“You could have taken anyone up here with you,” I say.
“But I chose you,” he says.
“Why is that?”
He looks out over the valley. “Perspective,” he says. “Sometimes you need to see what you’re up against to understand who you really are.”
“What are you up against?”
“Not, just me, Daniel. Us.”
He points to the vista in front of us, a small valley surrounded by mountains on all sides.
“We’re up against the world,” he says.
“It looks like these mountains will keep out the world.”
“For a time maybe. Not forever.”
I track his position behind me, looking for any indication of a move toward me, an adjustment of his body that might portend danger to me.
“You haven’t been here for long, have you?” I say.
“What makes you say that?”
“The way Lee spoke to you last night. He talked to you like you were an outsider.”
“He’s envious of my position with his father. I’m relatively new. And I rose fast.”
“You’re new, but you call this place your home?”
“Home is a choice,” he says. “We’re home when we decide we’re home.”
I hear a click behind me. I look back and see that Francisco has unclipped his end of the rope from his belt. That means I’m alone on the edge, untethered.
The wind whips up, strong enough that I have to lean back to steady myself.
Francisco drops the end of the rope on the ground and without a word, he turns and heads back up the trail that leads into the forest.
Just before he disappears, he motions for me to follow him.
I unclip the rope and coil it around my arm.
Then I do.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
FRANCISCO LEADS ME DEEPER INTO THE FOREST.
We walk for ten minutes or so in silence, when suddenly he stops.
“Where are we?” I say.
“Someplace where we can talk,” he says simply.
The area is deep shadow, the foliage blocking out all but individual beams of sunlight. I look around us, but I see no markings, nothing to distinguish this place from any other.
“It’s a long way to come for a conversation.”
“I wanted to talk to you outside of Liberty, away from the electronics, the distractions, everything.”
Francisco squats and picks up a pinecone. He peels it with a fingernail.
“You were sent to Camp Liberty.”
He says it simply, like it’s a fact he already knows.
“I was invited,” I say.
“I don’t think so.”
I subtly edge backward, working to create enough distance to maximize my options.
“You’re right,” I say, going with him rather than resisting. “My father sent me. He wanted me to have the experience.”
“I don’t mean your father.”
“Who, then?”
Francisco drops his hands to his sides. The gesture might appear casual to the outside observer—a relaxing of the shoulders, a lowering of the arms with palms open and turned out toward me—but it’s more than it seems.
Because as he does it, his energy changes entirely.
“You were sent here by the same people who sent me,” he says.
I see his power, his training. I see what he’s capable of, and what he’s been hiding.
Francisco is a Program soldier.
He is the dead soldier, very much alive.
I look at him, standing across from me, unblinking, revealing his true self.
“It was about four months ago that I came to Liberty,” he says. “I was sent as an assassin. Just like you.”
There are four meters between us. I can cover that distance in a second and a half if need be.
“If what you’re saying is true, Francisco, why did you let me into camp?”
“I knew they would send another assassin after I disappeared. The only question was how he would come….”
He steps forward. Four meters becomes three and a half.
“And whether I would know who he was before it was too late. With Moore’s permission, I staged the recruiting event in the community center.”
“Staged it?”
“I wanted to provide an opening outside the compound where it would be easier for someone to get to Moore, and for us to get to whoever that was.”
“What about the woman who tried to kill Moore?”
“The English teacher? That was my idea, too,” Francisco says. “A test of sorts. I knew the scenario would be too tempting for a potential Program assassin. He could do nothing and see if she succeeded—”
“Or he could be a hero and try to use that to get in with Moore.”
He smiles. “And flush himself out in the process.”
The English teacher was a trap. That’s why she was coming into camp in the van the other night.
I feel anger flooding my chest, along with shame at having made a mistake. I should have let the woman shoot if she was going to. I should have kept my cover, even if it meant losing Moore.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Francisco says, like he knows what I’m feeling. “Even after it happened, I couldn’t be sure you were the one. You might have been some brave, crazy kid off the street.”
“So you brought me closer. And you watched me.”
“That’s right.”
“Quite a risk.”
“I had my reasons,” he says.
He’s not showing any aggressive intent, but I don’t trust what I’m seeing. As a Program operative, he should be able to control his surface emotions, misleading me and getting me to drop my guard.
I don’t yet know what Francisco’s trying to achieve, but I remind myself to stay sharp until I understand him better. I take long, slow, deep breaths, keeping my tired muscles oxygenated and at maximum readiness.
“When did you know?” I say.
“For sure? Not until this morning during the defense drill.”
“And everyone else?”
“Only Moore and I were in on the plan. We warned Lee about you in a general way, but he is easily swayed. He believed in you.”
“What about Miranda?” I say.
His eyes widen slightly.
“Does that matter to you?” he asks.
I think of her in my room last night, standing naked in front of me. Was it all a trick to confuse me and get me to reveal myself? The idea is upsetting to me, much more than it should be.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “And she doesn’t matter.”
I can see it on his face. He knows I’m lying.
“We left her out of it,” he says gently.
I feel relief inside. The feeling surprises me.
“You’re the only one who knows, then. You and Moore.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you bring me out here to kill me?”
“I brought you here to talk to you. Because as I got to know you, Daniel, I saw something in you that I didn’t expect.”
“What’s that?”
“Potential.”
He drops the pinecone at his feet. I keep my attention on his center mass, ready to defend myself against a potential strike.
But he doesn’t strike.
Instead he tells me a story.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
“MY NAME IS FRANCISCO GONZALEZ,” HE SAYS.
“I am the son of a Mexican tycoon. My father made his fortune in banking. I had a blessed life because of the family I was born into and the natural talent God gave me. I was a soccer player, recruited to the Cruz Azul Youth Academy before the sixth grade. I was away and training when the accident happened. My parents died in a private plane crash. Pilot error, the authorities called it after they investigated.”
Pilot error. He says the phrase like it’s an insult.
“You don’t believe it was an accident?” I ask.