by Stuart Gibbs
“Well, I started to try to defuse it,” Mike explained, “but it was ridiculously complicated. So I figured, what’s the point? I mean, suppose some bad guy had really left this bomb for me. Defusing it wastes valuable time. While I’m dorking around with it, the villain escapes. So why not just forget about it and let the villain think I’m busy defusing it? He drops his guard, figuring I’m out of the picture—and that’s when I nab him!”
“So you’re going to let the bomb go off?” Zoe pressed.
“Yes,” Mike said, then thought to add, “Although I left it in a safe place where it won’t hurt anyone. I also moved the timer up so it’ll detonate earlier than expected.”
“Why would you do that?” Warren demanded.
“Diversion,” Mike told him. “The bomb explodes, and the bad guy thinks, ‘Aha! He’s dead!’ and then really lets his guard down.”
Zoe and I shared a look, realizing that, while unorthodox, Mike’s plan actually had some merit. This was where Mike had already stood out at spy school. Unorthodox thinking often earned you high grades here, and Mike didn’t merely think outside the box; he rarely even noticed there was a box in the first place.
Warren, however, was one of those kids so rigid about proper procedures that he could barely brush his teeth without consulting a manual. Mike’s refusal to play by the rules always exasperated him. “In exactly what sort of safe place did you leave this bomb?”
“Out in the quad,” Mike replied. “It’s far from any innocent bystanders—and I placed a nice heavy pot from the kitchen over it to cut down on shrapnel. I also taped up some signs warning people to keep their distance.”
“Signs?” Zoe repeated. “What’d they say?”
“ ‘Live bomb in area,’ ” Mike replied. “ ‘Beware of explosive debris.’ Things like that.”
“You can’t do that!” Warren spluttered. “It’s against the rules!”
“The bad guys aren’t going to play by the rules,” Mike countered. “Why should we?”
This was exactly the sort of thinking that tended to get A’s at the academy.
The distant bang of a small explosion echoed from the quadrangle. The books shuddered on the library shelves. All the students who hadn’t been close enough to overhear Mike’s plan leapt from their tables and ran to the windows to see if any large pieces were now missing from the dormitory.
“See?” Mike said proudly. “The perfect diversion.”
Zoe grinned, impressed. Warren glowered even more.
On the recording I was listening to, the principal finally stopped grunting, indicating that whoever he was talking to had finished speaking. “Fine,” he said petulantly. “I’ll approve his activation.” Then he hung up.
The recording ended.
I looked to Zoe and Warren, disappointed. “That’s it?”
“That’s all there was,” Zoe replied. “What more do you need? He confirmed that, uh”—she glanced at Mike warily—“what we were discussing before is actually happening.”
“Wait,” Mike said. “Are you guys talking about SPYDER?”
We all turned to him, surprised.
“SPYDER,” he repeated. “The international consortium of bad guys committed to causing chaos and mayhem for a price?” He looked to me. “Don’t pretend like they don’t exist. They’ve tried to kill you a few times.”
“How long have you known about SPYDER?” Warren asked suspiciously.
“Oh, for a while now,” Mike said. “It’s not like its existence is a secret.”
“Actually, it is,” I said.
“Really?” Mike asked. “Well, it’s not a very well-kept secret.”
“Apparently not.” I sighed, then slid Zoe’s phone back to her. “Though I’d love to know what they’re up to now.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Zoe said brightly. “They’re activating you!”
“We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “I know the principal mentioned my name, but that was a couple minutes back. For all we know, he’s activating Warren.”
“Warren?” Zoe laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! He can’t handle SPYDER!”
“Um . . . I’m right here,” Warren pointed out gloomily.
“The Idiot was obviously talking about you,” Zoe told me. “He sounded really upset. He wouldn’t be that peeved about activating most people. But he hates you with every last fiber of his being and will until the day he dies.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” I said.
“You blew up his office,” Warren told me.
“Because you put a live round in a mortar!” I reminded him. “If I hadn’t aimed it toward this building, a bunch of innocent people would have died!”
Warren shrugged, as though this argument wasn’t convincing.
“If you’re getting activated,” Mike said eagerly, “can you pick me as your partner?” “No!” Zoe squealed, raising her hand. “Pick me! He’s only a first year.”
“This is an undercover mission, not a kickball game,” I informed them. “I don’t get to pick teams. And I’m still not completely convinced I’m the one being activated.”
“You should be,” a voice said.
We all jumped in our seats.
Erica Hale was leaning against a bookshelf only a few feet away. Unlike Warren, she hadn’t gotten close to us by camouflaging herself. Instead, she simply moved with a stealth and grace that would impress a tiger. Erica was only a fourth-year student, but she was still the best spy-in-training at school by far. Much of this was due to having exceptional natural talent, but she was also a legacy: Her family could be traced all the way back to Nathan Hale and had worked as spies ever since. Her grandfather had trained her since she was a baby. There were rumors that at age three Erica had thwarted a trio of bank robbers with only a juice box and a Slinky.
Erica was dressed in her standard way: a tight black outfit that allowed her the freedom of movement to steal through the night or pummel enemy agents while still looking extremely stylish. But then, Erica was beautiful enough that she would have made a potato sack and a clown wig look stylish. I had a serious crush on her, as did almost every other guy on campus. However, I was the only student who had really spent any time with Erica. Erica was so determined to be an elite agent that she considered friendships to be liabilities, which led her to be distant and reserved. (Zoe called her “Ice Queen.”) I’d only gotten to know her because she’d been my partner on my previous missions.
In the process, Erica’s chilly demeanor had thawed around me now and then. In fact, near the end of our most recent mission, Erica had even kissed me. Afterward, however, she had told me it didn’t mean anything, claiming that she’d merely been trying to calm me down, as we were about to be annihilated in a nuclear explosion. Ever since then, she’d grown even more distant than usual, avoiding me like the plague. This was the first time she’d spoken to me in weeks.
“Get your coat,” Erica told me. “It’s time to move out.”
“Wait,” I said. “Am I being activated right now?”
“This is a crisis situation,” Erica said flatly. “There’s no time to waste.”
“How about bathroom breaks?” I asked. “Is there time for one of those? Because I should probably go while I have the chance.”
Erica sighed, like needing to go to the bathroom was something that only happened to other people. Now that I thought about it, though, this might have been true. I couldn’t recall her ever needing to make a pit stop. “Fine,” she said. “You can go. But make it quick.”
I started to grab my books and backpack, but Erica said, “Don’t bother. You won’t need those.” She looked to Mike. “Can you take those back to Ben’s room?”
“Sure.” Mike flashed her his standard winning smile. “Anything else you need me to do?”
“No. By the way, that was good thinking with the explosives homework.”
Zoe and Warren gaped in astonishment. Hearing Erica give anyone a compliment was
almost as unlikely as spotting a unicorn.
“Good thinking?” Warren spluttered. “What he did was reckless and dangerous and against the rules!”
“Yes,” Erica agreed. “It’s exactly what I did on that assignment.” She shifted her attention back to me. “Why aren’t you in the bathroom already?”
“I was waiting for you,” I said.
“Why? I don’t need to go.”
“I just thought it was good manners to not run off. . . .”
“There’s no room for manners in the spy game,” Erica told me.
“Your father has excellent manners,” Zoe pointed out.
“My father’s the worst spy on earth,” Erica countered.
“Good point,” Zoe conceded.
I waved good-bye to everyone and hustled out of the library, slipping my winter coat on as I went. I could feel the eyes of every other student on me as I exited. Most had returned from the windows, having confirmed that Mike’s explosion hadn’t caused any damage, and were now watching me jealously.
It was exceedingly rare for a student to be activated for a mission while at spy school. In fact, it was rare for graduates of spy school to be activated for missions. Normally, only the cream of the crop was approved for fieldwork; the rest became analysts and desk jockeys. Meanwhile, this was my fifth assignment (albeit only my second official one) and I’d barely been at the academy a year. I had ended up on my first missions mostly due to bad luck, but I’d proven myself on each, figuring out the enemy’s plans and helping thwart them each time. That had earned me the right to participate in Operation Snow Bunny. Apparently I’d performed well enough on that to merit being activated again.
Despite this, I was still awfully nervous. I did my best to put on a good show, holding my head high and striding confidently through the library, but inside I was a mess. I was worried about what lay in store and how dangerous it might be. I was concerned that I might not be up to the task and feared that I might fail—or die.
And, to be honest, I was pretty disturbed by how Erica was behaving around Mike.
There were certainly other things I should have been concentrating on, but this one kept gnawing at me: Erica had given Mike a compliment. She’d barely ever given me a compliment—and I’d helped her prevent the nuclear devastation of Colorado. Yes, she had kissed me, but she’d then insisted she hadn’t felt any emotion toward me. Meanwhile, Mike had a way of winning over girls.
I glanced back toward my friends, trying to be subtle about it, fearing I might catch Erica giggling at something Mike had said, giving her hair a coy flip, or batting her eyes at him. None of that was really Erica’s style, but then, neither was complimenting people.
Thankfully, Erica was on her way up the aisle behind me.
Although, she was also looking back toward Mike.
He waved good-bye.
And Erica, to my astonishment, waved back.
Which made me feel even worse than being assigned to a potentially life-threatening mission did.
I shoved through the big oak library doors into the soaring entry foyer of the Hale Building, ducked into the boys’ room, quickly took care of business, then emerged to find Erica waiting impatiently for me. She checked her watch, as though the fifty-three seconds I’d taken to pee had been fifty-three seconds too long. (I have an unusual gift for math, and one of the side effects is an uncanny sense of time. I always know exactly how long it takes me to do anything, right down to the second.)
Erica strode toward the main doors of the Hale Building.
I dutifully followed her. “Where are we going?”
“We?” she said icily, though her annoyance didn’t seem directed at me. “We aren’t going anywhere. Only you are.”
I froze in astonishment. “You’re not on this mission?”
“No. I’m just the messenger.” Erica barged out the doors, allowing a blast of cold air to knife into the foyer.
I suddenly felt even more worried than before. My success on my earlier missions was due, in large part, to Erica. She had always been close by to help me out, determine what to do, and, more often than not, clobber a few bad guys. The idea of being activated without her was terrifying. She was smarter than me, calmer than me, more confident than me—and a hundred times better at combat than me.
I emerged from the Hale Building to find Erica standing by the driveway that circled past the entrance. It was nasty cold out. The grounds of the academy were a carpet of dead grass encrusted with ice.
A large black SUV was idling in the driveway.
A stoic driver sat behind the wheel, her eyes shielded by sunglasses.
The rear windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see who was in the back.
Erica opened the rear door and said, “Here he is,” to whoever was inside.
I looked to her, hoping for some hint of what was going on, but she didn’t give me one. “Have fun,” she said, though she didn’t sound like she really meant it.
I climbed into the SUV and Erica shut the door behind me.
The interior of the vehicle was unusual. It was designed more like a limousine. The middle row of seats faced backward, toward the last row, so you could face whoever you were riding with. There was a plate of soundproof glass between the middle seats and the front, so the driver couldn’t hear anything if you didn’t want her to. There was a small bar built into each of the side panels, with rows of glasses and an ice bucket.
But the most unusual thing about the SUV was the two other people inside it.
The first was Cyrus Hale, Erica’s grandfather and one of the finest spies the CIA had ever produced.
The other was the president of the United States of America.
ASSIGNMENT
Covert Transportation
En route through Washington, DC
February 10
1530 hours
President David Stern was tall and handsome, with a square jaw, perfect hair, and a chin that appeared to have been professionally dimpled. He wore a blue three-piece suit with an American flag pin affixed to the lapel.
I was so surprised by his presence, I didn’t sit down right away. Instead, I stood crouched in the back of the SUV, facing the rear seat, gaping at the president in amazement. So when the driver hit the gas, I pitched forward. The very first thing I did in front of the leader of my country was sprawl facedown at his feet.
Cyrus Hale rolled his eyes.
Cyrus was even harder to please than his granddaughter; although I’d been on three successful missions with him, I still felt I had yet to earn his respect. Now that he was an “emeritus agent” (meaning he was unofficially still working for the CIA), he had stopped wearing suits. Today he wore sweatpants with a matching fleece and a fanny pack.
President Stern graciously leaned forward to help me up. “Oopsie,” he said, somehow even making that word sound dignified. “Guess we caught you off guard.”
I tried to say “yes” but was still so surprised, all that came out was a squeak of air.
The president pressed an intercom button built into the armrest next to him and spoke to the driver. “Careful, Courtney. Our guest isn’t buckled in yet.”
Courtney reflexively hit the brakes. Now that I’d made it halfway to my feet, I was pitched backward into the rear-facing seats.
Courtney checked to make sure I was all right. “He’s fine,” Cyrus told her, and Courtney started driving again.
I quickly buckled myself in.
The SUV pulled out of the front gates of the academy and headed downtown. We made it a whole sixty feet before getting stuck in traffic. Washington traffic is about the worst in the country. There are times when snails move faster.
I stared at the president and finally managed to form some actual words. “How are you out in the world like this? Without a motorcade?”
The president laughed. “Motorcades draw a lot of attention. If I want to be incognito, I travel this way.” He pointed out the window.
Sure
enough, none of the pedestrians or fellow drivers gave our car a second glance, completely unaware of who was inside. Black SUVs were as commonplace in Washington as lampposts, constantly shuttling low-level diplomats around.
“Without the Secret Service?” I asked.
“I doubt we’ll encounter any trouble, but should it happen”—President Stern nodded toward the driver—“there’s nothing Courtney can’t handle.”
I glanced over my shoulder through the glass partition, which I now took to be bulletproof. Courtney was of slight build and didn’t look particularly dangerous, but then, neither did Erica Hale, and she was capable of wiping out a platoon of mercenaries.
Courtney’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. There was something in her gaze that said that if I tried to do anything to the president, she would kill me without a second thought. Then she went back to inching forward in traffic.
I returned my attention to the president. “So you do this often?”
“No. In fact, I almost never do. But I needed some privacy and, frankly, the White House isn’t necessarily the best place to get it. No one except those of us in this car even knows I’m here. My staff thinks I’m taking a nap.”
“A nap?” I echoed.
“I need them on occasion. It’s not easy being the leader of the free world—and I’m always getting woken up in the middle of the night to deal with some crisis or another. Anyhow, Cyrus and Courtney arranged for me to sneak away. So here we are. I have to admit, it’s interesting to be out here, moving around in the world like a normal person.”
“Do you miss this?” I asked.
“Heck no,” the president said. “I haven’t had to stop for a red light in years. Being stuck in traffic like this sucks.”
The president spoke in a genial, fatherly way that made me feel extremely comfortable. I had already forgotten all about being awed by him and was about to make more pointless small talk when Cyrus held up a hand, silencing me.
“I apologize for interrupting, Mr. President, but we have far more important things to discuss than traffic.”
“Of course.” David Stern gave me a grave stare and said, “Benjamin, a tremendously serious matter has been brought to my attention and Agent Hale here assures me that I can trust you to help take care of it.”
