Grooooooossssss!
I shudder in horror. But the hand lets go of my ankle.
Beneath me, I hear a loud male scream of horror.
“It’s biting me!”
Oh my God! It wasn’t a dead rat. I had a live rat in my hand. And that live rat just saved my life, so I instantly resolve to be more caring toward all rats living and dead from now on. (I’m pretty sure I’m going to break that resolution.)
The agent beneath me keeps screaming. I haul myself up through the panel and find myself in a tight and constricted air vent.
I’m a little bit claustrophobic and, as I’ve just discovered, this particular confined space is a favored hangout for live rats. But there’s no other way for me to go but forward, so I squeeze my elbows out and start crawling into the unknown.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vent
“Not smart, Bridget,” Spool’s voice shouts up from the corridor beneath me.
“That’s what they call me,” I reply. Not the most hilarious comeback, maybe, but the best I can manage in my current situation.
“I’ve read your psychological evaluation,” I hear him say. “I know you don’t respond well to being confined in small spaces. The panic’s about to set in. You can feel it, can’t you? It’s getting harder to breathe. Your heart is racing.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I say. “But you’re talking about someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
He doesn’t reply. I know I’ve made him think. I can imagine his little pink brain throbbing and pulsing. What if I’ve become an unpredictable wild card? Someone whose every reaction he can’t anticipate? What if by manipulating me he’s accidentally made me into someone he can no longer manipulate? That’s what I’m hoping he’s thinking. In fact, he’s not wrong about me being stuck up in this air vent. I’m on the verge of freaking out. I can’t catch my breath, my heart is pounding in my ears, and what little space there is seems to be closing in around me. My elbows bang against the sides of the vent. My head touches the ceiling. Back down there, in that corridor, on that table, I was so strong. I felt like I could do anything. Up here, in this vent, I’m nothing. I can barely crawl. I feel the strain in my elbows and my shoulders. I’m using everything I’ve got to drag myself forward but I’m hardly moving. I don’t know how long I’ve been up here. It could be minutes. It could be hours. But I’ve made next to no progress. Maybe that’s why Spool’s gone so quiet. Maybe he’s letting me die up here. I wish I hadn’t just thought that because now I can’t think about anything else. This is what it’s like to be buried alive. No one to hear you. No one to help you. Walled in. No energy left to breathe, let alone scream. Completely alone.
Except I’m not alone.
It starts quietly. The little pitter-patter of tiny feet on metal. Then it gets louder. Something’s in here with me. And it’s getting closer. Obviously I know what it is. But I’ve never, ever wanted so much to be wrong.
Here it comes. Scampering into view. Tiny black eyes getting me in their sights. There’s no way I’m not going to pee all over myself. But why? This rat doesn’t know me. I haven’t given this rat any reason to fear me. Circumstances have stuck us both up in this vent. There’s no reason we can’t peacefully coexist.
“Hi, Ratty,” I breathe. “Hey, buddy. Don’t worry, I’m not invading your territory. Just passing through. How about you turn back and let me go on my way.”
The rat rears up at the sound of my voice. I think I just gave it a reason to fear me. He—I’m saying he, maybe it’s a she, I can’t tell—breaks into a ratlike gallop. His moist, bulging, hairy rat body undulates as he moves. I see his eyes, his twitching snout, his nasty little teeth. I push my elbows against the sides of the vent and try to back up. But it’s like I’m swimming through cement and the rat is gliding through the air. He’s getting closer. I don’t have the strength to scream. I squeeze my eyes shut.
And then I hear a loud bang.
I open an eye in time to see the rat explode in a burst of blood and rodent flesh.
Ewww.
Please tell me none of that got on my face.
“Warning shot, Bridget,” Spool’s voice calls up. “Next one’s going to hurt.”
If I had the strength to laugh, I’d be yukking it up in my rat-splattered vent home.
“You’re important to me but not so important that I won’t hurt you if I have to.”
“Same here,” I say, full of false bravado. “Except for the important part.”
“Shoot her in the thigh,” I hear him say.
I try to think like a spy. Is he bluffing? How much use could I really be to him on crutches? His credibility as a brilliant leader must have taken a bit of a dip with me escaping and wiping the floor with two trusted henchmen. Maybe I matter less than his standing in the eyes of his agents. Perhaps it would be smart to engage in a bit of pleading and groveling. That way I avoid pain and live to fight another day.
“Don’t shoot,” I start to say.
I don’t think anyone’s listening. I think something’s happening down there. I hear a sudden commotion. Shouts. The sound of a scuffle. Punches being exchanged. Screams. A loud thump. Then another. And another. Footsteps hit the ground, running out of earshot. And silence.
“Bridget?” That voice sounds familiar. “It’s me. It’s your fa . . . it’s Agent . . . it’s Strike.”
He’s got the same problem as me. What do I call him?
“Strike? You escaped. I did, too. I beat up two agents.”
“You did? That’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
“Are you okay? There were a lot of bad guys down there.”
“Less now.”
“You’ve got amazing moves for a guy your size.” I wince as soon as I say that. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine. I’ve got a pyroid problem. It’s like a thyroid problem, except it involves eating pies.”
He’s kind of corny. But I have no problem with that.
“Maybe you can show me some of your techniques,” I say.
“It’s a date. Now let’s get you down from there.”
I start to back up. The footsteps that ran out of earshot suddenly come charging back.
“New plan!” yells Strike. “They sent in reinforcements. Get out of here. Go as fast as you can. Head upward. I’ll meet you once I’m done here.”
The shouting and scuffling resumes below.
I’m newly motivated and fully energized. I start to crawl forward. My limbs no longer feel like they weigh a ton. I no longer fear ending up entombed in the air vent. I can breathe. My heart rate is under control. My only immediate problem is that I have to negotiate my way past what remains of my buddy the rat. There’s not much left of him but what there is, is red and sticky. I close my eyes, hold my breath, crawl forward, and . . .
Groooooosssss!
Freedom. Escaping Spool. Reuniting with my family. Working out the logistics of my relationship with Strike. None of these things are making me move so fast through this vent as the prospect of a hot shower that lasts for thirteen weeks. I’m beating the heck out my elbows and knees but it’s going to be worth it. Once I’m past Rat-Remains Junction, I’m a vent-crawling machine. I squeeze around a corner, drag my aching bones along a widening passage of vent, and there directly ahead of me is a sight so beautiful it should be accompanied by a swelling of violins and a heavenly choir. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Or, in my case—and much more important—it’s the grille at the end of the vent.
Obviously, me being me, what-ifs start to fill my head. What if the grille is screwed tightly into the surrounding wall? What if it’s locked and the lock can only be opened from the outside? What if the grille ultimately leads nowhere? What if all that’s on the other side is wall?
Uh-uh. No way. I beat Rolf. I beat rat. I’m not being beaten by grille. I power forward till I’m close enough to see that the worst of my fears was unfounded. There is something on
the other side of the grille. A little burst of white that compels me on. I drag myself forward till my nose is inches away from the metal panel. This is going to take deep reserves of strength. This is going to take me being patient and consistent. I’m prepared to work away at the grille until my fingers are bloody stubs, until it becomes as natural an act to me as breathing, until I’m free.
I work my arms under my chest and then shove them forward to test the level of grille resistance I’ll need to deal with. My palms touch the metal and . . . the grille falls away from the wall. I’m almost disappointed. Almost.
I squeeze myself out. Drag myself to my feet and attempt to brush the dirt, blood, and bits of rat carcass from my T-shirt. I squint a couple of times and try to adjust my eyes to the blinding all-encompassing whiteness surrounding me. I wonder what godforsaken corner of Section 23 I’ve wound up in. What sort of deadly secret stuff is carried out inside all this whiteness.
“Hello, darling,” trills a warm, familiar voice. “My favorite customer’s back.”
“Xan with an X?” I say.
“So nice to see you again. And look who’s here. My other favorite customer.”
I follow Xan’s right arm and see that her long tapering fingers and beautifully manicured nails are digging into the neck of my tearful, terrified, confused, angry friend Joanna.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
X
Xan with an X. The blindingly white room. Joanna. Brain goes click click click. I’m in the mall. The Reindeer Crescent mall! I’m in what was once IMAGE UNLTD, the superposh clothes store that mysteriously sent me a gift card for my birthday. A gift card I thought Joanna had sent me. Which, to her mind, must have been the start of increasingly bizarre behavior on my part. So she’s been furtively sneaking around, trying to piece together the truth about my transformation. Which led her to this big white empty store. IMAGE UNLTD doesn’t exist anymore. But what’s underneath does: Section 23’s supersecret headquarters.
Xan with an X spotted Joanna lurking around and discovered the perfect hostage to use against me. Brain exhausted.
“What’s the plan, Xan?” I say, cool as I can muster.
“Block the flow of blood from lovely Joanna’s brain if you don’t do what I say,” she replies, her perfect features calm and clear like a pool of water. Xan removes her hand from Joanna’s neck. Joanna doesn’t move. Fear has frozen her to the spot.
“If I made it up here, you must realize I left a trail of broken Section 23 bodies behind me,” I say. “Don’t make me add you to the list.”
Xan lets out a laugh like the tinkling of tiny bells. “Look at you, you spy diva. You’re so different from the scared little mouse who crept in here weeks ago.” She makes tiny trembling mouse fingers to illustrate her point that I was timid and twitchy.
“Rolf looks like a broken jigsaw,” I tell her. “I’d hate to have to rearrange that pretty face of yours.”
Xan sighs and clasps her hands. She gives me this big soulful wide-eyed look that, I can’t lie, makes me melt. “I am so proud right now I could cry. I really could. I look at you and I think, I made her. I taught her to walk or, in your case, run. I gave you strength. And now you’ve come to challenge me, to assert your independence, which is the most natural thing in the world.”
The soothing tone of her voice, her steady gaze: Xan’s having a hypnotic effect on me.
“Spool’s got no social skills. He doesn’t know how to put people at ease. Listen to me, I’ve got your best interests at heart. You need Section 23 and we need you. Come back downstairs with me, Bridget. Get the chip. The process is quick and painless. You’re already amazing.”
She’s lulling me. I’m definitely being lulled.
Then she says, “You already make me feel like a proud mother. Make me even prouder.”
This un-lulls me. It un-lulls the crap out of me.
I’ve already got a mother. In fact, it turns out I’ve got two. I don’t need this one.
“You’re not my mother, you’re my Frankenstein,” I say.
“I’ll take it.” She shrugs. “He was a doctor.”
“And he was killed by his monster,” I say.
“You realize you’re calling yourself a monster,” chimes in Joanna.
Xan and I both look startled. We’d forgotten she was there.
“So you’re talking to me now?” I say.
“What, you’re so hard up for friends you have to get your paid muscle to threaten me? Pretty pathetic.”
“You’re the pathetic one if anyone’s pathetic. What are you doing here, Joanna? You hate the mall. But you wanted to find out something about me, right? Dig up something juicy.”
“Right. Because everyone’s so interested in Bridget Wilder and her exciting life.”
“You keep writing about my exciting life in your Tumblr!”
“It’s a group text. I have a hundred and twenty-five followers.”
“That’s down from before.”
“It’s plateaued. The real hardcore fans stuck with me.”
“That’s great, Joanna. So you don’t need any real friends.”
“You were never my friend.”
I gasp at this. “I tried. You know how hard it is being friends with you? How mean you are? The way you resent everybody.”
“I always knew you were waiting for someone better,” Joanna says. “I was just the substitute until Casey Breakbush rolled her window down and gave you the golden ticket.”
“I said I was sorry about that.”
“You never said you were sorry.”
I think she might be right.
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to.”
“Don’t think you can come groveling back to me. I don’t need you.”
“I wasn’t about to grovel.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t care about you and whatever nitwit thing you’re doing here.”
“Ladies, please, this is exhausting,” says Xan. “You’re both beautiful, strong, intelligent young women. Now more than ever, we need to support each other, not tear each other down.”
“Excuse me?” I say. “You want to kill her and turn me into a zombie.”
“We can still respect each other,” says Xan.
“You think I respect you? You’re everything I never want to be.” I start counting on my fingers. “Traitor. Coward. Lackey. Liar. Awesome job you got here, Xan with an X. Spool starts wars. You pretend to sell shoes. He must have a ton of faith in you.”
Unflattering splotches of red appear on Xan’s face. “You’re a stupid little girl. You don’t know anything.”
“I am a little girl.” I nod. “But I’m an awesome spy, you said as much. And I’m just going to get better as I get older. From what I’ve seen of Section 23, there’s only room for one queen bee. Spool’s desperate to keep me around. But you . . .”
I look at my watch. “Time’s ticking away,” I say, in case the point wasn’t clear.
“She’s totally had work done,” says Joanna. “If you stand where I’m standing, you can see the marks behind the ears.”
“Stop it,” Xan screeches. She stabs her nail back into Joanna’s neck. Joanna moans in pain. Xan smiles at me. While she has Joanna by her side, she has power over both of us.
But we have power, too.
“You’re right, Xan,” I say. “We shouldn’t be attacking each other. We should be looking out for each other. We’re not the bad guys here.”
I stare straight at Joanna. “Write this in the Conquest Report. It’s time to bite the hand that feeds!”
I nod frantically at Joanna as I say this. For what is probably the first time in the history of our turbulent friendship, she listens to what I say.
Joanna grabs Xan’s hand from her neck and sinks her teeth deep into the flesh.
Xan lets out a high-pitched shriek of surprise and pain. And I’ve been to a barbecue with Joanna; I’ve seen her go to town on a corncob. She leaves no man standing. Xan draws back her othe
r hand to punch Joanna in the face. I charge at her. I jump on top of Joanna’s shoulders. Xan goes to grab my leg. Too slow, ma’am. I spring straight up in the air and, as I come down, kick out a leg and wrap it around Xan’s throat. I let myself fall backward to the ground, dragging her downward as I plummet. Airborne Gazelle Stance!
Xan flails and writhes, trying to remove me from around her neck. She slashes her arms at me. A punch catches me on the side of my head, making my ears ring. I’ve got the element of unpredictability on my side, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to hold her long enough to choke her out.
“Bridget!” Joanna yells. “Move!”
I look up. Joanna stands a few inches from me. She sticks out her butt and aims it at the exact spot on Xan’s face covered by my leg. I gasp in shock. Can she really be about to do this? I lift my leg and hurl myself away from Xan’s gasping, bucking body. Her face is free for a second. Then a shadow falls over it. Then Joanna’s butt falls over it. Xan continues to thrash and punch the air. I sit on Xan’s stomach and use my knees to pin her wrists to the ground.
Muffled howls of rage are just about audible from beneath Joanna’s butt. Xan is not giving up without a fight.
I look over at Joanna. She winces in pain. I’m guessing Xan bit her.
I hold out my palm. Joanna looks at it. Then slaps it.
“You’re amazing,” I say, meaning it.
“You’re a jerk,” she says. “You could have told me.”
“I . . . ,” I start to say.
“You could have told me something,” she says, her voice shaky. “You could have let me know it wasn’t me, that you weren’t abandoning me. That something big had happened to you.”
“You’d have understood?”
“Of course not. I don’t understand now. I don’t even know who I’m sitting on. But you’re including me.”
I honest to God feel like tearing up. I can never tell Joanna everything. She would totally sell me out to her hundred and twenty-five followers. Then I’d have to see if Carter Strike could pull the right strings to get her and Big Log deported to Botswana. There’s an ocean of lies and distrust between us. But right now, we’ve never been better friends.
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