No, I didn’t, and I’d wished my whole life I did. Five-foot-ten. Blond. Blue eyes. C-size boobs. Skinny. You should model, honey. How many times had I heard that suggestion over the years?
“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!” the red-haired woman screamed.
Connie and I both jerked to attention.
Red Hair shoved off her bench, stomped over to the old woman, and started shaking her. “SHHHUUUT UUUP!”
The lady let out a wail.
“Leave her alone,” Connie warned. “She’s just an old crazy woman.”
Red Hair turned toward us. She actually bared her teeth like a rabid dog. “You wanna go a round with me, fancy?”
Connie shrugged, all nonchalant. “If I have to.”
I watched wide-eyed as Red Hair approached us.
“Knock it off.” A police lady rapped the bars with a black stick. “Visitor here.”
All of us, except for the bony, dark-haired woman who was still sleeping, turned our attention to the hallway outside the cell. A tall, really gorgeous man stood staring right at . . .
Me?
Swallowing, I stared back into his light green eyes.
Why’s he looking at me?
The police officer unlocked the door. “Back up,” she ordered Red Hair.
Red Hair took a few steps back, fists clenched, shooting dirty scowls at everybody.
Police lady motioned for me. “Let’s go, little girl. He’s here for you.”
[2]
THE TALL, LIGHT-EYED MAN gave me two minutes to use the bathroom and then took me to an office. No interrogation room this time. No two-way mirror. No big acne-scarred agent standing guard at the door.
Ugly beige carpet covered the floor. It reminded me of the carpeting at my first foster home. A dark wood desk sat centered along the back of the room with two red, cushiony chairs in front of it. Pictures of the beach and the ocean hung from the yellow walls. Vanilla air freshener overpowered the small place.
A few portraits decorated the desk’s shiny surface. The man wasn’t in any of them.
This office must belong to someone else.
He motioned me to sit in one of the two chairs. He took the other one, right beside me, instead of sitting behind the desk. Like we were equal instead of him being the one in charge.
“Did they feed you?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Lifting the phone, he punched a button. “Miss James hasn’t eaten.”
Whoever picked up on the other end must have known this man because he didn’t identify himself.
“Thank you.” He ended the call.
I eyed him carefully. Who was he? What did he want with me? I’d never seen anyone quite like him. Light green eyes, dark skin, and brown curly hair. I’d guess he was around thirty years old.
Hands down, he was the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen.
He didn’t seem to notice me staring as he flipped through a folder. Good thing, because I’d never been so rudely curious in my life.
Should I introduce myself or wait for him to speak? Usually silence didn’t bother me, but right now it did. Maybe he was waiting for the food to come.
I focused on the folder he held, curious what kept his interest. As I read the label, I sucked in a surprised breath.
Me?
He didn’t try to hide the information. In fact, he held it out as if to give me a better look.
Pictures of me at different ages. School reports. Test scores. Psychological evaluations. Photos of my parents. Seeing them calmed my nervousness. I had a quick flash of my mom pushing me on a swing. It made me smile.
My whole life in one folder. Big deal. I didn’t have any deep dark secrets. My parents died in a plane crash when I was six, and I’d been bounced around between foster homes and orphanages ever since.
I continued studying the papers as he sifted through them, and when he finished, I switched my gaze to his. I saw warmth there, and a sense of familiarity. The first time since early this morning I didn’t feel like a criminal. I almost felt safe.
He extended his hand. “Thomas Liba.”
“Kelly James.” I introduced myself, then realized he already knew my name.
The door opened, and an old police officer limped in. He didn’t glance at either of us as he put a plastic wrapped sandwich on the desk.
Feeling like a burden, I muttered “thank you” as he limped back out.
Mr. Liba pushed back his chair and crossed the office to a small refrigerator in the corner. He opened it, grabbed a soda, and brought it to me.
“Thanks.”
He nodded once.
I unwrapped the sandwich labeled turkey and popped the top on the soda can. While he went back to analyzing my file, I ate faster than I’d ever eaten in my whole life. If it wasn’t for my hunger, I would’ve been embarrassed at the chomping and gulping noises I made.
To my horror, I burped when I finished. “Excuse me,” I whispered.
“Garbage can’s by the door,” he said, without looking at me.
Taking that as a hint, I pushed up out of the chair, rounded the armrest, caught my toe on the wooden leg, and toppled into Mr. Liba’s lap.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I scrambled off him.
“It’s fine,” he said calmly, and grasped my arm to help me regain my balance. “Go throw away your garbage.”
Quickly, I did, then resumed my seat. Idiot. I’m such an idiot. Of all my imperfections, and I have a lot of them, I’d swap my klutziness for pretty much anything.
“I was like you once,” he commented as he flipped through my file. “A system kid. Got in a lot of trouble.”
Not knowing what to say, I remained quiet.
“Difference is, you haven’t gotten into any trouble. Until now.”
My throat suddenly went dry.
“You hacked nine levels of the government’s main computer system. Know how many there are?”
“No, sir.”
“Eighteen. You got halfway there. Farthest anyone’s ever gone.” He paused and looked at me. “Ever.”
No one had hacked farther than me? That couldn’t be right. It had been too easy. Their passwords were cleverly coded in the numbers of Pascal’s triangle, a basic theory. Such a simple pattern, yet it’d taken me an hour to figure it out. I would’ve made it through all eighteen given more time.
Mr. Liba closed my folder, but kept it in his lap. “Quite impressive, young lady.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, not sure if he’d really given me a compliment.
“I’d like you to tell me what information you were after.”
I hesitated, and he patiently waited.
Then I told him everything involving David, the adoption paper, the letter he found, and the government seal.
Mr. Liba listened carefully, his focus glued to me. When I finished, we sat in silence a few minutes as he continued to study me.
“I appreciate you trusting me with the information,” he finally responded.
He was right. I did trust him, and I had only just met him. I didn’t even know if he worked for the government or not. For all I knew he might be a bad guy, and I’d given away information to the wrong person. But there was something about him that had made me want to talk.
“What I’m about to discuss with you is top secret. You must never repeat any of it to anyone. Never. If you do, there will be repercussions.”
There will be repercussions? What the heck did that mean? I wanted to ask, but my heart raced so fast I didn’t think I could speak without stuttering.
“I work for the IPNC, Information Protection National Concern. It’s a special-operations division of the United States government. I’m in charge of recruiting and training what we at IPNC affectionately term the Specialists.”
“The Specialists?” Sounded like the name of an exclusive club.
“The Specialists are a group of young adults. They each excel in one certain area. For you, that would be computers. We take them,
house them, train them, give them new identities, and teach them how to one day go deep undercover.”
“But wh-what about their parents?”
Mr. Liba tapped my file. “They’re all like you. System kids that screwed up somehow. Nobody even knows they’re gone.”
Somebody would know, I wanted to say, but who was I kidding? Nobody would even miss me. David, maybe, but he’d probably be relieved he didn’t have to be nice to me anymore.
“But is this . . . legal?” It couldn’t be. Could it? Taking kids, giving them new identities, making them into some sort of secret agents.
“This is all on the up-and-up. I assure you.”
“I can’t do this. What about my education? I’m supposed to graduate from college this year. I can’t go undercover. I’m a total klutz. I get nervous way too easy. I don’t work well with others. People don’t like me. They think I’m weird. I really won’t fit in with th-this group of Specialists. I think you’re making a really big mistake here. Wrong person you the picked.” I shook my head. “I mean, you’ve picked the wrong person. See? I can’t even talk right.”
I stopped my tirade, realizing I’d gotten up from my chair and was pacing around the room.
“Miss James, I understand this is a lot to take in. Let me tell you a few things. First off, your education is at the top of my list. For all my Specialists. It’s a requirement, as a matter of fact. No dropouts allowed.
“Second,” he continued, “you’ll be working from our home base. It’s highly unlikely you’ll be in the field. That’s the beauty of computers. You can tap into them from anywhere. So your klutziness won’t be an issue.”
He stood, walked behind the desk, and brought out a banged-up blue suitcase. I gave it a quick glance and then another one. It belonged to me.
“And lastly, this is your chance for a family. A place to belong.” He walked toward me. “You can either take me up on this offer or go to juvenile detention for your crime. If you choose the latter, you’ll never see me again. This offer will never be repeated.”
Mr. Liba placed the suitcase on the floor next to me. “I got everything in your dorm room, including your laptop, the CDs containing the keystroke memorization program, and the proto laser tracker. Which, by the way, is a very impressive invention.”
How did he know the name of my tracker? Stupid question. This man knew everything about me. Probably more than I knew about myself. Wait. He got everything in my room? That meant he grabbed the bras and undies I’d thrown on my bed. I held back a groan. At least they were freshly washed.
“What’s it going to be, Miss James? You must make your decision now.”
I decided to go with Mr. Thomas Liba. Within a day, all the arrangements had been made. In exchange for my new life, my crime disappeared, as did Kelly James. He gave me a new name. Kelly Spree. I had to admit, I liked it better than James, even though it erased all ties I had with my parents.
And I would have to move. But I absolutely refused to get on a plane to California, which would be my new home. My parents lost their lives in a plane crash that I survived. Didn’t take a genius to figure out the root of my fear of flying.
To my surprise, Mr. Liba didn’t argue. Over the next five days via a bus and a train, I traveled to the city of San Belden in northern California. He didn’t join me, said he had another Specialist to see to.
Erin, a girl a little older than me, picked me up at the train station on the morning of the fifth day. She was friendly and talkative on the drive out of the city and into the countryside.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to an iron gate. A wooden plaque engraved with SAN BELDEN RANCH FOR BOYS AND GIRLS hung from the entrance.
Erin pointed to it. “That’s our cover in the community. Everybody thinks this a foster home. Nobody knows what really goes on behind our gates and below our grounds.”
“Below the grounds?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She smiled mysteriously.
“Are you a Specialist, too?” I should’ve thought to ask her that sooner.
She punched a code on the visor’s remote. “I am. I’ve been a Specialist for two years.”
The gate swung open and we made our way up a long gravel driveway. On both sides of us stretched neatly mowed fields. A standard wooden privacy fence lined the property. Off to the left sat a huge barn with a corral beside it. Beyond it spanned a garden.
Erin circled around the driveway and parked in front of a one-story, sprawling ranch house made of wood and stone. A four-car garage was attached to the side.
“How big is this place?” I asked.
“Hundred acres.” She cut the engine. “We’re running a little late. Let’s go.”
Late for what?
Grabbing my suitcase from the backseat, I followed her into the house. A large stone entryway gave way to a wide corridor. A dining hall opened to the left. It looked like a miniature version of a school cafeteria. Its aluminum table and chairs sat empty. Across the hall there was a common area with a big-screen TV, comfy chairs, a pool table, air hockey, and a card table. It sat empty, too.
She led me past a pretty, mountainous mural and down the long hallway. Closed doors, spaced about twenty feet apart, lined both sides. We stopped at the second one on the right.
“There’re four dormitory rooms, two for the guys and two for the girls. The adult agents stay in private rooms.” Erin took the suitcase from me and opened the door. “This is your room. You’ll share it with Sissy and Molly. You’ll meet them in a few minutes.”
I caught a quick glimpse of twin beds as Erin put down my suitcase and closed the door. I followed her back down the hall to the mountainous mural. She placed her hand on a wall-mounted globe light, and the mural slid to the right, revealing an open elevator.
“Cool,” I said.
Erin looked at me and smiled.
We stepped inside and the door slid closed. She punched a series of numbers on the control panel, and the elevator descended. I glanced up at the display. We passed floor one, two, three, and stopped at four.
Erin punched a series of numbers again. “This is Subfloor Four. It’s where the conference room is located.”
“What’s on the other floors?”
“You’ll find out when you’re supposed to.”
The elevator opened into a modern, high-tech workroom. Glass panels boxed in and separated a dozen small offices. Each space had matching black desks, sleek leather chairs, and flat-screen computers. I counted only three people dispersed throughout the workroom. One guy and two girls. The guy talked on a phone. The girls typed on their computers. None of them looked up.
Erin led me around the perimeter of the room and came to a stop at a closed door. She opened it and motioned me inside. “Have a seat.”
I walked into the large windowless room, and she closed the door behind me. A huge flat screen took up the whole back wall, but nothing played on it. Five other teenagers sat around a long, silver, metal table. They all stared at me as I rolled out a leather chair and took a seat. No one said a word as we waited, cautiously checking out one another. I felt sure their brains spun with the same questions as mine.
What’s her story?
What’s his name?
What illegal thing did she do?
What happened to his parents?
The girl sitting across from me would not stop staring at me. She was one of those Goth girls dressed in all black, with pale skin and a nose ring. Her short, purple hair stood out in all directions. She wore bold black eyeliner and bright red lipstick. The gum in her mouth had to be worn out with the furious way she’d been chomping it.
Made me want a cherry lollipop, actually, to help calm me down.
After a few more minutes, the door opened and Mr. Liba walked in. I expelled a silent, relieved breath at finally seeing a familiar face.
“Good morning. As you all already know, my name is Thomas Liba. My friends and associates call me TL. You may do so if y
ou wish. I am your team leader.”
“Does TL stand for Thomas Liba or team leader?” asked Goth Girl.
“Both, I suppose,” Mr. Liba answered without skipping a beat. “I’d like to start off by going around the table and having everyone stand and introduce themselves. Molly, please start.”
“Hello, my name is Molly Pullman.”
She looked like Little Orphan Annie with her red hair and freckles. Small, too, maybe five feet tall and a hundred pounds. Her T-shirt read “YOU LOOKIN’ AT ME?” She sounded so sweet and innocent. What in the world did she do that was so bad?
“Molly,” TL continued, “please tell everyone your specialty and why you’re here.”
She smiled, showing two deep dimples. “Martial arts. I got busted for operating an underground fight club in Chicago.” Goth Girl snorted. “You?”
Molly continued smiling sweetly. “Yes, me.”
“Darren,” TL interrupted, “go next, please.”
“I’m Darren Lightfoot. My specialty is linguistics. I speak sixteen languages. I was taken in for flying in a restricted airspace.”
Sixteen languages? Wow. I barely kept English straight in my head. Darren was a Native American with strong features. I’d say he stood a little taller than me, maybe six feet, with a runner’s build. Cute guy.
TL motioned with his head to the next.
“Joe Vornes. My specialty is clairvoyance. I can see objects or actions beyond the range of natural vision.”
Goth Girl snorted again. “Puh-leeze.”
What was it with this girl?
Joe merely gazed at her. Peacefully, as if he was in touch with the moon, the planets, and the stars. “I operated an illegal 1-900 psychic phone line.”
To me, Joe seemed better suited as a linebacker. He was big and muscular, and had short blond hair. I always imagined yoga, touchy-feely dudes would be small and feminine. I guess the old “looks can be deceiving” thing held true. Another cute guy.
TL pointed at Goth Girl to go next.
“Priscilla Ross. Friends call me Sissy.”
I held back a laugh. For someone with such a tough attitude and look, she sure had a girlie-girl name.
“I’m a chemist,” she went on. “Busted for mixing some chemicals I shouldn’t have been mixing.”
Model Spy Page 2
