Thirty-seven
“What are you doing out here?” Malcolm asked.
“Nothing.” Why didn’t I memorize some cool spy lingo?
With a flip of my hair, I faced him, channeling the coolness factor of an iceberg. His eyes widened and traveled up and down my body. I glared at him, trying to hide my reaction. He backed up. I brushed past him and strode across the warehouse toward the others, shoulders back, head up, chest out. My black boots clomped on the cement. My spy hat slipped, and I pushed it back into place. Dad opened his mouth but no words came. A noticeable gleam filled his eyes.
“Welcome, Savvy.” He finally managed to say.
Minutes later, I was clicking into my cables and tightening the ropes. The metal rafter was firm beneath my feet, and I simply refused to look down. My legs still felt rubbery from my three-mile run, which had dwindled into a jog up and down the street. Start small. That was key.
Gray nodded in approval. After his introduction speech, Dad boomed out the names of the staff. Frankie dropped down first then Nancy until it was Gray, Malcolm, and me. My eyes flicked over to Malcolm’s. I couldn’t read his expression. His steely gray eyes caught mine and held them for a few seconds.
Gray interrupted. “Malcolm, your turn.”
He flew down to the cement floor in his hot spy glamour, much to the awe of the clients.
Gray nodded. My turn.
Dad’s voice boomed, “And here’s Savvy!”
Without a thought, I jumped, my arm straight out, my head held high. The wind rippled through my shirt and my eyes teared up. I clenched the ropes until my feet landed on the cement. I think I even got a few gasps myself. Damn. Soon, Jolie Pouffant would regret the day he messed with Savvy Bent.
I breezed through my informant job at the Eiffel Tower. I handed out clues with confidence. I stayed focused. This round was not about a hostage. One of the clients was a mole, a double agent, and the rest of the clients had to find the stolen Da Vinci, while digging for the mole. Extra points for the team who could name the double agent. I could. Malcolm. But that only counted in my book, and I wouldn’t be receiving any prizes.
With a sigh, I realized my job was done, but my real work had yet to begin. I texted Dad to let him know I had monthly girl issues but would make it to the final debriefing. When I arrived at the Extravaganza, I stood on the side street. The small groups of musicians played music and whisked me back to the 1800s. Mimes with their sad faces acted out their dramas. Sellers cried out and promoted their homemade goodies. The smell of apples and cinnamon floated in the air. It all brought me back to the first Extravaganza, where I’d hoped to find Aimee but learned Malcolm was a double agent, where I’d met Jolie and learned he was a nefarious pastry chef. And then, where I shot the guy with a tranquilizer dart.
Today would be different. Today I’d save my mom.
I wandered past the tables, searching for a table with the number 14. Magnificent entries surrounded me. Les Pouffant’s was on my right, closed for the day. A sense of unease sapped my confidence. Nothing ever went right for me in that shop, and me and pastry shops were usually best buds.
I found my table at the far edge of the blocked-off street, but when I saw it, my fists curled into balls at my side. While I’d finished up my work for Spy Games, Jolie’s minions had destroyed my entry. It looked like something from a Tim Burton movie. And not in an artistic way. Gold, silver, and red frosting bled across the white paper tablecloth. The wires that held the cupcakes were twisted and deformed with sharp edges sticking out. Even the cupcakes with a creamy fillings had been slashed, their guts spilled. From what I could tell it had been a masterpiece of little cakes placed in the formation of the Eiffel Tower. Emotions whipped through me like the wind, tearing at my insides. Shock. Surprise. Sadness. Anger. But the one that stayed with me, lodged in my throat, was fear. If Jolie had no problem destroying something he loved—pastries—what would he do with me?
I cracked my knuckles. The fun and games were over. Time for stage one. Infiltration.
Problem. A security guard blocked the door to Jolie’s bakery. Well, he probably was a security guard, dressed in dark colors and wearing sunglasses. I needed a distraction. With my large purse on my shoulder, I smeared frosting from the ruined Eiffel Tower á la cupcake onto my arms and a dab on my nose so I’d look like one of Jolie’s pastry minions. I ran along the perimeter of the Extravaganza then rushed up to the door of the bakery and jerked the knob back and forth. The guard approached, liked I hoped he would.
“Arrête!” His voice was sharp and commanding.
I motioned to the frosting, mentioned Jolie’s name, and pointed into the bakery. The guard narrowed his eyes. I contorted my features into something I hoped looked like panic, which didn’t take much effort. He nodded and strode off. I pulled out the gadget that unlocked doors, stuck it into the keyhole, and wiggled it around. Nothing.
I glanced over at Jolie’s table. The guard was just reaching him. Damn. I wiggled harder, but nothing happened. I changed hands and kept trying to force it to work. Snap! The gadget broke. I’d have to talk to Dad about investing in higher-quality devices, if he was really serious about this whole spy thing.
Using my purse, I was about to punch a hole through the door when a shadow blocked the sun and a chill whispered across the back of my neck. I froze. Rough hands gripped my arm and whipped me around. Jolie.
“Um, Bonjour?”
A Spy Like Me Page 38
