.

  I lean toward him. He opens his mouth to speak—

  But instead of his voice, I hear a popping noise, something like the sound a can of soda makes when you pull the top.

  The noise is familiar to me. It is the pop of a gas grenade, and in my mind’s eye, I see the fami
liar oblong metal encasement, a top with a pull ring. Yank and throw, and the grenade hits the floor and rolls as it has been designed to do.

  If this was a real noise, it will be followed by something else.

  The hissing sound of escaping gas. That is what I hear now.

  Move. Quickly.

  By the time I know the gas is real, my body is already in motion. I roll out of my bunk and hit the floor.

  I stay low because gas rises. It’s a warm summer’s night, but I know from my training that the gas will be warmer than the air at initial release. It will rise until it hits the roof, then collapse on itself and fall toward the floor. I have time. Seconds. Perhaps as much as half a minute.

  No more.

  I know all this without thinking. I know it instinctually, and that is enough, because I have been trained to act on instinct. Not to weigh the options, do a pros-and-cons list, strategize. There is a time to do all of those things, and then there is a different time.

  A time to survive.

  I am on my belly in the dark now, moving past the sleeping campers around me, crawling toward the bathroom area in the rear of the cabin.

  I listen to the gas releasing. A single canister.

  It’s a twelve-person cabin. I consider the size of the room, calculate the expansion and absorption rate. I consider the purpose of a gas grenade. There are three primary uses of gas attack:

  Cloak.

  Disable.

  Kill.

  Whatever the purpose of the attack, I suspect I am the target.

  After my last assignment, I was told to wait somewhere for further instructions. A certain hotel in a certain city. That is standard operating procedure for my employers, The Program. I carry out a mission, and then I wait for The Program to send me instructions.

  But sitting in an empty hotel room in a strange city, there was nothing but time to think about the things I had done. When the thinking got too loud, I went for a walk. The walk led me to a bus. The bus brought me to Vermont, where an ad posted on a local diner’s wall led me to the camp and a CIT position.

  I wanted to get away from the mission, the thoughts of the girl, and the dream of my father that comes when I wait.

  But the dreams followed me. Evidently so did someone else.

  I have an idea who it might be, but I can’t be sure. With a gas grenade releasing in the cabin, I have no recourse but to protect myself.