Step 4: Install the programs
I leaped up and charged to the computer, nearly knocking the whole thing over as I slid onto the doctor’s chair. I popped SRS’s flash drive into the computer’s USB port. I knew exactly how to install it—uploading spy software was something we’d learned in Kennedy’s grade. I clicked through, tapping my foot anxiously. A caterpillar-green progress bar inched along painfully slowly. It finally loaded, and I typed frantically, making sure the program was deeply hidden inside the operating system. The relief I felt when everything was complete was short-lived. I yanked out Beatrix’s bright purple flash drive and fumbled to push it into the USB. Nerves were getting to me—I took a deep breath.
Beatrix’s program popped up, a white wall of text. I typed what she instructed me to yesterday: “beatrix is cooler than ben.” The screen flashed for a moment, then it all went black and I felt the thick taste of panic rise in me. Something had gone wrong. We’d tripped a firewall, she’d accidentally wiped a system, the computer simply couldn’t handle the program . . .
The screen returned. It looked normal—a chart with Clifton Harris’s name on it.
“Huh,” I said aloud, marveling at Beatrix’s work. I heard a rustle outside, a step, a hand on the doorknob. I yanked the flash drive from the computer and dived onto the bed.
“Clifton! Good news!” the doctor said brightly, sweeping back into the room a millisecond after my butt hit the bed. “I think odds are that you’ve just got a bug. I’ve written you a prescription.” The doctor paused to yank the top sheet off his pad. “Why don’t you go back to the lobby to wait on your dad?”
When I got to the lobby, I fought the urge to laugh. No, wait, that was putting it too mildly—I fought the urge to fall on the floor, laughing and pointing like a cartoon character. Otter was standing in the middle of an intersection beside his boxy-shaped car, surrounded by cars with smashed bumpers and shattered headlights. Other drivers were shouting at him, hands on their hips and faces stretched in anger. Otter was yelling back, which wasn’t helping. I suspected one woman was three seconds away from taking a swing.
It was perfect.
The hospital was focused on new patients now, so I slunk out the front door and hurried over to help him. Beatrix’s purple flash drive made a pleasant plunk as I tossed it into the teddy bear fountain on my way to the intersection.
“Forget it, man—we’re not letting you drive off. It’s illegal not to have insurance in this state, you know!” an angry old man howled at Otter. He looked like the center of a rage-and-car-shaped flower.
“You’re the one who hit my car!” Otter snapped back, livid. He was hanging on to the open driver’s-side door, like it was holding him back from charging everyone down.
“You’re the idiot who forgot to pull his parking brake! You’re lucky the car didn’t hurt someone when it rolled through the intersection!”
Otter stared at the car and made a combination of vowel sounds that were supposed to be words but hadn’t quite cooked long enough in his brain. I could tell he was trying to remember if he’d pulled the parking brake or not. I, of course, knew he had—it was just that I’d left my door unlocked so that Clatterbuck could drop the brake and give the car a nice shove. I hadn’t expected Clatterbuck to shove it quite this hard though. I figured the car would end up tapping the edge of the teddy bear fountain, or maybe denting a nearby car. Stopping traffic in the center of a major intersection? This was a little more than I’d bargained for when I set up the plan last night, and it was all starting to freak me out a little.
In the distance I heard the faint sound of police sirens. We had to get out of there before the cops came—because, from the twisted look on Otter’s face, he didn’t prepare false insurance or a false driver’s license. Getting arrested wasn’t rare for SRS members, but getting arrested for something like a traffic violation? That was just embarrassing. Plus, it would mean that no one would remember how successful our mission was—they’d just remember how big a mess had been made at the end of it. As much as the idea of Otter in handcuffs thrilled me, I had to get us out of here. I looked around, taking stock of what we could use, but there was nothing except a fallen bumper or two, some broken glass, and an ever-growing crowd of onlookers, staring like this was some sort of incredibly boring movie . . .
Movie.
That’ll work.
“Whoa, wait—is that gasoline?” I said, frantically pointing to a pool of liquid underneath Otter’s car. It wasn’t gasoline—it was just windshield wiper fluid, if I was remembering Emergency Car Acquisition (or what we affectionately called Grand Theft Auto) class correctly. “It is! Dad, we’ve gotta get away! The whole thing might blow up!”
People’s eyes widened, Otter’s included. They looked at the gasoline and hurriedly backed up toward their cars like they weren’t positive they believed me, but they’d seen plenty of car explosions in movies. And just like Ben back at The League, they all assumed that movies were correct. Otter suddenly realized what I was doing and ducked into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He unlocked the doors at the same moment he turned the key in the ignition; I’d barely shut my door before he peeled out of the intersection through the space the others had left when they slunk away from the potentially exploding car.
I was relieved. I expected Otter to be too, but he mostly looked shaken. I’d have felt bad for him, if I didn’t dislike him so much.
“So, the program is installed. I had plenty of time. Everything should be good,” I said curtly. I pulled the gray SRS flash drive from my pocket and dropped it in the cup holder unceremoniously.
“I must have not pulled the parking brake.”
I didn’t say anything.
He continued, voice blank, “It nearly messed up the whole mission. Do you know my mission success rate? It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“What about the Acapulco incident my dad mentioned?”
“That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know the parrot could talk!” Otter finally exploded, sending spit all over the windshield. I shrunk back as he continued to mutter angrily to himself about parking brakes and parrots. It wasn’t until we were well out of the city and nearly back to SRS headquarters that he calmed down. At a stoplight he turned to me.
“You’re not to tell anyone about the incident with the parking brake.”
“What? Why not? It’s going in your mission report anyway—”
“Hale Jordan,” he said, his voice dangerous. “You are not to tell anyone. Are we clear?”
I ran my tongue across my teeth. Otter was annoying, and he hated me, and he was entirely too sensitive about whatever happened in Acapulco, but he was still a dangerous man to cross. However, this was too perfect a chance to pass up. I shook my head.
“I’m not lying for you. You’d have told everyone at SRS if I’d been the one to screw up the whole thing.”
For a second I was actually afraid Otter was going to punch me. Instead he gripped the steering wheel tighter, ignoring the fact that the light had changed. “Fine. I’ll tell everyone there was a problem, and you had to install the program. Make you out to be a real hero. But no one hears that I forgot to pull the brake.”
“Okay, that fixes half of it,” I said, nodding. “Because I saved your butt by installing the program. But I saved your butt again by creating a diversion so we could escape the intersection before the cops showed up. You owe me for that too.”
Otter cursed—loudly. Several times, and in several languages. I could practically see the battle in his head: Which was worse? Admitting to everyone that Hale Jordan saved him? Or admitting to Hale Jordan that he owed him?
“Fine. What do you want for the second one?”
“I want to go on another mission.”
“You’re not a junior agent,” he hissed. I shrugged, and he cursed several times in English. “Fine. I’ll tell Director Fishburn that I think you should go on another mission. But that’s the best I can do.”
“Perfect.”
Chapter Sixteen
Otter and I told Fishburn that he’d been called out of the room by the doctor to discuss something to do with my test results, which is why I had to install the program. It worked like a charm—Fishburn was delighted I’d come through. I guess everyone loves an underdog story.
“Kennedy!” I shouted as I walked into our apartment. I frowned when I saw the couch—Ms. Elma had been stabbing the upholstery again, then sewing it back together. Living with us wasn’t very good for her head, which was worrisome. How much longer before they sent me and Kennedy to live in the SRS dorms? I shook off the concern. Once I got my parents back, living at SRS wasn’t going to happen, period. Where would we live? A house somewhere? League headquarters?
My mind twisted—after everything that’d happened, it was still hard to picture living anywhere but apartment 300. I headed toward my room to change into clothes that didn’t smell like a hospital, reminding myself that when my parents came home, they’d sort out where we would live. “Kennedy, where are you? Want to hear about my mission?” I called for her again.
I walked to my bedroom and frowned. It sounded like my clock radio was on, turned up full blast. I creaked open my bedroom door. When it was just a few inches open, someone crashed into me. Kennedy—I could tell from the flash of red hair. She weighed so little that she didn’t so much knock me to the ground as drag me there slowly.
“Hey, what—what are you doing?” I said, half laughing. I found her face in the sea of hair and neon green shorts. Her eyes were wide, and she was holding a finger to her lips frantically. I let her finish dragging me to the carpet and then leaned in so she could whisper in my ear.
“Someone bugged our apartment.”
My heart sank deep into my stomach, dissolving among the bile that immediately twisted around in my gut. The apartment was bugged. Someone at SRS heard the conversation I’d had with The League last night. I was caught. There was no point in running—it was all over.
Kennedy jerked a finger toward my bed, and together we slowly, silently lifted the comforter up. On the bed, among my ruffled blankets, was the bug she’d discovered. A ruby earring and bracelet set.
“I turned on the radio real loud, so I don’t think they can hear us now, but who knows how long they’ve been here? They’re old—I don’t think they’re SRS, Hale. I think . . . I think . . .” She dropped her voice even lower so that I almost couldn’t hear her at all. “I think The League planted them.”
“Oh, no, I don’t . . . I don’t think it’s The League,” I said, trying to keep the visible relief off my face. “Maybe one of my friends planted it in here as a joke.”
Kennedy’s face twisted, and I could tell she knew this was a lie but didn’t want to come right out and say, But, Hale, you don’t really have any friends anymore. Instead she stared at the jewelry and clenched her small hands into fists.
“Well, if that’s the case, I’m reporting them. They can’t keep acting like this—”
“No! No, don’t report it.” I was torn between horror that she might report the bracelet, and humiliation that my little sister was now trying to stand up to bullies for me. This was a new level of lame.
Kennedy put her hands on her hips. I could tell she wanted to get much louder, perhaps even yell, but she didn’t dare while stranger ears were listening. “Hale, they bugged our house. What if they are from The League, and this is how they got Mom and Dad?”
“Why were you going through the linen closet anyway?”
Kennedy gave me a sour look but then cracked. She ducked her head to the ground and seemed to shrink before my eyes. “I didn’t want to go snooping around in Mom and Dad’s room, since it smells like Ms. Elma now and that freaks me out. But the blankets in the closet still . . . They still smell like Mom, and so . . . wait.” She froze. Then she lifted an eyebrow. “I never told you I found them in the linen closet.”
I exhaled. Well. Way to be a great spy, Hale. You just burned yourself to your little sister.
“Come over here,” I said. Kennedy and I walked to the bed. We sat down on the edge together, and I reached back to pick up the jewelry set. “You don’t need to be afraid of these. I put them in the linen closet.”
“You bugged our house?” Kennedy asked.
“No. I was hiding them in our house. I didn’t want Ms. Elma to find them. I didn’t want you to find them either, but I figured you would if I left them in my bedroom. So . . . don’t freak out, but—you’re right. These do belong to The League.”
Her eyes widened. She was freaking out, but she was doing so silently, and I didn’t admonish her for it. I continued.
“Kennedy, when I was in the League building, they told me that . . . Well . . .” I launched into the entire story—how SRS were the bad guys, how The League were helping me figure out Project Groundcover, how I was officially a double agent. I ended it all by showing her the printout of Mom and Dad’s file, the one that showed them listed as In the Weeds.
I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes widened even more. I poked her in the stomach, forcing her to breathe, which seemed to do her some good.
“Are you sure, Hale? Really, really sure? Because this is big. Like . . . huge,” she whispered.
I nodded. “I’m positive. I wouldn’t do it if I weren’t positive. I think working with them might be the only way to get our parents back.”
“In the Weeds. They listed The Team as In the Weeds,” she said breathlessly. I thought she was about to cry, but then Kennedy reached over and picked up the jewelry from my hand. She somewhat shakily wrapped the bracelet on her wrist and clipped the earrings to her earlobes. She looked ridiculous—like a little girl playing dress-up with her grandmother’s costume jewelry. She lifted the bracelet to her lips and whispered.
“Hello?”
“They might not answer if it’s not me. They’re underfunded, but I don’t think they’re going to just talk to any old person who comes across the com—”
“My name’s Kennedy,” she said, her voice warming a little. I put my head in my hands. Seriously, Clatterbuck? What if she was someone from SRS looking to bust me? “Yeah,” she continued, now growing more enthusiastic. “That was me! Hale and I wrapped all those guys up in the sign? And I tied that girl up in a net trap? Oh! Yeah, I would like to talk to her—I felt a little bad about the whole thing. She seemed nice.”
I tried to feel bad, tried to make my gut twist with guilt for bringing Kennedy into all this insanity. But, as she kicked back on my bed and bicycled her legs absently at the ceiling, talking to Beatrix—or was it Ben on the other line now? I wasn’t sure—I couldn’t help but feel relieved that there was one less person to keep my secrets from.
“Kennedy, no. You can’t come with me. If I get caught, I’m not taking you down with me,” I said. Again. And again. And again. It was starting to sound like a song.
“You just never want me to do anything,” Kennedy said. Or someone with Kennedy’s voice said. It was a Disguise Day, and she’d been made up to be a brunette with zero freckles and thick eyebrows. She looked nothing like Kennedy, but she still bounced around like a deer that’d had too many sodas. I was halfway through applying my own disguise—a very old man with droopy eyes. It was a difficult one, and talking to Kennedy kept making the silicone wrinkles on my cheeks crack off. I reapplied a wrinkle and gave Kennedy a pointed look.
“What? It’s not my fault you’re becoming an old man. No one else picked one that hard,” she said, nodding toward the rest of the SRS student body. All together there were about seventy-five of us, and we were spread out around the cafeteria. The Disguise Department, which was usually carefully tended to and cataloged by a handful of agents, appeared to have exploded on us—tables were covered in wigs and makeup pots and spilled spirit gum bottles—which was exactly why Disguise Days only came once every few weeks. I watched a group of eight-year-olds being taught how to put wigs on.
“Hale! Please!�
�� Kennedy whined.
“No. It’s too dangerous,” I said, fixing one of my wrinkles again.
“More dangerous than staying here with the people who want our parents dead?” she asked, and I nearly tackled her to quiet her down. She looked pleased to have my full attention now, and she dropped her voice to continue seriously. “I’m going to take my junior agent exam soon, Hale, and then I’m going to be a double agent like you. Because you’re my brother, and if something happens to you, I’ll be stuck here all alone.”
I frowned, because this actually hadn’t occurred to me. Kennedy was never alone—she was almost always surrounded by friends—but she was right, of course. She’d be all alone, and in the way that counted. I sighed. “But I also can’t just let you—”
“Let you what?” a male voice said behind me. I didn’t have to turn and look—I saw them reflected in my mirror. Walter and the Foreheads. All three of them were wearing padded suits underneath their standard SRS uniforms, and they’d used silicone to plump up their cheeks.
They’d disguised themselves as me. Well—a hilarious, super-fat, super-geeky version of me. Their eyes glowed, and they cracked up when they saw the look of recognition on my face.
“You like them? We used all the padding they set out,” Walter said. How could this possibly be the same guy who told me he was sorry about my parents just a few days ago? It was like he’d gotten eaten by jerk aliens.
“Love them,” I said. “You look like someone who might do an amazing job improvising on a mission. Maybe someone that Fishburn would make a special announcement about?”
After the hospital mission for Evergreen, Fishburn had made a point of coming to my class to tell everyone what a great job I’d done improvising, and how I’d really saved the day. Otter repeated the sentiments, though he didn’t appear happy about having to call me “the hero of the day.” Fishburn never came to classrooms, so there was a lot of speculation as to why our mission warranted a visit. I heard everything from “Hale actually took a bullet for Otter, but we’re not supposed to know” down to “Fishburn just wanted to make Hale feel good, since his parents are missing.”
The Doublecross: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy Page 11
