Traceless (Stateless #2) Read online

  “Joining the Pain in the Ass Club,” Drew mutters.

  Their behavior is mystifying to me. Callum just smirks. The complaining and mention of danger, combined with their jocular but slightly irritated tone, sends too many signals my way.

  I can't read them.

  Are they really angry? Truly worried the three women are in danger? Does their presence compromise their mission?

  Or ours?

  Exhaustion hits me like a sudden windstorm, spinning me inside. My mouth goes dry, my legs weak. I need water and food.

  My stomach growls.

  Drew nods toward the house and starts walking. “Let's get inside. Hopefully those three put themselves to good use and there's something to eat in there.”

  Callum catches my eye and motions his arm for me to go ahead of him. His hand brushes against mine as we walk. It takes so much willpower not to grab it and hold on tight.

  Inside the cabin, the scent of garlic and melted cheese makes my mouth water. Four huge pizzas sit on the table, bowls of fruit and vegetables scattered between as if someone felt guilty and threw in something healthy. A big cooler of ice rests nearby, with an assortment of sodas and water.

  The room isn’t like living rooms at the compound. The furniture is mismatched, like it was collected from a lot of different houses, and the sofa and chairs are big and overstuffed. There’s a lot of pointless stuff on the tables, and small rugs everywhere, and–a real deer head, with antlers, on the wall. What kind of people would do that? Is it a decoration? A threat?

  Three determined women look at three steely men, the six of them squaring off in a way that would make me laugh if I weren't so overwhelmed.

  “You're compromising everything,” Silas says to one of them.

  “Where's Emma?” Drew says to a blonde woman I realize I've seen before.

  “She’s with Carrie and Mark. She’s fine. I’ll be back by the time she wakes up tomorrow.”

  I recognize every single woman here from news reports.

  Lindsay Bosworth.

  Jane Borokov.

  Lily Thornton.

  How deep into the White House is McDuff?

  Shell shock makes me gape at them, eyes roving, my body's needs put on the back burner as I process this.

  “Duff,” Lily says, reaching up to adjust her glasses, “it's fine. All of our security details have the perimeter secure.”

  “It already was,” Drew snaps. “Now we have too many men out there. Overexposed.”

  “Nothing was keeping us away. Jane bought our tickets. We felt that one of us should be here for Sawyer.”

  “All three of you? It's overkill.”

  “It didn't start out that way,” Lindsay says to him.

  “Kina,” I say, the word involuntary, popping out like a bullet from a gun chamber.

  “Excuse me?” Drew barks.

  “My name is Kina.”

  His face softens, eyes blinking rapidly. “Got it. You prefer that over Sawyer?”

  “I'm not even sure I am Sawyer.”

  “We've confirmed it,” McDuff says softly. “And Madison is–”

  Lindsay stares at me, eyes widening with a transfixed fascination that makes my skin crawl. “Oh, my God. You said they were identical,” she whispers to Drew, who spends more time watching her than me. “You weren't kidding. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was Glen!”

  “You know Glen?” I gasp.

  “She has the job my mother had,” Jane says solemnly. “She's Harry's–the president's–”

  “Let's stop leaking all over the place like a fifteen-year-old dog with a bladder problem.” Drew takes a water bottle from the cooler, glaring at everyone. “Gentian swept the place and Callum and Kina have jammers for their chips.” He looks at my arm, eyebrow raised. “But still, you never know.”

  He looks at Callum.

  He waits.

  Callum stares back, eyes cold, arms slowly crossing over his chest, the stance oozing testosterone.

  Frankly, the whole room feels like we're bathing in it.

  “These jammers are stronger than anything commercially available. I built them. They can handle biometrics, audio, passive wireless.”

  “Nice. Your chips have tracking?”

  “Hers doesn't. Mine does.”

  I startle and stroke the skin around the jammer. “My chip doesn't track my location?”

  “No.”

  I start to ask why not, when Callum grabs my hand. “You need to take your jammer off now,” he whispers. “It doesn't matter. They're only tracking bio stats, and we can easily explain a raised heart rate right now. We’ll tell them McDuff and Foster blocked mine.”

  My ears ring, the stress compounding as Callum removes my jammer and slips it in his jacket pocket. One of his buttons is gone, a long string hanging, pointing toward me like it's trying to testify against the violent act that removed it. Slow, deep breaths make his chest rise and fall, his eyes making a careful, almost casual glide in a rotating look at our surroundings.

  We're in enemy territory.

  And he shares blood with the biggest enemy of all.

  “Are you hungry? I'm Jane.” She steps forward, smiling at me, sympathy in her eyes.

  “I know who you are. You, too,” I add, hoping I sound civilized as I look at Lindsay Bosworth. “And you,” I note, giving Lily Thornton a nod.

  I'm in a room with three women who've all experienced violence at the hands of Stateless operatives. Women whose names have been uttered in fury at the compound for having the gall to survive.

  “Nice to meet you,” Lily says, her face slightly off. I can't put my finger on it, but something about the way she moves is stilted, though her smile is radiant.

  I realize she expects me to say it back. American culture has social language rules I still don't really understand. Digging back a decade into my training, I try to remember it all.

  My pause gives me away.

  “This is only Kina's second time in society,” Callum explains, coming to my rescue. Why I need to have my behavior explained at all is a question that loops through me, but the relief on Lily's face, and the tight, sudden questions reflected in Jane and Lindsay's eyes, make me see he's said the right thing.

  “You've never left... wherever it is you live?” Lindsay asks.

  “I have. Once before.” More than that, I think. It’s complicated. I wasn't at the compound before I was four.

  “I know what it's like to be kept somewhere you don't want to be,” she says, empathy flowing from her. The cold realization that her therapist at the mental institution she's obliquely referring to was actually Angelica–and I killed her–makes my stomach churn.

  I grab a slice of pizza and take too big a bite.

  Lindsay looks at me expectantly as I try to chew it and swallow. I'm supposed to say something. Something nice.

  “Uh, thanks.” That will have to do.

  “I know this seems weird,” Lily says stiffly. “But where do you live?”

  “I can't talk about it,” I say, realizing that's another lie. I can. I just don't know whether I should. Callum catches my gaze, eyes widening a bit as if asking a question. I look away. He’s huddled in a group with the other three men, Drew talking with a low intensity that has them all riveted

  “But,” I say, realizing I can use this to my advantage, “I do have to ask why the three of you would put yourselves in danger just to meet me.”

  “It's not that dangerous,” Lindsay starts, clearly the most dominant of the three.

  “It is. If my leaders wanted to kill you all, they could,” I insist. “And they would.”

  “Why didn't they follow?”

  “Callum told them not to.”

  “He has that much power?”

  I say nothing. For the first time, Lindsay looks uncomfortable. She glances at Drew.

  “Who is the person in charge of you?” Jane asks.

  “Callum.”

  “No,” she corrects her
self. “I mean, who is the head of Stateless? The person at the top.”

  Persons, I think.

  “We don't know,” I answer honestly. “It's more than one person. Our project is organized in a more distributed way than your society.”

  “What does that mean?” Lily enquires.

  “Eat,” Jane urges, motioning toward the food. “We'll be here a bit.”

  “Will we?” I ask. “How long?”

  “As long as you want.” She frowns. “You know, I was supposed to be one of you.”

  My hand is halfway to my mouth, holding my slice of pizza, as her words hit me. “What?”

  “I was supposed to be one of the first children given to Stateless.”

  “Given?” The use of that word makes my blood curdle. Our leaders have always talked about children who are taken from abusive parents.

  Never given.

  “Yes. And we know that Lindsay's attackers were some of the early Stateless trainees.”

  I set the pizza down on a paper plate.

  “And Romeo was Stateless,” Lily adds.

  I nod. I don't mean to, but I do.

  Jane's eye twitches. “You know Romeo?”

  “Of course. I knew him.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “I mean, did you know him well?”

  What a strange question.

  “I was never his sexual partner, if that's what you're asking.”

  Lily starts to choke on a big strawberry she just took a bite of. Lindsay narrows her eyes.

  “That's... not what I meant,” Jane backpedals.

  “But good to know,” Lindsay interjects.

  “You all know quite a bit about Stateless.”

  “More than you know about us?”

  I nod. “What is your mission?”

  “We don't have one.”

  “Everyone has a mission.”

  Grunts, followed by hisses, come from the men, Drew gesturing with compact, angry hands. Duff turns a deep shade of red, mouth pursed, nostrils flaring. He gives Callum an incredulous look.

  Lindsay's eyebrow cocks. “There goes my husband again. He's a master at pissing people off. Duff looks–”

  “You call him Duff?”

  “Yes. What do you call him?”

  “McDuff.”

  Lily laughs. “I call him Sean.”

  “Is that his real name?”

  “We all just call him Duff.” Her non-answer is duly noted.

  “Do you all have fake names?”

  “Only Duff. And Mark.”

  “Mark?”

  Lindsay waves her hand. “A guy who works with Drew.”

  “And your br–” Lily stops herself.

  Brother?

  “You're President Bosworth's daughter,” I say to Lindsay. Then I look at Jane. “And so are you.”

  “I thought you said you didn't know much about us!” Jane exchanges a look of surprise with Lindsay. Can they possibly not realize how much media coverage there’s been of their situation? Even with my limited access, it was unavoidable. And Stateless used them as a cautionary tale, a shocking example of how cold and uncaring modern society treats young female victims.

  “I know some.” The spike of fear that ran through me before has turned into something else, something devious. I see that they know more about us than I realized, too. Enemy operators can be equally good–we were warned in training.

  The goal is to be better prepared before conflict.

  The imperative is to emerge with the upper hand.

  “What, exactly, do you know?” Lily asks, eyes darting to look at McDuff–Duff–as our conversation devolves into tension.

  “I know enough to know that when your Duff handed me a gun to help cover us, as my own people shot at me, I should take it. He was trusting me. And I didn't use it on him.”

  “You're direct,” Lindsay comments, blunt in return.

  “Is there any point to being otherwise? I'm defenseless in your house. You outnumber us six to two.”

  My simple statement of fact confounds her.

  “She's right,” Lily says, then gives me a sad smile. “I'm sorry.”

  The apology confounds me.

  “We wanted to be here because each of us knows all too well what it's like to find out you've been lied to. To come out of a situation you didn't cause, had no control over, and wish had never happened. You're learning some pretty devastating facts about your childhood, your origins, and how your whole way of thinking is different than the rest of the world. You and Wyatt were kidnapped, your parents murdered, and–” Her words fade, my mind turning them into a high-pitched whine as I struggle with my emotions.

  Devastating.

  Kidnapped.

  Murdered.

  This was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea. They know so much about me, about Glen. Callum met his brother. Fine. Now we need to leave. We are going to give them more than we get.

  And the children are going to get so much more than I ever want them to get. If I'm assumed to be a traitor, all of my charges could be used to torture me.

  Their little faces fill my mind’s eye even as I stare at Jane, Lily, and Lindsay.

  “I need to talk to Callum,” I mumble, moving away, struggling to breathe, to think, to act in any way that doesn't involve dissembling.

  “Kina?” he asks as I walk close. One hand goes to my elbow, his eyes searching my face as if he's trying to find any hint of calmness.

  Too late. It's gone.

  “We need to leave. Now. The children.”

  “They're fine. I'm sure–”

  “Now.”

  One quick nod. Callum turns to Duff.

  “We'll leave. You need to get everyone out of here. Once we're out of range, they'll blow this cabin up.”

  “But the jammers,” I say, giving away too much.

  “They followed us. The jammers only help us to speak openly. There's nothing we can do now. Whoever's in charge decides what happens next.”

  21

  Callum

  “You're crazy,” Foster says, eyes jumping to Lindsay Bosworth, my statement triggering the same protectiveness for her that I have for Kina.

  “I'm sharing protocol. Not bragging. Consider yourself warned.”

  I watch his fingers as I say the words. They twitch.

  Bet they ache to shut me up, too.

  “Don't go. Not yet,” Duff demands. I have to stop thinking of him as McDuff now that I know what people call him. The last fifteen minutes of conversation with his team have left me tense, furious, disgusted, chagrined, but most of all–overwhelmed.

  I'm standing next to my brother.

  He was eleven and I was four when our parents were killed. My dreams aren't a figment of my imagination, some steeping brew of neurons and psychological debris stirred together until they cannot be separated into true and false. We were told over and over that our dreams were a sign of weakness. That whatever our unconscious minds conjured was proof that we needed significant remediation to become effective operatives for Stateless.

  It was all a lie.

  “We have to go,” I mutter, filled with an inexplicable sense of mourning. Before I embarrass myself and ask him to tell me about our parents, the grandmother he calls Gran with an affectionate smile that makes me want to rip his teeth out because I'll never feel that, I'd better leave.

  I'm good for nothing and no one right now.

  “Kina,” Duff says to her, making her shoulders tense. “I understand you're worried about the children back at your... place.”

  “We call it a compound.”

  “Compound. Right. How can we help to make them safer? Do you need help evacuating them?”

  A harsh laugh comes out of her, sounding like something I'd hear from Glen. Not her.

  “You think you're going to come into our lives, tell Callum his true identity, get us to come with you here, and suddenly we'll hand all the children over to you?” Pleading eye
s meet mine, but this time there's anger, a steely resolve that makes my calculating mind stutter briefly. “We need to go back.”

  “It's not like that,” Duff says smoothly, playing his hand one card at a time. “Either you trust us or you don't. If you don't, we'll help you get back.” He looks at me, too much emotion showing on a face that looks like a granite slab most of the time. “It's enough to meet you, Wyatt. You look so much like our dad.”

  My heart seizes.

  “But it would be better to work with you. To understand how all the pieces fit together. We know our parents were involved in some of the earliest planning for Stateless. Somehow, things went sour, and they killed Mom and Dad. Left me for dead. Kidnapped you. We know Harry Bosworth is part of it. Not sure who else–and most of the ones we know are dead now. Nolan Corning. El Brujo. Monica Bosworth.”

  “And Alice Mogrett worked with your grandmother to find you, Wyatt,” Jane Borokov adds, interrupting us. “I'm so sorry. We digitized most of the records she kept about her investigations, but there was a fire at the ranch. I live there now–Alice left it to me–and it looks like someone set it on fire to destroy the evidence.”

  Kina freezes. So do I.

  Duff gets it instantly. “You were behind the fire, weren't you?”

  I just blink.

  “And you were there at the sex club with Romeo,” Lily adds, voice shaking.

  The tenor of the room changes again, an almost palpable vibration making my tongue ache, a tang I don't like forming in the back of my throat.

  “You killed Romeo. Your government has committed atrocities in the name of freedom. We do what we need to do to advance our cause,” I say, careful to hold my frame.

  “No one is casting blame,” Duff says, just as carefully.

  “Screw that,” Gentian mutters, and Foster puts his hand on the guy's elbow, calming him.

  “The fire was set when you weren't there,” I say to Jane. “Right?”

  She nods, eyes wide.

  “And whoever bombed our server farm did it with eight babies in cribs along the wall next to it!” Kina gasps, moving toward Gentian like she's about to deck him. “Don't you dare try to moralize! A two-year-old in my care has seizures because of your bombing! Other children have glass cuts–toddlers! You bombed toddlers!”