Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

But a missing bullet also suggests murder, or at least foul play. So what was the point of removing it?

The type of bullet must identify the killer. Maybe it would match another gun in the house. A small one, since there was no exit wound. Maybe the kind of gun that would fit in a woman’s hand. A hand that could manipulate tweezers delicately enough to get the bullet out the same way it came in.

Zara had a long pair of tweezers in her room. And on Monday night, when we were out looking for the hiker, she strayed from her search area. She ended up near me and Samson, where the hiker actually turned out to be. Later, his footprints led right up to her window.

I remember the way she grabbed the satchel with the slashed strap. The way she searched it. The way Samson was favouring one arm, acting strangely. It all fits.

I leave Samson’s corpse in the woods and run back to the house. Time is short. The sun’s going down.

My hands are covered with gore. I keep them in my pockets so they won’t stray near my mouth. For Thistle. As soon as I’m inside, I force myself to wash them. The blood spirals down the sink.

I find Zara on the couch in the living room. She’s reading one of the dusty paperbacks from her room. It’s called 1984—I guess it’s a history book. A glass of wine is on the table beside her, as usual. But she’s not drinking it. It’s a prop. So is the paperback. Everything Zara does is an illusion.

‘Good book?’ I ask.

She looks up. ‘One of Fred’s favourites. It has lots of useful ideas. How’s your belly?’

I don’t need the reminder that she’s dangerous. She killed Samson. But if I’m right about why, she won’t kill me.

‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

‘Cedric and Kyle are in the greenhouse.’ She appears not to notice the grubby cuffs of my sleeves. ‘Fred’s showering Ivy. Donnie’s making a new video with the Terrorist.’

I cough. ‘He is?’

‘Yes. Apparently there was a sudden influx of votes. We have to make the most of our friend from Isis before we kill him on Sunday.’ She puts the book down on her lap. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Sure.’ She smiles and swings her legs out of the way, making room on the couch. She pats the cushions. ‘I came on too strong this morning, didn’t I?’

I’m sick of her games. ‘Somewhere private.’

Her smile grows wider. ‘Okay.’ She stands up, smooths down her dress. ‘Let’s talk in my room.’

I follow her swaying hips up the corridor. This is a risk. I don’t know how she’ll react when I confront her. But the indirect approach won’t save Thistle. I’m out of time.

She enters her bedroom. Before I’ve even closed the door, she’s undressing, letting the straps of her dress fall from her shoulders. There are freckles on her back.

When she turns to face me, she’s holding a gun.

‘So,’ she says, the flirtatious act gone, ‘what do you want to talk about, Blake?’

I put my hands up. It’s just the kind of gun I expected to see: small, lightweight. Medical tape dangles from one side—she must have had it stuck to her chest, just below her bra, where the folds of her dress would cover it.

It takes me a moment to realise she just used my real name. I guess that means I’m right. But this isn’t going how I thought it would.

‘We’re on the same side,’ I say.

She doesn’t lower the gun. ‘You’re FBI.’

I nod slowly. ‘And you’re CIA.’

CHAPTER 35

You fill me with time, then mail me away. What am I?

‘I should have figured it out the second you told me about all the travel you’d done with the Department of Agriculture,’ I say. ‘That was official cover, with diplomatic immunity. You sat in an embassy, waiting for local assets to bring in secrets for you to send home. But you got bored.’

Zara keeps the gun trained on my heart. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. She gave me the truth yesterday: I just got sick of being stuck behind a desk.

‘So you asked to be reassigned. You wanted a non-official cover role, with more opportunities for … excitement.’ Opportunities to hurt people. I remember the consultant’s words: Why would an agent volunteer for such a risky assignment? 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. ‘This little group was easy to infiltrate. You just had to submit a few videos to prove you weren’t a cop. As luck would have it, they wanted exactly the kind of content the CIA specialises in.’

The look on her face is unreadable. I don’t know how long we have. I need to prove that I’ve figured it all out, so she doesn’t waste time denying it. I keep talking, fast.

‘The hiker wasn’t a hiker,’ I continue. ‘He was your handler. Right? He came here to give you a dossier about Donnie. But his timing was bad. The Guards had rearranged the cameras that day and you hadn’t had a chance to warn him. He walked right past one of them. You tried to convince us all he was Druznetski, the private investigator, who none of us had met. When that didn’t work, you suggested that he was a hiker. A fake cop showed up the following day to reinforce your story—and to check that your cover was intact.’

I think of the way the sheriff’s deputy looked at Zara as she spoke: Is everything okay out here in general?

Zara keeps the gun trained on me. ‘Lift up your shirt.’

‘We’re on the same side,’