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  Beneath The Surface

  A Gray Ghost Novel—Book 3

  Amy McKinley

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Amy McKinley

  Beneath The Surface

  Copyright © 2018 Amy McKinley

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  * * *

  (p) ISBN-13: 978-0-9994280-4-7

  (e) ISBN-13: 978-0-9994280-5-4

  Publisher: Arrowscope Press, LLC; www.arrowscopepress.com

  * * *

  Editing—Taylor Anhalt, Editor; Kate B., Line Editor, Red Adept Editing

  Proofreading—Kristina B., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

  Cover Design—T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Interior Formatting—T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Foreword

  Dear Readers,

  I’m so excited to share Jack and Hannah’s story with you. Their struggle to overcome adversity won my heart and I hope it will yours too.

  Their story runs parallel to Chris and Mari’s in Eye of the Storm. Rather than do a very complicated timeline at the top of the chapters, I thought it would be best to give you a heads-up here instead. That way you can read without trying to puzzle piece where Jack and Hannah’s story falls in relation to Chris and Mari’s.

  Welcome back to seasoned readers of this series; I’m thrilled you’re back for more. If this is your first book in the Gray Ghost series, welcome to the Gray Ghost team! Beneath the Surface can be read as a standalone. Some prefer to start from the beginning, and so as not to risk any spoilers, I’d recommend that as well. Either way, I hope you like them as much as I do. And once you’ve finished, I’d love to hear from you.

  Enjoy!

  Amy

  Prologue

  Russia

  Hannah—17 years old

  I jackknifed to a sitting position, the blanket pooling around my waist and the book I’d been reading falling to the floor. My hand slapped the bedside table and knocked my report to the floor. Gasping for air, I worked to regulate my breathing while simultaneously pushing the remnants of my panic attack away. The car crash hadn’t just happened. Even so, flashbacks came when they wanted, and images of the accident that killed our parents filtered into my mind when I least expected it. Fear was buried just beneath the surface, at least where my sister, Elsa, was concerned. I can’t lose her too.

  Downtime wasn’t usually my friend, as my overactive imagination tended to conjure images of death. I didn’t even know what triggered it. It was early morning, and I’d been reading a history text that failed to hold my attention. Even so, it didn’t contain anything that should have sent me spiraling into a sea of anxiety.

  Maybe because I hadn’t heard Elsa get up this morning?

  Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I turned my head to scan the bed beside mine. I sagged back against my headboard. She’s alive. Elsa’s blond head peeked above the covers, and the steady rise and fall of her chest was apparent even beneath the blanket. Relief crashed over me in a welcome wave. I didn’t even care that she’d overslept again.

  Heat blasted into the room, making it cozy and easier—or harder, in Elsa’s case—to wake in the morning. The flashback of the horrific crash, which had changed our lives forever, played both on what I remembered and what wasn’t real, and I was helpless against the visual onslaught.

  The loud screech of metal on metal had mixed with screams—mine and Elsa’s. Glass shattered, then Mom wasn’t in the car any longer. A mixture of blood from a small head wound and tears coated my lips as I looked around in horror. Elsa’s head rested against her door. She’d begun to stir, but Dad slumped over the steering wheel and hadn’t moved. I screamed for my mom. She wasn’t where she should be.

  My heart pounded as I unhooked my seatbelt with shaky hands and shoved the door open. Staggering out of the car, I searched for her. The blood, God, the blood. There was a gaping hole in the windshield and glass everywhere.

  She’d gone through the windshield.

  Bile climbed my throat as I followed the path her body traveled. On the road not far from the car, my mom lay in a crumpled heap. On wobbly legs, I went to her and crouched over her, wanting to hold her but afraid. Instead, I collapsed on the cold pavement next to her until help arrived. It had arrived too late.

  A few tears rolled down my cheeks as I worked to shove the images, held in my memory’s cloying grip and playing on my fears, away. My sister took the brunt of my internal trauma. I never wanted her far from my sight. Losing Elsa had turned into a phobia.

  As I sat there waiting for my heartbeat to regulate, the vision of death faded. With each beat, my anxiety eased.

  With two fingers, I moved aside the heavy window covering that hung adjacent to my headboard. It was snowing. Large, fluffy flakes fell in a blanket of white, camouflaging the many bushes and hills on the grounds. The day’s operative training would prove challenging. I let the curtain fall back into place, effectively shutting out the winter day and cocooning Elsa and me in the warm Russian dorm, which had been our home since we were small children. It wasn’t even a home, but a school—known as the Academy—and not of our choosing. The Academy trained students to become spies who worked abroad.

  Scooting off my bed, I walked the few steps to Elsa and nudged her shoulder. “Wake up. Class is in a half hour.”

  My sister turned to face me with a groan. “Already?” Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pushed herself to a sitting position and began to unwind her long braid. We shared the same platinum hair as our mother. The length reached our waist, and we’d refused to cut more than a pinch off. Our mom wore hers long too. The only thing we’d inherited from our father was his pale-blue eyes.

  The genetic traits we shared with our parents were comforting as a daily reminder, if nothing else.

  I turned my back to my sister, leaving
her to the arduous task of brushing out and re-braiding her hair. Neither of us wanted to risk our long strands getting in the way and sabotaging our chances of success during our field exercises.

  “Did you eat already?” Elsa yawned her question in French.

  I replied in kind that no, I had not. Each day of the week we spoke a different language to one another, honing our skills, even though we were supposed to speak English only. What the professors didn’t know…

  We spoke seven fluently. Many of our classes—all but those that taught different languages—and every moment in between were reserved for English. Our professors stressed that it would be the most important for us to master. We had.

  In our school uniform of white blouse and pleated black skirt, Elsa emerged from the bathroom, and we rushed to start the day. Breakfast flew by, as did our first three classes.

  Then the part I dreaded arrived.

  We’d changed into gray sweats and matching long-sleeved shirts. Something about that afternoon’s exercise bothered me. I should have been excited to train with my sister, since we rarely did. We typically spent our afternoons apart, but not that day.

  I wasn’t sure why it was different, but it sent my instincts into overdrive.

  That day, the field training would be comprised of a chase-and-capture exercise, complete with paint guns that looked real, so the mind played tricks to instill danger. Those who participated were to be dispersed through the wintery fields in groups of three, girls against boys.

  I burst from the building along with Elsa and another girl from our class. Our goal was to find and gain possession of a file in a building across the white lawn. The trick was getting there while trying to stay out of sight and without getting shot. My boy-crazed sister was looking forward to going up against the other team, probably because she liked one of them. I couldn’t relate to my older sibling—not there, not with the things we had to do. She was two years older than me and proclaimed that I was a late bloomer. I didn’t know about that. Instead, I wanted to inflict some damage as I took the boys down.

  The giggle to my left grated on my nerves, and I frowned at the other girl on our team and at my sister’s enthusiasm. Her head needed to be in the game, not fixated on flirting. When it came to boys, my sister was a hopeless case. The night before, she’d secretly snuck out to meet her latest boyfriend, whom she’d kissed.

  Through whispered giggles, Elsa went into explicit detail about how he’d used his tongue inside her mouth and how her hands crept over his bare chest. Too much information. I fought from gagging at the description she gave. There were only two things she’d mentioned that I was interested in. One, he had a hook-shaped scar that marred his chest just over his heart. I was curious about how he’d gotten it. And two, ambitious to make a name for himself with our superiors, he’d started a secret list of any who’d already placed, with both their real and alias names and assignments if he knew them. It was dangerous game, for sure.

  Pushing all thoughts of my sister’s exploits aside, I fully engaged in our training and dove for cover behind a small snowbank. After a quick check along the horizon to make sure it was clear, we sprang from our relative safety and dashed for the next point. Our exercise was designed to teach us how to evade an attack, work together, and win against a common enemy.

  Always to win.

  Cold flakes kissed my face, clung to my eyelashes, and congregated in my hair as I raced behind my sister. The other girl took up the rear. Normally, I pulled in front, as I was faster and tended to notice details quicker than my sister on the rare occasion we trained together. Fast, I could outrun, outthink, and outmaneuver most of the girls and the boys we were pitted against. But Elsa was having none of it that day and established herself from the onset as the team leader.

  Taking a back seat sat ill with me, but Elsa would be leaving soon and wanted to shine. The thought of being separated from my sister shot a wave of nausea through me.

  Thankfully, the doe-eyed girl on our team was content to take the rear position and did well at staying glued to my heels.

  We kept a sharp watch for the boys. The destination was a building several miles away. In the process, we would eliminate our competition, even though it would be done through the mark of a paint ball. Our guns were loaded with yellow paint. The boys had red, of course.

  I blinked a snowflake from my lashes. Visibility was compromised. Large flakes fell in wild abandon, and a fierce gust of wind swirled them into a frenzy of white. We could see a few feet in each direction. Our destination was ahead. The path we took would make all the difference in reaching the coveted goal.

  We hadn’t encountered anyone on the opposing team yet. I scanned the wintery landscape for movement. The hairs along the nape of my neck stood up as I sensed incoming danger.

  “Move.” Elsa ordered.

  Against my better judgment, I followed her. Each footfall sank into drifts of powdery snow. It barely slowed us down. Tension was thick in the air. My shoulders ached from it. Gun extended, I broke off from my sister, covering the three feet to her left. Elsa planned to storm the building first despite my whispered concern for caution.

  In a sweep, I took in the bushes that were in the front entry’s sightline. Several feet away, the growth could easily shield one or more of the boys. My instincts flared. Two feet to the left of that, a bank that could also provide cover rose. Swiping for my sister’s coat, I tried to stop her, to warn her.

  No! Elsa dashed in a diagonal line between the two unsecured mounds, with the building in clear sight. Determined to provide cover, I leapt after her, the other girl close behind. In a burst of speed, I changed direction, shifting the aim of my gun back and forth between both obstacles, finger on the trigger to strike the first movement I caught.

  The loud bang of a gun fired. I hadn’t expected it. Neither did Elsa. She jerked back, stumbled, then fell into the snow.

  There’d been no sighting. No visual warning. Shoot, that won’t help Elsa win the admiration of our superiors.

  Low to the ground and partially obscured behind a snowdrift, I swung my gun in the direction I guessed the shot came from. Nothing moved. Neither did Elsa, which wasn’t like my sister. If she lost, her temper usually kicked in.

  Widespread alarm and my flashback from that morning rushed through my system, and I raced to my sister. Skidding on my knees with my arm outstretched, I grabbed Elsa’s shoulder and pulled her several inches off the ground.

  Red spots speckled the snow from the few stuttered steps she had taken before collapsing face-first.

  “Elsa! Get up!”

  There was no response.

  Did she hit her head on something? I tugged and flipped my sister over. Red bloomed across her parka, which was as white as the snow below her.

  It’s just paint. Has to be.

  A pop shattered the stillness, and something slammed into my chest. The force rocked me back a few inches. Absently, I looked down at the small splatter of red on my coat then back to the drops that’d speckled across the snow before my sister fell.

  Why isn’t Elsa getting up? Something was wrong, very wrong. I leaned down, my face centimeters from my sister’s nose. Thready puffs of warmth feathered onto my cheek, and I nearly slumped in relief. She was breathing. Must’ve knocked into something on the ground I can’t see. Maybe ice? Why else isn’t she responding?

  Time slowed, and my stunned mind absorbed the details and fed them to me in manageable bits. The red that marred my sister’s parka continued to spread across her chest. The progression of the stain hadn’t stopped like mine had—nor did I have a hole in my coat like Elsa.

  It was real.

  It was blood.

  It was from a bullet.

  Tears welled in my eyes, and my entire body shook. No! Please don’t take her from me too. No matter how I wished it, the evidence was crystal clear before me. My sister had been shot.

  “Elsa, please.” I bit back a wail. “Don’t leave me.”
<
br />   A flicker in Elsa’s otherwise-still eyelids sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Shallow breaths puffed through her blue-tinged lips, and I bent over her as her lips parted. “Who pushed me?”

  God, if only. “You weren’t pushed, El. You were shot.” Her brows furrowed. “By a gun.”

  “No… can’t be right.” She wheezed. “Got the breath knocked out. Who did it?”

  My heart broke. At least she didn’t feel the bullet. “I… Elsa, I-I-I need you.” How will I survive without you?

  She coughed, and her lungs made a rattily sound. Her eyes widened, and her breathing worsened. We were running out of time. She only had about three minutes, given that it looked as though the bullet had hit her heart. Or close.

  We’d already wasted two minutes.

  The reality of the situation seemed to dawn in my sister’s eyes, and my heart shattered all over again.

  “Han, remember...” She sucked in a partial breath, and determination pinched her pale features. “…last night.”

  She’d said something alarming last night. I remembered. It was about our parents’ killer. I’d learned from a manipulative and cruel trainer that the crash wasn’t an accident. Does her boyfriend know who did it?

  I hovered over her, working hard to catch her strained words, to protect her from further harm. My hands slapped over the wound. Blood spilled through the slits of my gloved fingers, and tears rolled down my cold cheeks. “Shh, save your strength. Help!” I screamed desperately.