Page 22

Fate

Before

Oh wow.

I’m... normal.

The processed blonde lock of hair between my fingers flicks back and forth as I stare at my reflection, attempting to recognize myself.

It's a good thing the general wants his victims young. Like this, I can pass for a twenty-year-old easy. Guess all the time I spent inside on the computer instead of lying out in the harsh Texas sun worked in my benefit. After the facial this morning my porcelain skin appears flawless, minus the tight cluster of light brown freckles scattered from one cheek bone to the other. My pink hair, my beautiful pink hair—the one part of me I’ve always maintained—now shines back in the mirror, bright blonde and gold.

Wonderful. On top of putting my life at risk, I'm a basic bitch. As basic blonde-haired, blue-eyed American as you can get.

I hate it. But I loathe the general and Jace more. So until I’m back from Africa with the general in tow, this boring look stays.

A knock at the door draws my focus away from the woman staring back at me in the mirror. As I approach, I smile at Dobby who’s already there, pawing at the crack.

There’s only one person besides me that he gets this excited to see.

Mac.

Dobby’s black, wet nose shoves through the sliver of space as I pull the door open, eager to greet his long-lost friend.

Mac's broad shoulders angle through the cracked door into the apartment.

"Good to know he made the move," he says as he scratches behind Dobby's ears. "I think he's picked up the weight you've lost." The corners of Mac’s lips turn up in a smirk as he looks up from where he’s crouched on the floor in front of Dobby.

"Of course he made the move. He's the only family I have left," I admit. The weight of those words rests heavily on my chest. Rubbing a hand against my breastbone to ease the growing tension, I avert my solemn gaze from Mac to the large bay window.

"That's not true. You have me. I never gave up on you. You shoved me out."

Nope, not getting into this now. With as many tears as I've shed the past week, I'm near dehydration. No need to add to it. Besides, tears and sadness do nothing to bring the people I love back. It keeps you locked in the memories, prohibiting you from moving on. Unlike hate, which drives you to move on, creates a razor-sharp focus on hurting those who hurt you.

"What are you doing here? Did I miss a deadline or something?"

Disappointment or hurt flashes behind his dark eyes as he huffs and stands from the floor. Striding to the couch, he falls onto the worn cushions and leans back with an arm extending along the back. The memory of our first meeting with him sitting just like that but on Mom’s old couch flashes through my thoughts. I was scared as hell that he’d come to arrest me for hacking. Little did I know that night my life would be changed, for the better, forever.

"Just checking in. Wanted to see if you've changed your mind. But based on this normal appearance, I'm guessing everything is still a go."

"Yes. Of anyone, you—"

He raises a hand to stop me. "Fine. You're still going. But the CIA had their conditions, and I’m here to explain my own. I've trained you, mentored you on everything computers. But you have zero experience with anything that will help you survive over there. I've hired a trainer for the next week. He’ll give you basic arms and physical training before you leave. It's nonnegotiable," he adds when I frown. "If you're set on going, then give me this. Give me the peace of mind that you're going in with more than a tracking device and a prayer."

The shake in his voice, the soft plea in his tone, warms my cold heart.

Damn, I miss him. Miss having a friend. Maybe, if I come back, we can repair our broken friendship. It's not severed—he wouldn't be here if it was—just a tear in the fabric of us.

We can make it through. If I come back.

When I come back.

"Okay, a coach. A hostage, guns, mental toughness coach. Anything to prepare me for those four—"

"Four?"

"Four."

"No."