United We Spy (Gallagher Girls) (17 page)

L
ight and dark blurred together. Eventually, the sun set and rose again, but I was like a newborn with my days and nights mixed up, and I almost never slept in coordination with the sun. I almost never slept at all. I just stayed by Bex’s bedside, listening as she said, “Cammie.” Her lips were dry and cracking, and I dabbed at them with a damp cloth.

“I’m here, Bex,” I told her. I felt her forehead, but it was cool. No fever, no infection, just a deep and fitful sleep; and I had to hold her down to keep her from tossing too badly and opening up her brand-new stitches, courtesy of Macey and the Gallagher Academy’s intensive emergency medical procedures training.

“We have to find Cammie,” she mumbled.

“I’m here, Bex. I’m back,” I said, and only then did I realize that a part of her was still looking for me. Part of her might never stop.

“How is she?”

I turned at the sound of the voice.

“The antibiotics in the med kit that Liz brought with us from school were really strong. They’ve knocked her out. But she’s fine,” I told Preston. “It’s just her shoulder.” I said again, “She’s fine.”

“Do you think I could sit with her?” Preston asked from the doorway. He took a step forward, his hands shoved into his back pockets. “Let me rephrase. I’m going to sit with her. You’re going to take a break.”

When I stood and walked into the main room, my legs didn’t want to work. My head swirled a little, too light on my shoulders. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. I’d done nothing for days but worry and doubt and pray.

A light was flickering in the kitchen. An eerie fluorescent glare filled the room, the bulbs humming and buzzing and clinging to life. Liz lay with her head on the table, laptops sprawled around her, running through lines and lines of code, analyzing news stories and weather patterns—searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

I wanted to wake her up and tell her to go get some sleep in a real bed, but I knew there was no use, so I just took a seat beside her and turned one of the laptops to face me, holding my breath as I called up the website I’d been quietly checking for days. There wouldn’t be anything, I was certain.

I was wrong.

I couldn’t breathe as the website came to life. It was supposed to advertise farm and ranch land for sale in the Sandhills. I still remember my father looking at the site when I was a little girl. He would talk about a future when we would return to Grandma and Grandpa’s and never leave. When we would be safe and sound in Nebraska. All spies have an exit plan, an anonymous city or stretch of abandoned beach. My father was going to have a rock house and a natural spring, good fences and enough horizon so that the spy in him would always be able to see what was coming.

I blinked twice and read the ad again.

M&M properties offering twenty acres for sale. Excellent con
dition.
And a phone number I’d never seen before.

It had been years since my mom had told me about it, put the plan into place. It was just for emergencies, she had said, just in case we ever got separated. Because, deep down, I think we’d both always known something like that was coming.

I read the lines again.

M&M properties
: Matthew Morgan.

Twenty acres
: Two agents.

Excellent condition
: They were fine.

And a phone number that—to anyone else—wouldn’t work. But if I added one to every digit, I could finally hear my mother’s voice.

I ran to our stash of burner phones and dialed without thinking. I couldn’t breathe as the phone rang and rang, and then finally: “Hey, kiddo.”

“Mom!” I practically shouted. I was on the verge of crying. “I’m so glad to hear from you. We’re—”

“Wise Guy and I are fine,” she talked on, not stopping, not caring what I said or how many tears broke through my throat—and I knew she wasn’t listening. She probably didn’t even have that phone anymore. It was just a recording.

“We’re safe. We’re closing in on the Delauhunt heir, we think.” I heard her take a deep breath, static temporarily filling the line. “I heard what happened at school, sweetheart. And I’m glad you left. You’re doing the right thing. I’m so proud of you. But you have to promise me you won’t worry about us. Wise Guy and I…we’ll keep each other safe. You girls…you do the same, okay? Keep each other safe.”

I thought about Bex’s blood, her fitful dreams. And, finally, I thought about how easily we all could have died on that mountain.

“I won’t use this number again, and you should destroy your phone too. We have the dead drop. Use it if you need it. But, sweetheart, just promise you’ll be careful. You’re doing the right thing,” Mom said again.

“And, kiddo. Happy birthday.”

Birthday. I had forgotten my own birthday. Sometime in the past week I’d turned eighteen, and I hadn’t even realized it. I looked down at the phone in my hand. I knew I was supposed to destroy it immediately, but I couldn’t. Instead, I listened to the message again and again and again.

“You’re doing the right thing.”

I listened until the words lost all meaning, until I became numb to even my mother’s voice. I listened until I didn’t even hear the words anymore.

You’re doing the right thing.

Zach was in the kitchen. He wore old jeans and had bare feet, and I thought that maybe bacon-frying was a pretty dangerous thing to do without a shirt on, but I didn’t say so.

“Gallagher Girl?” He looked at the burner phone I carried in one hand, the SIM card I held in the other.

“It was my mom,” I told him.

“What did she say?”

“She’s fine,” I said, then hurried to add, “
They’re
fine. They’re closing in on Delauhunt and… It was just a message, Zach. She didn’t tell me what to do. She just said that I was doing the right thing.”

“You are.”

“I couldn’t tell her about Bex or Preston. I couldn’t tell her—”

“Hey.” He reached me in one long stride, arms going around me, so strong and sure, and I pressed my cheek against his chest. He smelled like soap and bacon. “Tell me what she said.”

So I did. I told him every word, not that any of them mattered. Even Rachel Morgan didn’t know what we were supposed to do next.

“I forgot my own birthday, Zach. I’m eighteen now,” I said, but I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like a little girl, alone and afraid and desperate for my mother.

“It’s going to be okay. Hey.” He wiped my tears away. “We’re going to be okay.”

Here’s the thing about being a spy: sometimes all you have are your lies. They protect your cover and keep your secrets, and right then I needed to believe that it was true even when all the facts said otherwise.

“What’s going on?” Macey said from the bedroom door. At the sound, Liz stirred and bolted upright.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Liz asked. She yawned and looked down at the laptop in front of her. Two seconds later, her face went whiter than I’d ever seen it. Her lips trembled, and her fingers froze on the laptop’s keys. She looked away, but it was too late. Even without her photographic memory, Liz could never un-see what the computer said.

“This is it.” Liz pushed her favorite laptop away with so much strength it would have fallen off the table if Zach hadn’t been there to stop it. “It’s happening now.”

I looked at the screen and read the words aloud for no one’s benefit but my own. “‘Exiled King Najeeb of Caspia to address protesters outside the United Nations.’”

As much as I wanted to deny what was happening in the world outside our little cabin, I knew there was no use trying to hide. The facts will always find you. And the scarier they are, the faster they travel.

Liz was up and moving across the room. She’s always had this habit of bringing her right hand to her mouth, resting her fingertips against her lips while she talks to herself, almost as if learning to read her lips by touch. She was doing it then. She spoke so quickly and so softly that I could barely make out the words.

“This is it. This is happening.” Then she seemed to doubt herself. “
Is
this it?”

Liz was walking, but it wasn’t with the panic-ridden steps of a caged animal. It was the careful, cautious pacing of a genius who needed time and space to think.

I risked a glance at Zach, but he was quiet, like he didn’t want to break whatever trance Liz was in, like he too knew she was our single best chance at stopping the Circle.

Liz paced and talked like it was just another test. Another challenge. She was looking at it like an exercise in probability—cause and effect. It’s the physics of human nature, and to truly understand it, one has to be objective and cool. Two things every operative is supposed to be. Two things I was becoming less and less acquainted with all the time.

“Tension,” Liz said at last. She was still pacing, though, and I knew the word was meant only for her. “That region is filled with conflict, but the Circle will need to ratchet up the tension. It will have to be something big. And public. Something that is symbolic and practical at the same time.”

Some people always want to fight. Some are always looking for a reason not to. And Liz was right: For the Circle to cause World War III, they had to take away any cause for diplomacy and caution.

“It has to be personal,” Liz said, finally looking at all of us. It was almost like she’d forgotten we were even there. “Someone has to strike first.”

“And by strike you mean…” Zach prompted.

“An assassination. The Circle is going to assassinate the king of Caspia.”

“Caspia doesn’t have a king anymore,” Macey reminded her, but Liz just shook her head.

“King Najeeb may be living in exile, but he’s still incredibly popular in his home country. If he were to die, then the Caspian government would have a full-fledged revolt on their hands. And the Iranians are banking on a very stable Caspia. That is their largest remaining trade route. If Najeeb dies, then the Iranians will have to move in to stabilize the region.”

“And break the Treaty of Caspia…” I filled in.

“Exactly,” Liz said with a nod.

World War I ignited after the killing of an Austrian duke. World War II began with German troops crossing a border. Sometimes big things start in small ways. And it was easy to imagine what the assassination of a king might lead to.

“We have to stop them.”

“We can’t move Bex.”

“We should move Bex to a hospital.”

I wasn’t sure who said what, to tell you the truth. The words were a blur. Were they coming from outside or inside my mind? I could no longer tell. The only things I heard for sure were my mother’s words coming to me over and over again.

You’re doing the right thing.

“Cammie.” Liz’s voice broke through the fog. “Cammie, what are we going to do? They’re going to assassinate the king!”

“No they aren’t.” I turned to see Bex leaning against the door frame, weak as a kitten. But there was a spark in her eyes again. She was utterly and completely
Bexish
as she said, “They aren’t, because we’re going to stop them.”

PROS AND CONS OF DRIVING CROSS-COUNTRY TO STOP A POSSIBLE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT:

PRO: Big elaborate road trips are supposed to be a teenage rite of passage.

CON: Somehow I don’t think normal teenage road trips involve buying a van from a dealership called Toothless Joe’s Quality Used Vehicles (even though everyone we saw did, in fact, have teeth).

PRO: It is a whole lot easier to continually bounce your Internet access off of various satellites if you are constantly moving into the range of different satellites.

CON: It’s pretty hard to remain alluring and attractive to your boyfriend if you spend all your time sleeping and eating and working at sixty miles an hour.

PRO: Knowing you’re doing the thing you’ve been training to do since you were twelve years old.

CON: Knowing in your gut that you might not be ready to actually do it.

I’m not going to say it was the strangest covert task force ever assembled, but it wasn’t exactly ordinary either.

“We should go in from the north,” Zach said, leaning forward and addressing Macey, who drove.

I looked through the windows at the towering buildings of the Manhattan skyline. The streets were already packed with people carrying picket signs and Caspian flags.

“What do we know, Lizzie?” Bex asked. She held on to the back of the front seat, supporting herself more than she usually would, but she didn’t wince or show any kind of pain or fear. She was being brave. I would have settled for her being careful.

“His Royal Highness will be addressing the rally at noon exactly. He will make brief remarks from a stage on the street in front of the UN. There’s a little square there for protests and rallies. The NYPD should have the whole area blocked off.”

“Is he going inside?” Zach asked.

Liz shook her head. “According to what I’ve gotten off of the UN servers, he can’t. Not really. I mean, technically, the king is a deposed monarch, which means he has no official authority to speak on behalf of Caspia.”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked at the people who filled the streets, many of them carrying signs with a royal crown on them, pictures of the king. “Yeah. But you’d have a hard time convincing them of that.”

We drove as far as we could, then Macey parked the van. We left Liz there to run our comms and do her magic with the computer. As we walked toward the East River, the wind blew harder, and the crowds grew heavier with each passing step.

“Cam,” Macey said, “have you heard anything else from your mom?”

I shook my head, but it took me a second to speak. “I put a post on the message board that we know what the Inner Circle is planning. But she may not get it in time. Or she may be too far away or already engaged in another op or…”

Hurt.

Dead.

Imprisoned.

I didn’t like any of the other possible ends of that sentence, so I didn’t say them. No one blamed me. No good would come from saying them aloud.

“I think about the Caspia I knew as a child.” A voice came booming through the streets, and my friends and I all stopped to listen. The man’s English bore the accent of someone who was raised in the Middle East but educated in the West—America, or England, maybe. And when he spoke, it was like all of New York fell under his trance.

There was no denying it: that was the voice of a king.

“He’s here.” Until I said the words, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been hoping that it all might have been just a false alarm, an easy fix. “Liz, I thought you hacked into Homeland Security and told them there was a potential terror threat at the UN this afternoon?”

“I did!” she countered. “I gave them enough to shut down half the city. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“I do.”

Until then, Preston had been quiet. An observer. A guest. He seemed almost surprised when we all turned to him. “I mean, have you ever seen a politician give up a microphone?” Preston quipped, then shrugged. “I haven’t.”

And I knew he had a point.

“We’re too late,” Macey said.

The United Nations was right ahead of us, on the other side of a wide avenue that had been blocked off. Crowds stood between us and the long row of flags from all the participating countries. The flags blew in the wind, the flagpoles standing like a hundred sentries guarding the entrance to the building.

But the people on the street didn’t care about the towering glass-and-steel structure. Their eyes were trained upon the small grassy area that had been cordoned off, a man and a microphone centered on the small stage.

“There were hard times,” the man said, “but there was hope. There was fear, but there was also courage. I think of the Caspia that I wanted for
my
child, and my heart breaks that Amirah will never know the sunrises over our sea. My soul bleeds to think that all of our children will never know a Caspia without tyranny and fear!”

The crowds erupted in thunderous applause.

“What do we know?” I asked.

“Amirah, crown princess of Caspia,” Liz said through our comms units, rattling off enough facts to make Mr. Smith proud; but the time for tests was over. We were never going to be graded again. “She’s second in line to the throne.”

“No, Liz,” Bex countered. “She doesn’t have a throne anymore.”

“What do we know about the
security situation
?” I asked, this time being more specific.

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” Macey said.

“Zach, talk to me.” I turned to the boy who had spent more time with Joe Solomon than any of us, and Zach didn’t wait for instructions.

“Since he’s not an official visiting dignitary, the Secret Service won’t be here. He will have private security and the NYPD.”

“Good. Macey, you and Preston go find the cops and his private security detail. Beg, plead—lie if you have to—but get someone to get him off that stage.”

“Got it,” Macey said. She grabbed Preston’s hand, and together they took off, pushing through the crowds.

“Liz, get back into the NYPD database and alert all units in the area that we have possible terror activity. If Homeland Security isn’t going to take this seriously, maybe the NYPD will. Let’s see if we can’t get them to shut this thing down.”

“I’m on it,” Liz told me.

In my mind, I flashed back to another clear day, another charismatic man behind a microphone while crowds cheered. At the time, Macey’s father had been running for vice president, and we’d thought that she was the one the Circle of Cavan was chasing. At the time, Mr. Solomon had spoken about security perimeters—long-range, mid-range, short-range. Zones A, B, and C. And I looked to the horizon.

“What can we do about snipers?” I asked, and Zach scanned the skyline. Clear views and light wind. And even without saying a word, I could see it in Zach’s eyes. He didn’t like the situation.

He looked at Bex, who shook her head.

“That building puts you on top of three different bus routes. It’s a clear shot with great exits. So…nothing,” she said. “There is nothing we can do about snipers except…”

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” I filled in the rest.

On the stage, King Najeeb spoke on, a somber silence sweeping farther through the crowd with every word. “I do not hate the men who burned my father’s statues. I have forgiven the mob who dragged my mother from her bed.”

I thought of my own mother. Where was she sleeping? And would she wake one night to the feeling of a cold barrel of a gun against her temple?

A limousine and two NYPD police cruisers were pulling around the back of the crowd to a small area behind the stage. I felt a tiny bit of hope that maybe it was working—that he was leaving.

Together, we started pushing through the crowd, trying to make our way to the stage and the man upon it, who kept speaking. If King Najeeb knew the danger he was in, he didn’t show it.

“The home I love is gone now, but I do not mourn for it. I pray instead for the promise of a new day, a new era, a new beginning, when peace and love can shine upon all the children of Caspia. A new reign of hope and not of fear, of promise and not of terror. I pray for home. I pray for Caspia. I pray for the future.”

Applause filled the streets, followed by chants and cries. King Najeeb stepped away from the microphone and waved triumphantly at the crowd. I felt my heart start to beat again, knowing he was finished. He was okay. But he wasn’t safe, and we all knew it. I waited for him to leave the stage, for his guards to hurry him into the waiting car; but the king pushed his guards aside.

“He’s a man of the people,” I said, citing some article that Mr. Smith had made us read once about all the royals in the world who were living in exile. The former king chose an apartment over a palace, a subway pass over a limousine. And, whenever possible, he liked to walk wherever he went.

The peaceful, easy chanting of the crowd was changing, morphing from song to roar, as the people parted and the king climbed down from the stage, easing out into the crowd as if intending to shake the hand of every person who had gathered there.

“No!” I yelled. “He’s got to go! Make him go!” I yelled to no one in particular. My cries were lost inside the crowd.

There were guards in dark suits speaking into his ear, but King Najeeb didn’t seem to notice them or care. He was shaking the hands of his people. Blessing babies and waving at the masses like a returning, conquering hero.

He walked without a worry or a fear in the world right through the heart of Security Perimeter B—the area that was most dangerous for short-range arms and high-powered explosives.

Was it that thought that made me stop? I don’t know. Maybe my subconscious saw the small, abandoned package before the rest of me could process what it meant. Maybe it was Joe Solomon’s voice in the back of my head or my father’s angel on my shoulder, but in any case I
did
stop.

And I looked at the package on the ground, directly in the king’s path.

And I heard my own voice scream, “Bomb!”

Looking back, it was like it happened in slow motion—like running through sand. One moment, I was watching the king stroll through his people, shaking hands. The next there was nothing but a cloud of smoke and terror. People screamed. Children cried. But it all sounded so far away, like a TV blaring in a distant room.

I coughed and squinted. The force of the blow had knocked me to the ground, and my side ached. My hands hurt. It took everything I had to force myself upright.

“Cam!” Zach was yelling. I realized there was static in my ear. The blast must have knocked out our comms units. In the smoke, we were practically deaf and blind.

“Cam!” Bex yelled.

“I’m here!” I said. There was a bleeding woman carrying a child.

A man stumbled through the crowd, his face so covered in blood that I couldn’t even tell what damage had been done.

“I’m here,” I said, softer, as I pushed against the current of people trying to flee the blast site. I had to see it. The crater where the bomb had begun. The mangled bodies of the guards and the man who was Caspia’s only hope for peace.

“And I’m too late.”