The Inside Job

by Jackson Pearce

  “Money is transferring now, Hale,” Beatrix said.

  “Perfect. Where’s it going?” I asked.

  “Everywhere. I transferred it to accounts all over the world. Though a considerable amount went to that space camp Ben was talking about—”

  Otter cursed in the background.

  “And I sent some to a rhino reservation and had them name a baby rhino after you, Agent Otter!” Beatrix said cheerfully.

  Otter cursed even louder.

  “SRS won’t be able to track who got the money?” I asked.

  “Nope—Hastings was the one keeping track. And as of right . . . now, I’ve deleted his entire history from the bank. His files, his log-ins, everything. Markus Hastings no longer exists as an employee of the Central Bank of Switzerland, which means his accounts no longer exist.”

  I looked at Hastings in the camera and then frowned. “Good, because . . . I think he’s about to rob them.”

  “Huh?”

  “The armored car guard is lying there unconscious, and Hastings is getting in the driver’s seat. He’s taking the money!”

  “Guess he wants two private islands. Wow. What a jerk—can’t he be loyal to anyone?” Beatrix said. “Anyway, Otter and I are leaving, Hale. You’re good? On your way out the door?”

  “Yep.” I clicked off my comm.

  I’d lied to Beatrix and Otter. There was no way I’d make it to the door—because when I looked up from the monitors, I saw Teresa Quaddlebaum walking toward me. She had a giant artificial smile on her lips and was wearing a navy-blue pant suit that I knew had Kevlar built in. Her hair was nicely curled, and her hands were straining into fists.

  “I heard your message!” she said cheerily, but her voice was loaded with poison.

  I took a breath. A big one, because Walter’s mom scared me even when I was still with SRS.

  Step 5: (Confidential) Deliver a message

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I have something for you,” I said seriously.

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum dropped the singsong voice a little. “A gift? From The League to SRS? Is it your agents in handcuffs? Because that’s what we’re after, these days.”

  “No. It’s for you. From Walter.” I reached into my pocket—Mrs. Quaddlebaum tensed, ready to deflect a weapon—and removed an envelope. “I don’t know what it says. I didn’t read it.”

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum looked stunned—this was not part of the mission. This was not something SRS had trained her to deal with. I knew exactly what she was feeling, because the same sensations were running through my gut. Staying at the bank to hand a letter to her was not what SRS would instruct me to do. It was not an especially wise choice. It was not thinking of the mission.

  But it was thinking of Walter. So there I was.

  “It’s just a letter,” I said when she didn’t take it.

  This broke her—she reached forward and snatched it from my hands, and then crammed it into her pocket. “Is it full of lies? Did Walter even write it, Hale? Or is it just more of your brainwashing? Stories about how The League is so fantastic, how your parents aren’t traitors, how you didn’t kidnap my son?” She said all this with an eerie calm to her voice—her training taking over and smashing down the emotions that hid under her easy tone.

  “I don’t know what it says. I didn’t read it,” I repeated. “But I know Walter misses you. I miss my parents too, and I would do anything to get a letter to them. So that’s why—”

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum’s head tilted a little. I knew the action—someone was talking in her comm. She kept her eyes on me, but her breathing became heavy and sharp, like a bull’s. “What do you mean he’s gone?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, you’re talking about Hastings. Yeah. He drove off with that armored truck. You didn’t pay him already, did you? Because he just robbed you on top of that.”

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum’s hands gripped the desk tightly. She muttered, “Follow the armored car!” into her comm, then said to me, “You think you’re clever? Because if you think I’m letting your team walk out of this building—”

  “My team isn’t in this building. I’ve got two agents in a helicopter robbing your accounts, but right about now everyone else—including Walter—is loading up SRS’s gold. So it’s just you and me. What can I say, Mrs. Quaddlebaum? SRS taught me well. This was practically an inside job.”

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum’s face grew so tight that it looked like her cheekbones might tear right through her cheeks—they hadn’t realized the gold was gone yet. Today was just full of surprises.

  I grinned.

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum continued, her voice hard and taut, “You’ve been lucky so far, Jordan, I’ll admit that, despite being . . . well”—she gave my body an appraising once-over—“you,” she said, spitting the word out. “But fine, then—you won’t get out of the building. I’ve got seventeen agents undercover here, ready to take you out—”

  “I’m standing in the middle of the Central Bank of Switzerland, Mrs. Quaddlebaum, which is one of the most guarded and secured buildings in the country—trust me, I should know, since I was going to rob it,” I said shortly. “So, frankly, I’d like to see you and your seventeen agents try.”

  Teresa Quaddlebaum’s eyes lit up. If we were back at SRS, I’d be terrified. No, wait—I was still terrified, actually. She seriously looked like her entire head might explode into flames at any moment. But instead she smiled. “But you’re my son, remember? So you’ll leave with me, and if you argue, I’ll make sure everyone knows how prone you are to tantrums.”

  “Tantrums? I’m almost thirteen.”

  “Indeed. I really hope you’ll grow out of it,” she snapped, and grabbed ahold of my arm. I stumbled along after her. Think fast, think fast! I shouted at myself for turning my comm off. I could drop to the floor and shout and scream, but then the police or other SRS agents would get involved. We made it through the revolving doors and to the stairs. I had about as good a chance fighting off Mrs. Quaddlebaum as I did fighting off Walter, which was to say, I had no chance whatsoever. Pigeons flocked overhead, tourists were in the street . . .

  An armored car squealed toward the front of the bank.

  Which was alarming, but even more alarming was the fact that great, billowy gusts of bright-pink smoke were streaming from the windows, from the back doors, even from the tires. The truck looked like it was bleeding cotton candy. It rammed into one of the traffic barricade pillars; people scattered, shouting in multiple languages, clambering to get away. Mrs. Quaddlebaum and I froze, staring as someone—Hastings!—stumbled from the car, coughing, waving the pink smoke from his face, and coated in liquid of the same color.

  “He set off the dye packs,” Mrs. Quaddlebaum said. At first I thought she was talking to me, but then I realized she was speaking frantically into her comm. “I don’t know! He had to be driving the car, but he somehow set them off. The cash is ruined. I need a pickup—I’ve got Hale Jordan, at least.” She hustled me along as neon-orange-and-white police cars came squealing up, high-pitched sirens screaming. Officers jumped out and knocked Hastings to the ground, and Mrs. Quaddlebaum turned me and pushed me along, but there was no way we could make it off the bank steps without passing the police.

  “I see you. We’re nearly there,” Mrs. Quaddlebaum said to whoever was on the other end of her comm. I followed her gaze—there was a silver car at the corner, idling by a traffic light.

  Obviously, I couldn’t get in that car.

  So I sat down.

  This is a thing that, for whatever reason, people never do in movies. You’re being taken somewhere? You don’t want to go? Drop your weight. Fall to the ground. Because moving someone who is planted on the ground like a sack of potatoes is really, really hard.

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum nearly tripped over me and then spun around to stare. “Up, Jordan,” she hissed.

  “Or what? You’ll have a sniper take me out right here? With the cops a few steps away?” I answered. Just as I said
that, one of the officers raced by me to assist with the still-pink-smoking car, knocking Mrs. Quaddlebaum in the shoulder. She glowered. It seemed entirely possible that pink smoke might come out of her ears.

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum looked around—police tape was going up now, and we were some of the only “civilians” still on the steps. She stooped and wrapped her arms around my shoulders and heaved. She couldn’t lift me. She tried another angle, then another angle . . .

  “I’m going. He won’t move, and I can’t lift him. This kid weighs as much as a full-grown man, remember? I need backup,” she snapped into her comm. “We can’t just leave him! He stole from us! He ruined the Castlebury outpost! He brainwashed my son!”

  Then Mrs. Quaddlebaum went silent, and I knew what her mission director was telling her. Think of the mission.

  I felt bad for her for a second. Not even because I could tell she missed Walter, even if she was being a jerk about it. I felt bad for her because her mission had fallen apart. They’d been robbed, and they hadn’t managed to capture a single League agent, much less all of us. We’d duped them again. It wasn’t so much that she’d be punished for a failed mission. It was that she’d punish herself for not being good enough, strong enough, smart enough. Not being SRS enough.

  I’d been there.

  Of course, I only felt bad for her for that second, because I still had to escape. I reached up as discreetly as I could and clicked my earpiece back on.

  “Hale? Hale?” Beatrix was shouting into the comm.

  “I need a way out,” I muttered into the comm. Mrs. Quaddlebaum was still listening intently to her own comm and looking at the police, pink smoke, and news chopper–filled skies surrounding us.

  “I’m going to kill you. You can’t just disappear for twenty minutes like that! Everyone’s freaking out!” Beatrix yelled. “But Otter is almost there. He’s in the black truck from the farm. He won’t be able to drive past the police barricades though—”

  “I’ll handle it. Hale, be ready to run,” Otter broke in, and despite the static over his comm, he sounded . . . well. He sounded pretty impressive, actually. He had steel in his voice that made me feel pretty good about whatever he had planned. Mrs. Quaddlebaum wheeled back around to look at me and then dropped down low so no one could hear what she said next.

  “Hale Jordan, I’m going to make this very, very clear. You may have been my son’s best friend once, but I will not hesitate to use the full extent of my training . . .” She kept talking, but I was using my peripheral vision to watch for the black truck sliding up behind the police cars, just barely visible behind the smoke. I saw a flash of my sister’s red hair, movement . . . Something was happening . . .

  “You understand, Jordan? So get. Up. Right. Now,” Mrs. Quaddlebaum hissed. She also sounded pretty impressive, but in that totally frightening way. Watching the truck as best I could, I rose. Mrs. Quaddlebaum looked pleased with the effectiveness of her threats and squeezed my arm, prodding me along in front of her.

  I dragged my feet, stalling as best I could. I said, “You’ve got one thing wrong, Mrs. Quaddlebaum. I wasn’t your son’s best friend once—I’m his best friend now. And so that’s why, despite the fact that you’re still with the bad guys, I’m not going to turn you away when you eventually come to The League, asking to join us. Asking for safety. Asking for our help.”

  More movement from the truck. We were getting closer to it, but now we were just as close to it as we were to SRS’s silver car. Otter needed to hurry.

  Otter, you’re a genius, I thought, grinning as I realized what Otter’s plan was. I kept talking, louder now, and turned around to look at Mrs. Quaddlebaum—but more important, to get her looking right at me instead of what was happening behind me. I said, “I’ll even introduce you to everyone there. The twins. Agent Clatterbuck. You already know most everyone, of course—my sister, Agent Otter, and of course, Walter. And of course, you already know Annabelle.”

  Mrs. Quaddlebaum frowned. “Who?”

  I ducked.

  And Annabelle, who had charged through the police barricade, tongue flying, ears flapping, drool drooling, soared into the air. She was leaping for me, of course, but when I ducked, all sixty-eight kilos of not-really-purebred Tibetan mastiff slammed into Mrs. Quaddlebaum.

  For the second time in five minutes, I felt bad for her. I’d been there too—“there” meaning on the ground with a Tibetan mastiff sitting on me.

  “Go, Jordan!” Otter roared in my ear.

  “Annabelle, come on!” I called. Annabelle, who looked incredibly confused about how she’d aimed for a stocky boy yet ended up on top of a lanky lady, jumped off Mrs. Quaddlebaum, pawing her right in the kidneys. We charged away as Mrs. Quaddlebaum wobbled to her feet, stumbling forward and grabbing the nearest police barricade for balance. I was slow, but I moved faster than she did at that moment—by the time she waved frantically to the agents in the silver car, I was already diving into the open door of the truck. I had enough sense to roll to the side so Annabelle didn’t jump in right onto me, and Otter slammed on the gas, squealing away before the police—or SRS—even had time to process what had just happened.

  “I’ve got him,” Otter told the others, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as I grabbed Annabelle’s head and rubbed her ears. She looked delighted with herself—I think she knew that this time, tackling someone was a good thing.

  “Right, boss man,” Clatterbuck said over the comm. “Setting up the plane now. We’re ready to leave when you are.”

  “Is that why you let us take Annabelle? Did you know this would happen? This was your plan?” I asked Otter.

  “Don’t be thick, Jordan. Of course not. Can’t I just like a dog?” Otter growled at me, shaking his head.

  I opened my mouth in either surprise or to argue (I hadn’t decided which), but Beatrix cut me off. “Hale—are you still on your comm? Hale?” I confirmed I was, and she went on, “How did you trip the dye packs? What’d you build the transmitter out of? Or was it some button at that bank guard station?”

  “Huh? I didn’t trip them. Hastings did.”

  “Dye packs either get tripped by a radio signal or because someone handles them. He couldn’t have handled them since he was driving, so it had to be a radio signal. In fact, I can actually find the radio signal . . . Hang on. Yep. Right here.”

  “I didn’t do that. Seriously. I figured Hastings was just going to get away with the cash,” I said, finally clambering to the front seat and buckling in.

  “Hold on. I’ll trace it,” Beatrix said.

  Clatterbuck swerved to avoid yet more police cars. I noticed a few news helicopters buzzing overhead. I guess it’s not every day that a bank gets robbed, much less that it gets robbed and the culprit winds up stumbling around in neon pink. I almost felt bad for Hastings. He’d helped us rob SRS, after all. But then, he’d also meant to sell us out, and then he robbed the bank himself, and he was also kind of a crummy person in general, so . . .

  “There’s a Morse code layered into the dye pack signal. Hang on. I’m translating,” Beatrix said. She mumbled letters, pulling them together to form words. Then she went silent.

  “What? What is it?” I asked.

  “It says . . . ‘Happy Early Thirteenth Birthday, Hale. Love, Mom and Dad.’”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  So, here’s something that’s difficult: getting more than a ton of gold bars out of a country without raising a few red flags. Which meant that all the gold we stole from SRS and scuba-dived out of the river? We left it in Switzerland in a new account we created at a different bank—Archimedes St. Claire’s father’s bank, as a matter of fact. In the end, we took only seven bars back to the United States—one hidden in each of our luggage—with one extra bar used to pay for the plane we took home. Clatterbuck flew, though Otter offered a lot of commentary on his piloting skills and Ben kept pulling panels off walls to look at plane-wiring schematics, making everyone nervous.

  “Finally
,” Beatrix said as she threw open the back door to League headquarters and inhaled deeply. “Oh, wow, it still smells like corn chips!” She didn’t sound sad about this at all.

  “Trust me, that’s never going away,” Clatterbuck answered.

  “We’re home, Annabelle! Are you excited?” Kennedy asked the dog. Annabelle responded by bounding among all our rooms, working out the shortest route between each. Otter went off to make spreadsheets or something, and Clatterbuck hurried around, turning things like the air-conditioning and water back on. Ben and Beatrix went back and forth between the car and the building, carefully unloading computer and inventing equipment.

  “Want help?” Walter asked as I struggled with my gold-bar-containing suitcase on the steps. I nodded, and Walter slung the suitcase over his shoulder. Then he navigated both mine and his up to the hall where our bedrooms were. He slid mine into my room and then nodded curtly and started toward his own.

  “Walter. Don’t you want to know?” I called after him. My voice bounced down the long hall. Walter turned around.

  “What?”

  “If she took the envelope. If she said anything. If she did anything?”

  Walter spun his suitcase around under his palm for a second and then shook his head. “No. Well, I do, but only if it’s good. If she was . . . If she was all SRS agent-y then . . . no. I’d rather not.”

  “She took the envelope,” I told him, and he nodded.

  “Well. It’s a start. Maybe she’ll . . .” Walter sighed heavily and looked down. “I can’t believe after everything, SRS still has a hold on her.”

  “They had a hold on all of us once. But we chose to leave, so they don’t really own us—it just feels that way. Your mom will break out eventually. And when she does, she has to take a room down at the end of the hall where Otter stays, because otherwise you’d always be grounded.”