Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

Alan Richmond was my handler before Reese Thistle took over. He was equal parts sleazy and lazy. I got away with a lot while he was supposed to be watching.

Hassan looked at Richmond and his buddy for a second, just to let them know he’d heard. Then he moved on.

‘All this is easier if you use the role to become the kind of person you always wished you could be. The broad details will be provided by your handlers, but there’s wiggle room. Say, deep down, you fantasise about working in a restaurant instead of here.’ He waved a hand at the shabby conference room. ‘In that case, your cover can be a chef, or you have been a chef at one time, or at least love cooking. Or say you’re secretly gay?’ He glanced over at Richmond, hoping to get a reaction. It worked. ‘Great. While you’re in the field, you’re openly gay. This makes you seem more authentic, so your cover doesn’t look like a cover.’

Thistle was there, too, although I didn’t know her name at the time. She was in the front row, her spine straight, nails clipped, her wild hair tied up in a bun. She was scribbling on a spiral-bound notepad—but I noticed that she looked at Hassan himself doubtfully, like he was a designer handbag, too cheap to be anything other than a knock-off.

‘Why would an agent sign up for such a risky assignment?’ Hassan continued. ‘This is why. It’s not patriotism. It’s not loyalty. It’s the desire to be the person society doesn’t allow you to be.’

After a bit more rambling and showing of documents that were too redacted to be useful, Hassan asked if there were any questions. It was clear by now that no food was coming, so I stuck up my hand. ‘Is the CIA secretly torturing people in Kabul?’

Hassan looked annoyed. ‘I’m not here to discuss conspiracy theories.’ He glanced at his gleaming watch. ‘Actually, I think that’s all the time we have.’

Now I’m at Fred’s house with a cover so non-official that no one at the FBI even knows I’m here. I wish I’d asked Hassan more practical questions. The tips he gave us are useless. I don’t have a handler. I don’t have two weeks to prepare. I know next to nothing about the man I’m pretending to be or the people I’m trying to fool.

‘Bathroom’s just down the hall,’ Fred is saying. ‘The solar water heater is pretty good, but if a couple of people have had showers right before you, best to wait a half-hour or so. Don’t go upstairs, for obvious reasons.’

I don’t know what he means by that. Maybe the second floor isn’t structurally sound.

The bedroom he’s showing me is nicer than any I’ve ever slept in. A queen-size mattress on an actual bedframe. Clean sheets. A bedside lamp. A window overlooking a grassy slope. Donnie is out there with a flashlight, feeding the dogs. I can see the greenhouse and the compost pipe, but the slaughterhouse is just out of view.

I know the basic layout of the house now. It’s L-shaped, with the front door, the living room, the kitchen and the dining room all in a row, followed by a right turn towards the bedrooms, the bathroom and a stairwell.

The window is padlocked shut. Fred doesn’t offer me a key. To get outside, I’ll have to walk past all the other bedrooms and open the back door.

‘There are some clothes in the closet that should fit,’ Fred says. ‘If not, we can order you some better ones. Money is no problem.’

‘Thanks, man.’ I sit on the bed, testing the springs. Turns out there are none. It’s memory foam, or latex, or something.

As I move, the hammer slips out of my pants and flops onto the bed.

Fred sees it. Frowns.

The blood roars in my ears. I’m sitting down. If I attack him, he’ll overpower me easily.

‘Did you come here to kill me, Lux?’ he asks. He smiles, as though it’s a joke.

‘No,’ I lie. ‘But I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I was gonna get. Sorry.’

Fred says nothing.

‘I figured there was a chance you’d decided I knew too much,’ I continue. ‘Invited me here to tie up a loose end. I figured I should come prepared to defend myself.’

‘Well, then.’ He crosses his arms. ‘Take your best shot.’

I force a laugh. ‘It’s all good, man. I trust you. If you wanted me dead, you would have shot me when I was getting out of my car.’

‘I’m serious.’ He nods at the hammer. ‘Hit me.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you. I was just being overcautious.’

He reaches past me, picks up the hammer and presses it into my hands.

‘Take a swing,’ he says.

My heart rate is through the roof. ‘But … I don’t want to.’

Though maybe I should. Fred and all his friends have to die. Why not start now?

‘Stand up,’ Fred says.

I do, uneasily.

‘Swing.’

School bullies taught me how this game ends. The weaker kid thinks he’s getting a free shot at the tougher kid. Then the tougher kid knocks his teeth out.

‘You don’t need to prove anything,’ I say. ‘I know you can overpower me.’

‘I’m trying to show you something.’ Fred holds my gaze. ‘You’re not making it easy.’

The solution to the schoolyard game is to throw a punch before the bully expects you to. Act like you’re not going to do it, or you’re still thinking about it, then lash out mid-sentence.

I could cave Fred’s skull in with this hammer. A fast, silent death. Lead the other Guards into this room one by one and give them the same treatment. Chop up all the bodies, put them in the freezer, put the freezer on the back of the pick-up and drive away. Make an