The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Sawyer was an Operative. Capital O. He wasn’t some Hollywood actor with a stable of stunt doubles. He didn’t have a fancy car with an ejector seat. He’d never even worn a tuxedo. This wasn’t a facade for him. Not an act or a role or a persona. No. It was his actual, literal life, and he was tired. Of his life. And his job. And his missions and his enemies. And even his allies.

Especially Alex.

She’d looked half dead lying in the street, and for a moment, he’d thought he was too late. But then she’d stirred and looked up at him, squinting in the darkness, clearly concussed. And Sawyer felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pity. Compassion. Warmth even though it was cold enough to freeze off some of his favorite parts of his anatomy.

He had known Alex, worked with Alex, trusted Alex for almost five years. But that was the first time he had ever seen her look like that, weak and defenseless. Fragile. And that was maybe the scariest thing of all.

He had to find her. The only thing that gave him any comfort was that if he couldn’t find her, then no one else could either. Probably. Hopefully.

She’d get to a safe house, lie low. Barricade herself behind a dozen walls and booby traps, because Alex was one of the most paranoid people he’d ever known. And he was a spy.

No. Damn it. Operative.

The snow wasn’t falling quite as hard, and, soon, the city would wake up and start digging out. Already, there were lights going on in bakeries, vents blowing out steam that smelled like fresh bread. His stomach growled, but his feet kept moving. And, for once, he didn’t bother checking his tail.

After all, if someone was back there, he’d already be dead.

Her

Sirens. Had they always been there, breaking through the chilly air? Alex wasn’t sure. So she kept her head down and her steps sure. Nothing to see here, her posture said. I’m no one to worry about.

I’m no one.

But the snow was so deep she missed a curb, and the ground wasn’t quite where she thought it would be, and that’s how she turned her ankle and ended up lying in the middle of the street. Again.

“Are you okay?” a voice rang out, and Alex pushed upright to see a man rushing down the sidewalk, heading toward her. The street must have seen some traffic at some point, because the snow was packed down, pressed into icy tracks, so she had to be careful as she climbed to her feet.

“Here, let me help.” Her first instinct was to scamper away, but her ankle hurt and her head swirled, and the man looked like someone’s grandfather—like he couldn’t wait for retirement so he could focus on his real passion: documentaries about World War II. “Are you lost? Can I call someone?”

“Oh, I’m fine!” (She wasn’t fine.) “I know where I’m going!” (She had no idea where she was going.) “I don’t need any help.” (She absolutely needed help.)

She knew how she looked—ripped tights and snow in her hair, bruise growing at her temple and bloody knees. But she was committed now. No backing down.

“Just kind of a klutz!” She pantomimed sliding on the ice—which made her actually slide on the ice, catching herself at the last possible moment.

“I’ll walk you wherever you’re going,” the man said helpfully. “You shouldn’t be out here alone in this.”

But she wasn’t alone. She had a tube of lip balm and four euros; a soggy tissue and a voice in the back of her head—warning bells that were starting to quiver.

“Here. Allow me to—”

“You’re speaking English,” she said for reasons she absolutely did not know or understand.

He laughed. “Well, so are you.”

She took a step back. And then another. And another, tripping on the curb again but managing to stay upright somehow. “Why? Why are you speaking English?”

He gave the slightest chuckle. “Because you are.”

“You spoke first. You should have assumed I was French. Why didn’t you speak to me in French?”

The warning bells were blaring now, too loud in her head—even before she felt the building at her back. Before she knew that she was hemmed in, trapped. Even before the man’s face changed, that gentle, documentary-watching smile morphing into a sinister smirk as he said, “Because, Alex, languages never were your forte.”

She wanted to run, but the man was too close. The sirens and motorcycles were too loud. And, overhead, there was a cracking sound, a splintering snap that she’d heard before, so she stopped thinking. And pushed.

It was untrained and unskilled and must have been wholly unexpected because he stumbled back and looked at her like is that the best you’ve got. But then the crack came again and, with it, a sheet of ice that cascaded down the steep roof and crashed into the man, knocking him off his feet. She could see him under a mountain of snow, partially buried. Totally stunned. And she didn’t wait a single second.

She ran.

To the end of the block. To the end of the street. To the ends of the earth. But it wasn’t far enough. It wasn’t fast enough, because the sirens were deafening now. And when she turned, she saw the motorcycles bearing down. She turned again and tried the other way, but the street was a dead end. She could feel a wall of muscle and motorcycles and men closing in as she took a shaky step back, icy legs melting into a puddle in the street.

Okay, she told herself. She had this. Didn’t she? After all, everyone knows that when spies wake up with amnesia, their brains might forget things like names and hotel room numbers, but their muscles always remember—hands moving independently from their bodies, years of training taking over. So when you think about it, Alex didn’t have to know anything. She just had to wait for her body to go on autopilot, for her training to kick in.

As the men climbed off their motorcycles and stepped closer, she could see their black eyes and bloody lips, and Alex tried to remind herself that she’d done that. She’d seen herself on TV, beating these same guys to a pulp. She’d just have to do it again.

“Looking for me, boys?” she said with as much swagger as she could muster, and the goon squad looked around.

“Uh . . . yes?” Goon Number One said like it might be a trick question.

“Give us the drive, Alex,” another goon barked.

Then it was Alex’s turn to be confused. “Drive? What drive?”

They laughed like she was making a joke. They obviously didn’t know that a half-used tube of lip balm was currently her most prized possession.

“Hand it over, and no one has to get hurt.” The first goon looked at his friends and laughed again, a mocking sound. “Or we will make it hurt less. Which is better than making it hurt very much. It is your decision.”

His voice sounded like vodka tastes, and a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, Russian. They were Russian. And for a moment she just stood there, waiting for her memory to come surging back. For something—anything—to feel familiar, but the only thing in her head was a dull, throbbing ache and the knowledge that she was outnumbered. But that was okay, Alex told herself. Her muscles would know what to do. Her muscles would remember.

“See? About that? Funny story. I actually don’t have any drives. Really. Scout’s honor.” The men stepped forward, and Alex tried to sound as tough as possible as she said, “So I guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”

And then she attacked.

Or . . . well . . . she tried to attack. Really. She did. She ran right up to the biggest, meanest-looking man of the bunch and kicked. Hard. But she slipped on the ice and fell. “Ow.”

For a moment, the men just stared at her, confused. Like maybe they were the ones locked inside a really bad dream. But Alex knew the clock was ticking. Soon they’d realize she was vulnerable, down there on the ground, so she did the one thing she could think of—she kicked again. Straight up between the biggest man’s legs.

She heard him scream and watched him fall, and for a moment his buddies just stood there, staring. But then they pounced, and it was just like the movies: a blur. Head pounding. Blood spraying. Bodies dropping, one after the other. It was like she hadn’t even moved and yet . . .

Wait, she realized. She hadn’t moved.

But, suddenly, she could see the sky. The falling snow. And the look on Mr. Hot Guy’s face as he stood over her, a smoking gun in his hand and bleeding bodies all around them as he said, “Damn it, Alex. I should kill you myself.”