Spy to the Rescue (18 page)

“B
ridget, no!” yells Dale.

I know he knows what I'm about to do and I know he thinks it ranks at the top of my list of all-time terrible ideas. But I can't stop myself. I run into the street and clamber up on the trunk of a gray Honda idling in the long line of non-moving cars, and I run across the roof, spring onto the hood, and jump onto to the next car.

The same honks and shouts of anger that greeted Vanessa moments earlier are now aimed my way. I hear but I don't care. Rage fuels me: it makes me run faster and
jump higher. I'm two cars away from the black Mercedes. Vanessa still hangs from the bottom rung of the rope ladder as the black helicopter hovers above the buildings. The roar of the chopper blades drowns out the car horns and the abuse hurled my way.

Vanessa holds on to the ladder by one hand, and with the other she brandishes her phone and takes what I'm sure are unflattering pictures of me with my arms flailing and my mouth hanging open. She looks up at the helicopter and mouths, “Let's go!”

But as I jump from a station wagon to the trunk of the black Mercedes, she's still hanging there.

“I said let's go!” she screams over the sound of the blades. The black helicopter starts to pull away. Vanessa begins climbing the ladder. I reach the roof of the black Mercedes but I know I'm too late. Frustration sweeps over me as I watch my nemesis fly out of my life.

“Get off my car,” I hear the driver beneath me yell.

“It's her!” squeaks another voice.

A chorus of boos and jeers erupt from the minivan directly in front of me. A familiar head pops out of a window. A familiar head wearing a big bow and a look of disgust. More heads pop out. It's my old friends, the Bronze Canyon Valkyries!

“What are you doing here?” demands Big Bow. “Are
you trying to sabotage Classic Cheer? Is that next on your diabolical agenda?”

I start to laugh. Not a
ha-ha, isn't life hilarious in its randomness and unpredictability
laugh. More of a
just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, they just got worse
laugh.

I look up at my nemesis, Vanessa—my Vanemesis!—and then back at the angry, accusing faces of the Bronze Canyon Valkyries. And then I stop laughing.

“Hey, ladies,” I shout. “Can I ask you to do me a favor?”

They gasp in unison.

“What? You want to steal another kitten?” asks the willowy blonde with the baby voice.

I point upward at Vanessa, who is still climbing the rope ladder.

“That girl making the cool getaway? She's the real culprit behind the Classic Cheer choreography blackmail scam thing. She set me up and she tried to steal your winning cheer. Help me bring her to justice.”

“How?” demands Big Bow.

I leap from the Mercedes to the roof of the minivan.

“Get me up there,” I say.

The faces of the Bronze Canyon Valkyries look confused.

“Why would we do that?” demands the willowy blonde.

“Look at it this way,” I shout down at them. “If you don't throw me high enough, I fall to my death. If you throw me too high, I get decapitated by the helicopter blades. It's a win-win for you.”

Instantly, Big Bow squeezes out of the window and joins me on the roof of the minivan. From below, I hear the other cheerleaders fight for the honor of tossing me to my death. The willowy blonde is the victor. She joins Big Bow on the roof. They link hands. The rest of the Valkyries spill out onto the street and break into a hip-shaking, hand-clapping routine, which, I'm sure, the traffic-jammed motorists appreciate.

“Seriously,” I tell them. “Try not to kill me.”

I step onto their linked hands.
Is stopping Vanessa's escape worth this?
I ask myself, and then I remember how much I detest her, and let them lift me effortlessly into the air.

“One,” says Big Bow.

“Two,” says the willowy blonde.

“Three!” they both scream and hurl me upward.

These are strong girls. I feel the wind on my face as I rocket skyward.

From far beneath me, I hear a collective “Oooh!”
The Valkyries are either scared for my safety or anticipating my imminent demise. I reach out a hand and grab the bottom rung of the rope ladder. I swing a leg up and almost touch the ladder. The rope swings out into the air as the helicopter pulls away. I close my eyes and try to remain calm and focused. Then I try again. This time I kick as far as I can go. My leg hits the bottom rung of the ladder. I pull myself into a standing position and then I feel a stabbing pain in my fingers. A perilously high heel is jabbing into my hand.

“Sorry, peanut, no room for you,” Vanessa shouts down at me. Her heel comes down toward my hand. I let go of the ladder for a split second and then grab the back of her shoe.

Vanessa screams in fright and tries to shake me off. The black helicopter is now pulling up high over the city and I am hanging on for dear life with one foot on the ladder and one hand on the back of Vanessa's shoe. The roar of the chopper blades deafens me. The wind in my face is blinding. On the plus side, I don't have to worry about looking down. All I can do is cling on as tightly as I'm able.

“Get off me,” I hear Vanessa shriek in a voice so huge and filled with fear and anger it overpowers the thunderous noise of the helicopter. The more she tries to kick me
away, the harder I grip. I grip so hard that I pull her shoe off and I'm left grabbing air. For a second, I think,
That's it. That's me. I'm over
, but sheer determination pushes me forward. I claw at the wind and I am rewarded with a handful of rope. I pull myself up with both hands and manage to get my feet on the bottom rung. Above me, I see Vanessa with her one shoe and one bare foot, climbing to the top of the ladder and pulling herself into the helicopter.

She looks down at me and shakes her head in what I would like to think of as admiration at my tenacity. There's a vast bubbling cauldron of hate between us but, weirdly, also a small amount of mutual respect. Vanessa thought I was a joke. Now she sees me as a worthy adversary. From her, I've learned to step up my game, to never be complacent, and to be prepared to face the worst the enemy has to offer. Like now, for instance.

Vanessa smiles down from the inside of the helicopter. She brandishes a small knife and shows me what she plans to do with it. She mimes cutting the rope ladder, and then she sets about actually doing it. Can I get up the ladder before she hacks the top ropes to shreds? I don't know. I feel a bit like my friend the car as she ran out of gas. My limbs are heavy. I don't have the energy to haul myself up the steps that stretch out above me. Hanging
on to the ladder as it sways from side to side is making me nauseous.

“That's right, peanut, you give up,” I hear Vanessa's voice giggle above me. “Have a rest. You deserve it. You put up a nice little fight. I commend you. But now I've got to let you go.”

I put up a good fight, but it wasn't enough. I don't know that I've got anything left to give.

It might be my imagination, but from far beneath me, I think I hear voices, angelic voices.

“Let's go, Bridget!”

Clap-clap.

Is that . . . can it be the Bronze Canyon Valkyries cheering me on?

“Let's go, Bridget!”

Clap-clap. Clap-clap-clap.

Now, maybe by
let's go
, they mean
hurry up and fall to your death
, but I choose to believe they're encouraging me. Their belief relights my dimming fire. Maybe I do have a little fight left in me.

Vanessa continues sawing away at the rope ladder. I reach into my pocket for my dented, burned lip balm. I twist the bottom three times. A plume of smoke wafts out like a breath on a cold day. That's it? I twist again. A limp laser beam shoots out a few inches and then wilts
and vanishes. I can't fault the gadget. It gave me what little life it had left.

I twist one more time and the Taser setting I never used explodes out of the tube, firing an electrode straight toward Vanessa. She shrieks and tumbles backward inside the helicopter. I haul my tired arms up the ladder and climb as fast as I can. I reach the top and jump inside the open door.

Vanessa lies in a gasping, panicky heap on the ground between the two rows of passenger seats.

“Bridget Wilder,” says the pilot in a cultured, amused voice I find instantly familiar.

“Sir Edward,” I say, taking in his white hair and dark glasses. “I mean, Edward.” Why do I keep calling him Sir Edward?

“Kill her,” yells Vanessa. “Throw her out of the helicopter. Squash her like the insect she is!”

“Why would we do that,” Edward says, “when we could use her to our advantage?”

“How?” says Vanessa, pulling herself up to sit on a chair.

“Yeah, how?” I say. I feel suddenly trapped and vulnerable. Two Dominions and one me in a helicopter. There's no easy way out this time.

“Imagine the satisfaction of bringing her to our side,
finding out how she thinks, extracting information about who she works for, taking all she's been taught, and using it to further our cause. Wouldn't that be interesting?”

Vanessa glows at being treated as an equal, at being noticed.

She gives me a slow, taunting smile. “Very interesting.”

“I'm not talking to you,” he says.

Vanessa looks confused. “Who are you talking to?”

Edward removes his dark glasses. His eyes vanish, leaving a strip of static. The rest of his features freeze and fade away. He raises a hand to his neck, pushes a finger to his chin, and his face falls off.

“My daughter,” says Carter Strike.

“Nanomask!” I shout.

“Nanomask,” he agrees, and pulls off the white wig.

I see Vanessa's mouth drop open.

“Four steps ahead, Blabby,” I crow. I'm lying. Strike's appearance is as big a shock to me as it is to her, but I figure I'm allowed to enjoy the moment.

“The CIA has your father,” Strike tells Vanessa. “The Forties is out of business. Now we have to figure out what to do with you.”

Vanessa looks from me to Strike. I see the emotions fly across her face. First, she's stunned. Then a little bit
weepy. Now she starts calculating. What angle can she work here? What character can she become? What weakness can she exploit? I see her features soften. Her eyes moisten. She clasps her hands together.

“I feel like I never really had a father,” she says to Strike in a wispy little voice. “Someone I could look up to. Someone who could show me right from wrong. You're a kind man, Mr. Strike, I can tell that just by looking at you. I'd like to learn from you. I'd like to . . . ow ow ow ow!”

Yeah, I threw Red at her. He bounced off her forehead—not enough to knock her out, just enough to shut her up. Just enough to let her know I won. We won. I get up to join Strike. As I rise, I hear a knock on the door. A knock on the outside of the helicopter door.

“Get that, would you?” he says, giving me a grin.

I slide the door open and Irina climbs in.

“Oh God,” moans Vanessa.

“You got away from me once,” says Irina. “That's not going to happen again.”

“Miss Ouspenskaya,” Vanessa pleads. “I never had a mother. Someone to teach me right from wrong.”

Irina cracks her knuckles. “Lesson one. What I'm about to do is wrong.”

Vanessa gives me an imploring stare. “Don't let her hurt me.”

“A minute ago you wanted me thrown off the helicopter,” I remind her.

“That's our thing.” Vanessa laughs desperately. “Our funny back-and-forth.”

“Sit down, Irina O,” says Strike. “No one's killing anyone.” He gestures to his earpiece. “I just got word from the CIA. Vanessa's being placed in a facility.”

“Wh-what kind of facility?” she stammers.

“A place where you'll be very happy,” says Strike.

“Or very unhappy,” says Irina.

“Most likely very unhappy,” agrees Strike.

Any fight left in Vanessa vanishes. She hugs herself and rocks back and forth in her seat.

I almost feel sorry for her. Almost

Irina sits down next to me and takes my hands in hers.

“Okay, now, we're going to spend some time together. We've got till Monday, so what do you want to do?”

“Well,” I say, “I've got this date I'm supposed to go on. I really need to find something to wear.”

“Date?” says Strike. “Aren't you a little young for that?”

“You think you have any say?” says Irina. “We'll find you something special for your date. Something that'll knock his eyes out. Not literally.”

Irina starts to plan our extensive shopping trip. As she talks, I catch Vanessa watching us out of the corner of her eye. She looks sullen and contemptuous. I have nothing more to say to her. But if I felt like talking, I'd say,
Having people who care about you doesn't make you weak, it makes you strong.

“Y
ou look nice,” says Sam. He's a little less confident than usual. A little less cool. A tiny bit nervous. “I mean, you always look nice. But tonight, you just . . . there's something about you. It's like you're lit from within. I know that sounds corny. You bring that out in me. I feel like I don't have to put on a front when I'm around you.”

“What means front?” says Zamira Kamirov, Sam's beautiful date for the evening.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think he was talking to me? Nope. Sam and Zamira hit it off so well during their
afternoon of fun and excitement in Manhattan that he pretended to release me from my debt of having to go on a date with him so he could cling on to Zamira's hand in case she floated back to heaven.

And that's fine by me. I was never going to go on a date with Sam. Well, not just him. If Sam had held me to it, I would have agreed to go out with him, but I would also have insisted on bringing Ryan, Joanna, Dale, Strike, and Irina, the people who meant the most to me during this frantic, terrifying trip to New York. As it turns out, I get to do just that.

Strike and Irina accompanied me to Brooklyn on Sunday afternoon so I could hang out with Joanna and present Alex Gunnery with a bunch of flowers as an apology for abusing her hospitality over the course of the weekend (and also for stealing and destroying her clothes, which I will not be telling her about). By this time, Joanna had convinced her to stop hating me. In fact, Alex had huge plans for my last night in New York.

“You're so lucky you came here when you did. There's an incredible festival of the best local musicians Brooklyn has to offer tonight at the bandshell.”

Alex took a breath and waited for my excited reaction. When I failed to provide one, she started yammering again.

“The Brooklyn Bandshell? In Prospect Park? The celebrated outdoor venue? I know you've heard of it. Legends perform there. Giants.”

“Actual giants?” asked Irina, giving me a nudge.

“Blues guitarists, reggae bands, singer-songwriters, zydeco legends, old-school rap heroes. I'll bet there'll be some clog dancers . . . ,” Alex said, her eyes widening with every fresh genre she named.

“That sounds incredible,” said Strike. “But we've got tickets for . . .”

I could see Strike's mind race. He said “the Knicks” at the exact same moment Irina said “the opera.”

It was painfully obvious they were both lying.

I saw the wounded look in Alex's eyes and punched Strike in the arm. “He's such a kidder,” I told her. “We'd love to go. Thank you so much.” I'd told enough lies for a lifetime these past few days. Why not relish the opportunity to spend time doing something relatively normal with no threat to anyone's life?

So this is where we are. Sitting in front of a huge shell-shaped stage while some half-blind, almost-dead blues legend plays guitar with his teeth. And he's the liveliest act in the entire show so far. But I don't care. I'm sitting next to Dale. We're sharing a pizza and we've got tonight and a bit of tomorrow before I go home.

“Worst music ever,” I say.

“Never heard anything as horrible,” he agrees. I let my head rest on his shoulder.

After a moment, he says, “This security job I'm doing. It's not going to last forever.”

“It'd be pretty weird if it did,” I say. “You'd be an old toothless man still pretending to be a hacker.”

“What I'm saying is, I probably won't stay in New York. I might come back to California.”

“But you don't know,” I say. “You don't know for sure. You might get another job you can't say no to.”

“Yes, but . . . ,” he starts to say.

“And I don't want you to say no,” I tell him. “I just want to know you're okay. I just want to hear your voice and get your texts and know wherever you are and whatever you're doing, there's a moment when you're thinking of me.”

“There's more than a moment,” Dale says. “There's always more than a moment.”

And with the sound of an ancient blues guitarist making his instrument bleat like a dying lamb, Dale and I kiss.

“Oooohhh,” chorus the concertgoers seated around us.

“Careful,” I hear Ryan yell. “She's still got bits of toilet on her.”

“She's got little bits of Squirrel as well,” laughs Sam.

Dale pulls away from me. “Too public,” he says. “Too many people.”

He gets up.

“You're going?” I say. “You're always going.”

Dale gestures around the crowded park. “I'm undercover,” he says. “Everyone's got a camera, everyone's got a microphone. All those phones freak me out.”

However upset I feel by his desire to leave, I can't say I don't understand. We spies live in a weird world. We can't trust anyone we don't know. At least I had this time with him. At least I know we both still feel the same.

“I'm Bluey Harvest and this is my brother, Creech,” drawls a voice from the bandshell. The old blues guitarist I will forever associate with my most recent kiss has left the stage. Two skinny dudes who wear faded dungarees and carry acoustic guitars gather around a microphone. “We're gonna play a song by the Louvin Brothers,” says one. “Hope y'all like it.”

The skinny dudes strum a few chords, and then they start to sing in harmony. “If I could only win your love,” they whine.

“Geese,” I fume.

“What?” says Dale.

A few seats down from me, Strike stands and holds
his hand out to Irina. She gets up and they slow-dance to the song. Little Lucien jumps up and holds his hand out to Joanna, who is not even a bit embarrassed; she gets right up and dances with the kid. Sam and Zamira are next. They make a lovely couple. Alex watches them with tears in her eyes. I see her search the row for an available man. Her gaze falls on Ryan. He puts his phone to his ear. “What's that? Armed robbery in progress on Atlantic Avenue? I'll be right there.” He makes a sorry face to Alex and runs off.

Which leaves me and Dale as the only non-dancers in our party.

“I know you've got to go,” I say.

“Maybe one dance,” he says.

So we hold each other for the duration of this terrible song I will never get out of my head. (Thanks, Louvin Brothers, whoever you may be.) I feel him close to me, his arms around my waist, my hands around his neck. When he's gone, I'll still have this feeling, and I'll hold on to it for a long, long time. When the song ends, I applaud with everyone else and I don't look around to see Dale slip away. But I do raise my hand and do a five-finger spider wiggle.

I feel someone touch my shoulder.

“That guy keeps running away from you,” Joanna
says. “You must be a horrible kisser.”

“The worst,” I agree.

“If it's any consolation, no one's going to want to kiss you when you're back at Reindeer Crescent,” she says.

“That's a relief.”

“But I'll be around to walk you to school,” she says.

I turn and stare at her.

“Big Log's on the mend,” she says. “She'll be home soon.”

“That's great.” I smile. “That's the best news.”

But it isn't. Joanna's eyes are watery. She chews her bottom lip. I see her glance in Alex's direction and then look over at little Lucien, who is gobbling a plate of ice cream. She does not want to leave this.

“You can come back and visit,” I tell her. “You can come back all the time. It'll be something to look forward to.”

“Not the same,” Joanna mutters.

“Jojo, come danthe,” squeals Lucien, running toward her.

“Coming, monster,” she says, wiping her eyes and putting on a happy face.

I feel horrible for my friend. I see Sam and Zamira, both looking gorgeous, taking pictures of their gorgeousness.
That could have been you
, a little voice in my head
says.
You and him looking gorgeous together. He wouldn't have run out on you. He would have made a clog dance contest movie for you.

“No knot,” I tell the little voice.

“No what?” says Strike, who wanders up to join me. Irina is by his side and they're both smiling at me. “Can we talk for a minute?” he says.

I nod.

“Somewhere a little more private,” says Irina.

Oh my God. They're getting back together.

We walk around the back of the bandshell.

I wait for them to break the big news.

Strike looks at Irina. She looks back at him. He nods and takes a breath.

“This is hard,” he says. “It's not something I thought would happen to me. Not at this stage in my life.”

“When you're so old and slow,” says Irina.

“You want to tell her?” says Strike. “Be my guest.”

“Tell me what?” I demand. I'm already thinking, Will they move to Sacramento? Will they want me to spend some of the year in New York with them? What about school? What do I tell Mom and Dad?

“The Forties isn't out of business,” says Strike.

“What's that now?” I say. This wasn't what I was expecting to hear.

“That's not how you start,” snaps Irina. “What happened was . . .”

“The CIA sees the Forties as an amazing resource,” says Strike. “The people under its umbrella, the innovations in tech and weaponry, the client list, and so . . .”

“And so they thought, why let all the warlords, billionaires, corrupt politicians, and crooked cops who use the services of the Forties look elsewhere?” says Irina.

“Why not keep it open?” says Strike. “Or at least, pretend to keep it open.”

“Like a fake Forties?” I say. “A faux-rties?”

“You're so smart,” Irina says, smiling.

“Yeah, a counterfeit Forties,” says Strike. “With a bootleg boss running the fake show.”

“You?” I say. “But you're done with spying; you're an old, burned-out spy. Your words.”

“The CIA doesn't think so,” says Irina. “They think there's life in the old dog. They think there's life in me, too.”

“You'd be running this knock-off Forties together?” I say.

They both nod.

I don't even know what to say about this. I don't think I like it. But I remember the mess Strike made of his life when he wasn't a spy. Maybe it's the only
thing he's good at. But Irina?

“You were out,” I say. “You were going to sing.”

“It's a younger woman's game,” she says. “This is a chance to make up for the bad things I did. This is a chance to work for the right side.”

“The CIA tried to kill you, both of you,” I remind them.

“And now they trust us so much they put us in charge,” says Strike.

“Well, good luck,” I say. I'm taken aback by this turn of events. I feel like I've just lost them both and I've only known Irina for a day and a half. They'll both be sucked into this massive fake operation that requires endless lies and double lives. They won't have time for me anymore. I'll be back in school, safe from harm but a million miles away from the action. I might hear about some bank president getting arrested and wonder if Strike and Irina had anything to do with it, but I won't know for sure. It was one thing to let Dale go back undercover without making a fuss, but to be reunited with both my birth parents and then have to stand back and watch them disappear into a world that has no place for me is something else.

“There's something else,” says Strike.

“We don't want you to be part of what we do,” says
Irina. “It's dangerous and it takes its toll. Look at what it's done to Strike.”

“We want you with your family in Reindeer Crescent,” says Strike. “That's where you belong.”

I nod. I already picture myself trudging to school, standing in line for lunch, ignoring Brendan Chew. Not much fun.

“The thing is, though, you're really good,” says Irina. “Nearly as good as I was when I started. Better than Strike.”

“Have I said one mean thing to you?” says Strike, giving Irina an exasperated glare.

“He brings it out of me,” shrugs Irina. “The way you pursued Vanessa. The fire in you. It would be such a waste to let that go.”

Once again, I wasn't expecting this.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“If a mission arises that involves a young person . . . ,” Strike says.

“Someone who's a criminal or a potential victim,” says Irina.

“Maybe you'd think about helping us out now and then?” says Strike.

I thought I was out and now it seems like I'm in. And way further in than I ever imagined. It means lying to my
family and friends. But then, one of my family and most of my friends now know what I am, and I'm never telling Mom and Dad under any circumstances.

“So what do you think?” says Strike.

What do I think?

“I am not a spy,” I tell them.

They both smile because they know only someone who is a spy would say something like that.

I smile, too, and then I head back to the concert, where the two skinny dudes are still on stage, strumming and whining their way through another classic from the Strangled Geese back catalog. I pass Little Lucien dancing with Alex, who has her eyes shut and is waving her arms in the air. Joanna sits alone at the end of an otherwise empty row of seats. I sit down next to her.

“This is literally the worst music anyone has ever made” are her first words to me.

“You can't clog-dance to it,” I agree.

“K-Clog could,” says Joanna.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Is that a challenge?” I ask. “Because Roxy is totally down for that.”

“With her one leg?” mocks Joanna.

“One's all you need,” I reply.

“Show me what you got,” she says.

“You can't even begin to handle what I got” is my brilliant retort.