Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) (8 page)

I can’t think about this right now. I have to figure out what’s going on. Lives could be at stake.

Resolving to keep Emery in the dark about his father for the time being, I texted him about what had transpired, mentioning Moreau and the security guard and what I had gleaned.

He texted back:
Examine the exhibit. Report anything unusual
.

Without a moment to lose, I was on my feet and on my way.

~~~

I peered around the corner of the tomb’s exit and didn’t see Mr. Phillips or Moreau in the vicinity. Nor did I see my friends.

Good, they’ve moved on to another exhibit,
I thought, making a beeline for the nearest case displaying Queen Kiya artifacts. I adjusted my vision and slowly scanned the items lining the shelves, but saw nothing more than dust particles, fingerprint smudges, and stray hairs. The next display case didn’t reveal anything either. I wasn’t having much luck on the third display case when Chad’s scent wafted up my nose.

“What do you want?” I said, not bothering to turn around.

“Hi to you, too.” He pressed his back against the case and looked at me. I studied artifacts. “How’d you know I was there?” he asked, all grin and dimples.

“Spidey sense,” I smart-mouthed. I sidestepped left so I could see around him into the case. He slid between me and the glass.

I glared at him. I didn’t have time for stupid games.

“Why are you so interested in this stuff?” he asked.

“I’m an interesting person.”

“You’re funny.”

“You’re not. Go away.” I stepped right. So did he.

“What were you doing in the tomb?” He smiled like he thought he had me.

Chad was watching me? Did he see Emery’s dad?

I willed my rising panic not to show on my face and looked Chad square in the eye. “What’s it to you?”

“I don’t care.” He smirked. “But Mr. Loescher might.”

“Well, why don’t you run off and tell him, then,” I said, waving for him to go. I turned to an ornate throne carved of wood.

Chad stepped ahead of me and parked his backside in it.

“Get up,” I ordered.

“Why?”

“Because it’s
priceless,
and your butt isn’t.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Pig,” I muttered, and turned my back to him again, walking toward Queen Kiya. Chad jumped to his feet and blocked my progress.

“
What
do you
want
?” I demanded, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

“I want you to go out with me.”

I laughed, incredulous. The guy was a fool. I moved around him and continued on to Queen Kiya’s coffin.

“I’m being serious,” he insisted, catching up with me.

“You didn’t even know I existed until I knocked you down yesterday.”

“That’s not true. I always thought you were hot.”

“I’d be bad for your rep.” I examined the golden death mask made in the queen’s likeness. Kiya had been very beautiful. “Plus, your girlfriend might object.”

“Oh, you’re worried about Robin?” he said, as if the rejection finally made sense. “I can solve that issue in about a minute.”

“You’d be doing her a favor,” I retorted, my eyes traveling down the neck of the mask. So far I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.

“Robin’s right about you,” he spat. “You are a—” And he called me a name that Robin had certainly called me on several occasions.

“Sweep me off my feet, why don’t you?” I called after him as he stormed away. I wasn’t usually this antagonistic. Chad just brought out the worst in me.

My eyes shifted to the crown perched on the queen’s chest.

A voice came over the loudspeaker: “Queen Anne High School students, please return to the lobby.”

I let out an exasperated breath and prayed Mr. Phillips was long gone and hadn’t heard the unfortunate announcement.

“It would be just my luck if he had,” I grumbled, and made haste for the lobby with the rest of my schoolmates who had been lingering in the exhibit.

Six

Riley and Her Bounty Hunters

We arrived back at school fifteen minutes before dismissal. Emery was out front, waiting for me.

“See ya,” I said to my friends after we had gotten off the bus. I made my way to Emery, who was leaning against the flagpole, wearing his “mission” face. “What are you doing here?” I scolded. Emery abided by school rules—when they suited him.

“Skippin’ class,” teased David Hsu as he passed by. He patted Emery’s shoulder and moseyed along.

“Let’s go,” Emery ordered.

I tossed my arms. “The bell hasn’t even rung yet!”

“We’ll miss the bus if we don’t go now.” Emery caught me by the coat.

“Where are we going?” I asked as he pulled me along. I really hated getting detention.

“On a field trip.”

“But you know I didn’t find anything.” I assumed his field trip meant going back to the museum.

“We’re not looking for clues. You’re meeting my employer.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Emery practically had to race me to the bus depot.

~~~

From my seat at the back of the bus, I called my mom to let her know I was running an errand with Emery. Then Emery explained exactly what that entailed.

“Riley is an expert on security systems,” he whispered. “Let’s just say she
specializes
in them.”

I nodded, assuming he meant she had worked for ADT Home Security or something. His next statement proved me wrong. Emery meant bigger
security systems, much bigger, like for a bank.

“I need to draw on her expertise to break into the museum.”

“Okay,” I said, not taken aback in the least. Considering Emery’s other shenanigans, breaking into the Denny was somehow predictable. I even had a good idea what my role would be. “So I dress up like a mummy and stop the heist?”

Emery looked crestfallen. “Well, that’s a letdown,” he admitted. “No shock? No outrage? No protests?”

“None.”

He frowned. “You take all the fun out of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure there will be plenty of
fun
.” His dad’s face flashed into my mind’s eye. Quickly, I blotted it out. This was not the time to tell Emery about Mr. Phillips’s involvement, or so my gut said.

“You have something to share,” Emery’s voice broke into my mental deliberation.

I met his scrutiny. His stare was intense, as if trying to penetrate my skull to see what was tumbling around in there.

Thank heavens he can’t.

“What do you think Assassin has to do with this?” I misdirected.

“You read my mind,” Emery teased. “There are details about the Assassin Project that will shed light on what’s likely going on. As you know, my mom decided to shut down the project when she got wind of corruption. What you don’t know is that Arthur King Sr. was at the heart of the nefarious doings. For security reasons, she created five research teams to develop different components of Assassin. Her reasoning was that one person should not have complete access to data for a weapon that could be used to assassinate key world leaders, topple governments, and wreak global havoc, other than herself.

“Her decision met much criticism, especially from her employer, Arthur King. The acting secretary of defense at the time supported her and mandated that all Assassin research be destroyed when she advised it. My mom learned, after these orders had presumably been executed, that King had paid a scientist from each of the five teams to copy data onto a microchip. Individually, the microchips hold little threat. Put them together, and the Assassin development can be resumed. King was in the process of collecting microchips when his private jet crashed—”

“The crash he was killed in?”

“The crash he somehow survived and used to throw the government off his trail, according to my mom.”

“How does she know this?”

“This may come as a shock to you, but she was not ‘at liberty’ to disclose how she knew.” Emery smiled wryly. I tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. The Phillipses were a strange bunch.

“However, she did reveal that three of the scientists had double-crossed King. They hid their microchip and demanded more money. Subsequently, all three scientists died under suspicious circumstances, including the two who did hold up their end of the bargain with King. Obviously, King doesn’t like leaving loose ends.”

“You mean he murdered them?”

“That would be my guess.”

I nodded. This was a lot to take in. “So King has two microchips—”

“Four, presumably. When King Jr. held my mom captive, he revealed they had four microchips and were in the process of acquiring the fifth, which I’m guessing is hidden somewhere in the Queen Kiya exhibit.”

“But how would King know?”

“I doubt he would have killed anyone without knowing the microchips’ locations first.”

“You mean he tortured the scientists?”

“The condition of the bodies made it difficult for coroners to determine the cause of death.”

I sank back into my seat, processing. Torture. Murder. A top-secret biological weapon in the hands of a madman . . .

What was Emery’s dad’s role in all of this? Did he work for King? What would his motivation be?

Money
, I concluded. There was no other explanation.

In that moment, everything fell into place. Mr. Phillips’s long absences, Junior being acquainted with him, Mr. Phillips showing up with perfect timing for Junior’s prison break, the conversation in the tomb, the danger he exuded like radioactive energy . . . Mr. Phillips had been rounding up microchips all these years. Maybe he had them, and not King.

Maybe he had even murdered those scientists.

“I have to stop him,” I said out loud.

“
We
have to stop King,” Emery corrected, misunderstanding—thank goodness.

“Why did King kidnap your mom?” I forced my mind away from Emery’s dad. King knew Serena didn’t have the microchip, so what further use would she be to him?

“He needs someone to create Assassin after he has acquired the recipe. Who better than chief scientist of the program?”

It made sense. “So this means King is close?” I surmised, glancing around at the other passengers. How would their lives be affected if King gained possession of the fifth microchip?

Or if Emery’s father gained it?

“King believes he is,” Emery said. “Here’s our stop.” He reached across me to yank the cord.

As the bus eased toward the curb, he gave me a rundown of vital information I needed before we met Riley and her bounty hunters. “You know that I’m a college graduate, that I do skip tracing for Riley, which you think is extremely cool, by the way.” The bus halted, and we stood up. He stepped into the aisle and added, “Oh, and you’re my girlfriend.”

“Your
what
?” I blurted.

The woman who had slid in behind Emery smiled at me. “You’re his girlfriend, dear,” she said loudly, causing heads to turn.

Emery’s shoulders shook with laughter.

~~~

We entered an older brick building that stood only blocks from the museum. Opting for stairs over the ancient elevator, we wound up three flights, entered a corridor, and walked to the door at the end of the hall.

O’S
HEA
B
AIL
B
ONDS
was painted in bold, no-nonsense letters across the obscure glass.

“Ready?” Emery clasped the doorknob.

I nodded, suddenly not feeling very ready at all.

“Shall we hold hands?” Emery winked, obviously trying to settle my nerves, but that just wasn’t going to happen. Being struck with shyness wasn’t unusual for me when meeting someone new.

“Why did you tell them I’m your girlfriend?” I whispered.

“I didn’t. I told them about the beautiful girl I live across the street from. They drew their own conclusions.” He began turning the knob. I placed my hand over his hand to stop him.

“So you didn’t lie and tell them I’m your girlfriend?”

“Of course not. Only a fool would lie to Riley.”

“Whoever’s out there, grow some cojones and come in!” a man shouted from inside. He had an Irish accent.

My eyes widened on Emery.

“You’ll love them,” he assured me and pushed the door open. “Nice first impression, Mickey.”

I peeked around Emery. Mickey’s hands were folded behind his head, feet propped up on a desk stacked with files. He wore jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, a pewter Celtic cross around his neck, cowboy boots with steel tips, and the same devilish grin I remembered glimpsing from my window.

“Well, well, well, look who the cat dragged in,” he teased.

I noted he had grown his Mohawk out. His bright red hair was clipped close to his scalp. “Long time no see, little brother.” He flipped his feet to the floor and was on them in a second flat, pulling Emery into a bear hug.

I watched them in shock. This type of familiarity was totally unexpected.

Mickey gave Emery a solid smack on the back and directed his roguish grin at me. “And you must be the reason Emery has made himself so scarce. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Cassidy.” He extended his hand to me. “Mickey O’Shea.”

I shook his hand, surprised that he knew my name. “Thank you,” I said, charmed. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Emery has told me a lot of great things about you.”

Mickey laughed heartily. “If that be the case, he hasn’t told you everything.” He winked at Emery. “The Slave Driver’s going to love meeting you.” He turned his head away and yelled, “Mom!”

“Michael Seamus O’Shea,” an Irish woman bellowed from behind a closed door at the back of the room. “How many times have I told you not to yell?”

The door flew open to an amply endowed, stout woman whom I guessed to be in her late forties. Her flaming red hair was teased into a frenzy. She wore a leopard-print blouse, black leggings, stilettos, and a square ton of makeup. Shrewd green eyes peered at me between false eyelashes, her candy-red lips curving into a wide smile.