The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe watched the drive fly away and congratulated herself on a hostage exchange well done. Really. Ten out of ten. Would exchange again.

She knew exactly where the emergency stop button was and if Kozlov got any ideas, she wouldn’t hesitate to use it. But Kozlov wasn’t a fool. Evil, yes? Stupid, no. He wanted his drive back, and there had been a look of begrudging respect in his eyes. He wasn’t going to risk it.

The farther away the drive got, the better Zoe felt. She probably shouldn’t have resented such a tiny thing, but knowing what that drive had meant to Sawyer . . . That it was the reason he’d helped her . . . That it was the reason he’d been with her . . . That he’d already chosen that drive—that mission—over her . . . Well, Zoe was glad to be rid of it.

But he said he loved you, that little voice in the back of her mind whispered. Just before a louder, sharper voice said, Sawyer lies.

Twenty feet beneath her, an unfinished walkway curved around the icy cliffs before stretching over the ancient glacier that spanned between the two tall peaks. Sawyer’s life—Sawyer’s world—was on the other side of the mountain, so Zoe just stood there, trying to keep her heart from breaking.

Alex was almost to the halfway point, and Zoe told herself it was almost over. As long as the cables kept pulling her sister closer and pushing the drive farther away . . . As long as Kozlov didn’t get any ideas . . . As long as Zoe held herself together just a little while longer . . . Then she and Alex could take the cable car down the Italian side of the mountain. An SUV was waiting at the bottom. They’d be finished. They’d be free. They’d be—

“Hello, Zoe.”

Zoe heard the voice. And . . . clapping? A sharp, mocking sound that sliced through the thin air and struck her like a blow. But it was the sound of her name that made her stomach churn. She felt dizzy and outside herself and far too light—like she might blow away.

It was a sensation she’d felt before: once on a train in the Alps and again on the dark streets of Zurich. She’d felt that way every time she’d seen—

“Collins.” She looked at the man who had creeped up behind her. And she realized . . . “You called me Alex in Zurich.” She gripped the railing, terrified she might fall.

He stepped slowly forward and Zoe inched a little bit back.

“Of course I did. Couldn’t let my colleagues know that you and I had . . . history.”

The sun was too bright then—the world was too loud. But Zoe wasn’t on the mountain anymore.

She was standing on a street in Paris.

She was looking down at a card for a bank.

She was saying, “What is this? I don’t understand. You said Alex would be here, Mr. Collins. You said she needed my help?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I should have been more clear. I don’t need you to help Alex, Zoe. I need you to be Alex.”

She laughed. It was insane. “Wait. Are you saying the Central Intelligence Agency needs me for a Parent Trap scenario? No one will ever believe I’m my sister. I’m nothing like her.”

“Oh, obviously. But you’ll forget that very soon.” There was a syringe in his hand and he was coming closer. “Soon, you’ll forget everything.”

The needle plunged into her arm and Zoe felt her legs give out as she fell. Her head slammed against the ground and blood ran into her eyes. She had to get up. She had to run. She had to—

“You can’t fight me, Zoe.” The smirk on his face was nothing short of evil—like she was just too stupid to realize that he’d already won. He must have forgotten that his gun was in the holster on his ankle. He definitely wasn’t expecting Zoe to grab it. But she did, and he gave a cold, hard laugh. “Are you going to shoot me, Zoe?”

“I’m considering it.” She tried to sound tough even though her head hurt and her arm hurt and her feet hurt. She should have worn better shoes, she thought as she backed away.

“Go ahead.” He actually smiled. “Run. You’ve got thirty minutes before that shot kicks in—give or take. That little cocktail isn’t exactly cleared for field use, but I’ve made an exception for you. Thirty minutes, Zoe, and you won’t remember any of this.”

“Good. It seems like the kind of thing I’m going to want to forget.”

It was starting to snow. The first flakes landed on her hot cheeks, melting and blending with her tears. She was backing away. She was almost gone.

“I’ll find you, Zoe. I’ll find you!” he called as a bus pulled to a stop and Zoe threw the gun into a trash can and ran for it. She ran as if her life depended on it because she knew, deep down, it did.

*  *  *

Mountain Zoe blinked against the too-bright light and remembered. It wasn’t the middle of the night. She wasn’t in Paris. She wasn’t looking for Alex. But the smirk on the face in front of her . . . the smirk was exactly the same.

“I thought I hit my head,” she said. “But you did this to me. You did this to me on purpose.”

He gave a callous shrug. “It would have worked, too, if the wrong spy hadn’t found you.”

The wrong spy . . .

Sawyer.

Sawyer had found her. He’d blown up a safe house and pulled a Go Bag from an electric box and pressed her up against a chilly window. He’d jumped off a bridge and held her beneath a tarp and tossed her a pen and given her the gift of her own name.

It was Sawyer. It had always been Sawyer.

It would always be Sawyer.

He’d killed a man in a freezing river and kissed her in front of a fire and looked at her as if she was the most beautiful, wonderful, terrible, amazing thing he’d ever known.

He’d told her he loved her. He’d told her. And he’d shown her when he handed the drive over to the worst man in the world and all but pushed her down a mountain.

Because he loved her. Because he cherished her. Because he had chosen her in a hundred different, little ways and one big way that mattered.

So she looked at the man who had drugged her and lied to her and used her. She looked at the man who could only be there for one reason: he was working for Kozlov. And if that was the case . . .

“I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t trust the CIA.”

“Very good,” he said like the condescending asshole he was.

“I knew there was a reason I called them for backup instead.”

“Very . . .” He hesitated. And, oh, how he worried. “Wait. Who?”

“Them.” Zoe pointed over his shoulder, and the man turned and looked at the clear, blue—and very empty—sky behind him.

Which was when Zoe pulled a piece of rebar from a pile on the ground. And swung. He cried out and crashed to the ground. He was just lying there—far too still—when Zoe turned to the iPad and shouted, “Sawyer, run!”

Then she went to the railing and jumped because it seemed like the thing to do at the time.