I lay awake in bed for a long time thinking about things, trying to work things out. Clearly the path that circled the camp was a kind of safe zone. I’d have to remember that. The last thought I had before I finally fell asleep was that Chase would be out to get me even more if he thought I’d actually gotten one up on him.
That idea made my stomach and the side of my face hurt even more.
Chapter 17
My schedule for Day Two started with Archery. I didn’t feel hungry after the night I’d had and decided to skip breakfast. I made my way to the range only to find it deserted. That suited me just fine. Ten target boards were set up on stacks of straw, behind which was the forest. Waist-high wooden poles, each with a bow and quiver of arrows, were set up about forty feet in front of the targets.
I glanced behind me. A dozen or so campers hustled along the path around the camp perimeter. I remembered what had happened the night before and reminded myself, again, not to step off the path unless I was in Grizzly territory.
I wandered along the row and stopped at the pole farthest to the right. I ran my finger along the bowstring and then the feathers of one of the arrows. I’d always wanted to shoot an arrow, but if you don’t go to summer camp, it’s not exactly something you do on your own at the park or in the backyard.
I waited another few minutes and then lifted the bow off the wooden pole. I raised it the way I’d seen a million times on TV. Then I pulled an arrow out of the quiver. I glanced back one more time at the walkway. It was clear.
One shot, I decided. I could take just one shot before the instructor came and gave us the lame rules that no one needed. Shooting these things wasn’t exactly rocket science. I slid the notch of the arrow on to the string, then pulled it back. Drawing it back was actually a lot more difficult than I’d expected, and the string bit into my fingers. But I heaved harder, and then all of a sudden my hand was by the side of my face and it didn’t seem so hard anymore.
I imagined I was in the final event of the Olympics, about to compete for the gold medal. When I was certain I had the arrow aimed properly, I released the string … and screamed.
It felt like a whip had struck my forearm. The bow dropped from my hand, and I hopped around like a crazy person, cursing and rubbing my arm over and over.
“It’s called string-slap.”
I turned at the familiar voice and rubbed my arm some more, but stopped jumping around. “What are you doing here?”
Juno reached down and plucked the bow from the ground. “Same thing as you.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver and notched it in the string. “Archery.” He drew the string back and closed one eye. “The trick,” he began, “is to make sure you have a bow with the proper draw length—which you had—and also to have proper form.” He shifted his eyes at me. “Which you did not have.” He kept his gaze on me and released the arrow. The twang that resonated from the bowstring sounded like it had been made by a guitar, and the arrow rocketed toward the target, but when it hit, it splintered into a dozen pieces.
I tilted my head, not entirely sure what I’d just seen.
Juno looked up at the sky and shook his head. “The other thing to remember is that no one actually learns archery at these camps, so the targets are probably not meant to be used.”
“W-what?” I asked.
He sighed and put the bow back on the wooden post. “Of course it’s a prop. I can’t believe I thought this was a real target range.” He gestured to the target. “C’mon, help me clean that arrow up before the instructor gets here and I get demerits or something.”
“Props?” I muttered as I followed him on to the range. I picked up a shard or two of broken arrow and then walked up and touched the target. “It’s made of concrete,” I said, mostly to myself. Juno didn’t seem surprised, and I figured that must’ve been what he was talking about when he said “props.” I slid my hand along the cool surface. It was painted to look just like a target, and the details were remarkable. There were even a couple spots on the bull’s-eye where someone must’ve drilled out arrow-sized holes, presumably to make it look like it had been used.
I slid my hand along the edge of the target, and my fingers brushed a section of indentation. I pushed some of the straw away and craned my neck. Chiseled on the board’s edge were four letters.
“PCIA.”
Juno laughed. “Is that carved on there?” I nodded, and he said, “It never gets old seeing that.”
I bit my lip, and Juno’s smile vanished. “Don’t tell me you don’t even know what PCIA means.”
I waved my hand and did my best to appear as though I did. Juno didn’t buy it.
“Property of the Central Intelligence Agency?” he said, as if he were reminding me of something obvious, like my name.
“The CIA?” I craned my neck around the target again. “Why would it say that?”
“Because that’s where all this stuff comes from,” Juno said. “Well, most of it anyway. There’s some from CSIS, Mossad, DID …” He shrugged and picked up a remaining piece of arrow. “Mostly CIA. Campers etch stuff like that in places as plain-sight hints that this isn’t a normal summer camp. Just don’t get caught doing it.”
I wasn’t sure about CSIS or Mossad or DID, but I darn well knew what the CIA was. “CIA.” When I said the acronym again, a slow realization spread over me. CIA. I felt a smile start at the corners of my mouth. The Agency. Of course. This was a CIA camp. A secret camp for really young CIA operatives. I’d seen enough movies to know what that meant: the coolest training on the planet! The bombs on the soccer field suddenly made sense … kind of. It still seemed harsh, but the CIA wasn’t going to let any of us die.
It also made sense that Dalson wanted everyone to look like regular campers. These kids had been doing this a lot longer than I had, and their training made them look like soldiers, not kids. How could they blend in to stop national threats if they didn’t look like real kids? I scratched my head and wondered if stopping national threats was even what the CIA did. It didn’t matter.
Somehow Dad had signed me up on this roster. I bet he had no idea where he was sending me. But then again, he had been nervous at the parking lot. He had mentioned that I’d learn a thing or two about discipline … hadn’t he? CIA. I shook my head. The more I said the acronym, the more it did—and didn’t—make sense. Maybe I still didn’t have it quite right. Perhaps those other acronyms were intelligence agencies from around the world. Could it be that Camp Friendship was a place where kid spies from all over came to work together?
I was getting ahead of myself. And in case I had it wrong, I decided not to celebrate just yet. If this was a CIA camp and people found out I didn’t belong here, they’d kick me out. In fact, there was a pretty good chance I’d get discovered sooner or later anyway. But if I was careful, maybe I’d learn some cool spy stuff before that happened.
Any thoughts I’d had about ditching this place and running away faded. If this was a CIA training camp, it was a dream come true. I wondered if winning the competitions meant becoming a CIA operative, or if being in the camp simply meant I was already one. I dug my fingernails into my palm.
Get it together, Matt. You’re jumping to conclusions.
It might mean something totally different. It might be a joke. Juno might just be messing with me … but if he wasn’t …
I cursed myself again for breaking my phone. Jason would go nuts if there was even a possibility I was in a camp for kid spies.
I rubbed my hands together and turned to Juno. He stared back, his eyebrows very near his hairline.
“You look like someone who just found a treasure map,” he said.
I slapped him on the shoulder and headed over to the wooden posts. “In a way,” I said, “it’s possible I just did.”
We hid the arrow shards in the bushes and then waited.
“Listen,” Juno said, hesitantly, “last night I said some things that might have made you think I didn’t value this place or that I wasn�
�t really into the family business.”
I shrugged. “So you want to be an action star. So what?” If this was a CIA camp for kids and we all had a shot at being real CIA operatives, the fact that Juno wanted to be an action star was weird. The CIA was way cooler than that.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “That was just talk. I’d never do anything to dishonor my family, and I don’t want it getting out that I would.”
How would being a movie star dishonor anyone? It was probably a sore spot between him and his dad. I had a couple of my own and quickly decided Juno’s family issues were none of my business. “I’m not going to tell anyone what you said, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I forced a quick breath through my nose. “You know stuff about me too, Juno. How ’bout we just agree to never repeat things that might get the other into trouble.”
Juno nodded. “Deal.”
I motioned at the bow. “Where’d you learn to shoot?”
“Arrows?” He shrugged. “Don’t remember, but I do remember string-slap.” He winced and rubbed his arm. “That’s a lesson you don’t have to learn more than once.”
I was about to ask him what other weapons he could have used to “shoot” when more campers started to trickle in. A couple minutes after that, our instructor wandered up to the range.
He was a balding rail of a man, easily over six feet tall, with the posture of a tree. He reminded me of a yardstick my old teachers used to use as pointers. In fact, the more I looked at the skinny instructor, the more I wondered if I outweighed him. He drifted over to the wooden post and picked up the bow. He reached for an arrow but stopped with his hand just over the quiver and glanced over his shoulder at us. His gaze locked on me, and I turned my attention to my feet.
“My name is Byron Fargas,” he began. “I am the range master.” His voice was as solemn as a graveyard. “I’ll tell you when the range is safe and when you’re qualified to use the equipment. You do not use anything without my consent.” He pulled one of the arrows from the quiver. “That includes the archery equipment.”
That includes the archery equipment? An excited chill crawled up my spine, and I glanced up at the instructor. C’mon, be something more than archery. If this was a CIA camp, everything would make so much more sense. Please, please …
He touched his index finger to his ear and said, “Fargas here. I’m ready to begin archery instruction. Do I have the all-clear?” A moment passed, and he took his finger away from his ear and notched the arrow in the bowstring. He drew back and took careful aim at the concrete target.
I glanced at Juno. He looked back at me and shrugged, no doubt as confused as I was that our range master was taking aim at something an arrow couldn’t possibly penetrate.
The twang was followed almost instantly by a thwump, and when I looked at the target, the arrow stuck out of the top edge. I felt my jaw drop. There’d been a hole drilled in that section of the target, I remembered. I was sure about that, but the idea that this guy’s aim was so perfect he’d managed to sink an arrow in a hole the same diameter as its tip seemed impossible. Yet there it was.
I’d barely had time to register how bizarre it was when a distinctive click sounded from the target, and the entire thing, mountain of straw included, slid back several feet to reveal a gaping hole. The range master strolled to the edge of the pit and gestured down. “C’mon. Move it.”
I let the other campers go first, and one by one, they disappeared below ground. When I got to the edge, just behind Juno, I hesitated and smiled as he headed down the concrete steps. It looked like the entrance to a crypt. This camp was so much more than it seemed. Life-threatening competitions? Secret passages? There was only one explanation. Juno wasn’t kidding. This was the CIA.
“Well,” the range master said, “are you coming or not?”
My smile widened as I took the first step. “You bet I am!”
Chapter 18
A narrow hall stretched out from the base of the steps and continued a dozen yards before it opened up into a room at least three times the size of the largest classroom at Marksville Middle. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the concrete walls and made the area seem incredibly sterile. Each wall had a wooden door, painted gray so at first I didn’t notice them. In the center of the room was a large rectangular table, neatly ordered with safety goggles and ear protectors. The campers grabbed a pair of each as they filed into the room, so I did the same.
The sound of the archery target rolling back into place above us filtered down the steps as Range Master Fargas entered the room.
I probably should have been really nervous, but mostly I was psyched. I was in a freaking spy camp! I didn’t understand how it had happened and what role my dad really had in all this, but I was here, and I was actually getting spy training. Now I really did have to fly under the radar. If I got discovered, I’d be kicked out, and I would never get this opportunity again.
“Good,” Fargas said, presumably because we all had ear and eye protectors. He ushered us toward the door to his right, and we filed across the room and through the door. The second room was about the size of a basketball court, divided along its width by a sheet of Plexiglas about twenty feet from the door. On the other side of the Plexiglas were sixteen booths that looked down at paper targets. It looked like the shooting ranges in police shows on TV. As I looked some more, I realized that was exactly what it was.
“Impressive, hey?” Juno whispered over my shoulder. “I knew they’d slated this camp to be one of the top training sites, but this is at least triple the size of any range I’ve seen in other camps.”
“Yeah,” I said, not sure how to respond. “Me too.” If they had this room, I wondered how many other sections of the camp had secret underground rooms. This place was getting cooler and cooler by the second.
“Guns will stay in the range,” Fargas began. “Try to smuggle one out, and you’re gone. Understand?”
The campers nodded.
“There’ll be no warnings,” Fargas continued. “No second chances. Steal one of my guns and you’ll never set foot in another camp again.”
Guns?
He’d said the word twice, but it only really registered with me the second time. Of course there’d be guns. I practically laughed, I was so excited. My dad thought he’d sent me to a camp that would make me a better kid, and here I was about to play with guns. He’d flip out if he realized what he’d done.
“Ammunition too,” he added. “It all stays in the range. Sneak a single bullet out and you’re cut.” His eyes narrowed, and he scrutinized each of us. “It’s a rule I won’t repeat. You’re taught proper firearms handling as a precautionary skill. We prefer if our campers are more creative. We hope you’ll be more creative when you’re out in the real world. But it is fairly obvious that, in our line of work, the chances of coming across firearms are quite high.”
He sauntered to the wall behind us and punched a series of numbers into a keypad on a cabinet that stretched at least half the length of the room. Then he slid the door six feet to the left. It collapsed in on itself, accordion style, and revealed columns and rows of meticulously organized guns. Each column was arranged by size. If the rows continued the way it appeared, I figured the guns at the far right of the cabinet were the kind you put on your shoulder to blow up tanks or topple buildings.
Range Master Fargas stood, hands on hips, scrutinizing us carefully. “All right, then, no time like the present to see how well you campers know your firearms.” He gestured to the wall of weapons behind him. “Go on, pick the one you’re most comfortable with, and head into the range. This is assessment day.”
Everyone approached the wall of weapons as if they were browsing a rack of books or DVDs. I assumed my position at the back of the group and watched as the others reached up and lifted one gun after another off the wall. I got more excited with each step forward. In the back of my mind, I half thought maybe the guns wouldn’t be real, but the closer I got, the more real t
hey looked. By the time it was my turn to pick a weapon, the nervous excitement building in my stomach was making it incredibly difficult not to smile.
I reached up to grab a gun about the size of my forearm. It was black and silver and had a piece on top that looked like a laser. Totally James Bond. My fingers were an inch away when I stopped.
Assessment day. The range master’s words felt like a shotgun blast.
This was a test.
I almost slapped myself for what would have been a stupid mistake. One of the only things I knew about this camp was that I did not belong. If they realized that, I’d be out. The only thing I knew about guns was which end the bullet came out of. If I chose one with all kinds of bells and whistles on it, I’d be lucky if I knew how to hold it.
I shuffled to the other end of the cabinet, trying to be smart about my choice. I scanned the smaller weapons and finally plucked one of the smallest guns on the rack. It was a lot heavier than it looked, but it was the only one I actually recognized, kind of. I was pretty sure it was the kind of gun a police officer carried, and I figured it might be one of the most straightforward. I looked up. Juno stared back at me with a single raised brow. His expression seemed to say, “You’re a Delta, and you’re picking a small gun like that? What’s wrong with you?” The gun he held was huge and looked like it belonged in a movie about killing aliens. I did my best to ignore his expression. It would be a lot worse if I picked a bigger gun and shot myself.
I ducked around Juno and followed the others into the shooting range, and took a spot in one of the empty stalls. I placed the gun and ear protectors on the small ledge atop the waist-high wall in front of me and took a step back.
Juno claimed the stall beside me and stepped close as the others campers filed in. “Check it out.” He flipped his gun over and held it close to my face. Carefully scratched in the base of the grip were the letters PCIA. He laughed. “See? I told you. People scratch it in everything.”
Disruption Page 9
