The Doublecross

by Jackson Pearce

  “Ooooooh,” I said, nodding. This made more sense.

  “You think you can steal my students’ information? Think you can steal my students from me? Wellington is a joke! They don’t even give out pushups there!” He turned to the wrestlers. “Get ’em, boys!”

  The wrestlers lunged. Walter and I leaped backward and ran, folders flying, feet sliding on the tile floors. We burst through the ballet room and made for the exterior door the ballet mistress had used earlier. Walter sailed ahead, legs carrying him twice as far as me. The dancers watched, baffled, as he streaked out the door. I was right behind, right behind . . .

  Then someone tackled me.

  I hit the ground—again—with a loud slap, and this time I didn’t need to pretend I was in pain. The weight of a half dozen wrestlers compounded on top of me, and before I could even imagine fighting them off, they had my arms twisted behind my back and my head pinned to the floor. The dancers were screaming, the ballet mistress was lighting a cigarette right at the front of the room, and Coach was cackling like he’d caught a brag-worthy fish rather than a twelve-year-old in spandex. They hauled me to standing and, military style, marched me back to the main office. They sat me down in the chair and, I suppose as an extra precaution, stuck my torso to it with athletic tape.

  The wrestlers stepped back, pleased with their handiwork. “Miss Valerie, tell everyone to gather in the basketball gym—I don’t want any risk of that boy who escaped sneaking back in and polluting our students with this Wellington talk,” Coach said, and the nurse bounded off to obey. Sometime amid me getting taped to my seat, a wrestler had collected all my fallen folders and handed the bent-up pile of papers to Coach. I glanced over at the cubbies. There was my lunch bag, and in it, Ben’s utility belt. Surely, there was something on the belt that could get me out of this—but I’d have to get to it first.

  “So,” Coach said. “This is revenge, huh? I take a few of your students, and suddenly you guys are sending over people to sneak into my baseball program. Should’ve realized you’re not a baseball player.” He paused, looking me up and down. “What sport do you play?”

  “I’m really more of a team manager,” I said dryly. Coach snorted and kept talking, but I ignored him. The wrestlers were standing on all sides of me, leaning against file cabinets or hanging out in the doorframe, like Coach’s own personal wolf pack.

  “Look,” I said. “How about rather than you tie me up like this, I give you some information on Wellington?”

  “Why would I want information on Wellington?”

  “Why would you have sent spies to Wellington if you didn’t?” I asked.

  This was a gamble, but I figured that the only reason Coach would be so quick to assume Walter and I were Wellington spies was because the idea hit a little too close to home. Coach frowned, and for a moment I thought I’d misjudged him. But then he gave a crazed sort of grin.

  “All right, all right. How about, for each thing you tell me about Wellington, I’ll loosen a little of that tape? Give me excellent information—like, say, who they plan on putting forward for the Olympic fencing team this year—and maybe I’ll let you go completely. If not . . . well. We’ll have to let the police know about your trespassing. Not to mention . . . the state athletic association!” The eyes of the wrestlers in the room went wide, like this threat was just too much.

  I tried to look equally traumatized by the threat, and nodded fervently. “But I can’t just tell you with them in the room. They mention this online or to a friend, it’ll all come back to me. I’ll lose everything.”

  Coach considered this and then made a small flicking gesture with his hand. The wrestlers exited the room. “Stay in front of the door,” Coach said. They nodded and then shut the door behind them.

  “Okay—I’m going to start with the big one, okay? The thing Wellington would kill me if they knew I was telling you. It’s . . . it’s your ballet program,” I said.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Wellington’s ballet program is a thousand times better, and word is that you don’t appreciate yours here. Some people say you don’t even think it’s a real sport. So, we were supposed to recruit ballet students to come join us at Wellington. That’s why we snuck into that class.”

  “They want my ballet class? I have dozens of amazing basketball players! A whole football team of all-stars! I’ve got gymnasts with more gold medals than I have teeth. And they like my ballet program?”

  “Exactly. See, you forget about them. Do you know how many professional football teams there are in America?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Well, there are a whole lot more professional ballet companies in the United States, and thousands more worldwide. Ballet is the big fish, and you’re letting it swim away.”

  Coach stared at me like I was speaking total lunacy, but then he stepped forward and popped open the tape around both of my wrists. “All right. Interesting. Not enough to get you out of here, but interesting.” He flipped through a few of the files Walter and I had removed from the cabinets. “These aren’t ballerinas, though—not all of them anyway. These are the shining stars out of my youngest students. The kids who will practically own professional sports some day.”

  I shrugged at Coach. “Can’t blame us for trying to get their info. We want them at Wellington.”

  “I’m sure you do. You know, Quincy, I think it says something about Wellington, that you’ve betrayed them.

  That’s your team! No one likes a fair-weather fan—”

  I spun around, kicked off the lockers, and launched myself in the rolling chair toward my lunch bag. Coach dived for me just as I got my hands in the bag, but I grabbed the first one of Ben’s inventions that I could, hoping that it was the BEN Seeing You. I mashed the button on it as I pulled my hand out.

  A tent popped open out of nowhere with so much force that it threw me against the cubbies and Coach against his desk—the CaBEN. I grimaced, looked at the belt, and snatched the BEN Seeing You from its pouch. I ducked under the tent and, while Coach was busy processing the fact that his office was suddenly a campsite, pressed it up against his arm and hit the button at the end. There was a small pop, and before I could even worry about what the sound meant, Coach was on the floor in a heap, breathing steadily. The room was quiet.

  “Whoa,” I said. Ben was both impressive and terrifying at the moment. I wondered who he’d tested this thing on.

  I glanced up at the door as I hurriedly peeled the rest of the athletic tape off my arms and torso, flinching as it took the hair on my arms with it. I could still hear the wrestlers outside, milling around. That wasn’t an option for an exit route. I glanced up. There were ceiling tiles that inevitably led to air ducts, but I didn’t fit inside the ones at SRS; there was no reason to believe these would be any different.

  Focus. Think of the mission. I dumped out the rest of my lunch bag, fumbling to put on my com unit.

  “Clatterbuck, you there?” I said into the bracelet as I shoved the belt down my uniform shirt. Thankfully, the black material made it look a lot less lumpy than I expected. “Clatterbuck!” I yelled again.

  “Um, yep—Ben! Be quiet! Hale’s talking to me! Yep, right here,” Clatterbuck said, and I heard paper crumpling.

  “These files . . . apparently, they’re all Nelson Academy’s youngest students and—”

  “The best. We heard most of it,” Clatterbuck said. “Look, forget the files, Hale—you’ve got to get out of there, and we’re going to help.”

  “What? No! You can’t. Walter’s surely signaled SRS by now. If you guys cross paths, I’m . . . well. Let’s just say, I’m in trouble. I promise, I can get myself out of here.”

  Clatterbuck made a disapproving noise. “I can try to cancel our exit plan, I guess. But it might be too late.”

  “Do it, Clatterbuck!” I snapped, and instantly felt a little bad about it. “Okay, write this down—maybe it’ll help us figure out what SRS wants these kids’ files for. Lave
nder Dalton, she’s a gymnast, and apparently she’s the only girl in the world who can do the Tkachev salto, whatever that is. Simon Bells, he’s a basketball player, but, huh . . . he hasn’t really been on a great team—oh! He’s one of those trick-shot guys who can make a basket from anywhere. Leslie Gordon is a ballerina, she set a pirouette record—”

  Coach groaned a little.

  “That’ll have to be enough. I’ve got to get out,” I said swiftly. Exit strategy, exit strategy, come on. Only one door. No routes through the ceiling. I looked at the ground and ran my hand over it—nope, tile over what felt like solid concrete. I spun around and looked at the gray walls nearly covered in framed certificates and awards . . .

  Got it.

  Well, hopefully.

  Mission: Escape Nelson Sports Academy

  without getting beaten up by a country’s worth of wrestlers

  Step 1: Literal smoke screen

  I ran to the coffeemaker in the corner and grabbed the container of sugar—it was heavy and felt new, perfect. The potted plant on Coach’s desk—there was no sunlight in here, so he had to be giving it fertilizer, or the thing would have been dead. I hurriedly opened a few of his desk drawers—yes, fertilizer. I unwound an entire roll of paper towels by the coffeemaker and stole the tube from the inside, then closed up one end with a wad of tape.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it would work. I poured sugar and fertilizer in the tube, a few shakes of each, one right after the other. When it was halfway full, I paused to put a long strand of the athletic tape inside, leaving a few inches poking out of the top. I continued filling, faster, faster . . . Coach moaned again, and his fingertips were starting to move. My paper towel tube was complete; now I just needed something to light it with . . .

  I ransacked Coach’s drawers, but there was nothing.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing?” Clatterbuck asked over the com.

  “Looking for something to light this explosive with.”

  “What?”

  “Not now, Clatterbuck! I’ve got to think—” Yes, that’s it!

  I heaved myself up onto the desk, stood on my toes to pop off the cover on the overhead light, and held the tube against the lightbulb. It burned the tips of my fingers before the tape finally began to smoke. I pulled it down and cupped my hands around it, coaxing it into the flame. When it was going strong, I placed it by the door and then ran around and grabbed the folders SRS wanted, tucking them into the front of my uniform. I crouched down behind Coach’s desk. The tape burned down and then, when it hit the sugar and fertilizer I’d mixed together in the tube, white smoke appeared. It grew thicker, thicker, thicker, and I finally heard panic on the outside of the door.

  It was really just a simple smoke bomb—nothing too dangerous. But I guess they didn’t really know about smoke bombs, seeing as how they went to sports school instead of spy school.

  The smoke was so heavy in the room now that I couldn’t see a thing, but then, I didn’t need to. I waited until I heard the wrestlers fling the door open, the spray of a fire extinguisher (which only added more smoke), and a clatter of people and limbs and shouting. I waited until I felt people all around me, and then I rose and rushed for the door, hidden by the smoke and commotion.

  Step 2: Get out of here

  I hurried down the hall to the side door of the ballet room. It wouldn’t take long for the smoke to fade, and then . . .

  “Hey! Watch it!” someone snapped as I plowed into him. I stumbled, struggling to hold on to all the stolen folders, and then I face-planted into the dirt. The speaker snorted—I knew that snort.

  “Walter?” I said, lifting my head. It was him.

  “What’d you do in there?” he asked, looking at the smoke billowing out the side of the building.

  “Smoke bomb. Thanks for all your help with that escape,” I snapped, getting to my feet. My tolerance for Walter’s crappy fieldwork was at an all-time low.

  “Hey, I was coming back! That’s why I’m here instead of at SRS!”

  “You’re here because SRS isn’t sending the agent to pick us up until three!” I said as we tromped around the side of the building.

  “It’s not my fault—this wasn’t in the mission packet! We should have planned an emergency exit. We should have—Are you wearing jewelry?”

  I fought the urge to flinch—if I did, Walter might see it and realize something was up. So I rolled my eyes. “Those wrestlers did it to make fun of me. You know—sort of like how you and your friends call me Hale the Whale?”

  “That’s different. We’re just kidding,” Walter said, scoffing. We were nearly to the lower parking lot now, and I could hear shouting back at the school. I was pretty sure that at this point they’d be calling the police rather than the state athletic association.

  “Yeah, a joke. It’s hilarious, Walter. A real riot,” I muttered, reaching up to yank the com off.

  A squeal of tires. Walter and I both spun around and tensed. It was a shiny black car, like one of the dozens SRS had in their garages. I couldn’t decide if I was offended—clearly, SRS thought we might fail, and they’d built in an exit strategy. But then again, we needed it, especially now that I could hear sirens in the distance. The car came to a screeching halt in front of us and, without missing a beat, Walter lunged for the door and leaped inside. I followed him, dragging the door shut behind me, and the driver mashed the accelerator to the ground. We fishtailed as we cut out of the parking lot and back onto the street.

  “Whoa,” Walter called out to the agent driving. “Won’t this car give us away? What happened to the van?”

  “Seriously? You seriously think the car is what’s going to give us away?” I muttered, and Walter scowled at me.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” a woman’s voice answered.

  My chest went all cold. The driver’s eyes flicked back to me.

  It was Oleander. This wasn’t SRS’s exit strategy; it was The League’s. Walter Quaddlebaum was in the car with The League, and I was the one responsible for it. I tried to keep my face steady; maybe Walter wouldn’t even notice. There were hundreds of agents at SRS, and even though we knew them all one way or another, it was easy to get them mixed up . . .

  “Wait, who are you?” Walter asked, leaning over the center console. It had duct tape on it, patching a few holes. The car’s upholstery was likewise tattered—this was the League’s car.

  “I’m Agent Macoby,” Oleander said swiftly. “I’m usually in Tactical Support? With Agent Smith?” Oleander’s voice was smooth and sure—she’d even name-checked an actual Tactical Support agent, though I suspected she’d just taken a super-generic last name and run with it.

  “I know Agent Smith, but then how do I not know you? I know everyone in Tactical Support. Hale, do you know her?”

  “Sure! Yeah, Agent Macoby. You don’t remember?”

  Walter stopped. He looked at my face for a long time.

  I was a great liar—or actor, if you’d rather call it that. But Walter and I went way back, far enough back that even though we weren’t friends anymore, he still knew all my tells. I saw the shock of realization in his eyes—that there was something going on with me and this stranger driving us around in a crappy car. He sat back, but his eyes kept flitting between me and Oleander. I tried to think of all the possible ways this could end.

  Option one: Oleander drives us back to SRS. She can’t park the car inside, because it isn’t actually an SRS car. She can’t come in with us, because she’s the director of SRS’s enemy organization. So we would be caught. I would be exposed as a double agent. Kennedy would get sent to live in the dorms and I’d meet some terrible fate.

  Option one was no good. It’d have to be option two.

  “Walter?” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Sorry about wha—” he began, but he didn’t get to finish, because I zapped him with the BEN Seeing You.

  Oleander looked at me in the rearview mirror. �
�All right, Hale. Where to?”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Does SRS even have agents who aren’t kids?” Beatrix asked thoughtfully, tilting her head to one side. We were gathered around Walter in the League’s gym. He was still out cold; Oleander and I had carried him down here and heaved him onto a mat. I’d asked Clatterbuck to go pick up Kennedy (which explained his race car driver costume). I figured that having another SRS person here to explain things couldn’t hurt.

  “Of course!” Kennedy said. “He’s just a junior agent.”

  “Does that mean he’s even better than Hale?” Beatrix asked, eyes wide that this was even possible. I pretended hearing that didn’t sting, but really, a little part of my heart sank. SRS was already the Walter Quaddlebaum show, so it was kind of sad to think of The League becoming one too.

  But Kennedy laughed Beatrix’s question off. “No way. No one’s better than my brother; they just think they are.” The others nodded, like they should have realized this, and that sinking part of me lifted back up. Kennedy went on. “You know, I’m going to take my junior agent exam soon. Then I can be a double agent too.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What? Why not! You get to be a double agent!”

  “She has a point,” Clatterbuck said. “I mean, technically, anyway—”

  “Don’t encourage her!” I said, which was something Mom always said to Dad when he was teaching Kennedy how to back-talk in Cantonese.

  “Don’t encourage who?” Walter asked sleepily.

  We all stopped talking. Clatterbuck, Ben, and Beatrix each took a giant step back. Oleander, who was hanging a little farther away from us anyhow, clasped her hands neatly like she was preparing for a fancy business meeting. Based on my own attempted escape from The League, Oleander had already asked Clatterbuck to disable the sprinkler systems. I thought that wise.

  Walter’s eyes were still closed. “Did we . . . Were we compromised?” he asked, like he couldn’t quite figure out if this was a dream or not.

  “No,” I said. “But we aren’t at SRS, Walter.”