The Doublecross (19 page)

Step 2: Get out of here

I hurried down the hall to the side door of the ballet room. It wouldn't take long for the smoke to fade, and then . . .

“Hey! Watch it!” someone snapped as I plowed into him. I stumbled, struggling to hold on to all the stolen folders, and then I face-planted into the dirt. The speaker snorted—I knew that snort.

“Walter?” I said, lifting my head. It was him.

“What'd you do in there?” he asked, looking at the smoke billowing out the side of the building.

“Smoke bomb. Thanks for all your help with that escape,” I snapped, getting to my feet. My tolerance for Walter's crappy fieldwork was at an all-time low.

“Hey, I was coming back! That's why I'm here instead of at SRS!”

“You're
here
because SRS isn't sending the agent to pick us up until three!” I said as we tromped around the side of the building.

“It's not my fault—this wasn't in the mission packet! We should have planned an emergency exit. We should have—Are you wearing jewelry?”

I fought the urge to flinch—if I did, Walter might see it and realize something was up. So I rolled my eyes. “Those wrestlers did it to make fun of me. You know—sort of like how you and your friends call me Hale the Whale?”

“That's different. We're just kidding,” Walter said, scoffing. We were nearly to the lower parking lot now, and I could hear shouting back at the school. I was pretty sure that at this point they'd be calling the police rather than the state athletic association.

“Yeah, a joke. It's hilarious, Walter. A real riot,” I muttered, reaching up to yank the com off.

A squeal of tires. Walter and I both spun around and tensed. It was a shiny black car, like one of the dozens SRS had in their garages. I couldn't decide if I was offended—clearly, SRS thought we might fail, and they'd built in an exit strategy. But then again, we
needed
it, especially now that I could hear sirens in the distance. The car came to a screeching halt in front of us and, without missing a beat, Walter lunged for the door and leaped inside. I followed him, dragging the door shut behind me, and the driver mashed
the accelerator to the ground. We fishtailed as we cut out of the parking lot and back onto the street.

“Whoa,” Walter called out to the agent driving. “Won't this car give us away? What happened to the van?”

“Seriously? You seriously think the
car
is what's going to give us away?” I muttered, and Walter scowled at me.

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” a woman's voice answered.

My chest went all cold. The driver's eyes flicked back to me.

It was Oleander. This wasn't SRS's exit strategy; it was The League's. Walter Quaddlebaum was in the car with The League, and I was the one responsible for it. I tried to keep my face steady; maybe Walter wouldn't even notice. There were hundreds of agents at SRS, and even though we knew them all one way or another, it was easy to get them mixed up . . .

“Wait, who are you?” Walter asked, leaning over the center console. It had duct tape on it, patching a few holes. The car's upholstery was likewise tattered—this was the League's car.

“I'm Agent Macoby,” Oleander said swiftly. “I'm usually in Tactical Support? With Agent Smith?” Oleander's voice was smooth and sure—she'd even name-checked an actual Tactical Support agent, though I suspected she'd just taken a super-generic last name and run with it.

“I know Agent Smith, but then how do I not know you?
I know everyone in Tactical Support. Hale, do you know her?”

“Sure! Yeah, Agent Macoby. You don't remember?”

Walter stopped. He looked at my face for a long time.

I was a great liar—or actor, if you'd rather call it that. But Walter and I went way back, far enough back that even though we weren't friends anymore, he still knew all my tells. I saw the shock of realization in his eyes—that there was something going on with me and this stranger driving us around in a crappy car. He sat back, but his eyes kept flitting between me and Oleander. I tried to think of all the possible ways this could end.

Option one: Oleander drives us back to SRS. She can't park the car inside, because it isn't actually an SRS car. She can't come in with us, because she's the director of SRS's enemy organization. So we would be caught. I would be exposed as a double agent. Kennedy would get sent to live in the dorms and I'd meet some terrible fate.

Option one was no good. It'd have to be option two.

“Walter?” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I'm sorry about this.”

“Sorry about wha—” he began, but he didn't get to finish, because I zapped him with the BEN Seeing You.

Oleander looked at me in the rearview mirror. “All right, Hale. Where to?”

“Does SRS even
have
agents who aren't kids?” Beatrix asked thoughtfully, tilting her head to one side. We were gathered around Walter in the League's gym. He was still out cold; Oleander and I had carried him down here and heaved him onto a mat. I'd asked Clatterbuck to go pick up Kennedy (which explained his race car driver costume). I figured that having another SRS person here to explain things couldn't hurt.

“Of course!” Kennedy said. “He's just a junior agent.”

“Does that mean he's even better than Hale?” Beatrix asked, eyes wide that this was even possible. I pretended hearing that didn't sting, but really, a little part of my heart sank. SRS was already the Walter Quaddlebaum show, so it was kind of sad to think of The League becoming one too.

But Kennedy laughed Beatrix's question off. “No way. No
one's better than my brother; they just think they are.” The others nodded, like they should have realized this, and that sinking part of me lifted back up. Kennedy went on. “You know,
I'm
going to take my junior agent exam soon. Then I can be a double agent too.”

“No,” I said.

“What? Why not! You get to be a double agent!”

“She has a point,” Clatterbuck said. “I mean, technically, anyway—”

“Don't encourage her!” I said, which was something Mom always said to Dad when he was teaching Kennedy how to back-talk in Cantonese.

“Don't encourage who?” Walter asked sleepily.

We all stopped talking. Clatterbuck, Ben, and Beatrix each took a giant step back. Oleander, who was hanging a little farther away from us anyhow, clasped her hands neatly like she was preparing for a fancy business meeting. Based on my own attempted escape from The League, Oleander had already asked Clatterbuck to disable the sprinkler systems. I thought that wise.

Walter's eyes were still closed. “Did we . . . Were we compromised?” he asked, like he couldn't quite figure out if this was a dream or not.

“No,” I said. “But we aren't at SRS, Walter.”

“Huh?”

“We're . . . at League headquarters.”

Walter's eyelids snapped open and he jumped up. Or at
least, he tried to—the gym mat that he was on was squishy, so he sank, lost his footing, and toppled over to the side. Ben and Kennedy had to leap out of the way.

“Walter, stop—stop!” I shouted as he found his footing and spun around, panicked. He looked like some sort of wild animal, ready to charge at whomever he needed to in order to escape being caught. His eyes landed on Beatrix. I could see him determining she would be the easiest to barrel through. So I dived on top of him.

“Get off me!” he roared as I tackled him back onto the mat. Kennedy, seeing that he was about to get away, dived on top of me, flinging red hair all in my eyes and knocking the wind out of me.

“What are you two
doing
?” Walter shouted, trying to twist away. He sounded terrified, and I couldn't help but remember the first time I was in The League—before I knew that the scariest thing in this building was the back of the cafeteria's fridge.

“Just listen!
Walter
. Listen,” I said, making my voice calm. “It's not what you think. If you just listen, we'll get off you.”

Walter stopped, though I wasn't sure if it was because he was willing to listen or because he was just out of breath. Kennedy eased off me and then I slowly eased off Walter, holding my palms out like I was steadying a vase. Walter's eyes stayed on Oleander, Clatterbuck, and the twins, darting between all of them.

“They're League agents? That lady—she was our driver. She's a League agent?” he asked quietly.

“I'm actually the director,” Oleander said. I cringed and then dived back on top of Walter before he had a chance to run again.

It took another ten minutes to convince him not to run, and even then, he only agreed to stand still if everyone from The League took six steps backward. It seemed a reasonable compromise.

“You're working with The League? Hale. They took your parents,” Walter said, looking horrified.

“They didn't, though. That's what I'm saying. I broke into this place to look for them, and all I found were Beatrix, Ben, and a bunch of old gym equipment.”

“
You
broke into League headquarters?” Walter asked, and I shrugged. He shook his head. “No, no. You're crazy. You and Kennedy both. Maybe Fishburn will let this go; maybe you're just traumatized over your parents getting compromised. I'll tell him you did well on the last mission. I'll put in a good word with Otter, even. But . . . you doublecrossed SRS. Hale, you know what they do to doublecrossers.”

I looked over to Ben; he nodded and handed me the printout from SRS that I'd asked him to have on hand for this. I unfolded it and gave it to Walter.

“And this is what they do to their loyal agents, Walter. They put my parents In the Weeds.”

Walter's eyes widened. He rubbed the paper between his fingers and then flapped it a little, trying to tell if it was a fake. When he realized it wasn't, his eyes went wider.

“SRS wants my parents dead—
my parents
. The most loyal agents in the world.
The Team
. The League aren't the bad guys—they're barely even functioning these days. Look around. This isn't an elite spy facility. It's barely even a facility. Come on, Walter—you know me, or at least, you used to. Do you really think I'm the type to do something this crazy without being sure?”

A long pause settled over the room. Then hoarsely Walter said, “No.”

I took a deep breath. “All right. Well, then. This is Dr. Oleander. That's Beatrix. She's a computer genius, basically. She wrote an entire sub-program overnight a few weeks ago. And that's her brother, Ben. Ben invented the BEN Seeing You thing that I zapped you with—”

“Have you seen any spots, by the way?” Ben asked.

“Uh, no,” Walter answered.

“Oh. Well, if you see some spots, don't worry. It's all part of the process.”

“Great,” Walter said, sounding defeated. His eyes rose to Clatterbuck.

“And I'm Stan Clatterbuck, their uncle,” Clatterbuck said, grinning broadly and extending a hand to Walter. I probably should have suggested he take his race car driver costume off before making the introduction.

Walter shook Clatterbuck's hand weakly, like the man was maybe just a figment of his imagination. I sighed. “Can I talk to Walter alone for a minute, guys?”

Everyone nodded.

“Nice to meet you, Walter!” Beatrix called out as they filed out of the gym. “Hale, could you check the time when he sees those spots? We need to log it!”

I walked over and dropped down on the mat beside Walter. He kept folding and unfolding the SRS printout.

“I know it's hard to believe.”

Walter finally put the printout down. “I always wondered why I couldn't be a chef.”

I blinked. This was not the response I'd expected.

Walter continued, “I mean, I'm not saying I want to be a chef. But I get nervous in the field, and then it took me ages and ages to even be able to do half the physical stuff, and I'm still no good with languages, and I just . . . I always wondered if I could be something else. So one time I asked my mom.”

“What'd she say?”

“She said that I was going to be an SRS agent, and that was all there was to it. Then she said I should be more like you, actually. Even when you were terrible at something, you were always trying to get better at it. You always cared so much. You wanted to be a field agent so bad.”

“Yeah, and look where all that got me,” I scoffed. “My parents are In the Weeds, my sister and I are traitors, and I still can't run a mile.”

“But you still quit SRS,” Walter said.

I didn't know what to say.

“Anyhow,” Walter went on, “ever since then I've wondered what kind of place doesn't let people quit. So I guess it's not really surprising that the answer is: a bad place.”

Walter looked around, taking in the crappy gym equipment, the closet full of Ben's inventions, the outdated fitness posters on the walls. “Did you know League headquarters looked like this before you broke in?”

“No,” I answered. “I was expecting SRS. But The League hasn't had a mission in years.”

Walter frowned. “They must be doing
some
sort of spying on us, though. That Oleander lady knew Agent Smith was in Tactical Support.”

“Smith? That was a lucky guess on a common name. Seriously, Walter—it's nothing like we thought. No heavy artillery, no war rooms, no undercover ops, no junior agents, even. The League is just . . . well . . .
this
,” I said, motioning to the dilapidated gym.

Walter licked his lips as he looked around. “So. You thought The League was everything we've been told, and you came anyway. Wow, Hale. Imagine what Michael and Cameron would think if they knew—”

I cringed at the mention of the Foreheads. “You can't tell them. Walter, you can't tell anyone. It's too dangerous.”