by Doug Solter
Contents
Special Offer
SPIES LIKE ME
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
SPECIAL OFFER
FREE STUFF: Get the Gems prequel novel Dr. Yes (not available in stores), classified dossiers of all four Gems, Spies Like Me deleted scenes, plus a special Gems Q&A when you sign up for this special offer.
SPIES LIKE ME
Book 1 in the GEMS Young Adult Spy Thriller Series
by
Doug Solter
Spies Like Me: The Gems #1
Copyright © 2016 Doug Solter
All right reserved. Published in the United States by Brain Matter Publishing. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you received this eBook free, please keep in mind that I’m an indie author, which means I pay for this out of my own pocket. So please consider either buying another copy or buying one of my other books. This simple act goes a long way in supporting your favorite authors so they can keep giving you books that you love to read. Thanks!
Cover Art Design by Travis Miles
Digital Edition: 2.2
To my mom, who taught me just how strong a woman can be.
Chapter 1
The school’s auditorium stage was bathed in colors. White for the actors. Orange for the wooden set representing the faraway pyramids of Egypt. Blue to emphasize the painted sky backdrop above it all. It was the opening night performance of The Spy Who Loathed Me.
Emma Rothchild strutted across the stage in a gorgeous floor-length silk dress, her costume for this scene. Tonight, she craved the eyes of the audience and knew this dress guaranteed their full attention.
Emma was deep into character. She was Russian spy Olga Tetrovich. Emma had studied online videos of Russians speaking candidly and mimicked their accents as best she could. Her drama teacher had complimented Emma on her dedication to the craft.
The MI6 spy George Bond followed Olga on stage, but hid behind a fake tree. The actor’s rich brown skin might be a shock to the 007 spy traditionalists in the audience, but Emma hoped that his performance would win them over. Bond was following her in this scene, thinking she would lead the English spy straight to the microfilm that was stolen from him by a Brazilian dwarf named Tatu.
From a souvenir stand, Emma picked up a clay model of the pyramids, something a tourist would buy at a market. She smashed the stage prop against the table in dramatic fashion and held up the roll of microfilm hidden inside so the audience could see it.
George Bond made his move. He crept up behind Emma without detection while she slipped the microfilm into her small hand purse. Emma’s hand came out holding a cap-gun revolver. She pivoted on her heels, making her dress swoosh around her ankles, and aimed the gun at Bond. The move looked great in rehearsals.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bond,” Emma said, with her gentle Russian accent. “Our brief partnership is at an end. I have what my government wants. Now I will take my revenge. Do you remember that man you killed in Vienna?”
“Yes, I do,” George Bond said.
“He was my lover.”
Emma waited for Bond’s next line.
But the actor hesitated.
Emma was about to lose it. Did Lewis forget again? They’d rehearsed this scene, like, twenty times.
“What do you have to say about that, Mr. Bond?”
The line was an ad-lib, something to draw the next line out of the boy’s mouth.
Lewis’s face was a river of sweat as his eyes glazed over, the actor turning himself into just another tree on stage.
“Your silence is a good enough confession for me. Any last words before I fire?” Emma went off script, but Lewis could pick his line up there. She was trying to help him.
But the boy shook his head. Lewis wasn’t taking the hint.
Emma pulled the trigger and the gun hammer snapped forward. She squeezed the trigger numerous times in a series of loud snaps. Emma dropped the weapon. “You planted that empty gun in my handbag, didn’t you?”
Lewis nodded. Okay, he’d reacted to that ad-lib.
It was a sliver of hope, so Emma went with it. “Then I’ll have to kill you with my bare hands.” Emma approached Lewis with her arms raised in a karate-looking stance. The boy blinked, still trapped inside his scary place. What could Emma do now? Physically attack him? Bond was supposed to seduce the Russian agent, not have her attack him.
Then a breath of inspiration hit her.
Emma grabbed Lewis’s shoulders. She guided him over to a bench on the set and made him lie down. Emma plopped her body on top of Lewis and pretended to struggle with him. Emma whispered into his ear, “Now get up and glare at me, Lewis.”
His eyes blinked again. Lewis rolled out from under her and stood on stage. Emma pressed her back against the seat of the bench and stayed there while Lewis glared.
Emma labored her breathing, as if she were being seduced. “Oh, why can I not kill you, Mr. Bond? What power do you hold over me?”
Lewis didn’t move, his glare frozen on his petrified face.
Emma knew this would work better if Lewis helped sell it, but…she lifted herself from the bench like a graceful ballerina, trying to act seduced by Bond’s man-powers. “Why can I not kill you, Mr. Bond?” she repeated.
Emma went for his lips, kissing Lewis with passion, as if the male spy had successfully messed with her brain. As Emma eased her lips away from his…life came back into Lewis’s eyes. He gripped Emma and pulled her towards him and they kissed again.
Finally, the boy was acting.
It was a great kiss…until Lewis inserted his tongue into Emma’s mouth.
She pushed him. “Mr. Bond…I can’t resist you.” She rushed the line out so fast she forgot to include her accent.
“Give me that microfilm, Miss Tetrovich,” Lewis said, finally picking up his line.
Now it was Emma who was knocked off her game. That kiss completely took her out of character. The heck with it.
Emma tossed the microfilm down on the stage near Lewis without protest. The quicker they got out of this disastrous scene, the better.
***
The rock-climbing wall loomed above one end of the track-and-field oval. Emma wondered why her new school had a rock-climbing wall. Even at Van Dorn Hall they didn’t have one, and it wasn’t from lack of money. But Emma was learning that Berkeley…and California itself…was so different from New York.
Inside her parke
d car, Emma glanced at the plastic cap gun sitting on the passenger’s seat. She’d used her own purse during the play and had forgotten to take the prop gun out before she left Friday night. Maybe Emma could sneak into the backstage storage room during lunch period and slip the gun back into the props box before someone saw her. She unzipped her backpack and slipped the gun inside a pocket.
Stepping out of her Mercedes, Emma slung the backpack over her shoulder and pressed on the key fob, making the car chirp as it locked its doors. A group of kids huddled around their ten-year-old Chevy gave her a look. Most of the cars in the student parking lot were much older than Emma’s. And none of them were as nice.
Emma avoided their stares as she headed into school.
The commons area was crowded with students. Each circular wood table represented some collection of friends. It was ten minutes until first period and Emma already had her books, so she picked a quiet corner and sat on the floor with her back against the wall.
She checked the status updates of her friends in New York. They were on Eastern time, so it was lunch period there.
Emma found a post by Hayley. It featured a group selfie of five girls crowded around a booth at Horowitz’s Deli down on Forthy-Ninth Street. That deli was their usual hangout since it was a football throw away from Van Dorn Hall. Her friends were smiling in their school uniforms, having an awesome time being together. As if they’d forgotten all about that missing sixth girl.
“Yo,” a male voice called.
Emma lifted her eyes and saw Lewis standing there, holding a breakfast bar with an open pint of chocolate milk. His George Bond tuxedo had been replaced by shorts and a Manchester United soccer jersey.
“Thanks for the assist Friday. Meant to say something after but…forgot.”
“The show must go on. So I made it go on.” Emma didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but she let it go.
Lewis drank out of his tiny milk carton and took a moment to swallow. “Why’d you throw the microfilm down on the stage? That’s not cool. Ruined the scene. A professional actor wouldn’t lose it like that.”
Emma wanted to say a professional actor wouldn’t freeze on stage and blow half his lines in a live performance. Where did Lewis get off telling her how to act?
“I was frustrated with the situation.”
“You need to hide it better on stage.” Lewis drank his milk again.
Emma couldn’t help herself. “We went over that scene ten times. You should have nailed your lines, not leave me alone on stage, trying to save the entire production.”
“I blew one line. You didn’t have to ‘save the entire production.’ Get over yourself. Lucky you even got the part. How long you’ve been in our class? Five months?”
“I got that part because I’m good, unlike you. It’s obscene how much you charm Mrs. Tuttle in class. Of course she put you in the lead role. It’s just a shame you can’t act.” Emma’s emotions were boiling over and she couldn’t stop. “And while we’re talking about being a professional? What’s with that tongue diving you did on stage? George Bond seduces Olga with a kiss, not treat the roof of her mouth like a Popsicle.”
Lewis scoffed. “You seemed to like it.”
Emma glared as he walked with pride over to the table full of theater students. They listened as Lewis talked about Emma. She could tell because during the conversation they all flashed her dirty looks.
The final bell rang and Emma headed outside with the other students. The afternoon skies were dark and Emma could smell rain in the air. Emma pressed her key fob and the Mercedes chirped to welcome her. Emma reached her door and stopped. She moved over and touched the fender. There was a deep scratch that ran over the fender, across the driver-side door, over the rear wheel and dipped down under the brake lights. What kind of prick went around keying beautiful cars?
She knew her grandma would be pissed when she saw it. The Mercedes was Emma’s welcome gift to California.
Emma drove over the Oakland Bay Bridge into San Francisco, the opposite direction of home. She went down Market Street and turned into the San Francisco Centre parking lot. Emma bypassed the open spaces and dropped the Mercedes off with the mall valet.
Today, Emma wanted to be pampered.
San Francisco Centre was built by the same man who built the Caesar’s Palace Forum shops in Las Vegas. The mall boasted five indoor floors of shopping bliss with some of the best upscale stores in the city. The fancy dome allowed sunlight to fall through the atrium with all its spiral escalators.
Emma squeezed the rubber guide rail as the escalator guided her up to the fifth floor. Emma would start there and work her way down for today’s retail therapy session.
Emma shopped for some new shoes and picked out a new skirt with matching cosmetics before going into the Apple Store to look at the new phones. She found a Belgian waffle maker for Grandma, hoping to soften the blow about the scratch on the Mercedes. Emma also considered changing her look at school, thinking if she dressed more like a Californian, maybe the other kids would treat her better.
It took a while, but Emma made her way down to the ground floor, where the food court and adjoining restaurants were. The mall was busy here as the dinner crowd arrived.
Emma’s phone chirped as Grandma sent her a text.
When will you come home for dinner?
Emma replied and asked Grandma if she wanted coffee from the Kaffee Cadre since Emma was standing right next to it.
Yes. Decapitated with two sugars, please.
Emma smiled. Auto-correct got Grandma again. Interpreting a decaf with two sugars, Emma ordered that along with a mocha swirl with extra whip. It was then Emma noticed a man watching her.
The stranger averted his eyes at that last second, but Emma was sure she caught him. The man was bald, with a chest the size of a refrigerator. His eyes were neutral. Neither sad nor happy. Just there.
The large bald man left his chair and dumped the contents of his dinner in the trash. The man didn’t look in Emma’s direction again as he left the food court and disappeared into a sea of shoppers.
Emma left the mall as soon as she could.
She drove down Market Street and made a right turn, allowing the leather-stitched wheel to slide through her fingers as the front wheels of the Mercedes corrected themselves for a new heading.
Something flashed in her rearview mirror. It drew Emma’s attention to a blue sedan in back. Emma noted the driver. The bald man from the food court.
Emma braked at the next light and took a closer look. There was a large truck behind her now. Was the bald man behind it? Did he turn off? Was Emma too paranoid?
The light turned green.
Emma followed the traffic through the intersection. The truck turned off, leaving nothing behind her. The Mercedes climbed a hill and Emma braked for the next red light on top of it. She glanced at her side mirror.
There was the blue sedan again. He had switched lanes and dropped further back. Emma could still identify the bald man through the windshield.
Green light. Emma flicked her turn signal and made a right.
The blue sedan followed traffic across the intersection.
Emma relaxed and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She traveled one whole block before the blue sedan scrambled out of a blind alley behind her. The car continued to follow, but from a distance.
Emma’s heart thumped. Why did he make such a huge effort to backtrack? Why was he following her? Was he some psychopath hoping to kidnap a helpless teen girl and do awful things to her?
Emma stomped on the gas. The Mercedes answered as it raced down a steep hill. She didn’t have much confidence in her driving. Emma avoided speeding in general, along with turning left at intersections. Right turns were safer and didn’t go against traffic. Emma loved right turns.
The traffic light at the bottom of the hill turned yellow.
Emma hated yellow lights. Red was stop and green was go. Those signals made sense. But if you
watched the adults, the yellow light was open for interpretation. One thing was certain to Emma. This creepy bald man was chasing her, and if Emma stopped…
She gripped the leather wheel and floored the pedal. The Mercedes roared toward the intersection—
Right when this huge panel truck rolled in, blocking her path.
Emma shrieked. Only one safe maneuver she could do now. Her driver’s safety blanket.
Right turn!
Emma yanked the wheel hard. The Mercedes squealed as its weight transferred to the left side wheels. Emma caught herself screaming as the Mercedes skidded sideways into the intersection towards the panel truck with its side mirrors gleaming in the sun.
With Emma’s foot still glued to the gas, the Mercedes burned rubber as it changed direction, pushing itself hard into the right turn. The car scrambled away from the intersection.
Emma couldn’t believe it. That was the best right turn she’d ever done. Emma accelerated up the next hill, trying to put more distance between her and the pervert.
At the next light, Emma took another hard fast right. Not as crazy as the last one, but the move still made her tires squeal. She checked her rearview mirror.
There was no sign of the blue sedan.
A sense of pride lifted Emma’s mood. She wasn’t a bad driver after all.
When Emma’s attention fell back down to the road…a dog stood in her way.
Emma hit the brakes. The car shook. The tires squealed again.
But this time, a sickening thud was added.
The car finally stopped, tossing Emma against her seat. She hesitated a moment as reality settled. Emma popped open her door and scrambled out to the front of the car.
Sprawled across the pavement was a small terrier, his fur dirty and mangled. He had no collar. No identification of any kind.
The animal didn’t move.
Sadness swelled inside Emma. Did she kill this poor dog?
Emma knelt beside him. The dog’s stomach swelled and collapsed like a bag. He was breathing. He was alive! Emma stroked the top of his head. His fur was so light to the touch. The dog’s eyes drifted open and took her in like a friend. His tail twitched as if he were trying to wag it.
