Bridget Wilder #3

by Jonathan Bernstein

  Above their heads, a ceiling panel opens. Vanessa drops down and lands on the shoulders of one of the gunmen.

  “They’ve got me,” she says.

  She reaches down, grabs the bottom of his Font Force T-shirt, and yanks it over his head. As he reaches up to pull himself free, Vanessa jumps off his shoulders, snatches the gun from his hand, and joins Pacific and me. The guy with the T-shirt over his head stumbles around making muffled sounds of anger. The last armed Font man now looks a lot less confident.

  “Hey, V,” says Pacific.

  “Hello, Adam,” Vanessa says. She gives me a curt nod. “Peanut.”

  “You’re supposed to be at the debate,” I say.

  “I had an inkling you could probably use a hand,” Vanessa says. “So I took a pee break, ditched the nanomask, gave my handlers the slip, et voilà.”

  She glances around at my stunned family.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, how very nice to meet you again, even though the circumstances are somewhat trying.”

  “You.” Ryan gulps. He looks horrified at the sight of his fake ex-girlfriend.

  “Don’t be scared, Ryan,” Vanessa says sweetly. “I’m nice now.”

  Ryan looks to me for confirmation.

  “Everyone else seems to think so.” I shrug.

  Dad suddenly strides out in front of the last armed Font guy.

  “Hey, bozo,” he barks. “You’re working for the losing side. My daughter and her gang of underage spies just ate your lunch without firing a shot. Save yourself further embarrassment and limp out of here.”

  The Font guy looks taken aback at Dad’s tough-guy approach. He turns to his coughing partner, and the one with the T-shirt still stuck over his head, and mutters, “I hate politics.”

  The coughing guy stamps his foot in frustration, and they both run out of the room.

  Pacific pokes me in the ribs. “Wilder, I don’t trust those guys. They might be recruiting backup goons. I’ll keep eyes on them.” He grabs his towels and hurries after the men.

  “Guys?” says the remaining Font man, from beneath his T-shirt. “You still here?”

  He follows blindly in their wake, walking into a makeup mirror as he goes.

  I give my father an admiring smile. Ryan and Natalie look equally surprised and impressed. Mom does not. She’s caught in a place between anger and fear, and she seems unable to access any other emotions.

  “Tick-tock, peanut,” mutters Vanessa. She points up at the ceiling panel from which she emerged so spectacularly. “There’s a passage that will take you right up to the backstage area.”

  “And this’ll get you there faster,” says a familiar voice.

  Irina strides across the room. She elbows the remaining Font in the head as she passes, knocking him to the ground.

  “Great,” moans Mom.

  “Mrs. Wilder,” sniffs Irina. “Always a pleasure.” She does not say this like she means it.

  Irina hands me her arrow-shooting gun device.

  “Go save the day,” she tells me. “I’ll stand guard here.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Mom says.

  “You never gave me a chance,” snaps Irina. “From the moment I met you, I knew you didn’t like me.”

  “Hey,” I shout. “We’re an extended family. Extend each other some understanding.”

  With that I fire the arrow into the ceiling. The steel wire hurtles upward. As it embeds in its target, I feel a pressure shoot up my arm. I am pulled into the air and through the ceiling.

  “Oh my God, Bridget!” I hear various family members beneath me scream. I squeeze both my hands together and cling on for dear life as the wire rockets me up the passage, which curves left and then right. I don’t know where I’m going, but it smells bad, and it’s so narrow I have to press my arms to my sides. As I continue to rise, I hear a muffled, echoey voice. The voice becomes clearer. It’s the president. The debate has begun.

  Bright light comes streaming down the passage. Up above me, the arrow is embedded in a loose floorboard. I dig my feet in at the side of the passage and work my way up the last few feet until I’m able to push the floorboard aside.

  All around me are the legs of important people watching the debate on a large TV monitor Nobody sees my head peering out of a hole in the floor. Nobody sees me take off my dust-covered glasses and wipe them on the nearest pant leg.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” says a female voice from the monitor. “Mr. Font, same question. Gas prices.”

  “I’ll address that important issue in a second, if I may,” I hear Font reply. “But first, I’d like to ask the president a question. Sir, do you know where your daughter is right now?”

  I hear a chorus of gasps and Whaaats above me.

  I pull myself out of the hole, scramble to my feet, and try to get a look at what’s going on in the monitor. No one notices me. I’m shorter than everyone else in the room, and I’m nowhere near important enough to grab anyone’s attention. All the campaign staffers and reporters crammed into this backstage space are furiously texting and whispering on their phones.

  I get as close to the monitor as I can, and I see the look of confusion on the president’s face.

  “I’m not sure I understand why that’s in any way relevant,” he replies.

  “It’s extremely relevant to our national security, and the safety of our loved ones,” says Font.

  As President Brennan stands behind his podium, looking out at the packed auditorium, Font steps out from behind his and approaches the president.

  “I know Jamie’s safety and security are as precious to you as every American daughter’s safety is precious to every father. That’s why you had a CIA operative wear a mask and pretend to be her during public events.”

  The gasping and whaaat-ing increase.

  The cameras zoom straight in on Jocelyn Brennan, who sits stone-faced in the audience, next to an empty seat where the Vanessa version of Jamie should have been. The cameras cut back to the president’s baffled face.

  “This is . . . can we move on to something more appropriate?” the president splutters.

  “Mr. President, I can’t think of anything more appropriate. I’m here today to tell you the CIA operative who passed as your daughter was a double agent working for enemies of our great nation. Enemies who abducted your daughter and were prepared to make you pay a ransom for her safe return.”

  The audience is gasping louder than the freaked-out staffers and reporters backstage.

  President Brennan is unable to form any words other than “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “But Morgan Font does not stand by while enemies of freedom prey on America’s children. Morgan Font rescued your daughter, Mr. President.”

  Font turns to the side of the stage. “Jamie, come and hug your father.”

  Every head in the backstage area turns. Two of Font’s men lead a trembling, terrified Jamie toward the stage.

  This is my chance to stealthily save the day and vanish into the shadows like the super-professional spy I am.

  Font holds out his hand, ready to walk Jamie to her baffled father.

  Every eye in the backstage area is fixed on Jamie and Font. No one sees me squeeze my way past. No one sees me pull out my squirter, and take aim at Jamie . . .

  Someone screams “Gun!”

  And then a bus lands on me. Or at least that’s what it feels like.

  I’m thrown face-first onto the ground. The squirter flies out of my hand, and a huge weight presses down on me.

  I feel hot breath in my ear. “I told you the first person to shoot dies.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Fall

  A super-professional spy would not have let a hired killer walk away because he got towel-fu’d and then shouted at by her dad. A super-professional spy would have taken the hired killers prisoner, so there was no chance one of them could slam her to the ground just as she was about to thwart his employer’s evil scheme
.

  But, as it turns out, I’m no super-professional spy. I’m a barely breathing, barely conscious gimmick whose run of good luck just ended. The big brute who tackled me has pretty much crushed the life out of me. I have no plan to escape from this. I have no backup, no Red, no squirter, no way to save the day.

  The Font guy’s massive weight lifts off me. I see a blurry circle of faces staring down. I recognize White House Chief of Staff Hayes Oberman. He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “Take her away,” he says. Two Secret Service agents pick me up as if I were a stray leaf blown backstage by an errant gust of wind. I don’t struggle or try to plead my case. There is not an ounce of fight left in me.

  And then I hear the entire auditorium gasp in shock.

  “Oh God,” groans Oberman. “She’s fallen over again.”

  The Secret Service guys stop moving but keep their hands on my arms. Their eyes go to the stage, where Jamie is lying flat on her face, motionless.

  I twist around to get a look at the TV monitor. I see a slow-motion replay of Jamie being led by Font toward the president. He opens his arms to his daughter. She takes a step toward him and then falls down.

  Mrs. Brennan cries out in horror and jumps out of her seat. She runs to the stage and crouches over the fallen Jamie.

  Even the hardest-hearted White House staffers and journalists look moved to tears by the mother-daughter scene playing out in front of them.

  I’m not moved to tears, though. I laugh out loud.

  “What’s wrong with you?” snarls Oberman.

  “Why am I laughing?” I grin at him. “Because I know something you don’t.”

  I gesture at the Font man who brought me down. “When that goon tackled me, my amnesia squirter went off and hit Jamie in the back. That’s why she fell over. When she wakes up, she won’t remember the last hour. But she will remember all the bad stuff she knows about Morgan Font.”

  Oberman stares at me, not sure what to believe. I’ve got a little wiggle room here, so I start wiggling.

  “So you can have your men drag me off and throw me in a cell. Or you can wait till she wakes up, and realize that I just saved Jamie Brennan and your job. Either way, today’s going to end with you apologizing to me. The question is, when do you want to do it? Now or later. ’Cause later’s really going to ruin your day.”

  Oberman flinches. That confidence and swagger? I got it from my dad. Thanks, Jeff Wilder.

  He gestures to the Secret Service agents to unhand me.

  On the stage, the president and the first lady are both crouching over Jamie, rubbing her back and stroking her hair.

  Font stands alone and awkward on the stage. The audience he had in the palm of his hand a matter of seconds ago doesn’t even see him anymore.

  He walks to the edge of the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have footage that will be shocking to some of you, but I think we have to see it to understand the threat this country faces, that our children face.”

  He gestures to a huge video screen at the back of the stage. “This is what I saved Jamie Brennan from.” The screen fills with static, and then the audience sees . . . Lim from L4E sticking an I FARTED sign on a fan’s back.

  “What is he doing?” Overman says.

  “He’s showing the clip of L4E being mean to their fans that I had Dale Tookey upload in place of the clip he thought he was going to show.”

  Oberman just says, “Oh.” (Don’t make your fans mad, boy bands. They’ll get their revenge in the end. They’ll either grow out of you, or, if they’re like me, they’ll do something a little more malicious.)

  On the stage, Font is shouting “No, no, no, no!” at the screen.

  “We cannae stand youse,” chorus L4E in front of their biggest-ever global TV audience.

  “That’s not the right clip,” shouts Font. “Someone’s getting fired over this.” He makes an appealing gesture to the audience. “The same people who abducted Jamie did this. The enemy is everywhere. President Brennan can’t stop them. But I can. I got Jamie back.”

  “No, you didn’t,” says Jamie.

  The whole auditorium inhales in surprise as Jamie slowly, shakily, gets to her feet.

  The president and the first lady hold on to her hands.

  Font contorts his features into a grotesque smile. “Thank God!” he exclaims. “You’re safe and well, and back with your family. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “That’s almost true,” Jamie says. “Except you left out the part about the deal we made.”

  “Jamie, you’ve been under a lot of pressure,” Font says. He looks at the president and the first lady. “She needs rest. Maybe we should start this over another time.”

  Jamie shakes loose of her parents’ hands. She walks toward Font, her posture more aggressive and defiant with every step she takes.

  “I wanted out of the White House and you wanted in, so we came up with a plan. I’d pretend to be kidnapped. You’d pretend to rescue me. We’d both get what we wanted.”

  The audience gasps in unison.

  “Oh God,” I hear Oberman groan.

  “Ready with that apology?” I ask him.

  Onstage, Font’s makeup is starting to run under the heat of the TV lights, and the burning realization that his dirty secrets are about to be revealed to a worldwide audience.

  “The poor child . . . how much she must have suffered . . . seeing what they’ve done to her . . . I will not rest until the subhuman creatures responsible are hunted down and made to pay . . .”

  “I was stupid,” shouts Jamie. “I made a mistake. I trusted the wrong guy.”

  She turns to her parents. “You don’t know who he is, who he really is . . .”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Font implores the audience.

  “He’s right.” Jamie nods. “Don’t listen to me. Listen to someone else who knows what Morgan Font is all about.” She walks off the stage.

  “Bridget?” she calls. “Are you back there?”

  I feel my face burn. I can’t blow my cover. If I go out there everyone in the world will know I’m a spy.

  Jamie hurries to the backstage area and grabs me by the arm.

  “Jamie, I can’t,” I whisper. “You’re doing great. You don’t need me.”

  “I won’t say anything about you being a spy,” she promises.

  I have to trust Jamie. She believed me. She turned against Font and put the fate of the nation above another term of being miserable in the White House. Now it’s my turn.

  Jamie leads me on to the stage. Hundreds of eyes are suddenly on me. I feel horribly self-conscious. The nice green dress I’ve been wearing since the White House is crumpled, torn, and stained. It doesn’t make me feel much better seeing audience members holding up phones to film me. I notice that, in the first few rows, people are brandishing Font phones.

  The president and first lady stare blankly in my direction. My appearance on the stage is just one more of the evening’s unexpected surprises. Jamie walks me toward her parents. We stand by their side.

  Font’s reaction is louder and more aggressive. “Her?” he bawls. “You’re bringing a known liar to back up your baseless accusations?”

  He approaches the audience. The people in the front row rear back in fright, and I don’t blame them. Font is a seething mess of sweat and melting makeup. He clenches and unclenches his fists. The smile he attempts to keep on his face makes him look like a psychotic clown.

  “She’s going to tell you fairy tales about me brainwashing voters with my phones,” he laughs. “Stories about me controlling the minds of my young volunteers. The Font Force is the heart of my campaign. The accusation that I would . . .” He throws up his hands in disbelief.

  “But let me tell you a true story,” he says, leaning forward, as if to bring the entire auditorium into his confidence. “About a girl who had her childhood ripped away from her. A girl to whom lying, cheating, and manipulation come as easily as breathing does to the rest of us. A
girl who shows one face to her family and a whole other face to those she’s ordered to take down.”

  I see Font growing in confidence. He thinks he can turn my presence on his stage to his advantage. Font points at me. I feel my face redden.

  “President Brennan allowed his covert intelligence agencies to turn this girl into the monster you see before you. Think what he’ll allow if you give him a second term.”

  I hear sporadic boos from the crowd.

  That was pretty good. That was the work of a man who thinks on his feet. Font made the audience take a good look at me. I’m not a pretty little package. If anything, I’m a suspicious package, and he just succeeded in making me seem more suspicious. I could use the I’m-just-a-scared-little-girl approach and maybe win the audience back to my side. But why should I? Morgan Font never treated me like a scared little girl before. He paid me the respect of treating me like an equal. He deserves the same treatment from me.

  I squeeze Jamie’s hand and then I walk across the stage until I face Chester Brennan, who towers over me. I glance back at Chester Brennan.

  “Hey, Mr. President,” I call out. “You ever used a Font phone? You should. Fifty gigabytes of free storage, rollover data, unlimited international texting.”

  I pull Starey Hayley’s Font phone from my pocket and toss it to the president. He barely knows where he is by this point, but high school sports hero muscle memory kicks in and he catches the phone.

  “Hey, Jamie,” I say. “Call your dad.”

  Jamie takes out her phone.

  “NO!” Font suddenly screeches. He sprints across the stage and snatches the Font phone from the president’s hand.

  President Brennan does not give it up. The two candidates start shoving each other. I scoot to the front of the stage and address the audience.

  “Mr. Font called me a liar,” I tell them in a loud, clear voice. “I would never say that about him. I think every word he told me is true. He told me his phones emit a high-pitched frequency and a series of vibrations that make people act the way he wants them to act because, and I think these are the words he used, ‘I wouldn’t want to lie to you.’ I think he said, ‘Voting is way too important to be left in the hands of the voters.’ Or something like that.”