Spy to the Rescue (7 page)

A
wave of shock crashes over me. Then a wave of relief. Then a wave of affection. Then a wave of anger. That's a lot of waves. I run out of the elevator and throw my arms around Strike. I pull away and punch him on the arm.

“Ow!” he says.

“I was scared to death. You send me those texts and then you vanish. You could have been dead!”

He gestures to himself. “Not dead,” he says. I notice he's lost a little weight. The being-packed-in-a-crate diet has its advantages.

“But I'd never have known,” I say, my voice shaking. “I had to find you. I had to go to your reeking apartment and overpower an intruder. I had to learn how to geo-fence. It's really hard! I had to lie to my family and my friend. I was worried I'd never see you again.”

“But you tracked me down,” says Strike, with a hint of pride.

His eyebrows raise as he notices Sam Gunnery. “And you brought a friend.”

“You don't look like a spy” are Gunnery's first words to Strike. I watch Strike's face harden and I wince. Why did I think trusting some kid I just met with my secrets was such an awesome idea?

“He's not really a friend,” I say quickly. “And he was just leaving.”

“He doesn't have to,” says Strike to Gunnery. “Any friend of Bridget's.”

“Again, not a friend,” I say. I shove Strike away from the elevator door, and as I do, I whisper, “Don't you think we need to talk? That guy in your apartment? The crate? The empty van outside your house? This place? What's going on?”

Strike puts his hands on my shoulders. Has he gotten taller? I check to see if he's wearing platform shoes.

“I know you've got a lot of questions. I understand
these last few days have been stressful for you. I wish you hadn't had to go through all that, but there's something I need you to see.”

Strike sounds calm. Not like a guy who's been stuck in a crate for ten hours. I feel like a rookie for panicking. This is Carter Strike. He's been in far more hazardous situations. That crate was probably like a hotel room to him. He probably passed the time formulating a strategy to turn the situation to his advantage. If he's here in New York, it's because he wants to be. The half smile on his face and his total lack of freak-outedness causes me to relax and shed my worries.

He throws an arm over my shoulder and holds out his other hand to Gunnery.

“Where are my manners?” he says. “Carter Strike.”

Gunnery says his name and tries to fake Strike out with a multileveled hip-hop handshake ending in an explode. This kid is so annoying! Strike matches him level for level. Gunnery looks deflated but also impressed. I direct a quick, disapproving headshake his way.

“Attempt to be cool, Gunnery,” I mutter.

“Let's go, guys,” says Strike.

In the middle of the thirty-ninth floor is an unmarked steel door with a security keypad on the upper right-hand side.

“This is the American Hook and Tin Company?” I say.

Strike presses six digits. The door unlocks. He pulls it open and ushers us inside.

I see no hooks or tin. What I see is a vast and never-ending library, but it's not the like the Reindeer Crescent school library. It's more like the Reindeer Crescent school football field. The bookshelves are around eight feet high and surround the entire floor. Wheeled wooden ladders provide access to the top shelves. I count thirty reading tables, each with six chairs, spaced in rows of five. The shelves and the floors are the same shade of dark brown burnished wood. I'm stunned by the size and unexpectedness of it. I want to see Gunnery's reaction, but he's staring at his phone. I give up on Gunnery and look at Strike. He smiles and points a finger upward.

There are ten stories above the thirty-ninth floor, and from where I stand I can see past floors of glass-paneled offices all the way up to the domed rooftop, where a series of interlocking skylights form the shape of a huge D for Dominion.

I exhale and turn to Strike, who nods and says, “I know.”

“So what is this place?” I say. “It's not the American Hook and Tin Company. It's a cover, right?”

Gunnery touches my arm. I wave him away. This is important. I turn back to Strike.

“For what? What's really going on up here? Why is it hidden away? How come there's no floor listed above thirty-nine?”

Gunnery taps me on the wrist. “Wilder,” he says.

“Not now,” I snap. I focus on Strike.

“I was wrong to worry about you but you were even wronger for letting me worry. You should have let me know you were okay. We're in each other's lives now.”

“You're right,” Strike says. “I'm selfish and thoughtless. Old habits die hard. But now that you're here . . .”

“Wilder,” says Gunnery, gripping my hand and actually dragging me away from Strike.

I whirl on him. “What?” Would anyone really blame me for giving this kid a good hard kick on the side of the head?

“The Squirrel delivered,” he says, and holds up his phone for me to see.

His screen shows the feed taken from a surveillance camera. There are two figures on the screen. Their movements are jerky and the feed freezes every few seconds, but I can make out two men running through a parking garage. The man being pursued is Carter Strike.

“Tell the Squirrel he's a little bit late,” I say.

“Check the time code,” says Gunnery.

On the top left corner of the screen, the time reads 15:15:09.

I look at my watch. It's fifteen minutes after three.

“You guys hungry?” says Strike.

I stare at my biological father. He seemed taller. He seemed thinner. But that doesn't mean . . .

“There's an awesome cafeteria on forty-five,” he says. “Best noodles in the city.”

“You ever been to Yun Nan Flavor Garden?” says Gunnery.

“In Borough Park?” says Strike. “Too chewy.”

“The access code you used to open the door,” I say. “Is it the same combination of numbers that opens the safe in your closet?”

Strike rubs his throat. He gives me an impatient glance. “Enough talking. Let's eat.”

“You can change the code after you tell me,” I say. “But you're not selfish and thoughtless. You picked my birthday, right?”

He throws up his hands. “Fine. I picked your birthday.”

“262003,” I say.

“That's it, tell the world,” says Strike.

“That's not my birthday,” I say. “And you're not Carter Strike.”

“Y
ou're scared, you're confused, you're tired, and you're hungry,” says the man with Carter Strike's face. “You don't know what you're saying. Come upstairs and lie down. There's a quiet room on forty-six where no one will disturb you.” He goes to take my arm. I jerk it away and jab my finger at him.

“Who are you?”

“Bridget, please,” says the man.

I feel a violent pull behind me. It's not Gunnery, who is frozen in place looking between his phone and the man with Strike's face and back. There is something going on in my backpack. It feels like there's an animal trapped in
there, trying to scratch, squirm, and kick its way free. But I don't have an animal in my backpack. I have something much more dangerous.

The man with Strike's face sighs and pulls a syringe from inside his jacket.

“I didn't want to do it this way,” he says. “I wanted us to get to know each other. I wanted you to trust me.”

The flap of my backpack tears open and all the marbles from my metal box shoot into the air and form a circle that revolves above the man's head.

“Backup. Now,” he says, touching a hand to his ear.

The marbles above his head spin faster. I see him look up, and as he does, something happens to his face.

It's like when the picture on a TV screen starts to break up during satellite interference. His eyes and nose freeze. Then they vanish. The mouth moves but no sounds emerge. And now it's gone. The face that was there a second ago is now a hail of static. The man raises a hand to his neck. He pushes a finger under his chin and his whole face peels off.

A white face-shaped piece of plastic drops to the floor.

“His face fell off,” says Gunnery.

“There's another one underneath,” I say.

“He's two-faced,” snorts Gunnery, who clearly loves getting the last word.

The man under what I'm guessing was some kind
of nanomask has a sallow complexion and big bulging eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but before a word emerges, the marbles engulf him. They swarm over his face, covering his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. He tries to scream for help but the scream is muffled. He tries to tear them off but the more effort he puts out, the harder they cling. As he struggles, I see his Strike-like wig come unglued and flop onto the ground.

“Wilder!” shouts Gunnery. “The shelves!”

Gunnery points at the row of bookshelves on the far end of the library. The books disappear as a hidden door slides open. A group of black-clad, grim-faced individuals come running out. Two guys, one girl.

“Gunnery,” I yell. “Take Red, find Strike!”

“Huh?” he replies.

I toss him my marble.

Gunnery catches Red and stares at him with awe. The woman who came from the shelves runs toward Gunnery. Red jumps out of his palm and rolls under the woman's left foot. She screams as her feet leave the ground and her head hits the hardwood floor with a thud that echoes around the library.

Red bounces back into Gunnery's hand.

“Follow the feed. Red'll know what to do,” I yell. “Now run!”

“This is so awesome.” Gunnery laughs and runs for the front door.

“I'll be fine, thanks for asking,” I call after him.

Two guys, probably angry, head in my direction.

“Anytime you're ready, marbles,” I call out.

They remove themselves from the face of the man who wasn't Strike and roll toward me. I feel myself rising into the air. Not high. Just about a third of an inch. Just enough for the marbles to mold themselves to the soles of my sneakers.

The fastest, angriest, and baldest of the black-clad, grim-faced backup guys reaches out to grab me. I go flying backward.

Remember the glory days of a few months ago when I was the proud owner of nanosneakers that gave me the speed and agility of a young gazelle? Those days are back!

The nanomarbles on my soles are every bit as fast as my supercharged sneakers once were. And they have to be, because my enemies are not playing.

“Don't kill her,” barks the guy. “Wound her if necessary.”

“I think it's going to be necessary,” says the other backup guy with a Southern drawl.

The Southern guy aims something that looks like a modified Taser at me. I think back fondly to my
much-missed laser lip balm with the Taser setting that I never mastered. I wish I had it now.

The Southern guy charges past his buddy and bears down on me.

“Take the shot!” yells the guy.

The Southern backup man smiles. “I believe I will.” He fires. The marbles jerk me sideways and into the air. I land on the middle rung of the nearest library ladder. I kick the protruding spine of a dictionary. The ladder shoots along the shelves, whizzing me level with the Southern guy. He aims his Taser at me. I grab a book from the shelves—an encyclopedia, big and thick. The Taser darts hit the book and I let out a loud yelping laugh.

“I love a good book!” I shout.

I kick my way up the shelves, picking up speed until I see another ladder dead ahead. I tense for a head-on collision. But the marbles are ahead of me. Before the two library ladders meet in an explosion of wood and wheels, I am thrown from my rung across the library and onto the nearest reading table.

I hear a noise above me. Up on the fortieth floor, another black-clad figure is perched on top of a glass panel, aiming another weapon at me, this one a long white cylinder. To my left, the backup man leaps athletically
from table to table until he's only two tables from reaching me.

“Okay, marbles, let's move,” I say.

But I don't move. I stay rooted to the spot, caught between the assailant above and the guy to my left.

I try to jump out of harm's way, but the marbles will not let me move.

“Not a good time to power down,” I yell.

The guy jumps toward me, his huge sinewy arms outstretched, his teeth bared. I glance up. The guy on the fortieth floor fires his weapon.

As a tiny black ball shoots straight at me, I feel a rocket launch under my feet. The marbles blast me into the air. I sail over the grasping arms of the guy. The black ball flies past me, and as it flies, it expands. The ball opens out, getting bigger and wider until I realize it has become a wire net. The net engulfs the guy, wrapping around him and then contracting, shrinking until the wire digs into his flesh, holding him tight and giving him no room to move. The bald guy falls onto the table and tries to rip his way out of the net. The more he struggles, the tighter the wires get.

I'm still being propelled into the air. The fortieth floor approaches. A few feet above me, the guy with the netgun trains his weapon on me, ready to take a second
shot. I feel my right leg suddenly jerked above me. The marbles cause me to kick high and hard enough to knock the netgun out of its owner's hands. The weapon falls toward me. I grab it and fire at him. A new net blasts out of the gun and wraps around the guy on the fortieth floor. I hear him scream. I out-scream him because suddenly I'm falling.

I feel the air rush past me as I plummet back down toward the reading table. From the corner of my eye, I see the Southern guy running toward me, his Taser aimed in my direction. I tense myself for the shock of the electrodes hitting me and also for the pain of hitting the table. This is not a fun situation, but somehow I summon the presence of mind to fire the netgun at the Southern guy. The third net bursts out of the weapon just as the marbles whip me away from the table and hurl me across the library. I land gracefully on top of another table. As my marbled soles roll me to safety, I gaze at my handiwork. One backup woman groans on the ground, unable to get to her feet. The man who used to wear Strike's face lies unconscious a few feet away. The guy wrapped in netting is struggling and cursing. And the Southern guy's in a similar situation. These battle-hardened pros were tough, experienced, and armed to the teeth. And yet . . . I win!

I extend my arms and, frustrated young ballerina that I am, do a little pirouette around the reading table. (You celebrate crushing your enemies your way, I'll celebrate it mine.) My next step is to reunite with what I hope is the real Carter Strike and then get him away from this massive building and its many mysteries. I feel totally up to the task.

I roll backward off the desk, land on the ground, and let myself keep rolling for a few feet, my eyes still trained on my groaning, struggling victims.

That's what happens when you underestimate the Young Gazelle.

I feel very pleased with myself. Behind me, I hear a
sssh
sound. I turn to see a library bookshelf disappear and the elevator it was hiding open to reveal four more black-clad bad guys. Three more
sssh
sounds. Three more bookshelves vanish. I do a quick count and there are now sixteen people of various genders, ages, and sizes, armed to the teeth with guns, knives, baseball bats, lead pipes, and in one case a little ax, charging across the library floor, headed straight toward me.

It took all I had to put three bad guys out of action. How am I going to cope with sixteen?

I jump on the nearest table. The marbles break away from the soles of my sneakers and form a protective circle
around me. Nice try, guys, but I have a bad feeling we're all outnumbered.

I hear a sound, kind of a splat, but quieter. Maybe a plop. Something either splatted or plopped on to the ground close to me. I search the glass-strewn floor of the gym and see something small, pink and squishy. Is that . . . gum? Semi-chewed gum?