You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(2)

“Who’s on the phone?” I whisper to Mom.

“Someone at CORE,” she whispers back, never taking her eyes off the security cameras as the hitman makes his way through the second floor, searching for us in bedroom after bedroom.

“They said stand by,” Dad says, hanging up the satellite phone. “Backup is on the way. They’re monitoring the situation from headquarters.”

“How are they going to help all the way in DC?” I ask, anxiety gripping my vocal cords and altering the sound of my voice.

“It’s going to be okay, Reagan,” Mom says, turning around and looking at me for the first time since Dad locked the panic room door. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her green eyes are fierce and focused, but her warm touch softens me somehow. It’s like she can feel the traces of fear I’m struggling to contain radiate from my body. I reach up and grab her hand. She takes my fingers in her cold palm, squeezes them, and for a moment, I forget about the panic room and the loaded guns and the hitman that’s roaming our house. For just one second, I feel safe.

“They’re here,” Dad says. I look up at the exterior security cameras. A black SUV pulls down our street, turning off its headlights as it creeps closer to our house.

“Who’s here?” I ask, my voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Our Black Angel watchers,” Mom answers and turns her attention back to the security cameras. A man and woman climb out of the car, dressed all in black. As the woman moves closer to the garage, I recognize her walk. Aunt Samantha. The Black Angel watcher who’s protected me my entire life. When Mom and Dad would disappear on missions, Aunt Samantha was there to take care of me. When I was younger, I thought she was just my nanny. But now I know she’s an intel specialist for CORE, was awarded the Medal of Valor by the president during her years in the army, and can shoot like no one I’ve ever seen.

“I’m going after him,” Mom says, pulling off her red sweater, revealing a black tank top underneath. Her arms are chiseled and her stomach is perfectly flat, the result of five hundred push-ups a day for the last twenty years.

“No, I’ll go,” my father replies.

“No. You stay here with Reagan.”

“I want to go too,” I say, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Absolutely not, Reagan,” Mom replies. “Both of you stay here.”

“Elizabeth, honestly, it could be—”

“Jonathan, this is not up for debate,” Mom snaps and spins around, looking back up at the ten different security cameras. “Where did he go?” she asks just as the stranger’s boots pound on the floor above our heads, sending our eyes to the ceiling. We stare up until the sound of his feet fade away. We turn back to the security cameras in time to see the hitman open the garage door, bound down the steps, and stand in front of our large tool chest. But it’s not really a tool chest. It’s the secret door to our basement. I feel Dad’s body tense as the hitman pulls on the large steel handles, but the door is locked tight, only accessible by a six-digit code that changes every month.

My mouth drops but before I can say another word, Dad picks up the phone and pushes a few buttons. Before the voice on the other end even says hello, Dad is yelling. “He’s at the basement door, Thomas—how the hell does he know about that? Only someone on the inside could possibly know that type of high-security detail.” A voice says something on the other end of the phone. “Well, you better figure out how he got that intel and then you put the bastard who gave it to him behind bars for life, you understand me?”

Dad slams down the phone before Thomas can answer.

Mom turns around and holds out her palm. “Reagan, give me your gun.” Her eyes are sharp and every muscle in her face is tight. I’ve watched my parents shoot and practice Krav Maga, jujitsu, and Muay Thai for years. But I’ve never actually seen them use their skills. I lean down and slowly pick my favorite pistol off the floor. I place the gun in her open hand.

“Please be careful,” I say, the words barely escaping my tight throat. She leans in and kisses me on my cheek.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, giving me a small smile. As she turns and reaches for the door, a million pins prick my skin and I can’t feel my hands or my feet or my legs. I drop my head as she punches in the six-digit code. The steel beams unlock and I look up to capture what I’m afraid could be my final image of her.

I’ve been doing that my entire life. Before they go off on missions, I try to take in every piece of them. The way my dad’s strong hands curve around his favorite coffee cup. The way my mom carefully brushes stray pieces of her blond hair out of her eyes. The feeling she leaves on my cheek when she kisses me or the tightness of Dad’s hugs. I freeze that moment, hold it tight and file it away. But this time, she’s already gone.

Dad slams the panic room door and punches in the code again. The steel beams lock back into place. I watch the security cameras as Mom walks across the martial arts room, then slips out the escape route in the corner of the shooting range, softly closing the metal door behind her. Dad picks up the satellite phone and punches in another number. I hear a female voice pick up on the other side.

“Sam, stand by,” Dad barks. “Elizabeth is on her way out. She’s on her own so watch her back.”

He slams down the phone without waiting for a reply. I look up at him. His jaw is clenched. He’s trying to look calm, but his wide, wild eyes give him away. He’s almost as panicked as I am. He frantically searches the security cameras for my mother. I look back at the screens in time to see Mom slip out the secret side door of the house and run to meet the Black Angels standing in our driveway, my gun glistening in her hand.