Disruption (12 page)

“Well,” the range master said, “are you coming or not?”

My smile widened as I took the first step. “You bet I am!”

Chapter 18

A narrow hall stretched out from the base of the steps and continued a dozen yards before it opened up into a room at least three times the size of the largest classroom at Marksville Middle. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the concrete walls and made the area seem incredibly sterile. Each wall had a wooden door, painted gray so at first I didn’t notice them. In the center of the room was a large rectangular table, neatly ordered with safety goggles and ear protectors. The campers grabbed a pair of each as they filed into the room, so I did the same.

The sound of the archery target rolling back into place above us filtered down the steps as Range Master Fargas entered the room.

I probably should have been really nervous, but mostly I was psyched. I was in a freaking spy camp! I didn’t understand how it had happened and what role my dad really had in all this, but I was here, and I was actually getting spy training. Now I really did have to fly under the radar. If I got discovered, I’d be kicked out, and I would never get this opportunity again.

“Good,” Fargas said, presumably because we all had ear and eye protectors. He ushered us toward the door to his right, and we filed across the room and through the door. The second room was about the size of a basketball court, divided along its width by a sheet of Plexiglas about twenty feet from the door. On the other side of the Plexiglas were sixteen booths that looked down at paper targets. It looked like the shooting ranges in police shows on TV. As I looked some more, I realized that was exactly what it was.

“Impressive, hey?” Juno whispered over my shoulder. “I knew they’d slated this camp to be one of the top training sites, but this is at least triple the size of any range I’ve seen in other camps.”

“Yeah,” I said, not sure how to respond. “Me too.” If they had this room, I wondered how many other sections of the camp had secret underground rooms. This place was getting cooler and cooler by the second.

“Guns will stay in the range,” Fargas began. “Try to smuggle one out, and you’re gone. Understand?”

The campers nodded.

“There’ll be no warnings,” Fargas continued. “No second chances. Steal one of my guns and you’ll never set foot in another camp again.”

Guns?

He’d said the word twice, but it only really registered with me the second time. Of course there’d be guns. I practically laughed, I was so excited. My dad thought he’d sent me to a camp that would make me a better kid, and here I was about to play with guns. He’d flip out if he realized what he’d done.

“Ammunition too,” he added. “It all stays in the range. Sneak a single bullet out and you’re cut.” His eyes narrowed, and he scrutinized each of us. “It’s a rule I won’t repeat. You’re taught proper firearms handling as a precautionary skill. We prefer if our
campers
are more creative. We hope you’ll be more creative when you’re out in the real world. But it is fairly obvious that, in our line of work, the chances of coming across firearms are quite high.”

He sauntered to the wall behind us and punched a series of numbers into a keypad on a cabinet that stretched at least half the length of the room. Then he slid the door six feet to the left. It collapsed in on itself, accordion style, and revealed columns and rows of meticulously organized guns. Each column was arranged by size. If the rows continued the way it appeared, I figured the guns at the far right of the cabinet were the kind you put on your shoulder to blow up tanks or topple buildings.

Range Master Fargas stood, hands on hips, scrutinizing us carefully. “All right, then, no time like the present to see how well you campers know your firearms.” He gestured to the wall of weapons behind him. “Go on, pick the one you’re most comfortable with, and head into the range. This is assessment day.”

Everyone approached the wall of weapons as if they were browsing a rack of books or DVDs. I assumed my position at the back of the group and watched as the others reached up and lifted one gun after another off the wall. I got more excited with each step forward. In the back of my mind, I half thought maybe the guns wouldn’t be real, but the closer I got, the more real they looked. By the time it was my turn to pick a weapon, the nervous excitement building in my stomach was making it incredibly difficult not to smile.

I reached up to grab a gun about the size of my forearm. It was black and silver and had a piece on top that looked like a laser. Totally James Bond. My fingers were an inch away when I stopped.

Assessment day.
The range master’s words felt like a shotgun blast.

This was a test.

I almost slapped myself for what would have been a stupid mistake. One of the only things I knew about this camp was that I did not belong. If they realized that, I’d be out. The only thing I knew about guns was which end the bullet came out of. If I chose one with all kinds of bells and whistles on it, I’d be lucky if I knew how to hold it.

I shuffled to the other end of the cabinet, trying to be smart about my choice. I scanned the smaller weapons and finally plucked one of the smallest guns on the rack. It was a lot heavier than it looked, but it was the only one I actually recognized, kind of. I was pretty sure it was the kind of gun a police officer carried, and I figured it might be one of the most straightforward. I looked up. Juno stared back at me with a single raised brow. His expression seemed to say, “You’re a Delta, and you’re picking a small gun like that? What’s wrong with you?” The gun he held was huge and looked like it belonged in a movie about killing aliens. I did my best to ignore his expression. It would be a lot worse if I picked a bigger gun and shot myself.

I ducked around Juno and followed the others into the shooting range, and took a spot in one of the empty stalls. I placed the gun and ear protectors on the small ledge atop the waist-high wall in front of me and took a step back.

Juno claimed the stall beside me and stepped close as the others campers filed in. “Check it out.” He flipped his gun over and held it close to my face. Carefully scratched in the base of the grip were the letters
PCIA
. He laughed. “See? I told you. People scratch it in everything.”

Property of the CIA. I smiled despite my nerves.

“One shot,” Range Master Fargas said as he shuffled behind us. He stopped behind me, reached over, and grabbed my gun. I tried to watch what he did, but he moved so fast. The clip slid out of the bottom of the grip, and Fargas shoved a bullet inside and then slapped the clip back into the gun before he returned it to its spot on the ledge. “You each get one shot to impress me. I shouldn’t have to say this, but keep your fingers off the bang switch until you’re ready to fire.” He moved down the line, stopping at each camper’s stall for a fraction of a second to load a single round into their guns. “When I say so, you may begin.”

There were three more distinctive clicks
from down the row, and then the range master took a position midway between the booths, his back against the Plexiglas divider, and said, “Begin.”

Juno was on my left, and his arm snapped up like a whip. I don’t even think he had time to aim, but an explosion erupted from the end of his gun that made my head spin. It was a reminder that I hadn’t put on my ear protectors yet, and I quickly did so. There was another bang
from farther down the row, then another, but my ear protectors dulled those shots. Or maybe they just sounded dull because Juno’s shot had destroyed my eardrums and I wouldn’t hear anything either way.

I picked up my pistol and pointed it down the range. I tried holding it with one hand, then two. Two felt better. I took careful aim and felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I glanced over, and Juno was looking at me with raised brows.

He nodded to my gun and said something I couldn’t hear, but I was pretty sure one of the words he said was
bite.

Another two or three bangs
reminded me that soon I’d be the last shot, and then everyone would see how bad I was at this. I shook my head at Juno and turned back to the target. I’d learned to aim a gun on my video games, so I knew to look down the top of the gun. I closed one eye and focused.

Juno tapped me on the shoulder again. I sighed and looked at him. He pointed at my gun and said, “Clock.” He nodded to the gun.

I didn’t know what he was talking about. I could only assume he was reminding me that my time was running out, but why would he? Several more guns fired down the line. I jerked my head back around, aimed, said a silent prayer that I’d at least hit the target, and then squeezed the trigger.

The gun bucked in my hand, and as it did, it felt like a snake had leaped out of nowhere and sunk its fangs into my thumb. The pistol clattered to the ground, and I half hopped, half hobbled backward, clutching my hand against my chest until my back hit the Plexiglas wall behind me. My eyes were partially closed, and my head hit the glass and knocked my ear protectors off my head.

“Jeez, Cambridge,” Juno said. “I told you that you were shooting a Glock. You hold it like that and the slide is going to slide-bite every time.”

His words barely registered. I looked down at my hand. Two parallel slices cut across my thumb and the back of my hand.

The range master walked over to me and gave my bloody hand a puzzled stare.

“Slide-bite,” Juno said.

The range master nodded thoughtfully. Then he lifted his eyes to mine. “Why did you hold your gun like that?”

I scrambled to keep my emotions checked. “I—I was distracted. It was a stupid mistake.” I struggled to find an excuse that made sense, and then, despite my pain, I remembered a scene from a movie where a guy had fired his gun accidentally. I borrowed his excuse. “The trigger was more sensitive than I’m used to.” The pain intensified with each passing second, and I held my hand away from my chest so that the counselor could see it.

“If you recall, Cambridge, I told everyone to keep their fingers off the bang switch until you were ready to shoot.” He huffed and gestured to my hand. “Well, don’t bleed all over the place,” Fargas said in an exasperated tone. “You’ll get no sympathy from me for not knowing how to hold a Glock.”

I pulled my hand back against my chest, shocked that the sliced-up hand bloodying my shirt—and the ground around me—was getting zero attention. I willed myself not to focus on the pain.

Fargas nudged Juno. “Get him to the medic before he gets blood on everything.”

Juno looked down at his gun and sighed as if it were a toy he’d just been told he couldn’t play with anymore.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” Juno said once we were out of the pit and making our way across the campgrounds. “I told you twice you had the wrong grip.” He shook his head and muttered, “What kind of Delta doesn’t know how to hold a gun, anyway?”

I did my best to ignore the rest of Juno’s grumblings while we walked, and took another look at my hand. It wasn’t bleeding as badly as it had been, and I wondered if that was because the blood was clotting or because I’d already lost most of my blood.

Day One: beat up and nearly blown up.

Day Two: almost shot my own hand off.

I really had to get it together. At the rate I was going, I’d be dead before the end of the week.

Chapter 19

“You’ll be dead by the end of the week if you don’t smarten up,” Dr. Lester said to me.

He was a short, bald man with a large stomach and a dark mustache. He’d injected something into my hand almost as soon as we walked in, and it had stopped hurting within seconds.

The camp medic’s office looked a lot like a miniature version of a hospital ER. Six beds lined the back wall in a room about the size of a school classroom. Drugs and bandages and tongue depressors filled several glass cabinets on the other side of the room, and a large desk sat angled against the adjacent corner. The freshly waxed linoleum reflected back the harsh track lighting overhead.

It struck me right away that Dr. Lester was a real doctor. I’d never heard of a camp staffed with a physician. A nurse maybe, but not its own physician. It was a thought that made me smile. Just one more confirmation that this place was legit. Of course they’d have medical facilities with a real doctor. We’re dodging land mines on the soccer field and shooting guns underground, for Pete’s sake.

“The drug has obviously kicked in,” the doctor said.

I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

“How are you finding the rest of camp? Adjusting well?” He sat on a backless stool and started to stitch the two track marks. “Sometimes it can be overwhelming for campers. There’ve been a few who have made
mistakes
so that they’d get hurt and be allowed to miss events.” He stopped stitching and eyed me carefully.

“It was really just a mistake. I was distracted. I’m actually really happy to be here.” I thought about the secret shooting range and smiled in spite of my hand. It was such a relief to finally have a hold on what kind of place I was in. I looked back at the doctor as he started stitching again. “I mean the CIA has—”

The doctor jerked his head and held up his hand. “Whoa, kid.” His voice was a harsh whisper. “You know the rules. This is just a
regular
camp.” He said the word again as if it were a foreign expression I wasn’t familiar with. “
Regular.
Keep those kinds of references to yourself.” He finished stitching and wrapped my hand in a bandage and then whispered, “The number of agencies that would like to get their hands on one of you guys is staggering. They could be listening right now. Just waiting in the woods for the right cue to let them know you kids aren’t really what you seem. Get in the habit of thinking of this camp as an ordinary one.”

“
They
could be listening?” I asked.

“There are ears out there,” he said. “In the forest.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Or from above. Who knows? Maybe one of your fellow campers is a double agent.
You never know
.”