“This is the place,” the driver says, freeing me from my nightmares.
The car drives up the southwest side of Constitution Avenue, coming to a halt on the other side of the road from an oval tower of black glass. In the middle of the tower is a metal red, white, and blue F.
This is the Font Foundation, the headquarters of Morgan Font’s presidential campaign. A group of about thirty kids, some who look to be in their mid-teens, some younger, are gathered outside the front entrance wearing black-and-white T-shirts that read Font Force.
They hand pamphlets, stickers, and badges to passersby. Some of them chant: “We want Font.” Catchy.
“My kid wears that shirt,” says the driver. “He wants to volunteer for Font’s campaign.”
“What does he see in him?” I ask.
“I try to ask him,” the driver replies. “He tells me I wouldn’t get it. He says Font’s real, that he listens to kids and understands them.”
“That’s amazing,” I mutter. “I don’t even understand kids.”
I do, however, understand that if I can get the Font Force kids to accept me as a potential new recruit, I can gain access to the black glass tower.
I take my leave of the embassy car and hurry across the road to the Font Foundation.
A girl who looks to be about fifteen with intense, staring eyes approaches me, leaflet in hand. “A vote for Morgan Font matters,” she says. “Because our future matters.”
“It’s the only thing that matters to me,” I tell her, while staring back with equal intensity. “I’d like to help with the important work you’re doing here.”
“You can help by making sure your parents vote,” says the Font Force girl, whose necklace identifies her as Hayley.
“Consider it done,” I lie. “But right now, what can I do to spread awareness and build Font buzz?”
Starey Hayley reaches into her back pack and hands me a brown envelope.
“In here,” she says. “You will find forms for your parents to read, declare their approval of you volunteering for the campaign, and sign.”
Hayley holds out a pen with the red, white, and blue F logo. “And here’s a nice pen for them to write their names. Once that’s done, bring it back and we’ll give you and your parents free Font phones.”
Free Font phones. I think I might have just uncovered a clue as to why Morgan Font is so popular with teens. But I already have a phone, and I don’t have time to waste.
“But I’m here now,” I insist. “Couldn’t I just . . .”
“Come back with the signatures,” says Hayley. “And we’ll find something for you to do. That’s how it works.”
I could argue. I could appeal to the other volunteers. I could start a fight. But the last thing I need right now is to draw attention to myself.
“Okeydokey,” I tell Starey Hayley, and I shove the envelope and the awesome free pen in my pocket.
I saunter away from the volunteers and then break into a sprint. My plan is to hang around outside one of the back exits of the tower, waiting for someone to leave, so I can fire my loyal nanomarble, Red, at the closing door, thus giving me the opportunity to sneak inside. I walk down a side street on the way to the back of the tower. My head is filled with important questions: What if I bump into Cadzo? What do I say? Should I prepare something? Should I drop a Glasgow reference? Maybe something about local soccer teams: Do you think the Rangers will beat the Celtics? Or will that sound too rehearsed and not sincere?
A loud banging breaks my feverish pileup of thoughts. Faint, frantic, wordless, muffled screaming accompanies the banging. I whirl around, prepared for an out-of-nowhere attack, but the side street is empty. The banging and muffled screaming continues. A few feet ahead of me is a gray Dumpster with a black lid. The Dumpster is shaking. Something inside is kicking it. Something inside is trying to express rage, fear, and frustration. My immediate reaction: some monster has abandoned a helpless animal. I creep closer to the Dumpster and touch my X-ray glasses.
The plastic Dumpster fades away. Inside, I see something abandoned and helpless. But it’s not a pet. It’s a person. A person whose hands are tied behind his back, whose ankles are bound together, and whose mouth is covered by pink sticky tape. My six seconds of X-ray vision end. The Dumpster returns. But the vision is seared into my mind.
Someone threw Adam Pacific out with the trash.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dumped
How often does this happen? How often does someone who mocked you when you were in a vulnerable position find himself in the exact same vulnerable position, only now you get the chance to mock him? This is what I ask myself as I stand, arms folded, in the narrow street to the side of the Font Foundation, listening to the cries and kicks of Adam Pacific.
Except . . .
I know how it feels. It does not feel good to be powerless and exposed. I should be the better, more mature, more compassionate person.
I open the Dumpster lid and recoil from the stench. Holding my breath, I look down and see Adam Pacific’s face. His expression goes through several stages:
1.Fear.
2.Relief.
3.Recognition.
4.Despair.
Seeing his face when he recognizes the person who has discovered him at his lowest moment, it makes me . . . shall we say, not quite as compassionate as I should be.
“Mmm mnnn urggg,” I think he says beneath his gag.
“Hi, Adam,” I trill. “What a surprise.” I make a surprised face and put a finger to my lips. “Oh. Oh, wait, are you on secret spy work? Should I go? I’ll go.”
I start to lower the lid.
“MMMNNN! URRRGGGHHH!” is his reaction.
“So, how did you wind up in there?” I ask before continuing. “Doesn’t matter. You probably want some help getting out, am I right?”
He nods at me.
“The fact that you want me to help you would suggest that I’m not a gimmick.” I smile down at him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
He stares back at me, his eyes aflame with hate. But I am no stranger to hate-filled eyes. I’ve been death-glared by the first lady of the United States. Adam Pacific is a rookie by comparison.
“Well, obviously, I’m not going in there,” I tell him, waving a hand across my nose. “Why don’t you try to haul yourself upright. It shouldn’t be a problem for someone with your many skills. Then I’ll help pull you out.”
Pacific flails around like a goldfish who’s been scooped out of his bowl and is drowning on dry land. He thrashes and rolls and kicks and finally gets himself in a position where his chin is jammed against the side of the Dumpster. And then he bangs his chin into the Dumpster, using the impact to lever himself upright. That’s something I haven’t seen before.
Once he gets into a standing position, I try not to inhale while reaching into the Dumpster, pushing my hands under his armpits, and dragging him with all my strength over the top of the Dumpster and onto the ground.
I catch my breath while he twists and squirms on the ground. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to leave him there for stray dogs to lick and hopefully pee on. But I remember that I should be better, more mature, and more compassionate. I kneel down and rip the sticky tape from his mouth.
“Aaarrgghh” is his reaction.
I push my palm over his mouth.
“Quiet,” I hiss. “Don’t attract attention. Act like a spy.”
Those burning eyes of hate again.
“Wilder,” he spits. “What are you doing here? School trip?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” I say.
I do not get the upper hand in life a lot. But right at this minute, I know something Pacific does not. In fact, I know a whole world Pacific does not. So I tell him. The whole world. I was asked to be the president’s fake daughter. The Forties is done. Strike and Irina are in a box. Jamie has probably been abducted. The CIA, FBI, and Secret Service all think I did it.
Pacific looks even more gol
dfishy now than he did a minute ago. I can actually see his brain rushing to keep up with the whirlwind of information I just laid on him.
“But,” he finally says. “If you were pretending to be the president’s daughter, and she’s gone, and you’re here, who’s wearing the nanomask now?”
I make a disgruntled face. “Yeah, that might be a problem. I had to act fast. My family was right there in the White House. I picked probably the worst person to replace me. Have you heard of Vaness—”
His face brightens. “Vanessa Dominion?” he says before I even get her whole name out. “That’s a great idea. She’ll do an awesome job.”
This is outrageous! Even Adam Pacific knows and likes Vanessa. I hate spies!
“No, she won’t,” I retort. “That’s why I’ve got to get Jamie back to the White House before your friend Vanessa wreaks havoc.”
“You want to give me a hand untying these?” Pacific whines, raising his roped ankles.
“I thought you escaped from a safe filled with snakes,” I reply. “This should be easy for you.”
I notice he’s wearing an L4E T-shirt with the words H8 ME scrawled underneath the band logo.
“Nice T-shirt,” I remark. He flinches, which means there is no way I am not going to ask the question he’s probably dreading.
“So. How did you end up in the Dumpster?”
Pacific looks pained. “When you travel with a band, you become like a family. You play pranks on each other. No one takes it seriously. No one takes offense. It’s my turn to get back at them. I’m already planning my revenge.”
“I absolutely believe your very convincing story,” I tell him, my sarcasm levels turned to full volume. “What really happened?”
Pacific looks up and down the side street, hoping someone who isn’t me will come to his aid.
I start to walk away. “Time’s ticking, Pacific. I’ve got a president’s daughter to find.”
“I can find her faster than you,” he growls.
“We’ll never know,” I say, as I pick up speed.
“Wait!” he shouts.
I stop.
“We were getting along okay,” I hear him say. “And then . . .”
I walk back to Pacific. He’s squirming on the ground, trying to loosen the ropes around his ankles and wrists, but he’s only making them tighter. I bend down and start to untie his ankles. I’m good with knots.
“I started telling people I was Beano’s brother,” he mutters. “I wasn’t the only one. Some of the security guys did it, too. You get in places for free. Stores beg you to wear their clothes and be seen with their headphones. I wasn’t hurting anyone, but Beano found out, and the band turned on me.”
I stop working on his knot and give him a disgusted look.
“I don’t blame them,” I say, proud of my boys for defending their innocent fans standing up for the truth.
“It wasn’t just that they stopped talking to me,” he goes on. “They got mean. My bags would go missing. They stole my passport. They’d get me thrown off planes and kicked out of hotels.”
I want to laugh but Pacific is a picture of misery, and if what he’s saying is true, his punishment far outweighed his crime.
“I could have demolished all of them,” he says quickly, as if he sensed my pity. “I could have taken the 4E out of their name. And the L.”
“But you didn’t,” I say. “Because you didn’t want to blow your cover. You were there to prevent them from getting abducted.” See, I am a better, more mature, and more compassionate person.
“Right.” He nods. “So I have to take it when they jump me from behind and do stuff like this.” He holds up his bound wrists.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “In Washington?”
“The management got a call from this Morgan Font guy, asking if the band would play a private show.”
“But they already had an arena concert in Brazil,” I point out.
“From what I heard, Font offered them so much money to cancel that gig and do his event, there was no way they could refuse.”
“What event?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “They locked me in the bathroom for most of the flight. One thing I heard before they attacked me, though. Font had a demand. Cadzo had to shave the sides of his head.”
Jamie’s fantasy. Font’s demand. Coincidence or coinci—I don’t think so?
I spring to my feet and break into a run.
“Where are you going?” Pacific yells after me.
“Stay there!” I shout back, as if he had any choice. “I’m forming a plan.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bad Samaritan
“You poor thing,” coos Starey Hayley to Adam Pacific. “I am so sorry this happened to you. What an awful, terrible experience. This is Chester Brennan’s America. But you’re in a safe place. We’re going to get you cleaned up, find you some nice fresh clothes, and give you a hot drink, and we’ll make sure you get home.”
This is exactly how I hoped Hayley and the Font Force volunteers would react when I came scampering back to the entrance of the Font Foundation, shrieking about a poor kid who had been mugged, tied up, and chucked in a Dumpster by supporters of President Brennan.
No envelopes, no parental signatures, no special pens were required. The Font Force swooped down on Pacific, lifted him to his feet, and carried him into the reception area of the Font Foundation, while telling him how brave, strong, and special he was. How Morgan Font was going to make America a better place for him. To give Pacific credit, he played along, acting like a confused, possibly traumatized, victim. And because I was the caring, selfless, bighearted individual who discovered the shocking crime, I was also allowed into the black glass tower.
How can I best describe the interior of this building? If you think your house doesn’t have enough American flags big enough to cover an entire wall, you might like it here. If you wish you lived in a huge dark gym hall where giant video screens all featuring a man who looks like a raven stare down at you, this is the place for you.
As the Font Force smothers Pacific with attention—which I bet he hates—I do what I do best. I disappear unnoticed into the bowels of the Font Foundation. Okay, bowels is inaccurate and a little gross. But I sneak away from the volunteers and tiptoe through the nearest door. I hurry through a corridor lined with framed photos commemorating Morgan Font’s rise to extreme wealth and power. The corridor leads to a room with four Ping-Pong tables. A group of kids are sprawled on foam rubber bean bag chairs painted red, white, and blue. They’re all engrossed in their phones.
“Font Force Michigan reports two hundred new volunteers,” says one kid.
“Font Force Boston coming on strong,” says another.
One of them looks up and eyes me with suspicion. I pull out my envelope and pen.
“I’m taking orders for pizza,” I say.
The suspicion dims. The kids all look excited. They bark their toppings demands at me while I pretend to write them on the back of the envelope. My spy advice: when you venture into unknown territory, a potentially tense situation can be quickly defused by bringing up free pizza.
The same clever ruse allows me to weasel my way through the Font Foundation’s recording studio, its library, and its gym. I now know that the majority of the volunteers prefer plain to pepperoni, but I’m no closer to finding the answers I seek.
Then I smell something.
Something disgusting. Something sort of familiar. Something disgustingly familiar.
Something like . . . deep-fried Mars Bar. Benj’s favorite fast food. The monstrosity I once tried to cook. There is no reason anyone in America should be deep-frying chocolate unless they’re making it for someone who rates it as his favorite fast food.
Which means that . . .
Benj is here.
Which means that . . .
L4E is here.
Which means that . . .
Jamie might be here.
Wh
ich means that . . .
L4E is here!!!! (Sorry, I had to go back to that one again.)
I follow the rancid smell down a flight of stairs that leads me into the Font Foundation kitchen. It’s empty, but the smell of deep-fried chocolate fills the air. I look down and see chocolate stains on the ground. I follow the stains out of the kitchen and down another corridor. As I walk, I feel vibrations under my feet. I hear a muffled sound growing increasingly loud.
I hear music. I hear L4E!
Don’t freak out. You’re on a mission. An important mission. Which you can’t remember right now. Keep it together.
I turn a corner, and the sound of the music overwhelms me. To my right, there is a sign on the wall. It reads FONT FOUNDATION CONCERT HALL. The arrow under the sign points straight ahead. I break into a run. As I pick up speed, the music fills my head. I see two metal doors. Once I push them open, I’m going to see L4E live and in person.
All I have to do is get past the two huge security guards who bar the doors and look at me with eyes filled with menace. Both men crack their knuckles. I crack mine.
Just in case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Scream
“No entry,” yells one of the guards over the roar of the music.
“This is private,” barks the other. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Who wants pizza?” I shout back.
“Who authorized you to come down here?” demands the first guard.
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