“It does matter to me who’s president. It does make a difference to my life. It didn’t forty minutes ago, but that’s before I found out Morgan Font thinks faking an abduction is an awesome way to win an election.”
Jamie gives me a condescending smile. “That’s just politics.”
“Is it?” I retort. “He flew L4E . . .” The words taste funny in my mouth now. Like bile rising in my throat. I attempt to regain my composure. “He flew them here to give you your fantasy so you’d be even more inclined to do whatever he wanted. What if your own private show hadn’t been your fantasy? What if having them turned into wax figures and mounted in a secret museum had been your wish?”
“Oh my God, that’s an astonishing idea!” Jamie exclaims.
“Okay, it kind of is,” I concede. “But that’s not my point. Forty minutes in Morgan Font’s headquarters has told me all I need to know about the world he wants me to live in. I don’t like it.”
“He’s nice to me,” she mumbles. “He listens to me.”
“Really?” I laugh incredulously. “I wonder why. Don’t act like you were so obsessed with being close to Cadzo . . .” Ugh. Just saying that name was like walking into an oncoming express train. Focus, Bridget. “. . . you didn’t notice how weird and sheeplike the Font Force volunteers are, how they’ve all got those mad eyes.”
“But that doesn’t mean . . .” Jamie trails off. “Are you saying this stuff because you want to get me back to the White House and clear your name, or do you actually, deeply, and sincerely believe Morgan Font’s a bad guy?”
“Both,” I reply. “I want the Wilders and the Wilder-adjacents as far away from DC as possible, and I want the same for Morgan Font.”
Jamie says nothing for a few seconds. “They do all have those staring eyes,” she agrees. “Like, they never blink.”
I feel a great weight lifting from my shoulders. Jamie gets it. Maybe it’s safe for me to like her again.
“In here,” Pacific says. He’s standing by the door at the end of the first-floor corridor, with a key in his hand that seems to be changing shape in front of my eyes.
“Nanokey?” I squeal. “Why don’t I have one of those?”
“They only give them to spies,” he scowls, then points to his watch.
“All right.” I nod. “Let’s do this.”
“Oh no,” moans Jamie. “Garbage.”
“Wilder’ll go first,” says Pacific. “It’s her natural habitat.”
“Didn’t I find you tied up in a Dumpster like an abandoned puppy someone threw away the day after Christmas?” I remind him.
“Total vibe,” I tell Jamie, and we both laugh.
Pacific holds the door open, and I venture inside.
I’m in a dimly lit room, medium-size, completely empty.
“Where’s . . . ?” I start to say.
I feel something coil around my ankle. I look down and see a white towel. I try to kick it loose, but the towel is yanked away so quickly, it sends me stumbling forward. As I fall to the ground, a clear wall of plastic slides down from the ceiling to the floor. Behind me, the same thing happens. To my left, and then my right, more walls of plastic slide noiselessly to the ground.
On the other side of the plastic, Jamie stands staring at me with her mouth hanging open. Pacific is also staring at me, but his expression is different. There is no shock, no fear, in his eyes. Just an intense, wide-eyed stare.
“No!” I shout. “Pacific, no. You’re not one of them.”
“Morgan Font is the future,” he says. “No one fights the future.”
“Bridget!” Jamie yells. She rushes to the plastic wall separating us and throws punches at it. Her fists make no impression. Pacific’s hand comes down on her shoulder. He starts to pull her away.
“No,” she cries. “I don’t want to. I made a mistake.”
“We have to go,” says Pacific.
As he drags Jamie out of the room, she reaches out a desperate arm to me. All I can do is push my pinkie up against the plastic wall.
“I’ll find you,” I promise her. “I’ll come for you, and I’ll save you. Pinkie swear.”
The door of the room slams shut, and I am left alone, encased in a plastic cube.
Pacific. A double agent. A Font plant. I should have suspected. But double agents go out of their way to get you to like them. Pacific went out of his way to do the opposite. He antagonized me at every opportunity. Maybe he is a better spy than me.
How far back does this go? Did Font cut a deal with him to get his dad out of North Korea? Is . . . what’s his name . . . Charlie Pacific in on it? He did try to kill Strike three times. Maybe we’re all pawns in his game. Maybe Charlie Pacific is Morgan Font in a nanomask. How would I even know? My mind is all over the place, thoughts popping like popcorn.
Focus, Bridget.
“Here’s where they want you to fall apart,” I tell myself. “But you thrive in impossible situations, and besides, Pacific was so determined to get Jamie away from me, he didn’t disarm me. I still have Red.”
I aim Red at the plastic wall in front of me. He bounces straight off and rebounds into the back wall. I watch him pinball back and forward until I accept there is no further progress to be made with this approach. I hold up my ring, and he returns home.
“Nice try, buddy,” I tell Red.
I pull out my phone. No service.
It’s starting to look like Pacific knew exactly what he was doing when he neglected to disarm me.
Maybe if I walk in a circle, I’ll spot a flaw in my plastic prison, something I can use to help me escape. Maybe if I tap or rub or pound my fists against the walls, it’ll trigger some kind of secret combination that will . . .
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here.
I run at the wall facing me, and kick out hard. The impact of my shoe hitting the plastic doesn’t even leave a mark. I bang my fists and yell, “Let me out.”
Here’s where you fall apart, the voice in my head tells me.
I crumple to the ground, exhausted and out of ideas.
That’s when the lights go on in the room surrounding the cube. And Morgan Font walks in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Hail to the Thief
“How’s the foot?” are my first cool and defiant words to Font.
“How’s the cube?” are his first smug and triumphant words to me.
“No Wi-Fi,” I point out.
“I’ll put my best people on it.”
“Like Adam Pacific?” I say. “How long’s he been working for you?”
Font checks his watch. “I’m going to say five minutes?”
I look at him in his dark-blue suit with his Stars and Stripes lapel pin, and I curl my lip in disdain. Then I uncurl it. Five minutes ago? Five minutes ago, Pacific was looking at his Font phone, trying to find a higher number than decillion, and suddenly he turned into a decisive man of action, leading Jamie and me toward the garbage chute. And then I think back to the Ping-Pong room filled with Font Force volunteers staring at their phones and then attacking me like savage beasts. What do the two events have in common?
“It’s the phones,” I groan, feeling dumb and smart at the same time. “You turned Pacific into a mindless follower through the Font phone, the same way you turned all your volunteers into starey weirdos who don’t see what’s really happening. And that’s why they gave me a form for my parents to fill in. You send phones to voters so you can control their minds.”
Font touches his fingers together in light applause. “You’re good.” He smiles.
“You’re not!” I respond.
He looks hurt, or pretends to.
“How did you do it?” I ask.
“I don’t honestly know. I mean, I came up with the idea of sending out subliminal instructions via phone, and I let the tech guys hammer out the details. It’s a mixture of a super-high-pitched frequency and a pattern of vibrations. The results are pretty impressive, though.”
“You stole a tech guy’s phone,” he points out. “They put in a code to protect themselves against the subliminal signals. But don’t worry, when I want to put my fingerprints over your squishy little brain, I’ll do it.”
I feel a shudder pass over me. “What about Jamie?”
“She reached out to me,” Font says. “She came to me of her own free will.”
“But you’re too much of a coward to let the rest of the country do that,” I shout at him.
He pushes his hands deep into his pockets and gives me an amused frown. “Don’t get all judgey, Spy Girl. You’re no different from me.”
I gesture around my luxurious plastic prison.
“Our current circumstances may differ,” he agrees. “But morally? You’re not entitled to think you’re any more of a saint than I am.”
“Oh, I’m so much more of a saint,” I snarl. “I’m Saint Bridget.”
“My apologies,” says Font. “You’ve never lied, cheated, stolen, and manipulated people to get the result you want? Because, being a spy, I assumed that’s all you did.”
“That’s different,” I shoot back.
“How?”
“I’m the good guy,” I tell him. “I’m the one who saves the day and makes things right.”
“So am I.” He smiles. “This will be a much better, much more profitable, and much more peaceful country when I’m running it.”
“That’s what my dad said you’d say!” I exclaim.
Font leans an elbow against the plastic wall. “Does your father know you’re a spy?” he asks. “Does he know where you are right now? Does he believe things about you that are only in his head because you put them there?”
“To keep him safe!” I shout.
“Just like me!” he shouts back.
“It’s different!” I wail.
“It’s exactly the same,” he says in a calmer tone of voice. “I believe voting is too important to be left in the hands of voters. You believe being your parent is too important to be left in the hands of your parents. We both saw problems, and we both addressed them in the same manner.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
I’m floundering here. How is it that I, the victim in the plastic cube, am on the losing end of this argument?
“You’re such a politician,” I mutter.
“I know you didn’t mean that as a compliment, but I’m going to take it as such,” Font says.
He moves away from the cube and smooths out the arms of his jacket.
“I’ve enjoyed our little talk,” he tells me. “The first of many to come.”
That shudder goes through me again.
“There’s going to be a big role for a smart girl like you once I’m president,” says Font. “And you know who’s going to be pleased about that? Your father.”
He checks his watch. “Got to run. I have to pick up your friend Jamie, whose mind I am forced to control now that you’ve seen fit to fill it with doubt. And then I’ve got a debate to win, and another fake president’s daughter to unmask. Big day for me, and America! See you soon, Bridget.”
Font strolls away, whistling “Hail to the Chief.”
I bang my fists on the plastic wall, knowing it won’t have any effect, but my rage has to be directed somewhere.
I can only bang so long before my arms grow tired. I slump down on the ground and gather my knees up to my chest, thinking of the bad guys who were so sure they were smarter than me. Brian Spool from Section 23. Edward Dominion from the Forties. The non-redeemed version of Vanessa. That corrupt Little Chef, Nelson Geiger. Dr. Klee, the insect-loving dentist and mind-controlling freak. Okay, the last two aren’t exactly world-class villains, but they still make the list of bad guys brought to justice by Bridget Wilder.
Morgan Font isn’t any different from my other enemies. He’s got decillions of dollars at his disposal, and he’s capable of washing the brains of an entire nation, but he’s still a delusional bad guy with a massive ego and a weak spot I can exploit. If I ever get out of here.
Think positive, Bridget. That’s what Natalie would tell me.
You’re positively stuck inside that cube. That’s what Ryan would tell me.
I wish I hadn’t thought about Natalie and Ryan, because now I feel guilty and scared. Even without his mind-controlling phone, Morgan Font is in my head. I shouldn’t have dumped my family at the embassy. They shouldn’t have been in Washington. I shouldn’t have taken on the fake Jamie job. But I did it because lying, cheating, stealing, and manipulating are what I do.
And then I think of something my father said to make me feel better about being sent to fake FBI camp. Dad hugged me. This is nothing, he said. This is a bump in your road, and your road is going to take you to awesome places.
My dad was smart enough to see through Morgan Font. If he believes in me, it’s time I believed in myself.
There is a way out of this cube. There is a way to stop Font from taking Jamie to the debate and using her to destroy the president.
I just need to think of it.
I just need to think.
Think, Bridget.
I hear a grinding noise.
The plastic wall in front of me is rising back into the ceiling.
So are the other three walls.
Oh my God, I’m telepathic!
The walls stop rising. They start to slide back down to the ground.
I’m not telepathic. Font, or one of his tech minions, most likely the pudgy guy whose phone I stole, is toying with me, trying to raise and then dash my hopes.
I’m not playing his game.
The walls start to rise again. This time there’s enough room for me to slide my foot under, and if I can get my foot under, maybe I can squeeze the rest of me under.
The walls freeze, midrise. The grinding sounds get louder.
My non-stolen phone rings!
It’s Dale Tookey.
“Dale,” I gasp into the phone. “There is no one in the world I am happier to hear from at this minute. You won’t believe . . .”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the whole president’s daughter thing,” says a familiar voice. A voice I was not expecting to hear. “Aren’t we supposed to be the spy twins?”
“Joanna?” I gasp. “But it said Dale Tookey. What are you, how are you . . . ?” Words fail me.
“So you know how people don’t like you?” asks Joanna.
“Is that the only reason you’re calling me?”
“This Ur5ula doesn’t dig the idea of you and Dale T. still being kind of a thing . . .”
“But we’re not even a fragment of a thing,” I protest. “He just gave me some intel that I really needed . . .”
“Because he keeps tabs on you,” says Joanna. “His head should be full of codes and hacks, but instead it’s filled with Bridget Wilder.”
“Really?”
“I know, hard to believe. But he’s scared to make Ur5ula mad because she’s a genius-level hacker. Get on her bad side, she could make your life miserable in a million ways. So he has to help you in secret. That’s where I come in.”
Dale still likes me. He’s scared of Ur5ula. Can I gloat about these two interesting facts for a second?
“I hear you gloating.” Joanna laughs. “Okay, here’s the deal: Dale was hacking your phone, and then when he lost contact, he initiated a program that would override the building’s power supply and get you out, but the building has its own program that overrides any attempt to override . . .” I hear Joanna exhale. “God, this is exhausting,” she goes on. “I don’t really understand what’s happening. He’s trying to get you out, is all you need to know. So is it working? Are you out of the cubicle yet?”
The walls come down.
“No,” I tell Joanna. “And it’s not a cubicle, it’s a cube.”
“Did you tell Jamie Brennan about me?” she asks.
I think back to
the time I told Jamie how tough it was being friends with Joanna. Now I realize being friends with Jamie was a lot tougher.
“It didn’t come up,” I tell her.
The plastic walls start to rise a few inches off the ground.
“It’s working!” I whisper into the phone. “But I need more space.”
“Dale’s trying to get you the time and space to escape, but you only have a really short window,” Joanna tells me. “The second you think you can get out of there without hurting yourself, take it.”
The walls to the left and right of me rise slowly. The back wall remains frozen. The wall facing me descends to the ground.
“Aargh!” I groan. “Tell Dale to keep overriding the override. . . .”
The wall in front of me rises higher than before. It smashes straight back down like a jaw snapping shut.
“Is there a toilet in the cubicle?” I hear Joanna ask. “What happens if you’re in there all night and you need to go . . . ?”
The walls surrounding me follow the same pattern. Up, up, and then crashing down.
My timing has to be right, or I’ll end up trapped underneath a plastic wall that could slice me in two.
I time the rise and fall of the front wall. It rises up for one, two, three, four seconds, and then comes crashing down. Can I make it under the wall in four seconds? What if it falls faster next time?
Joanna’s voice breaks my concentration. “Bridget, I need to say something. If anything happens, if you don’t make it out of there, I want you to know I consider you one of my best friends.”
One of? One of?
“Me too,” I tell her. “Definitely in my top ten.”
I start to breathe hard. I feel my heart punching its way out of my chest. This is not the state of mind I need to be in. I need to be ice and steel.
I hear Joanna say, “If you had to lose a limb, would you rather . . . ?” I hang up on her and concentrate on my escape.
I lie down on my side by the wall, ready to roll under and out.
It doesn’t rise. I count one, two, three, four. Nothing.
Come on, Dale.
The back wall starts to rise. I roll over as fast as I can, and . . . it comes crashing down.
The front wall rises. I roll away. It smashes back down before I make it out.
Bridget Wilder #3 Page 16
