Blonde Ops (34 page)

Dragging myself toward the elevator where Case no longer asked to search my backpack or demanded ID, I thought about sleeping for a week.

“Miss Jackson?” called the concierge at the desk.

I turned wearily. “Yes?”

“You have a delivery.”

“Delivery?” The last thing I needed right now was more homework, but when he pulled it out from under his counter, it wasn't a manila envelope but a rectangular box.

“Would you like us to send it up?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I'll take it.” I was immediately sorry as soon as I grabbed it. It was heavier than I expected. Staggering to the elevator, I went straight up to the suite. Once inside, I put it on the coffee table. Still overwhelmed by the last few days, my body demanded rest. I took a long, hot bubble bath, then pulled on my pj's even though it was only around three o'clock. I wasn't going anywhere, with anyone.

After a while, I turned on my laptop. I'd hidden it in the office as usual during Mrs. Jennings's interview and hadn't thought of going back for it in the chaos after she went missing. It turned out to be a good thing. I couldn't imagine having to drag my backpack through the sewers, up all the stairs, and then on the wild car ride. Once the interrogation by Inspector Poulet was over, I had asked Candace about it, and she'd had one of the agents retrieve my gear.

When I signed into my e-mail account, the monitor went black, and a message in green letters came up, filling up the entire screen.

Bec,

I'm sorry for the way things had to turn out, but I did it to save my brother. I can't tell you more than that. This message is as much as I can or am willing to risk. It's very important to me that you know I wasn't going to let anyone get hurt.

Especially you.

One day we will meet again and I hope to convince you not to hate me. I'll do whatever it takes.…

Taj

The message blinked on the screen, refreshing itself over and over. I read it again and again, growing angrier with each pass. Taj was looking to swap Mrs. Jennings for his brother—and he wasn't going to let anyone get hurt? Was he kidding? Then why the guns? And what about Parker? And the threats? We were all put in danger. And now I would
have
to hand my laptop over to Candace—after I wiped my personal things and not-always-so-kosher stuff from it. I didn't want to mess with Taj's message in any way. The Secret Service or Interpol tech people would be able to trace the e-mail, see where he sent it from, see—

Blip!

The message disappeared. And a string of commands popped up.

Erase all file folders …

Erase all program folders …

“No, no, come back!” I practically shrieked, furiously tapping commands on the keyboard while yelling them too.

“
Stop!

“
Cease!

“
Halt!
”

I watched helplessly as file after file was erased. Programs, music, and movies I'd bought/stolen/borrowed, photos, homework files. Then the command doubled back, erasing itself like a snake eating its tail. One by one the strings of text disappeared until it was a single line, then a handful of letters, and finally, a big, black nothing.

I fumed, and, grabbing the laptop cover, was about to slam it shut when the screen went bright green. There was a crackle and hiss and the smell of burning plastic. I pulled my hand away.

My baby!

My hand flew to my mouth as I heard the slow draining sound of machinery shutting down. A final crackle and the screen went black again. I scrambled for my backpack and pulled out my tool kit. Flipping the laptop over, I pried open the back case, but I knew it was hopeless even before I saw the motherboard. The circuitry was nothing but a silver blob with plastic bits sticking into it like sprinkles on melted ice cream.

My eyes filled. Oh, I had backup files on a flash drive for almost everything, and this one time I was lucky I had done all of my homework on paper,
but still
! Apart from the machine, I probably hadn't lost much, but that wasn't the point. This was mine, and Taj destroyed it on purpose. Those bots that he planted did one last lethal job—kill any evidence in my possession.

Taj was right; I was a pathetic hacker.

And he was sorry. Yeah, okay, sure.

The delivery box resting against a chair caught my eye. I studied the label; there was no return address. Taking out my phone—always good to have a plan B for accessing the Internet—I entered the tracking information. The box had been sent from the United States only two days before. I thought back.
The day Mrs. Jennings was supposed to be swiped from the Vatican.
There was no name under sender because it had been paid for in cash.

Carefully I peeled off the label and opened the box.

Holy moly …

It was a factory-sealed, direct from the manufacturer, M14x Alienware laptop. Top-of-the-line, with a backlit keyboard in—what else?—neon pink.

I searched the packing slip. It had been ordered directly from Alienware and came with a lifetime warranty and upgrade package. If I had a problem, I could always send it back and have them send me a brand-new one. Should I trust it?

Because I knew who it was from—name or no name.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Change is good. Don't be afraid of doing something really different—with your hair, makeup, or daily routine. Whatever you choose to change, make sure it has YOUR signature.

34

The
Edge
office remained closed so the new Secret Service detail could do their thing: clean up, gather evidence, and conference with their colleagues back in the U.S. This gave me a chance to examine and reconfigure my new laptop. Having determined that it was, indeed, clean, I installed the new version of Ninja Assassin and retrieved the latest messages in the virtual meeting room.

Looks like T-bone is 1337,
said DR#4.

1337—“leet”—the hacker term for the best there is. Taj better hope that he really was elite; he had a lot more than pulling pranks at stake. Unfortunately, I couldn't share everything I'd learned about Taj/Tajo, but I'd planted a seed. Fashionistas weren't the only ones interested in him now. This would be a constant itch for the off-grid community. They'd be searching for his signature and wouldn't stop until they found him.

When the magazine was cleared to resume operation the day after, Kevin took over the editor's office. Candace had given Sophie the day off, but she went in to help Kevin move his stuff. Varon stayed behind to make sure everything ran smoothly while he recouped. He had Joe to keep him company and take care of him. Ugi was planning to move to a high-end salon for a change and a fresh start. Aldo and Angelo were still arguing and still being pestered by Francesca for a photo op.

Candace took me out as a reward. We stopped in boutiques where she insisted I needed this Miu Miu dress and that Prada wallet—all next season's, of course, and written off on the
Edge
expense account—on the condition I didn't mind keeping quiet about the whole matter. Since I hadn't gotten paid, I felt I deserved it.

“What I want to know is how you managed to keep everyone and everything quiet,” I said, reclining back, letting the stylist at Contesta Salon reenvision my hair. “Somehow, even with all those people gaping and taking pictures, there was nothing in the news about the First Lady or you guys, or Dante, Kevin, Sophie, or me … anywhere.”

Candace cocked a sharp blonde brow at me, her face unreadable. “Sometimes what seems like an interesting story turns out to be nothing; some kids playing pranks with smoke bombs, or the police showing up at the wrong house in response to a family squabble.”

Unbelievable, I thought, but I didn't mind being out of the limelight. The last thing I wanted was to be famous. I'd done the ant-under-the-glass routine, and it was really overrated. But I intended to work my heroine status to my advantage a little longer: I wanted to choose my next school—or maybe no school. I liked this “independent learning” thing. A private tutor might be the way to go. Both Candace and Parker had promised to back me up. How could my parents object?

“What's going to happen to Serena?” I asked. Everyone else was accounted for—save for Taj, of course.

Candace closed her eyes in spa bliss. “Serena is having an extended vacation in an Italian jail, but I hear she has a nice view and is getting the help she needs.”

I nodded, hoping that for Serena's sake, they allowed eyeliner in prison.

“You ready?” Pia, the stylist, asked.

I nodded.

I kept the pink, but just a little. When we stepped out into the perfect sunny afternoon, my hair was chin-length, and instead of the neon pink, it was a pearly platinum blush and swished softly around my face. Maybe I'd start a new trend. I was so over neon.

For now.

“Hungry?” Candace asked as we strolled down Via del Pigneto.

Shopping bags banged against my legs. It was hungry work, being pampered and carrying all this loot. “Famished,” I said, working a “poor, pathetic me” look.

She grinned. “I know a good place close by.” Smoothing back her own salon-fresh hair, she looked at me. “Mrs. Jennings has extended an invitation to you, Kevin, Sophie, and Dante to visit her and the President at the White House.”

“Will you be there?” I asked.

I hoped this wasn't the last I'd see of Candace Worthington. She'd grown on me—in her odd, bitchy way.

She leveled a secretive smile at me. “You know I'm going to show up. Sometime. Somewhere.”

 

Acknowledgments

First, to my agent, Natalie Lakosil of the Bradford Literary Agency, because she brought the
Blonde Ops
team together: editors Peter Joseph and Kat Brzozowski, and of course coauthor Natalie Zaman. To family, friends, the writing community, bloggers, and book lovers who have encouraged and anticipated this book. I wish I could name you all, but you know who you are. To my family for putting up with leftovers or pizza and a messy house, and my cats for missed playtime, and my garden for letting the weeds take over—thanks for your patience and support. And no, sons, I'm still the only one getting the Lamborghini (eventually). And finally, a huge thanks to Google, who made research on everything from the Secret Service to what a certain street in Rome looks like possible while sitting at my laptop in my jammies.

—Charlotte Bennardo

Working on
Blonde Ops
has been such a great experience, and I have so much to be grateful for, especially the people who made it possible. Huge thank-yous to:

Super-agent Natalie Lakosil, for making it happen and connecting Char and I to our amazing editors, Kat Brzozowski, Peter Joseph—and Tristan, somewhat anonymous but always insightful.

Leanna Renee Hieber, Molly Cochran, Shannon Delany, and Kristi Cook, for reading early drafts of
Blonde Ops
and for their kind words.

The book blogging community, and especially Tanya Contois and Bridget Connors, who supported us from Sirenz and beyond.

Audrey Jankucic and Suzanne Garris, for sharing your Italian adventures with me.

Emma Coleman, sartorial guru.

My friends and family, who put up with my moods, ever-changing schedule, and general mayhem—especially Raz and Asim, for technical expertise and patience with my endless questions and repeated requests for explanations of how things work.

The folks at Hack a Day,
2600
magazine, and the organizers of H.O.P.E.

And of course, my coauthor, Charlotte Bennardo—because there is no “I” in team.
♥

—Natalie Zaman

 

ALSO BY CHARLOTTE BENNARDO & NATALIE ZAMAN

Sirenz Back in Fashion

Sirenz

 

About the Authors

Always looking for a character to mess with, Charlotte Bennardo
(left)
loves to write young and new adult and middle-grade fiction, although she has written nonfiction articles and poetry as well. With her family, two spoiled cats, and a squirrel who sometimes visits, she lives in central New Jersey.

 

Natalie Zaman writes and works her magic from central New Jersey, where she lives with her family and several fine-looking chickens.

 

Together, Natalie and Charlotte are the authors of the Sirenz series (
Sirenz
and
Sirenz
Back in Fashion
).

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

BLONDE OPS.
Copyright © 2014 by St. Martin's Press, LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.