Blonde Ops (11 page)

Sliding my backpack off, I pulled out my penlight. A swift look up assured me I was still alone. Using my hand to shield the light, I turned it on and searched the ground near the door.

Not too far from the walkway was a patch of dirt, bare of grass, dried and hard packed. I ground it with my foot, creating a powdery dust. I scooped up a small handful, went back to the door, and gently blew dirt onto the keypad. It was almost like dusting for fingerprints. The penlight showed it stuck to four numbers: 3, 5, 6, and 8, where residual skin oils remained from repeated pressing on the pad.

That meant only twenty-four possible combinations if it was a four-digit code string. It wasn't a high-end lock, so it probably had a shorter sequence of numbers and wouldn't freeze up with too many wrong combos, like a computer would after three incorrect passwords.

I began with 3, 5, 6, 8.

Then 3, 6, 5, 8.

Sweating, I rushed. Being caught picking a lock on a warehouse would be the most legitimately jail-worthy thing I'd done to date, taking me from hobbyist-hacker to criminal-cracker.

Focus! If Candace or the man shows up early …

5, 6, 3, 8.

Click!

I slipped in and closed the door behind me. A dim bulb hung from a rusted metal beam cast a weak circle of light. Stacks of boxes lined the walls. I peeked into one; it was empty except for some straw packing, old newspapers, and splinters of wood.

A garage-type door on the far side of the building began to slide open, and I quickly slunk around a stack of smaller crates, careful not to bump into them. First one, then another dark car drove through. I moved a bit farther back; I didn't know who or what I was dealing with, and at the moment I couldn't think of a plausible lie as to why I was in this section of town, in a locked warehouse, at this time of night. Oh yeah—and uninvited.

I gulped. I knew Candace had some sort of martial arts training; I saw her demolish a huge rolling wardrobe rack with a well-placed side kick when a designer tried to make her wear his reworked polyester leisure suit on an episode of
You Want
Me
to Wear
That
?
The expression on his face told me and the other four million viewers that it was for real.

Before the engines shut off, I dashed into a box that had fallen onto its side and eased the lid closed. There was a small crevice where the wood had cracked, leaving me a slit to see through. Out of the first car, nearer to the feeble light and me, stepped Candace. Gone were her couture suit and coordinating bag. Even the alligator pumps got the night off. Now she wore dark pants, a dark jacket, and dark shoes.

From the second car, which was farther back and swathed in darkness, two figures emerged. The bulkier one stood off to the side. The other was tall, but I couldn't see either of their faces. All I could dimly make out was the profile of the second man; slouchy, with a big nose. He loped farther back into the dark with an uneven gait, probably maneuvering around the debris that lay all over the floor.

Bec, you are stupid. If something goes wrong, no one knows you're here except the cabdriver—if she hasn't left. What if Candace and company check to make sure the place is empty?

“What happened to your information?” she demanded, interrupting my mini panic attack.

“Beautiful as always, Candace.” It was the gravelly voice of the man on the phone.

She huffed, then gave a grudging nod. “Thanks.”

“Come now,” he tsk-tsked. “You need to relax, slow down. It's the way things are done in Italy.”

“I can't afford to ‘relax,'” Candace said hotly. “That hit—”

“—clearly missed its intended mark,” he finished for her. “It put a glitch in my plans too. I shared what information I had. It should have been enough. Obviously someone didn't use it.”

“It was more than a glitch,” Candace grumbled.

What was the “glitch”? That Parker was hurt instead of killed? It was becoming clearer to me that Parker wasn't simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, an innocent person in an everyday car accident. She'd been in someone's way.

The Man continued, “It won't be the last problem, I'm sure. If you can't do your job, then there's no sense in wasting my time with future meetings or exchanging information. I can't afford any more unexpected surprises and neither can you.”

“Don't worry. I can do my job, whatever it takes,” she said, her tone quiet and menacing.

I inhaled sharply. What kind of people was I mixed up with? Candace was starting to scare me. I prayed, like the good sisters at St. Xavier's taught me, to not sneeze, breathe too loud, or do anything that would draw attention to my presence. Panic urged me to run.
Now
. But slow shallow breaths helped calm my nerves enough to realize that would be the worst thing I could do. Before, I'd always felt safe behind my hacks: I was anonymous, faceless. That would not be the case here.

Candace rubbed her temple as she paced a step or two to the side. Her footsteps were silent—she must've been wearing rubber soled shoes. How convenient for running away from bad guys or sneaking up on good ones. My wedges wouldn't be as forgiving if I had to dash away. Fashion could be a killer—literally.

She jammed her hands on her hips, and when she spoke again, her voice took on a worried tone. “I didn't expect things to start so soon. I need better information next time or you can forget getting any information from me.”

The Man laughed. “If I remember right, I'm doing you a favor.”

“That favor backfired,” she shot back.

“Not my fault,” he said in his grating voice. “Nothing in this business is absolute, you know that. Maybe if you'd done some checking, you would have discovered that. You have to do your own snooping. I don't have all the answers.”

Anger bubbled in my throat. I hated how they were talking about Parker as if what happened to her were nothing more than a screwup.

“I can and will only give you details that won't disrupt my own plans,” he went on. “Unfortunately, timing is never an exact science—”

Candace glared at him. “I can't have a dead First Lady.”

Dead?!

Then what
did
she want?

Oh. God.

Did Candace want to kidnap Theresa Jennings? And what part did the Man play in this horrific scene? Was he just selling information, or was he more of a coconspirator or a terrorist? Paid assassin? Foreign spy?

He said the timing wasn't exact.…

Could Parker have been mistaken for Mrs. Jennings? She did look like her, I'd said as much when we met. If that was the case, then whoever caused the accident put Parker in the hospital thinking it was Mrs. Jennings. The First Lady wasn't supposed to be here until tomorrow—but the culprit might not have known that. Candace said the timing was off. Maybe they saw Parker and assumed the First Lady arrived early.
That
explained why we didn't hear anything about the accident. Was Parker still in danger now that they knew they'd gotten the wrong person? I really needed Dante and his cousin Nunzio to come through with her location—so I could warn her.

My heart pounded so loud in my ears I was surprised no one else heard the hammering. My foot was starting to go numb from my being crouched down. I shifted my weight—

—and the box squeaked.

Damn!

I held my breath when Candace glanced in my direction. I froze and tried to calm my panic. This could be serious—deadly, maybe. Thankfully, she turned away.

I had to warn the Secret Service—the real ones—about the threat to Mrs. Jennings. I had intel and they needed to hear it. But first I had to get out of here alive.

Pack your red leather suitcases, Candace
, I thought.
You're going down.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

What's in your bag? You don't need to be a scout to always be prepared. Always carry the essentials: cash, cards, phone, and keys—that double nicely as an emergency screwdriver.

11

The Man's partner, who'd been standing still by the driver's-side door mostly out of sight, moved slowly forward. I'd been so intent on listening to the deadly plot that I hadn't paid him much attention. Now he was heading where Candace glanced—my direction. What would he do if he found me?

I looked around for a weapon. Next to the crate on the cement floor was a long, sharp sliver of wood. I could count on a million splinters in my palm if I had to use it, but a stab to his calf would put him out of commission—maybe long enough for me to get away. It was too late to take off the wedges if I had to make a run for it. Hopefully Candace and the Man wouldn't get in on the chase. Gingerly, and oh so carefully, I picked it up without making any noise.

He shuffled closer and against the pounding of my heart, I tried to inhale silently through my nose.… My eye to the crack, I could see his shoes, highly buffed, pause next to my box. One false move … The blood thrummed in my ears. How could he
not
hear it? It was only moments, but it felt like hours that I sat and he stood, only inches apart.

“Let's go,” said the Man, and blessedly, the menacing black feet moved off. My breath escaped slowly in relief.

Doors slammed and I heard the crunching of wheels on gravel. I didn't move until both cars were gone and the garage door closed.

I crawled out of my hiding box and ran out of the warehouse by the side door where I'd come in. The cabdriver was waiting for me right where I left her.

“Where to,
bambina
?” she asked.

“The Hotel Beatrici, please. No rush,” I said. Candace and the Man were gone, but the sound of peeling tires could draw attention if they were still close by.

The driver had to know I shouldn't have been there; she rolled the taxi down the narrow road, lights out at first. She skirted around corner after corner through the warehouse district. It seemed to take forever, and I kept checking to make sure no cars were following us, but we were the only ones on the empty roads. Only when we were back in a populated area did I allow myself to relax a little bit.

My mind raced. If I ever told my parents about this, would they believe me? While I was a screwup in school, I'd always been honest with them, at least when confronted. It would take every bit of faith they had in me, which at the moment wasn't at a high point, for them to buy this. I couldn't tell them anyway, this was too big.

Who could I tell? Who would believe me? Candace was a world-famous model, actress, and now head of a fashion magazine—who went to meetings in dark, deserted warehouses to talk about assassinations and the First Lady. Would the Secret Service believe me, a sixteen-year-old hacker recently expelled from her sixth boarding school? The agents here had come with Candace and might be in on this with her.

No, going to them would definitely get me shipped off to a place where I couldn't make any noise. And what about the First Lady? No one was going to take out Theresa Jennings if
I
could help it.

A plan formed in my head as I groped in my purse to pay the fare. I couldn't let Candace get away with treason, trying to kidnap the First Lady, and in the process, almost killing Parker. Even if I got sent home in handcuffs, I was going to stop her.

The car rolled to a halt in front of the hotel. I handed the driver a fistful of money. What were a few extra euros when I was saving America? And she'd kept her promise, waiting in a questionable area. Even Mom would've given her an extra-large tip for that.

“
Grazie
,” I said, and shot out of the cab and into the hotel, praying Candace hadn't returned yet. I still had to get through the agent at the door.

Act naturally. Nothing's wrong. You didn't just hear that Candace is involved in a treasonous plot to kidnap the First Lady,
I told myself as I went up the front steps. None of the Secret Service that came in with Candace were to be trusted except maybe Ortiz. She'd been hurt too. If she could have avoided an accident, which I was sure she was trained to do, she would have. Today her bruises had been dark purple with a green tinge. In a day they'd probably look worse. Until proven otherwise, the rest of the agents were all under the same suspicion as Candace.

Agent Nelson was standing outside trying to look casual, reading a magazine through dark shades. I couldn't tell if our eyes met, but he seemed to nod at me. I didn't return it. And there was my friend, Agent Case, at the elevator.

He held up a hand. “I need to check your bag, Miss Jackson.”

Trying to look cool and unsuspicious—like I wasn't about to school Candace Bec-style—I handed it to him. He rummaged around, felt the lining, then handed it back. “Thank you.” He pushed the elevator button for me. I slumped against the wall when the doors bumped shut.

My adrenaline was skyrocketing when I got out. The hall was empty, but for how long? With the arrival of Theresa Jennings tomorrow, I expected Secret Service agents around every corner. As I walked to my room I swiped my hands on my pants. My palms were sweaty and my underarms damp as I thought about how close the Man's partner had come to discovering me. If he'd found me, would Candace have stepped in and protected me? That was something I was glad I didn't have to test. People went missing all the time, never to be found. It would probably be no big deal to ship me off to a foreign country or hide my body somewhere. Whoever was bold enough to plan to kidnap the First Lady of the United States wouldn't let a sixteen-year-old “glitch” interfere in their plans. I hurried; Candace and her posse might be back at any moment, if they weren't there already.

I knocked on the door to see if Candace was in; no answer. Sliding my key card through the lock and opening the door, I tiptoed into the little vestibule that led into the room. I had to keep the door open, but at least I didn't have to be out in the hallway. How would I explain myself if one of the agents or Varon went for a stroll and saw me? I had to work fast. Holding the door open with my foot, I pulled out my laptop and powered up.