Spy-in-Training (17 page)

I
squirm out of Tookey's arms, push him away from me, and hit a fighting stance. He holds up both palms.

“I'm on your side.”

“I've heard that before,” I say.

“He's on our side,” shouts Strike. “He's our man on the inside.”

“He wrote D-I-E on my palm with his finger.”

“That was L-I-E,” says Tookey. “Like, all this is a lie and I'm on your side?”

“Oh. Well, that wasn't clear. Your finger technique needs work.”

“I'm a double agent,” Tookey says. “Maybe even triple. I'm never sure. Strike had me look out for you at school when he wasn't around.”

“And pretend to like me,” I say.

“I'm not that good a spy,” he says. And then he looks embarrassed. “I'm an awesome hacker, though. I totally rebooted your tiny car. I used a command prompt that . . .”

“How's the shoulder?” I ask, making it plain that I'm trying to change the subject. “Sorry I had to jab you.”

I hear a groan. Joanna. She's okay. Good. I should go over to her, make sure nothing's broken. But somehow I feel it's more important right at this minute to stay standing close to Dale Tookey.

“Break it up, you two lovebirds, I'm still stuck here!”

Dale and I hurry over to the grille, where we each grab a Strike arm.

“Did we do it?” I ask. “Did we actually beat Section 23?”

Dale looks down at Strike's face. “Boss?”

“We almost beat them.”

I stop pulling Strike's arm. “What do you mean almost? Are they like ants? You cut off the head, they keep coming?”

Strike grimaces. “We didn't exactly cut off the head. The pink head.”

I feel my stomach lurch. “Spool? He got away?”

“He's slippery,” says Strike.

“We'll get him,” says Dale.

“But we don't have him now,” I say. “He's out there and . . .” Bye-bye, normal-Bridget brain. Welcome back, trust-no-one brain. Where would Spool go? What would he want right now? To save himself? My trust-no-one brain digs deeper. It thinks,
Spool decided he wants to recruit me and he will find some way to bend me to his will. Or somebod
y.

“Leverage!” I yelp.

“What?” say Strike and Dale.

“Spool always has to have leverage. That's how he functions. That's how he manipulates. And his only leverage over me right now is . . .”

Oh my God. It's my family.

I grab Dale's phone, jump into the car, and slam the door. I glance in the rearview mirror and see Xan is still pinned against the wall. I bet that hurts.

“Bridget, wait,” he says. He comes after me.

“Stop her!” yells Strike.

“You can't do this by yourself,” I hear Dale yell. But I'm already in the car.

“Let's go,” I tell the car.

“I don't work for you,” says the car with my voice.

“Don't start with me, car,” I bawl, thumping the dashboard for emphasis. “Spool's going after my family to get me back in line.”

“Oh sure, it's all about you,” mocks the car.

The engine starts. The car backs away from the store wall. Xan's body falls onto the hood and then plops onto the ground. Dale rushes after the car. He yanks the passenger door open. “I'm coming with you.”

“Oooohhh,” says the car in an annoying singsong voice. “What an incredible spontaneous romantic gesture.”

“Shut up,” Dale and I both tell the car.

The car reverses out of the broken IMAGE UNLTD store windows. A bunch of mall security guards have gathered outside and signal us to stop. We do not stop. The Smart Car maneuvers its way past confused mall shoppers and into the street.

“Change the license plate and the paint job,” Dale orders the car.

I pick up Dale's phone and start to make a call. He takes the phone from my hand.

“Hey! I'm trying to call my mom.”

Dale touches the screen. “I turned on the voice-masking app. We're about to be involved in a high-speed chase. She doesn't need to know it's you.”

I give Dale a sidelong glance. He's very considerate. I hear my mom answer the phone.

“Mom . . . ,” I begin, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.

“She hears a man speaking, nitwit,” says the car.

“Oh. Right. Mrs. Wilder? This is Inspector . . . um . . . Carr, from the Sacramento Police Department. I need you to stay where you are. Don't answer the door unless you see ID. Call Dad, um, Mr. Wilder, and tell him the same. Police. ID.”

“Who is this?” my mom asks. “What's this about?”

“Please, Mrs. Wilder, it's important you do exactly as I say. It might be a false alarm but better safe than sorry. That's what we're telling the community. Where's your son, Ryan?”

“He left me some sort of message. I think he said he was spending the day at the Russian steam baths.”

“And you're okay with this? He's not getting grounded? He just gets to do whatever he wants?”

“Stick to the story, Inspector,” says Dale.

I try to calm down and sound official. “We've already been in contact with your daughter, Bridget, and she's safe. She's with her friend.”

“Bridget's safe?” Mom echoes. “That's good. I worry about her.”

“You don't need to worry. She's a strong, smart, sensible girl,” I find myself saying.

“Sounds like you know her better than me,” says Mom. “She just hit that age . . . everything I say or do is wrong.”

This makes me feel horrible.

“I'm sure that's not true,” I say. “She's under a lot of stress right now . . .”

“Really?” says Mom. “She told you that? What sort of stress. What else did she tell you?”

“Tell her it's a boy so you can move on,” suggests Dale.

Without thinking, I say, “It's possible I like a boy.”

“Okay,” says my mother. “But what's that got to do with Bridget?”

I hear the car hoot with laughter.

“What about your other daughter, Mrs. Wilder? Where's Natalie?”

“She tutors special children after school today . . . oh wait . . .”

There's a silence on the other end of the line. Then Mom says, “I got a text from her. A theater producer saw a clip of her school musical on YouTube. He wants to talk to her about a show. Good things just happen to that girl.”

Good things do happen to Natalie. But not this time. My spy senses just kicked in. And they kicked hard.

“What producer? What's his name? Where's he based? What's his contact number? Where's he meeting her?”

“Um . . . ,” my mom says.

“Spool!” I shriek.

“What?”

“He's got my sister,” I tell Dale.

“We'll get her back,” he says. He starts tapping at a tablet. “I can trace the location of his texts. He thinks he's covered his tracks so well no one can follow them. He doesn't know about my advanced hacking skills. I'm fluent in a special version of SQL that reverses . . .”

Dale stops talking and looks at the panic on my face. “We'll get him.”

He goes back to his tapping.

“Inspector?” I hear my mom's voice.

“I've got to go, ma'am. Stay safe. Do what I say. I love you. That is, the police love you. And the entire community.”

I end the call and feel myself go limp. Not Natalie.

“This is my fault,” I whisper. “I put her in danger.”

“Stop,” says Dale. “You're the victim here. Spool
used you. But you fought back. You turned his plan upside down.”

“If he hurts her. If he plays with her head . . .” I can't bear the thought of Natalie in his clutches.

“I hate him,” says the car. “She's such a better sister than you.”

“I know.” She's potentially a much better spy than me, too. I'm fairly confident Spool does not know this about Natalie. But what if he finds out? What if he tries to use her the way he used me?

“No!” I say out loud.

“Got him!” says Dale.

He logs Spool's coordinates into the Smart Car's GPS.

The Smart Car roars through Reindeer Crescent and turns onto the freeway. I gnaw on the skin at the top of my fingers, an unpleasant childhood habit I thought I was long beyond. But I need to concentrate on something; otherwise I'm going to have a massive meltdown in this tiny car.

Little snippets of songs start playing on the radio. So fast I barely recognize them. Dale must be skipping satellite stations.

“Can you stop that?” I say.

“It's not me,” he says.

The stations keep skipping until they stop at “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen. The song plays in full.

“I thought it might make you feel better,” says the car, minus its usual sarcasm.

“Car!” I say, touched.

“She learned it on her flute,” the car tells Dale. “Still like her?”

“It was a phase,” I assure him. “I'm sure you had worse ones.”

He starts to smile at me but the smile fades. “Only if it was for an assignment. Only if it was part of my cover. Section 23 got me young. I was a runaway. Being a spy is all I know.”

“But Strike got you out.”

“He got me another side to spy for. I'm not a real person, Bridget. I'm a collection of bits of people I've pretended to be.” Dale leans in close to me. “And you'll be just like me unless you get out now. Once this is over. Once we get your sister back. Stop. Don't let Strike keep you in play.”

“He wouldn't do that. He wants me safe.”

“He
wants to
want to keep you safe. He wants to be a good guy but he was a bad guy a lot,
lot
longer.”

“Are you saying I can't trust him?”

“I'm saying you may be his daughter but you're also an awesome asset.”

I know Dale thinks he's looking out for me but he's making me feel very alone. “The only people in the world I can trust are my family and I've put them all in harm's way. You don't have to worry about me. I'm going to go back to being the ordinary, invisible girl I used to be.”

Am I? Is that what I really want?

“I can't wait,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

Dale nods.

“And you can walk away, too,” I tell him.

He gives me a pained look. His tablet emits a loud
beep!

“Spool's vehicle approximately one thousand yards ahead,” says the car.

“Floor it, car,” I say.

“That's not the move,” says Dale. “We hang back, stay out of sight, follow him, see where he's going, see if he's got a safe house set up.”

I shake my head vigorously. “I want her out of there now!”

“Listen to me,” Dale says, and I can see he's trying to stay calm. “We'll get Natalie and we'll get Spool but we need to let this play out. He's going somewhere; he's
meeting someone. We want them all.”

“No,” I say. “What you're saying probably makes some sort of spy sense, but you don't have a sister. I'm sorry, Dale, but if you did, if you had a family, if someone you loved was in danger—we know Spool's a monster, we both know it—you wouldn't, you
couldn't
waste a second before you tried to save her.”

There's an argument bubbling up inside him but he keeps his mouth closed and, for that, I like him more than ever.

“Floor it, car,” he says.

The Smart Car weaves in and out of lanes until Spool's black Mercedes is in sight.

“Does he know we're creeping up on him?” I ask. “Does his car have the same spy doodads ours does?”

“That piece of junk?” sneers the car.

“He had to make a fast getaway,” says Dale. “That's a standard unequipped vehicle. We have surprise on our side.”

“Surprise!” I say, and open my door.

“What are you doing?” he yelps and grabs my arm. “Are you crazy?”

“You know the answer to that. Let me go.”

“Bridget, you're not invincible. You're tough and you're fast but you've also been super lucky. So lucky that
anyone who knows anything about luck would identify you as someone whose luck is about to run out.”

“Dale, I want him to see my face. I want him to know that what he did to me, he's not doing to my sister.”

“I'd let her go,” says the car. “She crazy.”

Dale sighs and opens the glove box. He hands me a tube of lip balm.

“Smoky pear,” he says.

I kiss him. Real quick, on the lips. Maybe our teeth clash a little.

“For luck,” I say.

“Ooooh,” squeals the car.

“Get me close, close enough to smell what he had for breakfast,” I snarl.

“Nice way to talk,” says the car.

We pick up speed. The trunk of the Mercedes is in sight.

I shove the door of the Smart Car open. One glance back at Dale. “Take me out for doughnuts once this is over?”

He forces a smile.

“Take care of him, car.”

“Take care of yourself,” says the car.

I swing out of the driver's-side door and climb onto the roof of the car. I keep hold of the door and lever myself
up. It takes me a second to get my balance. The wind is whipping in my face. I lurch from side to side. I hold my arms out to steady myself. The black Mercedes is maybe fifty yards ahead. I wait for the car to wipe twenty yards off that gap. Then I inch my way backward. There's barely room on the roof of this little car to give me much of a running start but my legs start pumping and my arms scythe through the air. I feel myself leave the roof.

My plan, if the mad scramble of thoughts whirring around my crazed panicky mind could be classified as a plan, was to land on the top of Spool's car, slide down onto the hood, and stare him full in the face, before . . . well, I hadn't worked out the next part, but I'm sure it would have been good. I did not, however, muster up enough power as I leaped from the Smart Car to land on Spool's roof. Instead, I free-fall toward the back of the car. I slam my palms down hard on the metal of the Mercedes trunk. It hurts and I feel my nails break as I try to cling on to the sides of the trunk and keep my balance. At the same time, I push my legs forward and kick both feet out in front of me as far and as hard as I can. The rear windshield shatters. The sudden wind blows fragments of glass back in my face. From inside the car, I hear Natalie scream.