The Seven Sequels bundle

by Orca Various

  Madman.

  “And now everything has fallen apart. My revenge is lost!” He sounded like he was in tears. “But at least I’ve told you the ugly truth. At least I’ve told you in person what a useless, traitorous human being your grandfather was. You can take that to your grave!”

  I didn’t feel that way at all. Sure, my grandfather had told some stretchers. But he had to. Maybe sometimes you really had to, when it mattered, when a greater good was at stake. He and Stephenson had put this double agent out of service and the world was saved from destruction.

  “They gave you a chance, Stanley,” I said. “You were the traitor, and they still gave you your life. But you paid a price for your evil.”

  He was trying to respond when I hit the End button.

  Angel and I looked at each other. The last thing I’d said had explained a great deal to her.

  “He was just Stanley Shick, wasn’t he? Not your grandfather.”

  I nodded. I’d give her the details later.

  It seemed like it was over; we had learned the truth. But what were we going to do now? How could we explain John and these gold bricks and all these state secrets to the Goldeneye security or the Jamaican police? I’d fired a gun and tried to kill a man.

  “I’ll take care of all this,” said a voice we didn’t recognize. It came out of the darkness, and its owner was plodding toward us wearing sandals and a Skyfall T-shirt over his big belly and under his colorful beach shirt. The accent was British. He didn’t sound tipsy at all now. It was Homer Johnson.

  We were both gaping at him, so he kept talking.

  “John has been identified as a risk for some time. We were watching him, watching out for Angel’s safety for many years, actually. I followed you two from Bermuda to New York to Times Square, then you, Adam, to Chicago and here to Goldeneye. I’ll clean up all this. I’ll take the PPK too, thank you very much.”

  “But how did you follow us without—?”

  “Assume the color of the wall and look like me. That’s the secret.” He grinned and then stuck out his hand for us to shake. “Bob Smith, MI6.”

  “Bob Smith?” said Angel. “Really?”

  “No, not really, but it will do.”

  “But what do you actually look like?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “In real life, like when you are walking around in London, talking to MI6? Nice suits? How do you get that fat look?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t follow you.”

  TWENTY

  DENOUEMENT

  We flew partway home together. Angel was told that Stanley Shick would not be in her home when she got there. They would remove him, just the way John had been removed to a holding cell in Miami. It was her home now. They told her the deed would be signed over into her name. There would also be extensive funds available to her: the money that had been set aside to house Shick. She could do as she pleased. She could go to the college of her choice.

  It was New Year’s Eve day when we reached New York. The airport was jammed with people. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

  But Angel wasn’t very happy, despite all the great news she had just gotten from Bermuda. She knew I was leaving her, going back to Shirley. And, of course, I was. It was the right thing to do, the good thing. She tried to kiss me at JFK, but that wouldn’t have been fair to Shirley, so I stepped back. She wasn’t having any of that—she darted toward me and gave me a hug and wouldn’t let go. It was like she was going to hang on to me forever. She was wearing her sweats again.

  “You know, Angel, a couple of times over the last few days I thought you were a double agent or something,” I said, trying to break the mood. She was still holding on to me.

  She stepped back and looked right at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, throughout most of this I was worried that you weren’t who you said you were, that you were working for the other side.”

  She kept looking up at me. “No,” she said. “I’m just me.” Her eyes were red. She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was trembling. “Thank you for everything, Adam. Thank you for liking me for who I am and accepting me.” She dropped her head and turned and walked away. I thought she mumbled something else. It sounded like “Because I like you.” But I wasn’t sure.

  I had been really concerned that I would be choked up when I said goodbye to her, so I’d written her a note, which I’d secretly stuffed into her backpack. I thought of her reading it on the plane or in her room in Bermuda. It said:

  May the rest of your life be as fabulous as these last few days were for me. You are the best, Angel. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently. You’re a star. Have a great life.

  I got onto the plane to Buffalo, feeling bad. But not just for her; for me too.

  Up in the skies, I willed the plane forward. I remembered that Mom’s flight was to come in at 2:00 PM and mine was scheduled to land at 1:45. I had told her that I’d be back from the cottage up north by last night. She had no idea I’d been in Bermuda, New York City and Jamaica. In fact, when I thought about it, the last few days seemed like a dream, like a movie. I kept my backpack with me as carry-on luggage and rushed through the gates and out into the concourse. I glanced up at Mom’s flight arrival time. It was early! And there she was!

  I could see her approaching the baggage area. I turned around quickly, hoping she hadn’t seen me, and rushed outside to grab a cab. I jumped in and asked the driver to get me home to Delaware Park on the fly. I told him I’d add a big tip. So we roared around the Thruway—that’s the I-90, the highway that encircles the city—and headed home. I got there before Mom, raced up the front steps and opened the door. There was a note in the mail slot. I tore it out and rushed into my room. I loved our home. It wasn’t just because we had such a great family—it was also because Shirley, my stupendous, beautiful, loving girlfriend, was there so often. I could hardly wait to see her!

  My phone rang. It was a text from Mom.

  Just got in. I’m stopping for a chai latte at Starbucks. We had a great time. You won’t believe what we got up to. It will amaze you!

  I smiled. I wasn’t sure I would ever tell her what I’d been up to. She didn’t need to know. It would only cloud her perception of Grandpa. He hadn’t been an angel. He had done what was right—what, as he said, he needed to do. I was proud of him. I always would be.

  Angel. I thought of her again. I looked down at the note. It was from Shirley. She was coming over for the New Year’s Eve party tonight! My heart pounded as I thought of holding my girlfriend in my arms.

  Then an image of Angel emerging from the water at Goldeneye came into my mind. She was such an incredible surprise. The way she looked had blown me away. I started thinking that Bad Adam was responsible for this coming back to me, but then I thought he wasn’t. That was stupid thinking, excuses. There was no Bad Adam, really. There was just me. I had some bad impulses and some good ones, and I had to make up my mind which would govern me. I thought of Angel in the bikini again. She was so beautiful! And it was okay to think that, because she was. But more important, much more important, she was an amazing person.

  “Whoa!” I said out loud to myself. “Forget her! Angel is gone.”

  I opened the message from Shirley. She often sent me love notes. I never show them to anyone. I smelled it. She usually perfumes them with her scent, which is Radical Obsession or something. All I know is I love it.

  But this note had no scent.

  It read:

  Dear Adam,

  I am sorry to tell you that I won’t be coming to the party tonight at your house. I wish I had some pressing reason why I can’t, but I have to be honest with you: I’ve met someone else. I actually started seeing him a few weeks ago, but I haven’t been able to talk to you about it until now. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to you face to face. I’m interested in someone else, Adam.

  It wasn’t you. It was me.

  All the best to you, forever
,

  Shirley

  I dropped the letter on the floor. It was as if someone had just died, someone desperately important. I had to go over to her house, talk to her! But I felt frozen. I fell back on the bed. She had said “forever,” but she didn’t mean it. She was with another guy! Some people are on your side forever, and others just aren’t. I had known, deep down inside me, back in Bermuda when that man with Grandpa’s face had turned against me, that it wasn’t really him. My brain may not have realized it, but my soul knew. He would never betray me. He never will. But Shirley, my Shirley…was a double agent. She had given her allegiance to someone else.

  I don’t cry. I’m a guy. Or at least I don’t do it in public or in front of my best friends or my girlfriend or my mom or dad or any living human being other than me. I readied myself for a waterfall now. Strangely, it didn’t come. I didn’t feel like shedding a single tear. I stood up. I actually felt okay. And I knew why.

  I thought of someone who I was certain was on my side. I thought of the cell phone I had bought for that someone back in New York. I thought of a life of excitement stretching out in front of me.

  Later that night, just before the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, I called Angel Dahl.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks, of course, go to all the good folks at Orca Book Publishers—editor Sarah Harvey, for her own bravery in dealing with me and my six other not-so-secret agents, to the intrepid boss Andrew Wooldridge and to co-conspirators Dayle Sutherland and Leslie Bootle. Thanks must also go to a chap named Ian Fleming and his great creation, James Bond, as well as to John Le Carré and what I learned from his creation, George Smiley, as he sneaked his way through The Spy Who Came in from the Cold and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. And not to be forgotten are Norah McClintock and those scoundrels Eric Walters, Sigmund Brouwer, Richard Scrimger, Ted Staunton and John Wilson, who make up the gang of Seven. It has been a pleasure to work with them both on paper and stage. Eric’s Bermuda-based novel Camp X: Trouble in Paradise was helpful too, as were my explorations of the work and lives of Graham Greene, William Stephenson, William Fairbairn and Roald Dahl.

  Shane Peacock is a biographer, journalist, screenwriter and the author of more than a dozen books for young readers, including The Boy Sherlock Holmes series. His work has won many honors, including the Geoffrey Bilson Award, the Libris Award and two Arthur Ellis Awards for Crime Fiction. His novel Becoming Holmes was a finalist for the Governor General’s Award. Because Shane often writes about unusual subjects, his research methods have, at times, been out of the ordinary too; he has learned tightrope walking, silent killing, trapeze flying and sumo eating, all in the service of his art. Shane and his wife, journalist Sophie Kneisel, live with their three children on a small farm near Cobourg, Ontario, where he continues to search for and imagine larger-than-life characters. In his spare time he enjoys playing hockey, reading and sometimes even walking the wire. Double You is the sequel to Last Message, Shane’s novel in Seven (the series).