Only the Good Spy Young (Gallagher Girls) (10 page)

Well, it turns out that when one of the world’s most dangerous and covert terrorist organizations is after one of your students, school officials care less about keeping people
in
than they care about keeping people
out
.

Or at least that’s what Bex and Macey and I told ourselves as we crawled beneath a tarp, a blanket, and about ten million physics notebooks, and lay as quietly as possible in the back of Liz’s van.

“Where to this evening?” the guard at the front gate asked. I could picture him leaning against the driver’s side window, chomping on his gum.

I had to hold my breath as I waited for the soft, Southern voice that answered, “Just a road check, Walter.”

“What’s she up to now, Lizzie?” the guard asked. In the light that crept in through the weave of the blanket, I saw that Bex was holding her breath too.

“Almost four hundred miles per gallon,” Liz blurted. “I mean three ninety-five to be specific—which I can be. Specific, that is. You know me, Walter. I’m a very detail-oriented person. I’m just going out to test it in stop-and-go driving. I’m not hiding anything!” she blurted, and Bex’s eyes went wide.

* * *

PROS AND CONS OF BREAKING OUT OF SCHOOL

(A list by Operatives Morgan, McHenry, and Baxter)

PRO: As Trojan horse operations go, the back of a minivan isn’t nearly as bad as it can get.

CON: Rebecca Baxter, despite her many good qualities, is a cover hog.

PRO: There’s nothing like a completely unsupervised, possibly illegal covert operation to take a girl’s mind off the terrorist organization that is after her—not to mention her Culture & Assimilation homework.

CON: The girl really should have been doing her Culture & Assimilation homework.

PRO: When you haven’t had a real CoveOps lesson in months, you’ll take any practical experience you can get.

CON: When you haven’t had a real CoveOps lesson in months, you can’t help but feel really, really rusty.

* * *

I know the streets of Roseville. I’ve walked them with my classmates. I’ve held hands on them with my first (and technically only) boyfriend. I’ve seen them filled with football fans and parade spectators, with ladies selling cakes and candies for the church auxiliary, and kids out for a Saturday matinee.

It’s as all-American as a town can possibly be, with its white gazebo and movie marquee and town square, but it seemed different as I stood in the library bell tower, staring down at the square. There was nothing there but me and sky—no walls, no guards—and yet I felt stranded. Like the ravens, I knew I couldn’t fly away.

“You have good cover here,” Bex told me.

I could hear Macey through the comms unit in my ear, saying what I already knew: “The square is clear.” I could see Liz in the van, circling the block.

“Liz is tracking you from the van,” Bex said. “We’ve got backup relays outside of town in case the van is compromised.”

Bex kept talking, but all I could think of was how the air was colder. The stars felt brighter. The breeze was softer as it blew against my cheek. It was as if all my senses were in overdrive, and I couldn’t help but think most people feel like that sometimes—when they’re alone or in the dark. When they hear a noise in the closet or a creak on the floorboards, they sense it. It’s not about being scared—it’s about being alive. The nerves work harder, carrying messages to the brain, getting it ready for fight or flight, and that night, well, let’s just say that night my nerves had their work cut out for them.

“Cam?” Bex asked as if I hadn’t heard her. But she was wrong. That night I heard and saw and smelled
everything
. “I’m gonna get into position. Are you satisfied with this position?”

I scanned the square and nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re safe here.” She touched my arm almost as if she were trying to get my scent, as if she might soon be chasing me around the world.

And then I watched her go.

Standing alone in the tower, I reminded myself of all the things in the world that I knew to be absolutely true: Rebecca Baxter was the best spy at the Gallagher Academy and the absolute last person who would lie about my safety. I had GPS trackers in my watch, my shoes, my ponytail holder, and my stomach (thanks to a new edible model Liz had been trying out).

My roommates and I all carried panic buttons that could summon an army within the blink of an eye. They could track me anywhere in the world (and, Liz firmly believed, the moon).

And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that the square seemed smaller from where I stood, or maybe the world just felt bigger.

I held a pair of binoculars to my eyes and scanned the streets, telling myself that I was as safe as I could possibly be. I was prepared. I could handle anything. I was ready for everything. . . .

Except for the sight of a tall figure with broad shoulders, appearing as if from nowhere at the edge of the gazebo, and saying, “Hello, Gallagher Girl.”

P
erspective is a powerful thing. Seriously. I
highly
recommend it. There are things you just can’t see unless you take a good step back and watch very, very closely.

I mean, if I’d been standing in the town square and not the bell tower, I might have heard the girl say, “Well, hello yourself,” but I might have missed the way the boy stumbled backward as she turned. I might not have noticed the way his shoulders fell and his head jerked in the manner of someone who had not found what he was looking for.

I might never have realized that Zach was disappointed to find another girl in the gazebo.

“Macey?” Zach asked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, which was maybe the most flattering thing ever, because no one has ever mistaken me for Macey McHenry. Ever. But it was dark, and even without access to the world’s greatest closet for deception and disguise, Macey was still the daughter of a cosmetics heiress. And in a wig and Zach’s old jacket, she made for a good decoy, or at least good enough.

“Where’s Cammie?” Zach asked.

“You look disappointed to see me, Zach,” Macey teased. “Don’t you like my jacket?”

“Where is she?” Zach demanded.

“At school,” Macey lied without missing a beat. “Watching from a live video feed. She’s
safe
.” She inched closer, staring up at him.

“The jammers at the school wouldn’t allow that, Macey. Now, where is she?” He turned. “I know she’s around here somewhere,” he said, scanning the alleys and buildings that lined the square.

“She’s safe where she is, Zach.” Bex stepped out of the darkened alcove by the movie theater and moved into place behind him. “And we’re going to keep her that way.”

“I need to talk to her,” he told them.

“So talk,” Macey said. “We’ve got comms. She can hear you.”

“I need to
see
her.”

“I’m coming down,” I blurted, desperate to be off the sidelines, but Bex’s hand was on her ear. She was shouting at me.

“You stay where you are!”

But I was already gone.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Zach said after a long time. “She needs you.”

“What are you doing here, Zach?” Macey asked, but Zach only shook his head. He looked down at the ground.

“It’s complicated.”

“So un-complicate it.” Even as I said the words, I knew I might regret them. And soon. Maybe Zach was bait and I was walking into a trap. Maybe Bex would save the Circle the trouble and kill me on the spot, but I couldn’t stay away.

“You’re with him,” I said.

“Technically, he’s on an errand halfway around the world right now,” Zach tried to joke, but my mind raced on.

“Liz and Macey told me that just because you go to Blackthorne doesn’t mean . . .” My voice caught. “But you really are with him.”

“Gallagher Girl, listen to me.”

“So . . . what happened, Zach? Did the Circle recruit you too?”

He looked at me for a long time before he lowered his head and whispered, “Not exactly.”

At the edge of the square, a streetlight flickered. Shadows crept across the grass for a split second, and I flinched, remembering the last time I’d been alone with Zach and the lights had gone out. I remembered the sound of a gunshot and the sight of my aunt falling to the dark street, while one of the Circle’s agents stood between me and freedom. But instead of firing, he had looked at Zach and said, “
You?
”

“What are you doing here, Zach?” I asked, my throat suddenly too dry.

“He asked me to get a message to you.”
“So
send
me a message! What was so important that I had
to risk my friends’ safety to sneak out here?” I demanded. “Huh? What was so—”

“I had to
see
you.” He closed the space between us. His hands were warm from his pockets as they closed around my fingers. “I had to know that you were okay. I had to see you and touch you and . . . know.”

He brushed my hair away from my face, his fingers light against my skin. “In London . . .” He trailed off. “After D.C. . . .”

“I’m fine,” I said, easing away. “CAT scans and X-rays were normal. No lasting damage.”

Most people believe me when I lie. I’ve learned how to say the words just right. I have a trusting kind of face. But the boy in front of me was a trained operative, so Zach knew better. And besides, Zach knew me.

“Really?” He touched my face again. “’Cause I’m not.”

I don’t know Zachary Goode. I’ve touched him and spoken to him and felt his lips on mine, but I don’t know him—not really.

I could feel the clock ticking and knew that the girl I’d been the year before was officially out of time.

“I’m fine, Zach,” I said, pulling away. “But I’ve got to go. We only have a half hour before they miss us.”

He pointed to the darkness. “Who else is out there?”

“The usuals,” I said, still not wanting to give away too much.

“Your mom?” he asked, but I didn’t have to say anything— he read the answer in my eyes. “Good,” Zach said. “He doesn’t want her taking the risk.”

“What does he care? If he cared about her, then . . .” I trembled.

“So they told you?” he asked, stepping away.

“Yeah. They told me he’s part of the Circle, and he . . . My father is dead because of him.” My heart was pounding hard inside my chest. My throat was on fire. “Is this the part where you deny it?”

“No.” Zach shook his head. “It’s the part where I ask a favor.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Bex said, moving closer, but Zach’s gaze never left mine.

“There’s a book, Gallagher Girl,” he said, then swallowed. “It might be the only thing in the world the Circle wants as much as they want you.”

“What kind of book?” I asked.

“A journal. Joe—Mr. Solomon—needs you to read it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It explains everything, Gallagher Girl. And besides, if he doesn’t make it out of this . . . He needs
you
to read it.”

“Where is it?” Bex asked.

“You’re not going to like it. It’s risky and—”

“Where is it?”
Bex, Macey, and I demanded in unison.

“Sublevel Two.”

“The subs?” Bex shook her head. “No. Can’t. They’re closed. Off-limits.”

“Oh, and off-limits has always stopped you before?” Zach asked her. “Look, they’re not technically closed—they’re just rigged to explode if anyone goes near them,” he said as if we encounter highly dangerous explosives every day. And . . . well ...we sort of do.

“How do you know about the subs?” I asked, already sure of the answer.

“Because a week before I saw you in London, Joe heard the CIA had a source who’d started talking. He had to get off the grid and stay off the grid—fast. They were coming for him, Gallagher Girl, and he couldn’t risk getting caught down there, so...”

Zach took a deep breath and smiled his most mischievous smile. “I know about the subs because Joe Solomon’s the one who rigged them.”

J
oe Solomon didn’t booby-trap the sublevels of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women to explode or implode or fill up with water from the lake.

Don’t get me wrong, all of those things could totally happen! But no matter what you might have heard, Mr. Solomon didn’t put those protocols in place—the Gallagher Academy trustees did, a long, long time ago. Before I was born. Before my mother was born. After all, when you have that many covert secrets in one place, it’s important to protect them. And if the protection measures fail, it’s important to destroy them.

So I really wish people would get it straight: Mr. Solomon
did not
build the triggers that would destroy the subs!

He’s just the one who turned them on.

Or at least that’s what Zach told us.

And that...Yeah, that was the problem.

“What’s wrong?” Liz asked, despite the fact that, at the front of the room, Dr. Fibs and Madame Dabney were in the midst of an incredibly interesting joint lecture on secret writing techniques (and why a Gallagher Girl should really learn how to make her own invisible ink and do calligraphy).

“Is it the sensors in the elevator shafts?” she guessed.

I shook my head.

“The two-second delay before the anti-invasion protocols kick on and we get . . . smushed?”

“Oh my!” Dr. Fibs cried. I looked up to see that he had accidentally spilled his latest invisibility concoction over Madame Dabney, and that her white blouse was becoming more and more invisible by the second.

“I know what you’re thinking, Cam,” Liz went on. “We’ve been looking for a way into . . .
you know where
... for weeks and we aren’t any closer. But that’s not exactly true!”

At the front of the room, Madame Dabney (who, by the way, wears way sexier bras than anyone would have guessed) started dabbing at the front of her blouse with an antique tablecloth, and Dr. Fibs reached for a lighter.

“Now, remember, girls, the ink becomes visible again when exposed to heat!” Dr. Fibs yelled as he flicked the lighter on and the tablecloth went up in flames in Madame Dabney’s hands.

“We have an entry strategy and an exit strategy and . . . we have a lot of strategies!” Liz said, her eyes wide, and right then I knew that a part of Liz didn’t care that Zach and Mr. Solomon had asked us to do something that no one had ever done in a hundred and fifty years. To Liz, it was just a puzzle, a test. And Liz is very, very good at tests.

“Yeah, Cam,” she said again as soon as the smoke cleared (literally) and we were gathering our things and leaving class.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Bex asked, falling into step beside us.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

“Wrong answer,” Bex said, leaning closer, her voice barely audible through the cascade of girls that filled the halls. “Now what’s wrong?”

“Zach,” Macey guessed with a shrug. She eyed me. “It’s got to be Zach, right?”

“So the subs’ next-generation cameras with the 360 degree range and heat-sensitive triggers
aren’t
bothering you?” Liz asked. I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not.

“There’s something he’s not telling us,” I whispered.

“Like what?” Bex asked, interested again.

Like what’s so important about this journal? Like why didn’t that man in D.C. shoot him and kidnap me when he had the chance? At least a dozen questions filled my mind, but the halls were crowded, and there was only one thing I dared to say.

“There’s just ... something.”

“He’s a guy, Cam.” Macey pushed past me and led the way down the hall. “And a spy. He’s a guy spy. There’s always going to be something he’s not telling.”

“He fought with us—in D.C.,” Liz said. There was no doubt in her voice, no fear. “I know you couldn’t see, Cam. I know they drugged you and you banged your head and all. But he and Mr. Solomon both fought
with
us,” Liz said one final time, and then turned and ran toward Mr. Mosckowitz’s classroom.

I turned to Macey.

“So he’s mysterious,” she said with a shrug. “Mysterious is
sexy
.” And then it was her turn to spin on her heels and run out the front doors, on her way to P&E.

When I turned to Bex, I wanted her to say that everything was going to be fine—that there was nothing the four of us couldn’t do, and it was just a matter of time until we found our way into Sublevel Two, cleared Mr. Solomon’s name, and stopped global warming (not necessarily in that order).

I looked at her. I waited.

“We can’t trust him.” She pushed past me, stepped calmly into Room 132. “We can’t trust anyone.”

I wanted to tell her she was wrong (but she wasn’t). I thought I might think of a way to prove he was an exception (but I couldn’t). I wanted her to stop looking at me as a spy and start talking to me as a girl, but Gallagher Girls are only exceptional because we’re both—all the time. I wanted to go into the CoveOps classroom and pretend to read whatever boring book Townsend was going to give us and replay every conversation that Zach and I had ever had. But before I could take a single step, Agent Townsend appeared in the doorway of the classroom, a coat in his hands, saying, “Junior class, come with me.”

I know we’re supposed to be in the business of being prepared for anything—of never, ever being surprised—but let me tell you, most of the people I know still shock the fire out of me on a regular basis. (Like, for example, the time Mr. Mosckowitz and Liz went rock climbing together and neither of them actually died.) But in five and a half years at the world’s premiere school for spies, very few things have surprised me more than walking with the rest of the junior CoveOps class, following Agent Townsend through the halls.

He was the sort of man who always moved with purpose, never a wasted step, but that day he walked even faster. He seemed taller. And though we were still inside the Gallagher mansion, something told me that Agent Townsend was finally back on familiar ground.

“Um . . . sir . . .” Tina Walters said, pushing through the crowd, trying to get as close as possible to the man at the front of the pack. “Are we going back to Sublevel Two?” she asked, but Townsend acted as if she hadn’t uttered a single word.

“The primary job of any field agent is what?” he asked in a manner that made him sound almost like a real teacher. Almost.

“To recruit, run, and maintain assets of intelligence,” Mack Morrison said, quoting page twelve from the old copy of
Under
standing Espionage: A Beginner’s Guide to Covert Operations
,
Third Edition
, that we’d all taken turns reading under the covers in the seventh grade.

Agent Townsend looked at her. I thought for a split second that he might actually smile, but instead he just said, “Wrong.”

It felt like the entire class missed a step. Townsend, on the other hand, kept walking.

“The primary job of a field agent is to
use
people—strangers, typically. Sometimes friends. Secretaries, neighbors, girlfriends, boyfriends, janitors, and little old ladies crossing the street. We use them all.”

He stopped in the center of the foyer and turned to face us, while, behind him, the main doors flew open. A van sat idling in the center of the drive. I was tempted to close my eyes and pretend that it was a real CoveOps lecture, that we had a real CoveOps teacher again.

But then Townsend said, “But, of course, if that’s somehow beneath a Gallagher Girl . . .”

“No, sir!” Tina chanted.

He stepped aside and gestured toward the open doors. “Then, after you.”

What happened next was a rush of emotion and adrenalin like I hadn’t felt in weeks. It was intoxicating. I felt almost drunk. And yet I stayed still, watching my classmates race out the door and toward the waiting van.

“I suppose you think this is optional, Ms. Morgan?” Agent Townsend stood staring at me through the open door.

“Of course I want to go, but there are these security protocols”—I glanced away, somehow unable to face him as I admitted, “Professor Buckingham told me I’m not allowed to leave the grounds.”

“And I suppose you think I’ve forgotten that fact?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you think I’m a fool.”

“No, sir, I—”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Morgan, I know you’re
special
. And because of you and your mother, I’ve spent a great deal of time and energy making
special
arrangements,” he said with a condescending smirk. “But if you want to stay in the mansion . . .”

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I was already out the door.