“Where’s your Font Force T-shirt?” bawls his colleague. (Okay, so not everyone loves free pizza.)
These two guys are colossal lumps of muscle and knotted veins. Neither of them has a neck. Either one of them could crush me with his thumb. But getting past them is the most important thing in the world. Luckily, I have a secret weapon.
I raise my hand and squeeze the back of my ring.
Red shoots through the air, flying straight at the face of the security guard standing in front of the first door.
I get ready for the collision of marble and skull.
But the guard suddenly lifts his big meaty paw and . . . catches Red in midair!
I am stunned. No one has ever done that before.
The guard sees that I am stunned and smiles. To cause me further distress, he holds up a closed fist and starts to squeeze.
“Don’t hurt him,” I beg.
“Don’t hurt him,” echoes the second guard. Both of the giant slabs of meat start laughing at me.
They keep laughing until the guard with Red in his left hand suddenly swings his fist into his partner’s face.
They both look shocked.
“You hit me!” gasps the recipient of the punch, rubbing his jaw.
“I didn’t mean to,” says the shocked guard. He tries to open his fist, but somehow it won’t do what he wants. He tries to open the fingers of his left hand.
“It’s stuck,” he complains to his colleague. The other guard tries to help him pry open his closed fist.
I have a feeling I know what’s about to happen.
The guard with the closed fist punches his friend in the face again.
“Stop hitting me!” yells the guard with the throbbing face.
“I’m not doing it,” the guy with the closed fist shouts back.
His closed fist flies at his partner’s face again, but this time, the wounded guard punches back.
And, just like that, the two guards are rolling on the ground, throwing punches at each other and ignoring both the doors they are supposed to be protecting and me.
I rush toward them and jump over their warring bodies. As I jump, Red flies back into my ring. I greet him warmly. “You, my friend, never fail to surprise me.”
And I’m through the doors.
My senses are overwhelmed. The music hits me like a wave. The sight of the five boys who have taken up residence inside my thoughts and dreams singing on a stage five hundred yards away from me scrambles my mind.
The fact that they’re singing in an intimate little venue capable of holding an audience of maybe one hundred people is unreal. Even more unreal, the hall is entirely empty except for me, L4E, and Jamie Brennan, who is standing in front of the stage, jumping up and down, screaming her little head off.
I let out a gasp of relief.
My spy senses were accurate. Jamie is here in Morgan Font’s headquarters. I don’t know how she got here, or what L4E are doing here, but these are questions for later. Right now, I need to get Jamie back to the White House, get Vanessa out of the White House, and remove my parents from the Trezekhastan Embassy.
I run across the floor of the small club. “Jamie!” I yell. She doesn’t hear me over her screams and the blast of the music. I feel a burst of joy. My new friend. My favorite band. And we have them all to ourselves.
“Jamie,” I bawl. She still can’t hear me.
I’m close enough to reach out and tap her on the shoulder. I reach out. My hand is almost touching her . . .
I feel a sharp pain on the back of my head. My heels scrape against the ground. I’m being dragged out of the hall by my hair. It hurts. (Why did I let my hair grow long enough for someone to grab a handful? Probably because Mom kept telling me it was time to get it cut. But now is not the time to think about Mom.)
I try to twist around, try to aim Red at my assailant, but the pain is making my eyes water, and I’m fighting to keep my balance.
“Jamie!” I keep shouting. But she’s screaming so loud she still can’t hear me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Brute Force
“Get off me,” I bawl at the invisible assailant who dragged me out of the concert hall. I’m whirled around and thrown through a door into a room filled with Ping-Pong tables!
As I go staggering backward, I reach out and grab the edge of the nearest table to steady myself. I’m breathing hard and trying to blink away the tears of pain, anger, and embarrassment I feel welling up. I rub my eyes, and when the blurring fades, I see Starey Hayley wiping stray hairs from her palms.
I’ve wiped the floor with adversaries twice—thrice—my age, and some demented volunteer just got the best of me by pulling my hair. Maybe that’s my Achilles’ heel. My Achilles’ hair.
I burn with the fury of a thousand suns. Or, at least, I do inside, because the Ping-Pong room is filled with Font Force volunteers. At least twenty of them. Some big strapping high schoolers, others younger than me, all wearing the black T-shirt, all looking at their phones. And now, all looking up and staring at me with the exact same unblinking intensity as Hayley. My finger grazes the back of my ring as I mentally calculate how many of the volunteers Red can take down. The odds are not in our favor.
Hayley takes a step toward me.
“Liar,” she spits.
“Good judge of character,” I reply.
“You don’t care about the future,” she says.
“I care about my future,” I tell her.
Hayley bares her teeth at me. “You’re a spy,” she states flatly.
I give her my game face. No reaction. No emotion. But, on the inside, I stop burning with the fury of a thousand suns and start getting nervous. How does a hair-pulling volunteer who hands out flyers and stickers know who I am? Oh my God, I am public enemy number one. The whole world knows I work for the CIA.
“For the Brennan campaign,” Hayley goes on.
My anxiety immediately vanishes. Hayley knows nothing.
“You want to steal our speeches and leak information about what we’re going to be talking about at the debates.”
I laugh in her face.
“You bug-eyed hypocrite,” I reply. Her shocked expression is highly enjoyable. I pluck a Ping-Pong ball from the table and toss it from hand to hand. “You throw false accusations at me when you’re the one who kidnapped the president’s daughter.”
“Liar!” she shouts.
“Not this time,” I shoot back. “I saw Jamie Brennan in the concert hall with L4E. You’re in a huge amount of trouble. You should probably burn that T-shirt.”
Hayley ignores me and addresses the volunteers. “This is classic Brennan. Deny, fabricate, avoid responsibility, blame others.”
The Font Force radiates dislike in my direction.
“You’re the one denying, fabricating, and . . .” I can’t remember her whole list of false accusations. “All that other stuff. Whatever I’ve done, you’ve done a million times worse. You kidnapped . . .”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hayley yells in my face. “I caught you trying to transfer files onto a flash drive. Stop talking about the president’s daughter.”
“I may be a liar,” I bark back. “But I’m a good one. That? That was pathetic. I was in the concert hall . . .”
“What concert hall?” Hayley demands.
“There is no concert hall here,” pipes up one of the younger Font Force volunteers.
“You’re a spy,” shouts another volunteer.
Something is not right. I don’t just mean the lies. I look from Starey Hayley to the assembled Font Force, and they all have the same intense, wide-eyed expressions on their face. L4E are live and in the flesh inches away from where they are, and these kids are acting like nothing’s happening. I can hear the boys singing their incredible catalog of hits, and again, there is no sign of excitement from these people. Are they even human?
The Ping-Pong room begins to boil over with tension. The Font Force are not c
ontent merely to stare anymore. They’re starting to make their way toward me.
“Get the flash drive!” Hayley commands them.
“There is no flash drive!” I start to say, but it’s like trying to reason with the undead.
I jump onto the Ping-Pong table. It immediately collapses. I flail around on the floor like spilled soup noodles, and curse the shoddy equipment in Morgan Font’s multi-million-dollar headquarters. Font Force hands reach out to grab my wrists and my ankles. I try to squeeze my ring, but I’m being lifted into the air and I don’t have a good aim. I unleash Red, and he smacks into the ear of the square-headed boy whose hands are locked around my ankle. He yells in pain and grabs his sore ear, but the other hand tightens around me.
“Get off!” I find myself yelling once more, as the Font Force swarms around me. Someone pulls a T-shirt over my head, ensuring I see only shadows through the black cotton.
“Take her up to see the campaign committee,” I hear Hayley order her minions. She makes the words campaign committee sound deeply sinister. The hands of these zombie kids lift me into the air. I struggle and kick, but they hold me fast. I’m in uncharted territory here. Are they going to eat my brains? Are they going to make me like them?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lethal Weapon
Is this the end of Bridget Wilder’s brief spy career? Is this how I go out, hoisted aloft by a mob of weird kids and carried off to an uncertain fate while my favorite band is performing in front of my friend a few feet away?
Then I hear . . . is that a whip cracking?
The next sound is a bloodcurdling scream of pain. It’s not my scream or my pain, so that’s a plus, but I can’t see what’s happening. Another whip crack, another scream, this one right in my ear. I’m dropped on the floor. Ouch.
“Stop!” I hear Hayley plead. “We’re your friends.”
The screams mount in volume and terror as I scramble across the floor on my hands and knees. My shoulder bangs into the leg of the Ping-Pong table that’s still standing. I shuffle to my side, crawl backward a few paces, and then pull the black T-shirt off my head. From my safe little shelter under the Ping-Pong table, I see some Font Force volunteers throwing their hands over their eyes. I see others lying facedown on the floor. And I see Adam Pacific whirling a wet towel over his head like a lariat. He lashes out behind him and hits a volunteer in the face. The volunteer howls in pain.
“Get help!” Hayley yells at a pimply volunteer. The pimply kid starts to run from the room. Pacific lashes out with a second wet towel. It curls around the pimply kid’s ankle. Pacific gives the towel a sharp tug.
“Waaah!” screams the pimply kid as his leg gives way and he tumbles to the ground.
Pacific crosses his arms. The wet towels make a swish sound as they fly over his shoulders. He surveys the damage he’s done. I follow his gaze. The floor of the Ping-Pong room is littered with broken glasses. A couple of short-sighted volunteers crawl blindly across the ground. A girl rocks back and forward, her hand over her mouth. “My retainer,” I hear her weep.
I see a huge, hulking high schooler with red marks on his face looking stunned and shaken, and I see Hayley trying to text on her phone. Pacific whips a wet towel over his shoulder and then jerks it back in a sudden movement. Hayley looks down in amazement at her empty palm. She looks up in even more amazement to see her phone fly into Pacific’s open hand. I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty impressive. He takes a step toward her, spinning the towel as he walks. Hayley stares at it, hypnotized.
“Don’t hurt me,” she pleads.
“Don’t give me a reason,” Pacific replies.
He suddenly snaps his fingers at me. “Shirt,” he says.
I throw him the T-shirt. He gives it to Hayley. “Put it over your head and then go stand in the corner.”
“But . . . ,” she begins.
Pacific gives the wet towel a practice midair crack. Hayley squawks in fear. She pulls the Font Force shirt over her head and stumbles blindly into the nearest wall.
He gives me a smirk. “You can come out now.”
I crawl out from under the Ping-Pong table.
“Looks like I saved your butt again,” he says.
Ignoring him, I say, “I take it that was one of the martial arts disciplines you created?”
“Towel-fu.” He nods, looking pleased with himself. He gestures at the weeping, twitching human wreckage littering the Ping-Pong room floor, and says, “I took it easy on them. When I give it a hundred percent, you’re looking at a bloodbath.”
“You might have to give it a hundred and twelve percent,” I tell him. “Something deeply sinister is going on here. These volunteers were going to tear me limb from limb like rabid dogs.”
“Why do they have to be rabid dogs?” says Pacific. “Couldn’t they just be dogs that don’t like you? Which would make them ordinary dogs.”
I ignore him. “We’ve got to get Jamie Brennan out of this building.”
I pick my way through the moaning volunteers and walk back up the corridor toward the metal doors. The music that rumbled through the floor and walls is no more. I fear for Cadzo and the boys. Pacific follows as I walk over the fallen bodies of the two security guards.
“What happened to this pair?” he says.
“I have a martial art of my own,” I reply. “Bri-jit su.”
“Mine’s better,” he mumbles. This guy!
We walk into the concert hall. Five microphone stands are the only the evidence that L4E were once in this small room, a few yards away from me, close enough to touch. I think I might tear up again. Luckily, Pacific distracts me by running across the floor and jumping on stage.
He grabs a stand, throws his arm wide, and yells. “Howyeeez doin’, America!” Looking over at me, he says, “They say that at the start of every show. They never know what city they’re in.”
As Pacific cavorts around the stage like a clown, my phone rings. Ryan.
“Tell me your mission’s accomplished and you’re on your way back to the embassy to get me out of this.” He sounds scared.
“Ryan,” I say. “Calm down.”
“We didn’t think this all the way through,” he says, clearly making an effort to keep his voice down. “I’m a seasoned pranker, but even I can’t keep up this pretense much longer. Mom and Dad are going to disown me if I keep acting like I’m trying to take over the embassy.”
Oh God.
“I’m so sorry. I’m coming. We’ll figure this whole thing out.” What a bunch of meaningless drivel. But what am I supposed to say? Oh, wait, I know. “Ryan, listen, I’ve got an amnesia . . .” I can’t think of the word for the thing-that-sprays-the-perfume-that-makes-you-forget. “. . . thing. I can wipe Mom and Dad’s memories. It’ll be like none of this ever happened.”
“Seriously?” Ryan suddenly sounds a lot less frazzled. “I can do anything, and you can make them forget about it?”
Uh-oh.
“But I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I say. “I’ll be back at the embassy soon. Just hang in there. You’re doing amazing, and I super-owe you.”
“You super-do,” agrees Ryan. “And another thing . . .”
Beep. Someone else on the line.
“Ryan, I’ve got to take this.” I accept the new call.
“Just checking in, peanut,” says Vanessa. I hear the mumble of party guests and the clink of glasses behind her. “POTUS, FLOTUS, and I will be making our way to Georgetown University for the debates at five o’clock, FYI.”
I check my watch. Three thirty.
Gulp.
“Not that I don’t have every confidence in you,” Vanessa continues. “But if you fail, if you’re captured or killed, and you need me to start shooting people . . .”
“No!” I yelp. “Don’t shoot, stab, or strangle anybody. I’ll bring Jamie back in time for the debates, and then you can disappear.”
I wait for her to reply. Instead I hear Vanessa call out, “Hey, everybody, who
thinks we should make Family Day a national holiday? Let me hear a yee-haw, like we do it back home in Texas!”
I hear a loud Yee-haw!
“Vote for my daddy, and he’ll make it happen.”
I hear the first lady croon, “Jamie, that was perfect. I mean, it’ll probably never happen, but I love your enthusiasm. You’ve really stepped up today.”
“Thanks, y’all,” Vanessa drawls. The call cuts out.
A clock starts ticking in my head. Suddenly, everything’s urgent. Where would Jamie be? Where would I be if I were her—and I have been her.
“Pacific,” I yell at the stage. “Find the band’s dressing room. Now.”
I follow him as he heads backstage. We charge down some rickety wooden steps, through a darkened corridor to a half-open white door and the familiar, wafting odor of deep-fried chocolate.
“I love that smell,” mutters Pacific.
I push open the door.
A pudgy guy with a shaved head surrounded by video monitors, all of which show footage of Jamie, taps furiously on a computer keyboard. As he does, the images of Jamie move in reverse, and then they freeze, and then they fast-forward a few frames.
My stomach rumbles loudly. (It’s been hours since I’ve eaten, and that deep-fried chocolate smell is getting to me.)
“Nice manners,” mutters Pacific.
The pudgy guy stops tapping at his keyboard and revolves in his seat.
“How did you get in here?” he starts to say.
Whap!
A towel shoots out and hits him on the chin. His head rolls back, and he slumps in his chair.
I turn to Pacific as he jerks back a towel that has a knot the size of a fist.
“Fast knotting,” I say.
“Probably seems that way to you,” he mutters.
I make a mental vow to never again utter a compliment to Pacific.
With an effort, I roll the unconscious pudgy guy away from his video screens so I can get a clear view of Jamie. She is sitting in front of what looks like a large sheet of paper featuring a graphic of a white fist gripping a black lightning bolt.
I press the play button on the keyboard.
Bridget Wilder #3 Page 14
