Amber looks at us with barely suppressed triumph.
“What? How?” I ask.
“We could just about hear the pilot talking to traffic control in the background,” she continues. “The details he mentioned led us to one particular private airport. From there, we chased down all the leads and narrowed it to Sunny Mehta.”
“Good old Sunil, tapping Jingo’s phone.” I smile.
“Yes, well, Thomas and I may have had something to do with breaking this lead too,” huffs Amber. I smile at her.
“Well done, guys,” Caitlin says. “But—I don’t get it. How did Jake cover this story?”
“We gave it to him,” Kit says.
“You leaked it?”
“In a way,” Peggy responds. “I hit Jake with a harassment suit two weeks ago.”
“And I applied for a restraining order to keep him away from my house,” Kit adds with a laugh.
“Would those even hold up in court?” I ask.
“It’s fifty-fifty, but even if they don’t, the lawsuits would tie Jake’s hands for months and maybe years,” Kit says. “No news outlet will publish anything he cares to write about us, for fear of being sued.”
“Then, when we felt he might be more amenable,” Peggy continues, “I met with him. I suggested that he was chasing rainbows trying to find something on me and Kit. But that I did want to do more to help women and children and that he and I could make a good team. I would feed him a story bigger than anything he’d had before, and he’d get it exclusively, way ahead of every other news station. In exchange, he agreed to stop pursuing us.”
“With his report on Global News,” Kit says, “the pressure on law enforcement, banks, and governments will ratchet up. Sunny Mehta has already been arrested. By a new police commissioner in Mumbai.”
I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Riya sacrificed her life to save those girls. She shouldn’t have had to. She was pushed into that choice by Family First. Seeing them decimated and brought down gives just a tiny bit of meaning to her loss.
“I’m assuming you are all well rested,” Li says, drawing the meeting to a close. “Prep for our next mission starts next week, but training starts today. As usual, Amber will oversee your routines and report back to me.”
“I hope she goes easy on us,” I say.
Li fixes me with a placid stare. “Of course she won’t,” she says. “I taught her everything she knows.”
During only my second hour of gym work, I’m struggling. After an hour of cardio on the treadmill, Amber has me boxing against Caitlin. She’s great at this, Caitlin. An inch taller than me, with a little more muscle mass and fast feet. I want to stop, want to slow down, want to crawl back into bed and think about Riya, but I’m trapped by this training ring and by Caitlin, right there, in my face, relentless, unflinching.
My muscles begin to burn, creating the tiny tears that will heal up and make them tougher, stronger. Oxygen floods my brain as I gasp for more breath, as I push for my lungs to expand wider, longer, deeper. Caitlin lands a hook on the side of my head, catching my helmet, but hard enough that I stagger back and fall.
I hit the floor. I’m not hurt—not even winded—but for a moment I just lie there. I feel terrible inside. Like weeping. Like nothing is worth it anymore. Grief over Riya fills me up, flooding me, rising through my stomach, up through my chest, forcing its way through my throat, choking me. Hot, rough tears escape the edges of my eyes. They run down my face.
“Hey, champ, you okay?” Caitlin stands over me, loosening her helmet.
I turn my head toward the canvas floor of the ring, so that she can’t see my face. I blink hard. The tears will suffocate me if I let them. I blink again. Then I grit my teeth, get to my knees, and ignore the hand that Caitlin holds out. I force myself to stand up by myself, and as I do, frustration takes over: a white-hot glow of anger that surges into me.
I’m up, running at her, hard, fast. Surprised, she dodges and punches out at me again. A glancing blow that I shake off as I turn, weave, and advance on her. I increase the pace, move my feet faster, throw the punches harder, punches that hit her twice, with the force of anger behind them. I see shock in her eyes, but I don’t let up, even for a split second. I’m on her, pushing her back against the ropes. She staggers and I land another punch. Sweat drips into my eyes; my top is so wet it feels like it’s become part of my skin. With a final dodge and a cuff to the side of her head, I have Caitlin on the floor. Before I know it, I’m on top of her, my knee pressing down hard on her chest, my face up to hers, grimacing, raging, my glove up, threatening a punch down onto her nose. Her gloves come up to shield her face and, dimly, I’m aware of Amber calling my name again and again, her hand grasping for my arm.
“Jessie,” Caitlin pants.
Like a swamp draining, my head clears of all the darkness. I sit back, fast. A long moment passes. Then I pull off my helmet and glove and reach out a hand to haul Caitlin up. She hesitates, then takes my hand and eases herself up, but she moves back far away from me, going over to the ropes to catch her breath. I’m just standing there, gloves off, head down. The sound of our breathing fills the room. Even Amber has nothing to say.
I feel terrible. I look up at Caitlin.
