“I’m referring to the fact that you can actually dance well, like at a club.”
Crap. He knows my friend M and I sneak out to hear DJ Magic whenever he’s in town, which would be a worse offense than the wine.
I’m so dead.
“Uh, sure. I can dance.”
“You’ve been called out.”
Called out? Who ratted me out? Probably M’s roommate. She hates that M and I sneak out. It’s not our fault we don’t require much sleep and like to have some fun occasionally.
“And you’re popular with the young men of Blackwood,” he continues.
So I’ve maybe a few short-term relationships with a couple of them.
“Uh…”
“What I’m saying is that you’re pretty, you look good in a bikini, and know how to dance—so you’re being called out.”
“I’m in trouble for that?”
“No. You are being called to duty for those reasons.”
I sit up straighter. Wait?! He has an assignment for me? “But what about graduation?” I ask. Graduation consists of a senior skip day where we track real criminals, and I’ve been really looking forward to it.
“This is more important.” He hands me a black envelope. The back has a red monogrammed seal with a letter X on it.
“Is this from where I think it’s from?”
“Yes, they’ve been watching your progress.”
Oh. My. Gosh. My first assignment. I wonder what I’m going to be tasked to do. Sneak in the Kremlin, assassinate a terrorist, find a nuclear device, save the world?
He nods expectantly at me. I stop wondering about my mission and look at the envelope again.
I know the drill. Open my orders, commit them to memory, destroy them.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it:
Protect the heir to the throne of Montrovia, uncover the person or persons behind the plot to assassinate him in order to take control of this geographically important sovereign nation, and eliminate the threat.
Get close to the hottest Prince on the planet and work for Black X, the double-black covert group so secret even the President of the United States is on a need-to-know basis?
I accept.
I think about what he said about me looking good in a bikini. Do they want me to hookup with this Prince in order to protect him? Are you kidding me? I’m valedictorian. I have the school’s highest scores in everything from parkour to the number of ways I can kill a man.
I frown as I’m burning my orders in the fireplace. “Sir, may I speak freely about my assignment?”
“I’m afraid I’m not privy to your orders. My job was to help choose the student best fitted for the task based on the parameters given to me.”
“And one of those parameters was that I look good in a bathing suit?”
He chuckles. “In this situation, my dear, they need an operative who is not only the best and brightest but one who can also demand male attention. Your handler is waiting for you outside. You leave immediately.”
“But I need to go pack. Tell people goodbye.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time.” He stands up and, in an uncustomary show of emotion, hugs me briefly. “Godspeed, X.”
* * *
After she leaves his office, the Dean opens a drawer, takes out a bottle of bourbon, and sets it on his desk.
He’s never questioned his orders but, in this case, he can’t help it. He’s been dreading this day for the last six years when he was called out of retirement to become the Dean of Blackwood Academy.
His hands shake as he pours the amber-colored liquid into a glass.
Blackwood Academy sounded good on paper. They sold it to him well. He’d get to train young spies. Continue to serve his country.
The Russians have had programs like this for years, taking orphans, delinquents, or high IQ students and training them. Stripping them of their names and families. Teaching them to be killing machines. To have no consciences. To only do what they are told is best for their country.
Blackwood would be different—a combination of higher education, clandestine training, boot camp, and finishing school. Its graduates would be elite, intelligent, and most of all, lethal.
What he never expected was for them to send her.
At only twelve.
Her beautiful mother had been shot, execution style, in front of her by the most deadly assassin in the world, a man known only as The Priest. And somehow, she managed to shoot and wound the assassin, fight him off, and then escape. A feat not even the most seasoned agent had ever accomplished.
Two days later, she defied death again, when a bomb blew up her father’s car.
She wasn’t allowed to attend their funerals. Spies don’t have funerals. They get a star on a wall in an office deep underground and a few moments of silence.
This he knows. He’s attended too many of those moments over the years.
He brings the glass to his lips and takes a small sip, enjoying the way the liquid burns, reminding him he’s still alive.
Even though most of the world believes him to be dead.
During her time at Blackwood, he’s grown to care deeply for X and feels more proud of her than he knew possible. He was hard on her, but she has amazed him with her abilities at every turn.
He wanted to tell her the truth today. The truth about her. The truth about him. The truth about her parents.
The phone on his desk rings, startling him.
He hears a series of clicks, knowing he’s being put through to a secure connection.
“Well?” the voice asks.
He takes another drink, greedily gulping it so he can bring himself to say the words he’s been dreading since that day. “Spy Girl is a go.”
“Do you think she’s ready?”
“With her genes and my training, what do you think?”
“You sound defiant, old man. I take it this mission is difficult for you.”
“She’s ready. I’ve done everything I can. She’s the best I’ve ever trained.”
“And the only one who mattered. Do you think she will be able to attract the Prince’s attention and protect him?”
“That’s her mission. Of course, she will. Although, I think she was a little disappointed.”
“Why?”
“She would have preferred something more exciting. She wants to save the world.”
“And avenge her mother’s death. If those behind the plot to overthrow the monarchy are serious, The Priest is who they would hire.”
“The Priest? How would they hire him? He’s dead. Rumor has it he was double crossed by whoever hired him to kill her mother.”
“I’d say that’s debatable. If he were still alive, do you think he’d recognize her?”
“If he were alive, I’d be more worried about her recognizing him.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not sure how she would react. And I thought we were going to send her on a few test missions to start.”
“Things have progressed, and we can’t wait any longer. If she fails, we’ll deal with the repercussions. You and I both know this is a whole lot bigger than one small country.”
When the line goes dead, he drains the rest of the glass.
And wonders what he’s done.
* * *
I walk out of the Dean’s office feeling elated. I’m going to meet my handler. My first ever, real handler. The person who will do whatever I need in the field.
I survey the area looking for him, but only see a guy about my age, who is way too good looking to be a handler. Usually handlers are decrepit retired spies.
But then I see a distinguished looking older gentleman who reaches his white-gloved hand out to me.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ellis.” He hands me an envelope. “Here are your credentials, driver’s license, passport, credit cards, and bio. Let’s get going. We don’t have much time.”
Ellis opens the back door of a Bentley. The gu
y hops in before me. Obviously, finishing school was not part of his training.
“Um, who are you?” I ask. I’m sort of hoping he’s supposed to be my boyfriend. That would be an assignment I could put all my energy into.
“Read your bio,” he tells me, putting headphones on and virtually ignoring me.
Rude asshole.
As we’re sitting silently in the back of the chauffeured car, I think of the neatly typed words. The words I’ve been waiting years to read.
This is it. My first assignment. The first step in my plan. I’ll get a few successful missions under my belt then I’ll use my abilities to hunt down the man who murdered my mother and kill him.
I smile to myself at the thought, then pull out the papers and start reading about Montrovia.
Geographically important is right. Trillions of dollars of goods are moved through the Strait of Montrovia. Specifically trillions of dollars of oil they allow every country to move across its waters.
So basically, I’m supposed to seduce the Prince and somehow keep him from getting killed. Honestly, I’d rather chase a terrorist. He’s a freaking Prince. He will be impossible to get near.
I flip the page and see a photo of my target as well as his statistics. HRH Lorenzo Giovanni Baptiste Vallenta. Twenty-three, six-feet tall, dark haired, and very easy on the eyes. Numerous articles pertain to his exploits; with sailing, polo ponies, fast cars, and fast women among his favored hobbies. Apparently, it’s not yet been publicly announced, but the Prince’s father is ill and not expected to recover. So the fact that someone has already developed a plan to assassinate him to take control of the country means whoever is behind the plot is well connected. I study the order of succession. The King. The Prince. Then his cousin, The Duchess of Cordova, and her sister, The Countess of Cordova.
I take out my new credentials and study them.
I am Huntley Penelope “Penny” Bond-Von Allister.
“Are you kidding me?” I say out loud. “Did they really name me after Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible and James Bond from 007?”
Ellis snickers in the front seat.
I elbow the guy sitting next to me. He glares at me then takes off his headphones. “What?”
“Do I look like a Penny?”
“Not really, but that’s what I’ll be calling you. It’s in my notes.”
“You will not be calling me that. I’ll go by Huntley. What is your name?”
“Keep reading.” He leaves his headset off this time and stares out the window, continuing to ignore me.
“Who makes this shit up?” I mutter.
Actually, I know the answer to that question. The team does. Behind every good spy is an equally strong support team. Researchers, weapons specialists, logistics, finance, etc. They call them Housekeeping. They have prepared my backstory, my travel documents, packed my bags for the trip, will have a residence acquired at our destination, and have vetted my credentials.
I keep reading.
I’m taking a break from school to see the world with my brother, Aristotle “Ari” Bradford-Von Allister. We are going to Montrovia to spend time together after our billionaire father, the reclusive Ares Von Allister, passed away.
I study the guy sitting next to me. He’s about six feet tall, solidly built but still lean. If I had to guess, he’s got nice muscles under the heavy flannel shirt he’s wearing. His hair is about the same color as mine, a dirty blonde—heavy on the dirty. His eyes are a similar hazel with a strong Roman nose and long face. His hair is cut short on the sides and long on the top in the trend newly favored by hipsters across the world. Whoever cast us as brother and sister did a good job. We actually look a lot alike.
“Are you Ari?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to have to loosen up if you want anyone to believe you’re a billionaire playboy.”
“Finish reading,” he says, his eyes looking equal parts lethal and sexy.
“Well, this is interesting. We just met at the reading of our father’s will. The father neither of us had ever met. In order to inherit his billions, we have to spend the next six months getting to know each other.”
He nods. “It’s a good cover. And Ares did just pass. So the timing is perfect.”
I take a moment to study my new brother. His stiff posture suggests some kind of military training, but he also has the air of someone raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. This contradiction intrigues me, and I want to know where and how he trained. Our legend says that I’m twenty and he’s twenty-one. Since that’s not my real age, I’m assuming it’s not his either.
We’ve leased a villa overlooking the Mediterranean in the glitzy Montrovian city, Cap de Playa Antilles. Better known as Cap. It’s a playground for the ultra-rich, boasting a harbor large enough to handle the priciest of yachts, an elegant casino complex, luxurious hotels, world-class restaurants, exclusive designer shops, an ornate opera house, and streets littered with exotic cars. The town is a magnet for glitzy and glittering events, home to an elite polo team, tennis championships, and a Formula One race, which happens to be taking place next weekend.
Our chauffeur and butler, Ellis, will be traveling with us. He’s about sixty, and when I look at him in the rear view mirror, he gives me a discreet wink.
Then he speaks. “Are you through reading your dossier? Have you committed the details to memory?”
The details he’s referring to are things like my name, birthdate, and social security number. Of more importance, the phone number that will connect me directly to Black X and a series of authentication code words. Child’s play.
“Yes,” I say, confidently.
“Good, because we have some shopping to do.”
Ari groans, so I smack him.
But instead of shopping at a store, it seems the store has come to us. Upon arrival at our three-bedroom suite in a posh D.C. hotel, we are greeted by racks of clothing and two women both named Kate.
Kate Number One says, “You can call me Dr. Kate.”
“What are you a doctor of?” I ask politely.
“I have my undergrad in luxury marketing from NYU and a doctorate in Anthropology. It’s my job to make sure you look the part. I’m on your Housekeeping team along with my colleague, Kate.”
Kate Number Two says, “If you call the private concierge number that is in your phone, you’ll be speaking directly with me. I’ll arrange anything you need on site. As you were told, we’ve leased a beautiful villa that comes with a full staff. We’ve shipped over all sorts of goodies for you. Once you step foot in Montrovia, you will be Penny and Ari.”
“Um, Huntley.”
She studies me. “You’re right. I can’t picture you as a Penny. Anyway, other than Ellis, you are on your own. Any information you come across will be relayed to us through secure messaging, and if the shit hits the fan, you each have emergency protocol.”
“Let’s get you into the wardrobes we’ve selected to make sure everything fits. We have a tailor on standby, and then you both have appointments at the spa downstairs. Hairstylists and makeup will be brought in to prep you for the event tonight.”
“There was no mention of an event in my packet,” Ari states.
“Rule follower,” I say under my breath.
Dr. Kate says, “You’re going to the Smithsonian Gala. We’ve got you seated with Peter Prescott and his model of the week. Peter is—”
“The son of Malcolm Prescott,” Ari says. “Prescott Industries’ self-made billionaire. His conglomerates rebuild after a war, and he’s a big contributor to President Hillford’s campaign.”
Kate does a little clap. “Correct, Ari, you’ve been studying.”
I wonder why I haven’t been allowed to study.
“Also at the table will be Peter’s Yale buddy, Daniel Spear.”
“Son of Vice President Spear,” I add. At least I know something. Although it’s really not that spectacular. Every woman in America—and most other countries—wou
ld recognize the gold-medal winning Olympic swimmer with his blinding white teeth, piercing blue eyes, crooked grin, and a body made of steel—based on his latest men’s fitness magazine cover, which may have been tossed around my dorm room and drooled over. Dr. Kate smiles at me, so I continue. “They are our entry into Montrovian society, I take it?”
“Yes, your mission for tonight is to make friends with Peter and invite him to join you for a weekend of partying. Daniel is an acquaintance of the Prince. Although, he isn’t likely to go to Montrovia, knowing him can’t hurt. It all depends on the two of you. Are you charming and believable enough to pull this off?”
Ari glances in my direction, sizing me up.
“Have you scheduled some time for Huntley and I to get to know each other before the event?” Ari asks the Kates.
“We’re on a tight schedule, but you’ll be alone from five until you leave for the event at promptly seven p.m. You can use that time as you see fit.” Kate smirks, and I know she’s thinking of exactly how she’d choose to use that time if she were me.
I stifle a smile. Good. Ari’s hotness is good for our mission.
But he’s totally not my type. I can already tell he’s way too uptight.
The Vice President’s son, on the other hand, has dated everyone from pop stars to the local stripper. He’s much more my type. Fast, carefree, and easy. Ari looks like he requires care and feeding. High maintenance with a capital H. The kind of guy who would annoy the crap out of me.
Which I’m told brothers usually do.
* * *
Ari and I don’t have time to chat as planned. Between spa appointments and tailoring, we’re barely ready in time. Fortunately, while I was getting my toes, nails, and hair done, I was able to read more about Montrovia on my phone. I studied the country’s history, maps of the capital, blueprints of the castle, and the folklore. I’ve memorized the shops, read up on the Formula One drivers, and even found a cool article on all the secret passageways in the castle as well as learned the ghost of a former king is said to haunt the stables.
We arrive at the event by chauffeured limousine. The museum is bathed in a soft pink light. A red carpet creeps up the stairs. Hollywood stars, music industry moguls, models, billionaires, politicians, socialites, professional athletes, and artists all come together to support one of the country’s greatest institutions. A place I could spend days in with all its history. But most of the people are here to be seen. It’s a splashy and glitzy event that marks the end of the society season.
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