Cross my heart and hope to spy*, Ally Carter* [read an ebook week TXT] 📗

CIA. I don't go looking for trouble, but I couldn't shake the feeling that trouble might have found us--walked through our front gates and moved into the East Wing. So even though there were about a million reasons to forget the whole thing ... we didn't. Instead we waited, and we watched, and a week later we were ready. Sort of.

"Tell me again why this isn't an incredibly bad idea," I muttered in the dark passageway. Cobwebs clung to every inch of me. My equipment belt was on too tight, and Liz kept stepping on my heels and making high-pitched squeaks (everyone knows she's afraid of spiders).

"Well, I think it's bloody brilliant," Bex replied. It was also bloody risky, and that, I knew, was part of its appeal for Bex.

I hadn't meant for it to come down to this. Seriously. I thought we might look up their birth certificates or do other least-intrusive-means-necessary things. But as I stood in the secret passageway that led to the East Wing, I couldn't help but feel pretty intrusive.

"Guys, maybe breaking about a dozen rules isn't a good way to ... you know...prove I didn't break any rules," I suggested.

But Bex just smiled through the dusty dim light. "It is if we don't get caught." She stepped over one of the thin motion-sensing lasers that the security department must have installed over winter break. "And I don't plan on getting caught."

I stopped in the corridor, felt Liz, then Bex bang into me as I listened for something--anything-- to give us an excuse to turn around.

"But what if they aren't really gone?" I asked.

"They are," Bex said.

"But shouldn't we wait? We've only had a week of prep work. We don't know their patterns of behavior yet. We don't--"

"Cam, I told you," Liz said. "Dr. Steve is making the boys do some kind of group-bonding thing. It has to be tonight."

And she was right, as usual--but that didn't make me feel better.


Summary of Surveillance The Operatives undertook a high-risk operation that could lead to answers ... or expulsion ... or both.

"Don't worry, Cam," Bex whispered. "It's not that different from when we broke into Josh's house."

I crouched at the air vent that would take us into the boys' rooms and reached for the tiny bottle of hair spray that I keep for emergencies (just not of the hair variety) and sprayed the area around the grate. A grid of tiny motion detectors flickered in the fumes.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Just like Josh's."

Liz hooked a device up to the laser circuits, and I watched the red beams disappear. Then there was nothing standing between us and the forbidden wing--between us and possible answers.

But here's the thing about black bag jobs. 1) You don't actually have to carry a black bag to break and enter and obtain covert information (even though they do come in handy). And 2) No matter how clear your objectives, you're never one hundred percent sure what you're looking for. After all, it might have been nice to find a file labeled TOP-SECRET PLAN TO INFILTRATE AND DESTROY THE GALLAGHER ACADEMY, but I would have settled for some clue about the boys who now shared our classes; I would have been happy with a snapshot that showed me the real Zach Goode.
As we slid through the vent and dropped to the floor of the common room, Bex said, "Okay, Liz, start on the computers. Cam, you and I can..." But then she trailed off. She stopped and stared. The three of us had officially gone where no Gallagher Girl had ever been before, and standing there, I couldn't shake the feeling that nothing in our training had prepared us for ... that.

We'd been to these rooms only weeks before, but everything seemed smaller now. Greener, too (but that's probably because we were wearing night-vision goggles). And...

"Oh. My. Gosh." For the first time I couldn't fault Bex for being overdramatic.

Moonlight fell through the windows. Someone had left a desk lamp shining in the corner of the room. I pulled off my goggles, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light as I looked around the room. Liz's hopes of scientifically analyzing typical teen-boy behavior was going to have to wait, because one look at this space was enough to tell us that these were not typical boys.

"Are all boys so ..." Liz started, but couldn't seem to find the words to finish.

"Clean?" Bex suggested, sounding pretty disgusted, because (take it from someone who has lived with her for four years) no one appreciates the "lived-in" look more than Rebecca Baxter.

There were eight suites, where we found freshly shined shoes and beds made with hospital corners. Books and notebooks were stacked neatly on desks. There were no socks on the floor; no girlie calendars or back issues of Sports Illustrated. It seemed more like the barracks of soldiers than the rooms of boys, and I instantly regretted leaving Macey outside to serve as our lookout, because if we'd ever needed the Gallagher Academy's resident boy expert, that was the time.

Everything was temporary. And sterile. And with every step I felt more sure that the Blackthorne Boys were simply passing through. Which was both a little comforting--and a lot confusing. Why were they here?

Liz settled herself at the first computer she saw, pulled a disk from her pocket, and started uploading a spyware file that the NSA has been trying to buy from her for years. "One-hundred-and-sixteen-bit encryption?" she said, sounding shocked and a little disappointed when she reached the machine's firewall.

"Maybe they'll challenge you next time, sweetheart," Bex said as she ran to the first bathroom she saw, pulled a pair of tweezers from her utility belt, and started yanking bristles out of toothbrushes for DNA analysis (just in case the boys were really biologically engineered spying machines or something). I stared at the empty walls and the barren desks, looking for family pictures or letters from home--the things that, more than fingerprints and DNA, would tell us who these boys really were.

As I looked in the first closet, something dawned on me. "These pants are brand new," I said. "So are the shoes." I thought about my own closet--half of my school shirts had indiscreet stains somewhere on the white collars. My sweaters were all comfy and well-worn. I turned to Bex. "What are the odds that fifteen boys--all different ages--got their uniforms at the same time?"

She shrugged then fumbled in her bag for a pair of very tiny wires attached to small glass orbs, exactly the size and shape of the plastic buttons present in the Gallagher Academy smoke detectors.

"Bex," I cried, "we can't put cameras in their bedrooms."

"But a picture is worth a thousand words," she said, feigning innocence.

"Bugs only," I warned, because while I may be a highly inquisitive future government operative, I wasn't willing to go that far for my cause--yet.

"Fine," she sighed, putting the cameras back and retrieving the teeny tiny microphones that had bought me an A-minus on my freshman final. (They're currently being used by the Department of Homeland Security.)

There really is an art to planting bugs. Sadly, Mr. Solomon hadn't covered it yet, but we did all the obvious stuff like put trackers in their shoes and dust for prints. You know--the basics. Not even Dr. Steve's room--or shoes-- were immune from our artistry. (Note to self: never volunteer to investigate Dr. Steve's underwear drawer ever again!) Ten minutes later I thought we were almost done; I walked down the passageway and Bex fed me wires through the electrical outlets.

I started back down the long, dusty corridor, wires trailing behind me as I made my way to our new observation post (aka the secret room I'd discovered during spring break of our freshman year). I was just starting to think that we might actually pull it off undetected, but then ... I heard it.

"Oh, Ms. McHenry, that is an excellent idea, simply excellent!"

Dr. Steve. I could hear Dr. Steve's voice through the heating vents, which meant he was in the hallway right outside. The hallway leading to the boys' rooms. The rooms that Bex and Liz were still inside!

"We've got to go, guys," I said. "Abort!" Then I remembered the massive jammers that block any and all signals within the Gallagher grounds--that we weren't wearing comms units and Bex and Liz couldn't hear me. They'd have no idea what was happening unless they'd heard Dr. Steve and Macey in the hallway.

"But, Dr. Steve," Macey practically yelled, "I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes."

"Not now, Ms. McHenry," the man said. "I'm afraid I've only got a second to pop into my room before I get back to the boys."

I pressed against the bookshelf that serves as one of the entrances to the passageway and saw Dr. Steve reach for the door while Macey tried to block his path.

"But I only need a minute," she said, whining like the spoiled brat she's supposed to be.

"Perhaps we can talk tomorrow, Ms. McHenry," Dr. Steve said, giving her a pat on the shoulder.

He was stepping toward the door. He was getting closer.

I couldn't take the chance, so I dropped my utility belt where I stood, pushed against the bookshelf, and stepped into the hallway behind the teacher.

"Hello, Dr. Steve," I said. When he turned, Macey instantly stopped whining and gave me a "Is the coast clear?" look, but of course it wasn't.

"Oh, good," I said to Macey. "You found him."

This seemed to get the man's attention. "You ladies have been looking for me?"

"Actually, I


have been looking for you."

"Yes," Macey said, catching on. "Cammie really needs to talk."

"So this is some sort of emergency?" Dr. Steve nodded as if this confirmed some deep, dark psychological profile that he'd seen about me somewhere. (Note to self: find out if there is a deep, dark psychological profile about me.) "I see," he said, in the manner of a man who doesn't really see anything.

The Operative was able to neutralize the immediate threat to the operation by feigning severe mental distress--which was easier than she'd thought, since she was feeling both distressed and mental.

Unfortunately, it's one of the basic laws of physics (as well as espionage) that every action will have an equal and opposite reaction, and I realized too late that Dr. Steve was expecting some kind of emergency. And I was going to have to give him one.

"So," I said, trying to sound as Bex-like and dramatic as possible. "I guess you know I have a broken heart."

Yes, it's true--I said that. Call it nerves or inadequate prep time, but for some reason that's the part of my soul I chose to bear to a man who insists we call him "Dr. Steve."

"Well, broken hearts are very common at your age, Ms. Morgan. Nothing to worry about there, I'm sure." He made another move toward the door, and I ran through all the ways of stopping him in my mind (nineteen), while Macey grabbed my arm.

"That's what I told her, Dr. Steve." Macey stepped away from the doorway. "Thank you."

I started to protest, to hang back and buy a few more seconds, but Macey grasped my shoulders and spun me around to see Bex. And Liz. Both of them