You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(15)

“Hello?” I yell down the stairs, and the sound of gunfire answers me. I close the secret door behind me and bounce down the steps. I stand on the last step and smile as I watch my parents in their Ralph Lauren knit sweaters and jeans. They look like just your average mom and dad except for the pistols they hold in both hands. My mom’s blond hair is bobbed. Not a soccer mom haircut or anything, but an I’m-totally-in-my-forties-and-too-busy-for-anything-high-maintenance haircut. She’s thin and tall like me, but that’s really the only thing that we physically have in common. I don’t really look like my dad either. He has chestnut hair and big, light brown eyes while mine are deep brown and more almond-shaped. Our family pictures are always funny because I look like I don’t really belong. I’d swear I was adopted if it wasn’t for the family photos of me actually coming out of my mother. Gross.

Bang. Their shots rip through the paper target. Right to the heart and head.

“Nice shot,” I say loudly as they go to reload. They both turn around and smile when they see me.

“Hi, Reagan,” my mom says and takes off her protective headphones. “When did you get home?”

“Just walked in,” I say, crossing the room to get to work. There’s no such thing as idle time in the basement. When I’m down here, I should always be training. I grab my M4 carbine off the counter that holds my weapons and kiss Mom’s waiting cheek. “Harper and I went to Starbs after school and she just dropped me off.”

“What’s Starbs?” my father asks, wrinkling his brow. “I don’t speak teenager.”

“Starbucks,” I say and smile.

“Hey, no coffee for us?” he asks.

“Sorry, Dad,” I reply, sitting down at the weapons assembly table behind them. I look the assault rifle over and begin the process of stripping it to clean it, a weekly must-do to avoid jams and misfires. “I didn’t think vanilla lattes would pair well with gunpowder.”

“Good point,” Dad says, looking down at his phone. He’s always on that thing. I’ve even seen him checking it while brushing his teeth. He’s constantly connected to CORE.

“So, how was school today?” Mom asks.

“Took a calculus test, got an A on my AP modern European paper,” I say, popping out the assault rifle’s magazine with a loud crack. “Threatened to break the arm of a girl who was bullying Claire. You know, the usual.”

“You da woman, Rea Rea,” Dad says, giving me a thumbs-up with one hand and picking up his Glock 27 pistol with the other. I swear I could tell my dad that I discovered the cure for cancer and he’d give me the same response. You da woman. It’s his little annoying but sort of adorable way of showing pride.

“You weren’t using Krav Maga in school, now, were you?” Mom asks and crosses her arms, not exactly excited that I almost snapped a girl’s bone in two.

“I mean, nothing ridiculous,” I say, visually inspecting the M4’s upper receiver and chamber for any ammunition.

“Reagan…” she starts.

“Just one move, Mom. She was going to punch me in the face. And besides, I’m not going to let people mess with Claire.”

“Well, good for you,” Mom says with a small smile, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “You’re a natural rescuer. I’ve been telling you that for years. Black Angel is in your blood.” Of course. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. They always have to slip that in.

“I got an email from the Templeton admissions guy about my interview Saturday. What time are we leaving?” I ask, pushing the upper portion of the M4’s bolt catch, sliding the bolt forward. “My interview’s at two but I’d like to make sure we’re there by one so we can walk around the campus.”

“Sorry, hon, but you’ll have to go without us,” Dad announces casually, crossing the room and grabbing another clip for his pistol off the shelf. “Mom and I have to leave for DC tonight.”

“What? But I’ve had this interview planned for months,” I say, looking up from my weapon.

“You know how missions are,” Mom says with a small shrug. “We can get called to headquarters at any moment.”

“What’s the big deal?” Dad asks, reloading his magazine with a sharp click. “It’s not like you’re going to college anyways.”

My breath catches, sharp and jagged, in my chest. Of course he’d say that. They’ve never even bothered to ask if this is the life I want. I was told casually over dinner at thirteen that when I turned eighteen, it would be my choice. But it’s never been brought up again. The path they’ve chosen for me is rammed down my throat at every opportunity. I’m not asking for much. I’d take even a flicker of concern over what I want for my future.

“I know. I just wanted you guys to see the campus with me,” I say, lowering my weapon and my voice, trying not to get upset. I know it won’t do any good so what’s the point? The anger I want to feel is already replaced by defeat. I pick up my M4 and cross the room to the weapons shelf. God, I freaking hate this. It’s more than Dad’s dismissal. It’s the fact they can’t show up for anything. Why even make plans? We almost always have to cancel them. Family vacations, Christmas, Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter. The Black Angels come first and always will.