ForGrandaddy,real-lifecrimefighter

Contents

ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterEleven

ChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteenChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneChapterTwenty-TwoChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-FourChapterTwenty-Five

ChapterTwenty-SixChapterTwenty-SevenChapterTwenty-EightChapterTwenty-NineChapterThirty

Acknowledgments

ChapterOne

I should make one thingclear, right off the bat: It.Wasn’t.Cheating.

Agent Otter, who is theexact opposite of a cute andchirpy water mammal, said,and I quote: “Whoevercrosses the finish line firstdoesn’thavetodopushupsatthe end of afternoon

training.”Do you know howmanypushupsIcando?Zero.Well,no,wait—Icandohalfof one. Because I candefinitely get down; I justcan’t push myself back up,which is maybe the moreimportanthalfoftheexercise.

The finish line was thedouble door leading into thedininghall.Thetrack—ifyoucould call it that—wovethroughthehallsofSubRosa

Society headquarters.Upstairs.Downstairs.Pastthewall of “windows”—glasspanels with lights that weresupposed to make us forgetwe were six storiesunderground. I wasn’t sureexactly how long the trackactually was, but it felt liketwenty-five, maybe thirtymiles. Every week for thepast four years of my life, Iran it. And every week,without fail, I came in last

place.Not just by a hair, either.

Last, as in “most of myclassmates had alreadychanged out of their trainingclothes by the time I crossedthe finish line” place. Thisalways gave them plenty oftime to line up and laugh atme when I finally huffed in,red-faced and sticky. You’dthinkthehumorofwatchingafatkidjogwouldwearoff.

But apparently, I was thejokethatkeptongiving.

So anyway, you can seewhy,whenAgentOtter said,“Whoever crosses the finishline first” instead of“Whoeverisfastest,”Ibegantothink.Bythetimemyotherclassmates—all the SRStwelve-year-olds—lined up,that thinking had becomeplanning. And by the timeAgent Otter sounded the air

horn, that planning hadbecome...well.Idon’twantto use the word “scheming,”butI’dunderstandifsomeoneelse did. But aren’t spies—even spies in training—supposed to do a littlescheming?

Iwas already sweatingonaccount of the extendedkickboxing session we’d justfinished,inwhichI’dlearneda variety of new ways to be

pummeled. Let it go, Ithought. You’re about toshow them. You’re about towin. My classmates and Ilined up, crouched down innear-unison. We werefocused, determined. Ottersnorted at us—which I guesswas large-brutish-manlanguage for Ready? Welifted our chins and stared atthehallaheadinresponse.

Another grunt. Set? We

lifted our butts into the air.Then froze. No one moved,not amuscle,not ahair.Youcandothis.Youcandothis.

From the corner of myeye, I could still see WalterQuaddlebaum. As usual, hewas wearing a T-shirt withthe sleeves cut off to betterdisplay his admittedlyimpressive shoulder muscles.Even crouched, he wasobviously the tallest guy in

class. Less obvious, but stillnoticeable,was the idea of abeard growing around hischin. Who had a beard attwelve? WalterQuaddlebaum,thatwaswho.

Last year he was skinnyand short, and his hair stuckupinfrontlikethecrestonafancy breed of chicken. Lastyear he failed the physicalexamrightalongwithme—asingleexamthatkeptusfrom

becoming junior agents. Lastyear he was also my bestfriend.

But things change, andtodayhewasjustanotherguyIneededtobeat.AndIhadaplanallworkedoutforhowIwasgoingtodothat.

The air horn sounded,ricocheting off the concretewalls. My classmates joltedforward; I was a secondbehind them, but only a

second.Wechargeddownthehall, sneakers squeakingfuriously on the floor. Thefirst stretch was astraightaway, amad dash forthe staircase. The other kidswere, of course, faster, theirponytails and legs andimpressive shoulder musclessteadilybecomingfartherandfarther away. Walter hit thestairs first, taking three orfouratatime.Iwasflying—well, for me, anyway—

almosttothefirststep.

Mission:WinAgentOtter’sCrueland

UnusualPunishmentRace

Step1:Skipthestairs

I took a sharp right, awayfrom the others. My lungswere beginning to burn. Mytoes were getting that awful

tingly feeling, but I had tokeep going. Alarmed agentslifted their eyebrows as Ipassed their open officedoors.Ignoringthem,Idivedfor the elevator at the endofthe hall, jammed my fingersonto button 2, and punchedDoorClose.

The elevator played asmooth jazz song as it wentup.

“Secondfloor,”thefemale

voicetoldmeasIsprangout.I could hear my classmatesagain as they made the looparound the upper level.Something in my legcramped,andIbegantolimp.Walterwasstillintheleadashe rounded the corner. Hishairwas flung in frontofhiseyes in a way that remindedme of the covers of Mom’sromancepaperbacks.Myhairwasinmyeyesinawaythatreminded me of a swamp

monster.I ducked into the break

room and wedged my bodybehindarollingcartofwaterjugs,bracingmy legsagainstit.Ipushed,hard.Thewheelscreaked,theninchedforward.Walter streaked by the breakroom door. Jacob, Eleanor,and the others weren’t farbehind.

Step2:Deploy

obstacles

I took a deep breath andthen pushed my feet as hardas I could. The cart shotforward, rolling out the doorandintothehall,blockingtheraceroute.Jonathanslammedagainst the cart, and jugs ofwater began to slide andwhisk the other runners offtheirfeet.Yes!

I staggered out into the

hall, stumbling over a strayjug. Walter and the front ofthe pack—mostly kids whowere already junior agents—were turning the cornerahead. I ran for thecustodians’ staircase in theoppositedirection.

I knew where all the drystorage rooms, electricalclosets,andstaircaseswereatSRS. I’d like to tell you it’sjust because a great spy is

keenly aware of hissurroundings,butthetruthis,Ispenta lotof timeavoidingmy classmates by hiding inthoseplaces.

That time, however, wasabouttopayoff.

Step3:Usecarefullyresearchedalternate

route

I flung open the door ofthe staircase, hurdled over amop (okay, itwasmore of astumble-almost-face-plantthanahurdle),andsliddownthe first few steps. Burstingthrough the first-leveldoor, IcutacrossthehallthroughtheDisguiseDepartment.

“Hale!What doyou thinkyou’re doing—Hey! Stop!”shrieked a womanmeticulously painting a

prosthetic nose. I grabbedontoherbookcasetohelpturnacorner; itsdisplayofwigsonStyrofoam heads crashed tothe floor. Fake hair scatteredeverywhere. I kept going,plowing through the copyroom,slidingonstraybitsofprinterpaper.Theproductionstudiowas ahead, filledwithdesks and props for makingfake newscasts, anonymousclips, and the occasionalstaged wedding video for

whensenioragentsneededtopose as a married couple. Iheard footsteps pounding oncarpet nearby—I was just intime.

Step4:Everyonetakesatrip

I crossed into theproduction room, grabbed acable on the closest camera,then squeezed behind the

green screen. I yanked thecable taut as the footstepsrounded the corner.Crashes.Clatters. Sophie, whomWalter had a crush on insecond grade, used a word Iknewhermotherwouldhaveyelledatherfor.

The green screen in frontofmefloateddownacrossthescrambling bodies of myclassmates. Was that all ofthem? It was impossible to

tell from the limbs and looseshoes thrashingaroundunderthefabric.Iclimbedover thepileof people (Sophie said afew more words that wouldget her in trouble) and tookoff.

Therewasnooneaheadofme—the hall was blissfullyempty. There was no soundother than my feet on thefloor, thudding—slowly, Iadmit,butthuddingalong.

Thismustbewhatit’sliketo be the fastest. Thestrongest. The winner. I’dnever really experienced thesensationbefore,soI triedtoenjoy it and ignore the factthat my lungs felt like theywereabouttocollapse.

I turned a corner—thedining hall doors came intoview. This was amazing. Iwas going to win. I wasn’tgoing tohave todopushups,

which was still prettyfantastic, but that suddenlyseemed a mere bonus to thewinning. The dining halllooked strangely empty,mainly because myclassmates weren’t loungingin the tables by the doors,waiting tomockme. Iwouldbe there so early, I couldlounge!Icould...

Footsteps. Pounding fastbehind me, way faster than

mine. I didn’t want to look,butIhadto.

Walter.His eyeswere serious, his

armspumpingfuriouslyathissides.Hewas gaining by thesecond. I begged my legs tomove faster, and I think theytried,buttheywerenomatchfor Walter’s. He was amachine, flying past me. Hewasadozenyardsawayfromthedoors,thenten,nine...

You might remember Isaid that once upon a timeWalter and I were bestfriends. Which means onceupon a time we told eachother everything. Whichmeans I knew exactly whatwould stop the machine thatwas Walter Quaddlebaum inhistracks.

I took a deep haggardbreath. Puckered my lips,tilted my head back, and

called out in a pitch-perfectimpression of Walter’smotherwhenshewasangry:

“Waaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”It reallywaspitch-perfect.

I’d been around theQuaddlebaum family oftenenough to learn the tone, thelength of the y sound, eventhetrillofthea.I’dalsobeenaround the Quaddlebaumsoften enough to say, withoutany reservation, that there

wasnothing,nothing anSRSspycouldpossiblyfacemoreterrifying than TeresaQuaddlebaum when she wasangry.

Walter slammed his heelsinto the floor and whirledaround. I could see his eyesdartingbackand forthacrossthe hall, looking for hismother; his lips parted,probably to combinationanswer-apologize for

whatever he’d done towarrantthetone.

Ilumberedpasthim.IwasonlyafewstepsalongwhenIfelt Wally realize what hadhappened—one step, twosteps behind me, he wasbuildingspeed...

I flung myself forward,arms outstretched. Mystomach slapped against thefloor first, and I began toslide, slide forward, slide

through the doors, into thedining hall. My shirt ruffedup, and my skin began tosqueak against the tile as Idriftedtoastop,inchesawayfromthefirstrowoftables.Ichokedforthebreaththathadbeenknockedoutofme,andIrockedontomyside,staringattheceiling.

Was I dying? I certainlyfelt like I was dying, whatwith the way my heart was

imploding and the beautifulglorious white light I sawabove me. After a fewdesperate breaths, however,the glorious light became aplain old fluorescent one.Dizzy,blinking,Isatup.

Walter was in thedoorway, staring at me. Hisexpressionwas hard to name—was there a word forsomethingbetween“amazed”and “horrified”? Agent Otter

wasbesidehim,silverwhistleinhisteeth,handsonhiships.His expression was easy toname:dumbfounded.Hewasdumbfounded,withhiskneesslightly bent, his eyes wide,his brows furrowed, like hehad been about to whistle intheracewinner,butsomeonehitPauseattheexactmomenthesawitwasme.

Wait.Itwasme.

Step5:Win

ChapterTwo

Iwantedtowhoop,toleap,topumpmyfistintotheair,butsince I still felt a little likedying, I settled for grinning.Therestofmyclassstumbleddown the hall, ponytails andshoesaskew,looksoffuryontheirfaces.Itwashardtocare—Ihadwon,afterall.

“You cheated,” Walter

snapped.“What?” I said, but Iwas

all wheezy so it came out:“Hhhhhut?”

“He cheated!” Eleanorseconded, and Jacob foldedhis arms, nodding inagreement.

“He didn’t run the wholeroute,”Waltersaid.

“Andheusedatripwire,”Eleanorsaid.

“AndIranintoabunchof

water jugs. I bet my triggerfinger is broken,” Sophiesaid, rubbing her hand forgoodmeasure.Fortherecordher trigger finger looked justfine.“And,” Walter said,

gloweringatme(Iswear,theguynevergloweredwhenwewere friends), “he distractedme at the end. You heardhim, Agent Otter, right? Hecheated.”

Ihauledmyselftomyfeetwith the help of a nearbytable.Ituggedmyshirtdownover my stomach, tried toslick the sweat off myforehead. The bubble ofvictory was still swelling inmy chest, but I could feelhow delicate it wasbecoming.

“I didn’t cheat,” I said,spitting the words outbetween pants. “Agent Otter

saidfirstoneacrossthefinishline wins. He didn’t say wehadtotakethepath.”

“It was implied,” Sophiesaid, and everyone—literally,every single one of my tenclassmates—nodded inagreement.

“Quiet down, all of you,”Agent Otter said gruffly,letting the whistle fall fromhis mouth. He pressed histongue against his teeth,

looked at the other students,who were clustered togetherlikeapack,thenatme.“Thattrue,Hale?Youcheated?”

“No!” I said, hitching upmypantsandwalkingtowardhim.“Ididn’tcheat!”

“Thenwhatwouldyoucallit?”

“I . . . I assessed thesituation and strategizedaccordingly,” I said, like IwasreadinganSRStextbook.

Not that there’s an SRStextbook, of course, but iftherewas, it’dsaysomethinglikethat.

“Sure, kid,” Agent Ottersaid. “Pushups, everyone.Hale,myoffice,now.”

I guess, in the end, I got outofdoingpushups.Sothatwassomething.

It was little consolation,however, as I sat in Agent

Otter’s office. The room,much likeOtter himself,wascovered in hard surfaces andthe color taupe. Taupewalls.Taupedesk.Taupecomputer.Taupe flowers. I suppose theflowers had been yellowonce, maybe pink, but theywere dead and keeled overand had become crispy and,well . . . taupe. I’d probablykeel over too, if I livedwithOtter.

There was a quiet rap onthedoor.

“Ah,” Otter said,glowering at me. “That’ll beyourparentsnow.Can’twaitto tell them about this one.Comein!”

You know all thosesayings? Ones like “Theappledoesn’tfallfarfromthetree!” and “What a chip offtheol’block!”?Icanpromiseyouthey’renottrue.Because

I am slow and fat, and asgraceful as a potato, andmyparents...well.

My parents are knownaround here as “The Team.”Not “a team”—“The Team.”Theywere the first choice—sometimes the only choice—for highly dangerousmissions. My mother speaksseven languages and hadrecently developed a newstyle of martial arts. My

father is amaster fencer andonce hacked a terrorismring’s network using acalculator. They have somanyawardsandmedalsthatturnupinweirdplacesinourapartment—the linen closet,the pantry, dropped downbehindtherefrigerator...

Thedoorclickedopenandmyparentswalked in—Ihadmy mom’s dark hair andbrown eyes, and my dad’s

broad shoulders, whichlookedmanlyonhimbutjustmade my waist look evenwider. They both smiledbriefly at me, and the sickfeeling in my stomachsubsided a little. Dad satdownontheleft,Momonmyright; she put a hand on myarm gently, and even thoughit’salittleembarrassingtobecomforted by your momwhen you’re supposed to bebecoming an elite spy, Iwas

gratefulforit.“Mr. and Mrs. Jordan,”

Otter said, drumming hisfingersonhisdesk.

“Please,Steve.There’snoneed for formalities,” Momsaid,allbutrollinghereyesatOtter. They knew each otherwellbecausethey’dallgrownup together, just like Walterand Iand theothers.AtSRSit was impossible to be astranger—but that didn’t

mean it was easy to befriends.

Otter looked at me. Hisbeady eyes would becharmingonagerbilbutwereterrifying on a full-grownman.“Itseemswe’vehadyetanotherincidentwithHale.”

“Oh?” Dad asked,unfazed. His hair was gelledand flawless, like mine incolor, perhaps, but nothingelse.

“Indeed. At the end oftoday’s training session, hewon a race by cheating,”Ottersaid.

Mom frowned at me.“Thatdoesn’tsoundlikeyou,Hale.”

“That’s because it isn’tlike me,” I said. “I didn’tcheat.”

“Andnowhe’scallingmealiar,Isee!”Otterexclaimed.

Instead my Dad made his

eyessteelyandleanedtowardOtter.Iknewthisposition—itwas the “getting answers”position. Hard stare, strongshoulders, firm jaw. Thatposition could get everyonefrom my little sister to acriminal mastermind talking.Otter didn’t stand a chance.He leaned back a bit in histaupe office chair and foldedhis hands together. He wastrying to hide it, but I couldtellhewasnervous.

“Tell me what happened,Steve. Exactly whathappened,”Dadsaidcoolly.

Otterstumbledthroughthestory—he didn’t know thedetails, really, so it wasn’tmuch of a tale. Then myparents asked me to tell myside.

I went through the wholething, lingering perhaps alittle too long on the beautyof the green screen floating

down on my classmates’heads.

They listened intently andthenlookedateachother.Myparents did this thing—Iguess it was a throwbackfrom being partners longbefore they got married—where they had entireconversations without sayingaword.Icouldtelltheywerehavingonenowfromthewaytheireyebrowsliftedandfell,

like their mouths weremoving even though theyweren’t.

“Steve,”Mom finally saidaloud. “It sounds to me likeHale got the best of yourtrainees. Ihave toadmit, I’malittlesurprised.Imean,theycouldn’t jump over thosewater jugs? Couldn’t see thetrap in the production room?And Walter Quaddlebaum—my goodness. Didn’t he just

become a junior agent a fewmonths ago? Yet he wasthrown by the sound of hismother’s voice? Howembarrassing.Foreveryone.”

“Walter’s mother is theassistant director. It’s not abadthingforsomeonetostopwhentheyhearhervoice.Butthis isn’t about my otherstudents. It’s about Hale. Heknew the rules. Same rulestheyalwayshavebeen—”

“Then you should haveexplainedthemthesamewayyou always do,” Dad said.“SRS agents are supposed tonotice subtle variations inday-to-day behavior.” Dadlaughed and shook his head.“Idon’tknowwhyI’mtellingyou that, Steve—of courseyouknow!Howfoolishofmeto forget the Acapulcoincident.”

I had no idea what the

Acapulco incident was—IguessedsomethingfrombackwhenOtterwasafieldagent?But the mention of it madeOttergototallysilentandgrithisteeth.

Dad continued to smileand thensaid,“Steve, I thinkit’s important to rememberthat you, Katie here, Hale,and I—we all have the samegoals. We’re on the sameteam.Right?”

“Of course. Butregardless,” Otter said, hisvoicetwisty,“Ithinkitwouldbe best if Hale saved hisscheming for someplaceelse.”

Ah. I knew someonewould use the word“scheming.”

Dadwanted to continue, Icould tell, but Mom spokefirst. “Of course, Steve. I’msure he’s learned a valuable

lesson.Right,Hale?”I looked at her, about to

protest, but then sighed.“Surehave.”

“Right. Well, I guesswe’re done here—” Dadbegan.

“Not quite. He still owesme fifty pushups,” OtterinterruptedasmyparentsandIrose.

“Not today, right, son?”Dadsaid,clappingmeonthe

shoulder. “He won the race,afterall.”

And before Otter couldargue, we swept out of thetaupeoffice.Thedoordriftedshut; we were only a fewstepsawaywhenweheardanangry grunt come frominside.

Large-brutish-manlanguage for “I hate HaleJordan,”ifIhadtoguess.

ChapterThree

LikeeveryonewhoworkedatSRS headquarters—agents,secretaries, even thecustodians—my family livedthere as well, in our ownapartment. This whole wingwas full of families like ourown—Walter and his momwere just a few doors down,actually. I’d never lived

anywhere but apartment 300,and even though I wassometimes jealousof regular,non-spy kids who gotbackyards and swing sets, Ihave to admit, I couldn’tpicture anywhereelse feelinglikehome.

We walked silently downthe hall to our door. Dadunlocked it and stepped infirst.

“Aha! Got you!” a tiny

voicescreeched.Isighed,butMomsmiled.

Westeppedinside.“Nice try,Kennedy,”Dad

told her, chuckling. “But IheardyousnickeringbeforeIeven took the keys out.”Kennedy jumped down fromher perch above the door,whereIguessshe’dbalancedherselfbetweentheframeandthe ceiling. Kennedy landed,forward-rolled, and sprang to

standing like she expectedapplause.

“Did you really cheat anddo an impression of Mrs.Quaddlebaum to beatWalter?” she asked meimmediately.

“I didn’t cheat!” Iprotested. “Andhowdidyoualreadyhearaboutit?”

“Everyoneknowsaboutit.Including Mrs.Quaddlebaum,” Kennedy

said, tipping forward into ahandstand. She followedme,walkingonherhands.“You’dbetter watch it. You’reseriously In the Weeds withher.”

“Everyone’s In theWeedswith Mrs. Quaddlebaum,” Imuttered, opening mybedroomdoor.

“Quiet, both of you. Noone is In the Weeds withanyone.Andneitherofyouis

supposedtoknowthat term,”Dadcalledfromthekitchen.

“Everyone knows aboutthat too!” Kennedy shoutedback, and it was true. It wascode. An “In the Weeds”status meant the person wassupposed tobeeliminatedonsight. I’d never seen amission file that actuallycontained an In the Weedstarget. These days, the onlytarget SRS consistently

eliminated on sight was mydignity.

“And if everyone jumpedoffacliff,wouldyoudothattoo?”Dadasked.

“That doesn’t even makesense!” Kennedy said,groaning.

I used the distraction tostepintomyroom.Ishut thedoorjustasKennedyreachedit.

“Hey!” she whined from

the other side. “I wanted toshow you a new cheer Ilearned!”

“You’re not acheerleader!”

“Yeah, and you’re notWalter’s mom, but you stillpretended to be,” shesnapped.

“Kennedy, leave yourbrother alone!”Mom’s voiceboomed.

Kennedy sniffed, but then

I heard her bound off,probably to scale some pieceoffurniture.

Kennedy wouldn’t haveany problem passing thephysical exam when shetested for junior agent. Iwasactually surprisedher teacherhadn’trecommendedshetakethe test already—she wasonlynine,buttherewasn’tanage minimum. Most peoplejustdidn’thavetheskillsetto

pass the exams before theywere eleven or twelve. ButKennedy?Shecouldpassit.

My little sister could be ajunioragentbeforeme.Great.

There were plenty ofalternatives, of course—SRShaddozensofjobsforpeoplewho didn’t become junioragentsandthenfieldagents.Icould choose just about anyspecialty that didn’t involvethe physical exam, like

becoming an agent in theDisguise Department,TacticalSupport,orResearchandDevelopment. I couldbea teacher, maybe, or anExplosives Analyst. I couldeasily pass the exam to getinto Home IntelligenceTechnical Support—wecalled it HITS—whichbasically meant becomingoneofthecomputerguys.Sitinthecontrolroomandshoutat agents through a headset,

then race office chairs,waiting to hack a securitysystem or forge a clearancecard or book a hotel room.They weren’t bad guys, theHITS. We played videogames in the control roomwhen there wasn’t an activemission, and unlike myclassmates and the junioragents,theyneveroncecalledme Hale the Whale, Haley’sComet,orFailHale.

But I didn’twant to be inHITS. Iwanted to be a fieldagent. I’d always wanted tobeafieldagent.Theywereinthe thick of it—the danger,theexcitement,theadventure.SRS teachers had a wholespielabouthow“EveryoneatSRS is important! Everyonehas a role to play, from theteachers to the tech guys tothe research crews!” but itnever swayed me. I mean,field agents were the real

heroes. Who wouldn’t wanttobeahero?

I stared at my ceiling forentirely too long, then roseand changed out of mytraining clothes. I could hearmyparents clatteringaround,making fajitas—they alwaysmadefajitaswhenthey’dhada “long day”—and any daywhere they had to talk withOtter usually qualified aslong.

I opened my door andpaddeddownthehallway.

“This is insane,” mymother said, her voiceunusually rocky, even barelyaudible over the sound offoodcracklingonthestove.Ifroze, tilted my head, andlistenedlikeanantenna.

“Wecan’tjustdonothing,Katie,”Dadsaid,voicegrave.“Thinkaboutwhatitmeans.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mom

said. “You don’t just quitSRS.”

I pressed against thewall,trying to creep closer. Whowanted to quit? Every nowand then you’d hear a rumorabout an agent wanting toretire and become a baker orsomething. But Mom wasright—youcouldn’tjustleaveSRS. It soundsharsh,butwecouldn’t exactly have top-secretspiesretiringtolivesof

piemaking,youknow?Itwasdangerousforeveryone.

They argued in hushedvoices for a moment, until Ifinally heard Dad hiss,“Project Groundcover isgoing to make SRS evenmorepowerful!”

“I know, but if it goeswrong...Wecan’t—notyet.Not until we’ve figuredeverything out. We have toplay along, pretend like we

don’t know the truth . . .”Mom’s voice dropped at theend and wavered like shemight cry.Momnever cried!Whatwerethey...

“Hale!” Mom wassuddenly in front of me, hereyesfieryanddark.Ijumpeddownthehall,nearlytrippingoverthelegofmypants.

“I was just coming todinner,” I said quickly. “Ididn’thearanything.”

“Then how did you knowtherewasanythingtohear?”

“Okay, I heardsomething,” I confessed.“About someone wanting toquit SRS? And somethingcalledProject—”

“Quiet.”Dadlookedgravenow, way more serious thanhe usually was inside ourapartment,anditscaredmealittle. “Forget everything you‘didn’thear,’okay,Hale?We

shouldn’t have been talkingaboutworkatdinnertime.Webrokeourownrule.”

“You broke the rule?”Kennedy cried, crashing outof nowhere, an explosion ofred hair and flailing arms. Ireally didn’t understand howshe could hear so wellthrough all that hair. “Doesthatmean—”

“Yes,yes,yes,”Momsaid,waving a hand as she turned

to go back into the kitchen.She seemed relieved tochange the topic. Kennedyand I followed. “Darling?Hale caught us breaking ourrule. Do we have any icecreamfromlasttime?”

“Checkthecompartment?”Dad said. Mom ducked intothe freezer, grabbed ahold ofwhat looked like a frozenmeatloaf but was actually ahandletoasmallbuteffective

hidden compartment. Acarton of vanilla-caramel-swirl ice cream was nestledsnuglyinside.

“Ithinkthere’senoughforone more go-round,” Momsaidassheopenedthecartontocheck.Weprobablydidn’treally have to hide the icecream, even though it wastechnically consideredcontraband—SRS agents,after all, had to be in peak

physical condition, so icecreamwasatreatwegotonlywhen we were out onexcursions. But Mom andDadwereTheTeam, so theygot a little leeway. Besides,anyonewhomight turnus incouldprobablybeboughtoffwithascoop.

“All right. After dinner.And then your mother and Istart followingourown rulesabout bringing work home,

becauseyoutwohavenoideahow hard it is sneaking icecreaminhere.”

Momhandedmeastackofplates to set the table.Kennedy tried to slink awayand avoid silverware duty,but Dad thrust a handful offorks at her before shemadeitoutthedoor.

“Want to hear my cheernow, Hale?” Kennedy askedasshenoisilydroppedthelast

forkinitsplace.“Sure.”“Okay!”shesaid,breaking

out a wide grin. Kennedyslammed her hands againsther sides and dropped herhead. Taking a deep breath,she snapped her chin up andbegantochant,slammingherarms at different anglesaround her body. It was apretty stock cheer—lots of“Hey!Hey!Stepback!We’re

ontheattack!”typerhymes—but she did it with moreenthusiasminherlittlefingerthanIthinkIhadinmyentirebody. When she finished,Kennedy leaped into the airand slid down into a perfectsplit, grinning and holdingimaginarypom-pomsaloft.

“Whatdidyouthink?”sheasked.

“I think . . . ,” I began,pretendinglikeIwasgoingto

tease her. Her face fell; Ismiled. “I think you’re right.SRS really should have acheerleadingsquad.”

“I know,” Kennedy saidsolemnly, rising. “But I’mgoing to convince Dr.Fishburn.You’llsee.”

Ididn’t thinkitwaslikelythat Dr. Fishburn, SRS’sdirector, was going to beconvincedaboutanythingthatinvolved glitter and loud

music,butInodded.Kennedyhad been obsessed withcheerleading for a year ortwo, ever since all the SRSkids had gone to the localhigh school’s football gamesowecouldseenon-spykidsfirsthand.Wewere supposedto study them so we couldblend in better in case webecame junior agents.Kennedy basically spent theentire time studying thecheerleaders (and so did a

bunch of the boys in myclass,but foraverydifferentreason). I spent most of mytime with Walter, takingnotes and joking about howneither of us had a clue howfootball worked. I bet heknew how it worked now.Knowing about sports isprobably something that justhappens when you gaintwentypoundsofmuscleandlose one hundred and thirtypoundsofHaleJordan.

Itookmyseatatthetable;Kennedy did some sort ofcrazy pommel horse moveover the back of her chair totake hers. Mom and Dadjoinedus.Weatedinnerfast,all eager to get to the icecream, and as a result spentthe next two hours sprawledout in the living room,clutching our overfilledstomachs. Dad quizzedKennedy and me on SRSmission history, which

devolved into him inventingstories and us adding on,Mom shaking her head at allthreeofus,smiling.

Here’s the thing aboutSRS: it was a secretorganization,andwewereallin it together. We were allmembers of this great bigimpressive awesome thing.But sometimes? Sometimes,itwasnicetobejustafamily—me, Kennedy, and Mom

and Dad. A really little,probably sometimes a littleboring, awesome thing.Theyfeltliketwoentirelydifferentplaces. There was SRS,where I had toprovemyself,andtherewasapartment300,where I could be just Haleandthatwasenough.

Or at least, itwas enoughuntil the nextmorning,wheneverythingchanged.

ChapterFour

“Hale,honey,”Momsaidthenext morning, shaking acarton of orange juice harderthan necessary before shepouredaglass. “We’vegotamission. Should be back latethis evening. Emergencynumbers for the neighborsandthemedicsarehere.”Shetappedtherefrigerator.

She paused to wiggle hertorso, like something wasn’tfittingrightinhersuit.Itwassome sort of stretchycombination of leather andKevlar, with a zipper downthefrontandaturtlenecktop.Momtuggedatherutilitybeltand then continued. “Try toget Kennedy to start herreading—Iknow,Iknow,butat least try—before dinner.We’ll be back before you goto bed. Kennedy?” she

shouteddownthehall.“I’mgettingup!”Kennedy

yelled,whichwasalie.“No cheers after six, got

it? The people downstairskeepcomplaining.”

“I’m getting up!” sheyelled again.Kennedy didn’tsomuch rise as she didmeltout of bed, always leaving atrail of pillows and blanketsbehindher.

Dad laughed silently at

Kennedy as he used thedoorframe to stretch hisshoulders. Mom finished herjuice and joined him joggingin place for amoment. Theymoved to the living room topractice punching each otheras I slogged through the restofmyoatmeal.

“Hale,”Dadsaid,jumpingbackward and kicking atMom’s head. “It might bebest ifyoustayedawayfrom

AgentOtter’sbadsidetoday,allright?”

“ItrytostayawayfromallAgent Otter’s sides. I’m notsure he’d like me any bettereven if I looked like the restof theclass,”IgrumbledasIrinsedmybowloutandsetitinthesink.

“Hey now, Hale . . . ,”Mom began sternly, duckingDad’s fist and kicking himhard in thebackof theknee.

He started to fall, but sheswooped in at the lastmoment to push himback tohis feet. She turned to mewhileDad caught his breath.“Heroes don’t always looklike heroes.” This wassomethingsheandDadsaidalot.Theyactedlikeitwasjustgeneral advice, but I knew itwas to try to make me feelbetteraboutmyself.

“Villains don’t always

looklikevillainseither,”Dadadded. “Nothing is thatsimple. Just because AgentOtter isn’t always very nice,doesn’t mean he’s yourenemy.He’sjuststillgrumpyabout being taken out of thefield. Don’t think he everplannedonbeingateacher...”

“Yeah, but he got takenoutofthefieldabillionyearsago,” I griped, but gave up

whenDad shotme a pointedlook. I changed the subject.“So,what’s today’smission?Is it Project—” I fell silent,because I was about to say“Project Groundcover,” butthenrememberedhowseriousMomandDadwereaboutmenever mentioning it again.They clearly realized whatwasabouttocomeoutofmymouth, though, because theyfroze and gave me matchingsternlooks.

“It’s in Spain, I think,”Momsaid,withoutansweringmy question—which Isuspected meant yes. Sheturned back to Dad. Shebouncedforwardandbackonthe balls of her feet, waitingforhimtostrike.

“Spain?” Dad said,shaking out his arms. “IthoughtFishburnsaidSeoul.”

“Maybe.SRShasoutpostsin both places, don’t they?”

Mom shrugged. We lived inSRS’s biggest location, butSRS was international—agents were tucked awaythroughout the world. It wassort of nice, knowing nomatter where my parentswent,theyhadalliesnearby.

I leaned in thedoorframe.“Do you really not know, ordo you just not want to tellme?”

“Come on, Hale,” Dad

said, smiling. “Don’t youtrustus?”

“You’re spies,” I saidwarily, and turned to go tomybedroomandchange.

“We’re your parents!”Momcalledback,laughing.

“Also spies!” I answered,shuttingmydoor.

Itwasuniformday.Ioftencalleduniformday

by a variety of names—

mostly involving words Iheard Agent Otter mutteringwhenthedrinkmachinestolehis dollar. I understand whyspies have to wear blackspandex—I do, really. Youcouldn’t exactly crawl undera laser grid wearing shortsand a T-shirt. What I didn’tunderstand was why anyonewould make black spandex.Did a bunch of fabriccompany people get togethersomewhere to intentionally

create the worst material onthe planet? Or was it theresult of some crazy factoryaccident? Surely, no onemadethisstuffonpurpose.

“All right,” Agent Ottersaid,walkingbrisklyintoourclassroom. He scratched hishead without looking at us.“Comeon.Formation.”

Wehustled intoneat rowsin the center of the room,barely fitting in between the

weight-lifting equipment.OtterturnedtothedoorastheSRS uniform mistressentered.

Ms. Elma was an olderladywithpalebrownhairandathinscarononecheek.Shewasfamousforthisscar.Shegot it in a knife fight andsewed up the wound herselfduring her brief stint as afield agent. This was a storyshe liked to remind us of at

every opportunity. “Youruniform doesn’t fit? I’m sosorry. I suppose I’m not asgood at sewing spandex as Iam at sewingmy own face.”She was also known for herundying love for the DoctorJoetalkshow.LetmeexplainDoctor Joe for you in onesentence: TV doctor withgrayhairtellsyoutoeatmoresalmon. I thought the showwas super boring, but Ms.Elma—andafewoftheother

agentshere—watchedDoctorJoelikehewasthesoulmatethey’d never met. I’d evenheard that Ms. Elma wrotetheguyloveletters.Dadsaidshe was just being a fan.Momsaidshewas justbeingdelusional.

Tossed over Ms. Elma’sright arm were dozens anddozens of SRS uniforms.Blackspandexwithbluetrimthat indicated our in-training

status.“StandupstraightsoIcan see your shoulders,” shebarked, and we all jumped,straightening our spines.Ms.Elmachewedhertongueforamoment and then began totoss uniforms to us withcomplete confidence, despitethe fact that she was hardlylookingatthem.“Gochange,comeback.Fast,please.Andno primping, ladies. I don’thave time for that. It’s auniform,notapromdress.”

One by one, studentsvanished from the formationas they ducked into thebathroomstotryonuniforms.All SRS trainees wore thehand-me-downsofolderSRSmembers. Every now andthen someone would getluckyandbefittedwithasuiton its first go-round, but forthe most part, our uniformscame complete with rips,tears,andburns,abouquetofproblems that we’d only add

tobeforehandingthemdownyetagain.OnceIgotonethathadawholelegspray-paintedpink.

I discovered that day thatthe only thing worse thanblack spandex is pinkspandex.

“And . . . Hale Jordan,”Ms. Elma said, a note ofexhaustion in her voice. Shelooked down at the uniformsin her hand, then unfolded

oneandhelditupinfrontofme.No.Shetosseditoverhershoulderandheldupanother,pursingherlipsinawaythatmade her look like a duck.Finallysheshovedtheseconduniform at me. “Try this,Jordan.Itmightwork.”

I nodded and trotted offtowardthebathroomwithmyuniform.Walterandtheothertwo boys in our class werestill there, turning back and

forth in front of the mirror,and I couldn’t help but thinkMs. Elma had warned thewrong people not to primp.Walter’s armswere squeezedtightly intohissleeves;whenIwalked in, he turned tomeandgrinned.

“Hey there, cheater,” hesaid. “Don’t worry. Myuniform doesn’t fit either.”With that, he hunched hisshoulders forward and flexed

his arm muscles until theseams of his already-battereduniform gave way along hisbiceps.Helaughed,thesoundall echoey in the bathroom,and high-fived Michael andCameron, his junior-agentbest friends. They too hadexceptionally large biceps,which I envied, and evenlarger foreheads, which wasabout the only thing I couldsilentlymakefunofthemfor.

“I wasn’t worried,” Ianswered. “You might be,though,whenMs. Elma seesyoursleeves.”

Walter’sfacepaledalittle,buthestillmanagedtosnort.“Yeah.Whatever,Whale.”

Sometimes I pretendedWalterhadn’tchangedduetopuberty—thathe’d just falleninto some toxic sludge—andthatwaswhy he transformedfrom totally-normal-guy

Walter to worst-person-at-SRS Walter. One day, he’scomingoverafterschool; thenext,hehasalittlefacialhairand is busy in the afternoon.One day, he’s huffing andpuffing through the fieldexam along with me; thenext, he’s sprinting alongwith the junior agents,looking like a fairygodmother granted him thegift of calf muscles. It’s notlike Walter and I had a big

fightoranything.Onedaywewerefriends,andthenext,weweren’t. Was it better orworse that way? I couldn’ttell.

I walked into a stall,double-checked the doorwaslocked,andbegan tochange.Myfeetwentineasily,asdidmy legs, but when it cametime topull theuniformovermy torso, things came to agrindinghalt.Ishimmiedand

twisted and managed to gettheshouldersup.Icouldevenzip it a little, so long as Ididn’t need to do things likebreatheoreatorhavetopee.All in all, it was at least abetter fit than my lastuniform, which I couldn’tevenpullpastmystomach. Iwalkedoutofthestall,tryingnot to move too much, andmade my way back to theclassroom.

“I don’t know whathappened, Ms. Elma. Theyjust ripped!”Walter saidas Ireached the door. TheForeheads nodded earnestlybehindhim.

“Showing off,” Ms. Elmasnapped,andWaltershrank.Iwas pretty sure I saw his lipquiver. “Always with theshowing off at this level.”She said all this through amouthful of pins, so

everything sounded vaguelylike a hiss. She was pinningthelegsofagirl’suniformtomark for alterations—Ms.Elma was always talkingabout how our uniformsshould feel like a “secondskin.”Theyshould“fit likeaglove.” I questioned the sortof gloves Ms. Elma wore. Icaughtaglimpseofmyselfinthe reflection of a chromeleg-press machine. I lookedlike I’d been eaten by an

enormousseal.“All right, Jordan,” Otter

said, motioning me towardMs.Elma.“You’reup.”

Ms. Elma looked at meand shook her head. “Whatare we going to do aboutthis?” I couldn’t tell if shemeant me or the uniform.“Perhaps we can use one ofthe others, sew some sidepanelsin?”

Otter nodded. “Probably

—”“I wasn’t talking to you,

Steve,” Ms. Elma said,waving him off withoutlooking at him. Otter foldedhis arms, opened his mouth,but didn’t say anything. Ms.Elma buzzed around me,tugging here, pushing there.She suddenly had a tapemeasureinherhands, thoughI couldn’t have told youwhere it came from. “Right.

Well,Hale,it’lltakemeafewdays, but you’ll have auniform.” She said this likethe uniformwas something Idesperatelywanted.

Twenty minutes latereveryone who neededalterations had handed theiruniforms back to Ms. Elma,who headed to the nextclassroom. Otter dug out afolder full of papers from abattered-looking leather

satchel we all called a pursebehindhisback.

“Practice missions,” hesaid. He rapped the folderagainsthispalm,thensniffledinaway thatmadehim looklike a pug. Inside the folderwerefakemissions—manyofwhich we’d been throughbefore, and many of whichwere simulations of real,closed missions. He openedthe folder and held out the

papers, and my classmatesdived, snatching and readingthem hurriedly. Many werealready running to thecomputer lab or theDisguiseDepartment by the time Ireachedforoneofmyown.

Otter slammed the foldershutandwithdrewit.Ilookedup at him and tried not tostare at his coffee-stainedmustache.

“Jordan,” Otter said in a

sneery way. “I’ve got aspecialmissionforyou.”

ThefirsttimeIwassentona“specialmission”waswhenIwas around Kennedy’s age.Everyone else in my classwas leaping off ropes ontosets of scaffolding. I,however,wasswingingatthebottomofaropelikeahumanpendulum.When my teachertold me she had a specialmission for me, one that

involved leaving SRS, I wasecstatic. Everyone whowanted to leave SRS had tocheckout,ofcourse,butkidsthat age never got to leavewithout supervision. YetthereIwas,gettingassignedaspecialmission!Goingoutonmyown!Theothernine-year-oldswouldbesojealous!

And then I realized the“mission” was really just atrip togethersomecoffeeat

the shop outsideheadquarters.

Itwasn’tamission.Itwasanerrand.

I trudged toward the frontoffice, trying to wash thebitter off my face—I didn’twant Otter or anyone else toknow how much stuff likethisgottome.

“Oh,Hale,areyougettingcoffee?” the agent at the exitdesk asked. She reached for

herpurse,andIbegantowishI’djustsnuckoutthroughtheloadingdocks.

“Nope,” I said, and herface fell. “Dry cleaning forAgent Otter.” The agentslouched in her chair andwent back to staring at hercomputerscreen.Theydidn’teven bother having me signout anymore, this happenedsooften.

Iwalkedontotheelevator,

bracingmyself on the railingin the back—shooting up sixflights in about a secondalways made me lose mybalance. On the upper levelthedoorsopened,revealingagrubby office building withvinylchairsandorange-greentile.Ayoungwomanwearinglots of eye shadow—an SRSagent—lookedupatmefroma desk, tilted her chin to sayhello, and thenwent back topainting her toenails fuchsia

while the Doctor Joe showplayedloudlyonherlaptop.Ibreezed past her, out thedoors,andontothestreet.

SRS was located in apretty little town calledCastlebury, the sort of placewhere they strung Christmaslights between old brickbuildings and had a paradefor just about every holiday,right down to NationalGrapefruitDay.I’mserious.

Obviously, the people ofCastleburydidn’thaveacluethatrightundertheirfeetwasa program of elite spies andtheir spy-in-training kids. Iglanced back at the buildingI’d just emerged from—asignwithmissinglettersreadBR MBY COUNTYSUBSTITUTEMATHEMATICSTEACHER TRAINI G. Thelabel pretty much meant noonewould ever come inside.

Ontherareoccasionsomeonedid, the upper-level agent’sjob was to pretend to be anoverworked receptionist andask the visitor about fixingcopymachinesuntiltheyleft.No one on the outside knewabout SRS—well, I guesssome politician somewherehad to, since we weretechnically a governmentorganization—but it justwasn’t safe for everyone toknow about us. A spy’s

greatest weapon wasanonymity,afterall.

It didn’t take me long toretrieve the dry cleaning. Iheld theplasticgarmentbagsover my head, but I stillwasn’ttallenoughtokeepthebottomsfromdraggingontheground. The agent-slash-receptionist didn’t even lookupthistimeasIwalkedtotheelevator and pushed theDownbutton.

The Down button didn’tlight up. I frowned andpusheditagain.Thelightwasprobably just out. But no—Icouldn’thearthesoundoftheelevator coming up. I turnedto the receptionist, who wasnow looking at me with aneyebrowraised.

“Isitbroken?”Iasked.“No . . . ,” she said,

frowning, and lifted theancientcream-coloredphone.

“Hello? I’ve got that kid uphere—the coffee kid, yeah.Theelevator—oh.”

Thewayshesaid“oh”wasdifferent. It was so differentthat I abandoned theelevatorand walked toward her. Shecupped her hand over hermouth,mumbledafewthingsinto the phone, and thenquicklyhungup.Sheavoidedmy eyes. I saw her rubbingher toes together anxiously,

ruiningherwetnailpolish.Spiesnoticethesethings.“Someonewillbehereina

minute to escort you back,”she said. “The whole placejustwentonlockdown.”

“Lockdown? Why?”Lockdown was serious—itmeant something on amission had gone wrong, sodoorswerelocked,fileswerereviewed, and recordingswerestudied.Noonecameor

went,soinformationcouldn’tbe lost or shuffled orforgotten.

The receptionist’s lipsparted,but thenweheardtheelevator begin to move. Itchimed. The doors opened.My eyes widened—it wasAgent Otter, and to his rightwasDr.Fishburn,thedirectorofSRS.Heworeashinygraysuit, the same color as hishair.

“Hale,”Dr. Fishburn said.His voice sounded like thatblue hand soap smells, allcrisp and sharp and sinusclearing. “Come with us,please.”

“What’s going on?” Iaskedcautiously.

Otter spoke now, voicegruff and wildly unlike thesnaky tone he normally tookwith me. “It’s your parents,Hale. They’ve been

compromised.”

ChapterFive

Spieslivedangerouslives.I’dalwaysknownthat—in

fact, the danger was part ofthereasonI’dalwayswantedtobeafieldagent.ButwhenI thought about my parents’job,Ialwayssawbeingaspymostly as dangling offbuildingsandkaratechoppingbad guys and stealing

important hard drives—dangerous, sure, but alsoexcitingandfullofadrenalineand heroics. I never doubtedfor a moment that they’d beback, Mom retelling thenonconfidential parts of thetale and Dad struggling toshake his fake Russianaccent. When your parentsare The Team, you’ve got awhole houseful of medalsproving that they canovercomeanyvillainanytime

andusuallystillmakeithomeintimetostartdinner.

But they weren’t cominghome. They weren’t cominghome tonight or tomorrow,andprobablynotthenextdayeither.

Because spies livedangerouslives.

“You understand, Hale,”Fishburn said,puttingahandonmyarmgently.Fishburn’soffice looked like him, all

hard linesandmetal surfacesand a half dozen locked filecabinets, one of which Otterwas leaning against. “Youunderstand that we don’tthinkthey’vebeen—”

“Killed,” I finished forhim.Ithoughtsayingitaloudwouldmakethewholeideaofit easier to handle, but itdidn’t.

“Exactly. They’re morevaluable to The League

alive,” Fishburn said,nodding, like my basiccomprehension impressedhim.

I wasn’t afraid of much.I’dgonethroughyearsofspytraining, after all. Did I likegetting beat up when myclassmatesandIsparred?No.But it meant I wasn’t afraidofgettinghit. Iwasn’t afraidof the dark, either—sure, Icouldn’t see spring-loaded

rope traps in a blackout-training hall, but myclassmates couldn’t either. Iwasn’t afraid of heights, solongasIhaddecentclimbingequipment,andIwasn’tevenafraidofgettingcaughtwhilerunning a training mission,since being afraid of gettingcaught is the fastest way toactuallygettingcaught.

I was afraid of TheLeague.

They were a top-secretorganization, just like SRS.Thedifferencewas,theywere. . .well . . .evil.SRSwasasecret, sure, but we were onthe side of righteousness andmoralityandothergood,legalstuff. The League, however,was a wholly criminalorganization.You’veheardofthe mob? Of heist rings? Ofthe black market? All TheLeague’swork.Almosteverymajor crime in the country

tracedbacktothem,andhalfthe minor crimes did too.Twohigh-rankingagents likemy parents would beinvaluable to a bunch ofcriminals. They’dmine themforinformation,get itbyanymeans...

Mystomachtwisted.Fishburn continued, “I

promise, we’re doingeverything we can to findthem.”

“Who are you sendingout?”Iasked.AgentMorgan?No,no,hewasstillnursingabroken leg from his lastmission. Agent Green wouldbe a decent second choice—though she didn’t get alongwith the HITS, and that hadbotched more than onemission...

“We’re working on it,Hale,”Fishburnsaid,smiling.It was a fake smile, the sort

wewere taught to spotwhenwewereseven.Tobehonest,I was a little insulted hethoughtI’dbuyit.

“Who?” I asked again.“What’s the plan? They’vegot to be at Leagueheadquarters.Arewesendinga team in, or do we havesomeoneinside?”

“Hale . . . ,” Otter said,running his tongue over histeeth,likemynamewasstuck

between them. He gaveFishburnalookthatsaid,Letmehandlethis.

“Hale,” Otter startedagain. “The mission yourparents

were on is Gold Levelclassified. I don’t even knowwhat it is. If we send in ateam right now, we risk themission.”

I knew what it was—Project Groundcover, the

mission that had had myparents so worried. I guessthey’d been right to havebeenconcerned.Buthowwassome stupid mission, even aGold Level classified one,more important than myparents? My hands werecurled into fists so tight, myknuckles hurt. This wasn’tfair.Thiswasn’tright.

“We’re doing everythingwecan,Hale,”Fishburnsaid,

stepping in. “Right now youneedtotrustus.”

“Iwill as soonasyou tellmewhatyou’redoingtosavethem.” Itwasabold thing tosay,andIknewit.Istoodupand walked out. Otter calledmy name, but I slammed thedooranyway. Isilentlydaredhimtocomeafterme.

Hedidn’t.

Ms. Elma was at our

apartmentwhenKennedyandI got back. She wanderedaround,tootallandlankyforthe rooms, running herfingers across surfaces as ifthe whole place perplexedher. I knew I should actuallybe relieved to see her,because itmeantSRSwasn’tcertain our parents werenever coming back. Kidswhose parentswere gone forgood—orwhowereawayonlong-termmissions—lived in

thedormroomson theupperfloor.I’dneverreallythoughtofthosekidsasverydifferentfromme.Wewereallpartofthe SRS family, right? Butnow I realized just howdifferent we were—and howbadlyIdidn’twanttobelikethem.Ididn’twant to live ina dorm room and not eatbreakfastwithmyparentsandnotcomplaintomydadwhenOtter was being a jerk andnever go to Mom when I

neededtotalkaboutWalter...

“I had the cafeteria sendupdinner,”Ms.Elmasaid inavoice I thinkwas supposedto be warm, but was still socold, it froze my thoughts.She motioned toward thekitchen table, where she’dplaced Styrofoam takeoutboxes at three of the fourseats. She flicked theoverhead light on, which we

neverusedbecauseitmadeabuzzing sound Mom hated,and poured us glasses ofwaterwithtoomuchice.

Kennedy, who had barelyletgoofmyhandsincewe’dmet up outside Fishburn’soffice, lookedupatme, thenexhaledandpulledmeovertothetable.Shetookhernormalseatsilently,andItookmine.

Ms.Elma started to lowerherselfintoathirdchair.

“That’s Dad’s seat,”Kennedysaidcrossly.

Ms. Elma raised hereyebrows. “Is theresomewhere else I should sitthen?”

I had to give her somecredit—she seemed to betrying. But trying to step infor our parents was sort oflikemetryingtodoapull-up.It just wasn’t going tohappen.

Kennedy didn’t respondbutkepthereyeshardonMs.Elma. Even her frecklesseemedtobeglaring.

“Right,” Ms. Elma saidtersely. “What if I go watchtelevision while I eat then?Give you two a little . . .sibling time.” She rose,breathed slowly, and settledintheotherroom.Iheardthesound of her opening andrifling around in her takeout

box.Kennedyand I stared atour own Styrofoam boxeslike they might containexplosives.

“Wait . . . is there notelevision here?” Ms. Elmacalledfromtheotherroom.

“No,” I answered. “We’renotallowed.”

“Not even a little one?Whatdoyoudoatnight?”

“We play board games!Mom and Dad don’t like

television!” Kennedysnapped,andIcouldseetearswellingupinhereyes.Irose,nearly knocking my chairback, and went around thetable.Kennedyhuggedmesohard, her fingers almosttouched and I thought shemightbreakmy ribs.Freeingmyself,Ikneltdown.Ishookmyheadather.

“Don’t cry,” I said asKennedy’s face twisted up.

Shesqueezedhereyesshutashard as she could and fellforward,droppingherheadtomyshoulder.

Kennedy whisper-sniffed.“Everyone’s saying Fishburnisjustgivinguponthem.”

“That’sridiculous,”Isaid.“He just doesn’twant to riskthemission.”

“No one’s doinganything!” she protested,sitting back. Her eyes were

wide,her skinpaleunder theoverheadlight.

Iexhaled.“Howaboutwego to bed? It’s later than itfeels.”

“It’s barely seven,” shesaid,wipinghernosewithherhand. Still, we left ourtakeout containers untouchedandwenttobrushourteeth.IhelpedKennedy into her bedandpulledupthecovers,thenfound Tinsel, the stuffed

hedgehog that she liked topretend she didn’t needanymore,butdefinitelydidattimeslikethis.

“Are yougoing to tellmeastory?”sheasked,hervoicemeek. Dad used to tell usbedtime stories about whenhewasanewagent—thetimehe mixed up German forIcelandic, or when he usedthree sticks of chewing gumtohot-wireacar.IknewDad

didn’t tell her stories everynightanymore,butIsatdownon the edge of her bedanyway.

“I don’t have any goodstories,” I said. “I’m not anagent.”

“You could tell me aboutwinning the race yesterday,”she suggested, picking atTinsel’squills.“Imean,yourversion.”

“The true version, you

mean,” I said, and launchedintothestory.Istartedquietlywith just the details, but as Iwent on, things got biggerand louder, until I wascrashingacrosstheroominare-creation of the way I slidinto the cafeteria ahead ofWalter. Kennedy wasgiggling, her thin lips pulledinto a broad smile. When Ileft the room, she was stillawake, staring at the ceiling,and I knew she would cry

again before she fell asleep.Buttruthfully?SowouldI.

I ran intoMs.Elma in thehall—literally ran into her,hardenoughthatshebouncedbackafewsteps.

“You didn’t eat yourdinner,” she said politely.“You’resupposedtoeatit.”

“We aren’t hungry,” Ianswered, wondering if Ms.Elma was really the bestperson tobeput inchargeof

me and Kennedy. Surely,she’d do better withsomething less human andmore,say,houseplant?

“Oh. I’ll save it then.You’ll probably be hungrylater.Ifinishedalterationsonyouruniform.”Sheheldoutalimp pile of black spandexandgavemeanalmostwarmlook,asifthefastturnaroundwas something to beappreciatedandadmired.She

cleared her throat. “I know,Jordan—Hale—thatyouwantsomeone to charge in andsave them. We all wish itwere that easy. But SRSagents can’t just sneak intoLeague headquarters. It’srisky for everyone—including your parents. Andthe mission. You’ve got tothinkofthemission.”

“Right.”Ms.Elmanodded,twisting

her lips in a way that madeherfacelooklikeitcontainedtoo many bones. Finally shepattedmeontheshoulderandretreated back to the livingroom. Iwent tomybedroomandshutthedoor.Iwantedtolock it, but I was worriedKennedymightwanttocomeinsometimeduringthenight.I changed into pajamas andclimbed into bed, staring attheglow-in-the-darkstarsthatcoveredmyceiling.

The truth was, everythingMs. Elma and Dr. Fishburnhad said made sense. Withmy parents gone, SRScouldn’t just throw moreagentsout intotheworldandhope for the best. Agentswere precious resources, theproduct of years of trainingand preparation. And amission—even a mission Ididn’t really know anythingabout—was always thepriority.

ButIwasn’tanagent.I then began to

undeniably, unabashedlyscheme.

ChapterSix

It was almost seven o’clockin the morning, and I couldsee a line of light under mybedroom door. Judging fromthe clattering and hissing, Igathered Ms. Elma wasfutzing around with Dad’sespresso machine. I exhaled,steeledmyself,andthencreptout ofmy bed slowly somy

mattressdidn’tcreak.Iraninplaceasquickly—andquietly—as I could, till my lungsbegan to ache. I then leapedback into bed, yanked myblankets up, and felt at mycheeks—flushedanddamp.

Perfect.Gotime.“Ms. Elma?” I called out

weakly, my voice barely awhisper. I waited. Anotherhissing sound. I was prettysure she’d just broken the

milksteamer.“Ms. Elma!” I called

again, louder this time. Iheardasighandthesoundofa coffee cup being put downtoo hard, and a few minuteslater Ms. Elma swung mydoor open. I curled into thesmallest ball possible andcoughed.“Idon’tfeelgood.”

Ms.Elma’s eyeswidened.“You’re bleeding? Brokenbone?I’llcallmedical—”

“What?No.I’mjustsick.”Ms. Elma didn’t look like

she fully understood what Imeant.

“I just feel sick. Youknow. Headache? Like Imight throwup?” I said.Ms.Elma blinked. I suspectedMs.Elmahadnevercalledinsick. “I think I just need togetsomerest,”Ifinished.

Ms. Elma rocked back onher heels warily. “Well. All

right.Doyouwantsome. . .medicine?”

Ishookmyhead.“Do you want some . . .

soup?”Ishookmyheadagain.“Are you sure I shouldn’t

call medical?” Ms. Elmaasked again, almostdesperately.

“No,no,I’llpullthrough,”I said, firmingmy lips like Iwas being very brave about

my sudden illness. “I’llprobably just sleep most ofthe day. Don’t feel like youhave to stay here—I knowyou probably planned ongoinghomeforafewhours.”

“Mmmm,”Ms.Elmasaid,grimacinginawaythatmadeclear she had not onlyplanned on going home butbadly wanted to. “I’ll juststayhere.”

“Really?” I mumbled,

lettingmywordsdriftofflikeI could barely stay awake. Iyawned enormously; throughmy half-closed eyes I sawMs.Elmawrinklehernoseatmy open mouth. “That’s sonice of you. I can’t believeyou’re going to miss DoctorJoe’sPresent-Palooza.”

“Present-Palooza?” Ms.Elma asked, her overpluckedeyebrows shooting up sohigh,theypulledatherscar.

“I heard the receptionisttalking about it while I wasout getting Otter’s—AgentOtter’s—dry cleaning,” Isaid. I reached over andknocked around a set ofbinoculars as I fumbled forthe tissue box on mynightstand. I feebly tuggedonefromthebox,thenuseditto mop at my forehead,waiting till Ms. Elma leanedforward eagerly to continue.“He’sgivingawayallsortsof

stuff to people in theaudience, and is sendingsomesortofwrinklecreamtoanyone who calls in everytimehesays‘carrottop.’Youknow, maybe it’s tomorrowthough. I don’t reallyremember...”Icoughedandhugged my blankets closer.The flush frommy face wasbeginningtofade...

Ms.Elmanodded.Sheranher tongue over her teeth as

shelefttheroom.Ahalfhourlatertherewas

yelling, crying, and thingsbreaking. Ms. Elma wastrying to get Kennedy readyfor school and didn’t knowmy parents’ tricks; with fiveminutes to go before classstarted, Kennedy was stillshoutingaboutnotbeingableto find her uniform shoes.(“They’re covered in stickersofpinkowls.Yes,pinkowls!

Who cares? They’re myshoes!”)Ms.Elmarespondedbymutteringunderherbreathabout how in her day, backwhenshe’dgottenthescaronherface,agentsdidn’talwaysgetshoes.Ididn’tbelieveher,and I suspected Kennedydidn’t either. Finally thesupernova that was my littlesister found her shoes andwent to class. It was nineo’clock.TheDoctorJoeshowcameonatten...Nothingto

dobutwait.“Hale?” Ms. Elma said

through my closed door atnine fifty-five. I grinnedbeneathmyblankets.

“Mmmm?” I answeredgroggily.

“I’m going to rundownstairsforafewminutes.If anyone asks, I’m justgetting some . . . personaleffects. I’ll be back, allright?”

“Mmmm,”Ianswered.She left in such a hurry

that I wasn’t sure, at first, ifshe’d left at all—the doordidn’t click all theway shut.Finally,when Iwas sure shewasgone,Itossedmycoversback. I rose and pulled myuniform on—I hated it, but Imight need it—and somestreet clothes on top of it.Then I ran into Kennedy’sbedroom.

Walking into Kennedy’sroom was sort of like beingpunched in the face with apack of highlighters. Thewalls were covered in neonpinkandpurpleposters,mostdepicting animals,cheerleaders, or animalsbeing cheerleaders.Her floorwas a disaster of books andcandy-colored stuffed toys,along with a few dolls withcatlike eyes and plastic,glitter-filled jewelry. I

grabbedastuffedturtlewithapeace sign on its back and avariety of bears and cats,severalofwhichweretie-dye.I nearly trippedover a set oflime green pom-poms on thewayoutoftheroom.

Back in my bedroom Ishoved the toys beneath myblankets until they werefeasibly shaped like mesleeping. It was an old trick,but it would have to do—

there was no time to rig avoice-activated responsesystem, which was a shame,since I aced that class lastyear. In the kitchen I left abowl filled with a few dropsofmilkandahalfhandfulofcereal, so it looked like I’demerged to eat something. Ileft the milk out for goodmeasure and then glanced attheclock.

I had plenty of time—

despite the lack of Present-Palooza, I suspected Ms.Elmawouldn’tbeabletoturnoff Doctor Joe—he was herlong-lost soulmate, after all.Still, the sooner I left, thebetter. I finished the pretendbreakfast scene by pulling achair out from the table andthen Iwent down the hall tomyparents’bedroom.I lifteda hand to knock beforerememberingIdidn’thaveto—they weren’t inside—then

turned the knob and openedthedoor.

I froze as cool air sweptacross my face, air thatsmelled likeDad’sdeodorantandMom’sfacecream.Theirbedwasmade,theclosetdoorwas shut, and my mom’swedding rings sat on thenightstand—she never worethemoutonmissions,butshealwaysputthembackonfirstthingwhenshecamehome.I

couldstillseetheirfootprintsin the carpet. I closed myeyes.The mission. Think about

themission.Not their mission—my

mission. I had to focus. Igritted my teeth, opened myeyes, and hurried across theroom. I flungopen theclosetdoor.Mom’sclotheswereonthe right,Dad’son the left; Igrabbed an armful of dress

pantsofftheirhangers,whichswung wildly, knockingagainstthewall.Ishovedthepantsintoameshlaundrybagand slung it over myshoulder, then tookahandfulofDad’sloosechangeoffhisdresser.

With everyone atwork orin training, it was easy tomake it down the hallrelatively unseen. I knewcameras were on, but I also

knewthesightofmeluggingaround a bag of laundrywasn’texactlysomethingthatput theHITSonhighalert. Iforced myself to lookunrushed on the way to thefrontdesk.

“Morning, Hale,” theagent at the front desk saidsweetly as I walked in. “IheardaboutTheTeam.Don’tworry. I’msureDr.Fishburnhasaplan.”

“Metoo,”Isaid,which,ifyou ask me, was one of mymostconvincingliestodate.Inodded toward the laundrybag on my shoulder.“Droppingoffdrycleaning.”

“AgentOtterhasmoredrycleaning?”theexitdeskagentsaid, shaking her head at thebag. “Something’s wrongwiththatman.”

“No kidding,” I said,smiling at her. The agent

didn’tseeit—shehadalreadygone back to filling outspreadsheets. I steppedaround her desk and walkedto the elevator. I waited tillthedoors closed, then let outa deep breath. I don’t knowwhyIwasrelieved—breakingoutofSRSwastheeasypart.

It was breaking into TheLeague that was going to bedifficult.

ChapterSeven

Castlebury had a single trainlinethatwentstraightintothecity—itwasimpossibletogowrong. I climbedon, thebagof laundry wedged betweenmy legs, and I tried to relaxas we rumbled along. Westopped a dozen or so timeson the way, picking up anever-stranger assortment of

passengers. By the time thecity appeared ahead—graylines that became buildingsthat became windows andbridges and cars—we’dcollectedafewhippies,afewstudents, and what soundedlike seventeen crying babies,whose screams seemed tomake my hidden SRSuniform fit even tighter. Ibegan to wish I’d stolen oneof the SRS’s helicoptersinstead. I’d flown one in

simulations—how differentcouldarealonebe?

WhereCastleburywasoldbricks and potted plants,Fairviewwassteelbeamsandparkingmeters.Peopledidn’tnoticemehereanymorethanthey did in Castlebury, butthedifferencewas,inthecitythey seemed to beintentionallynotnoticingme.Whichwasjustaswell,really—I didn’twant to be seen. I

knew the city well enough,sinceI’dvisiteditonoutingswith my parents and theoccasional class trip, butbeingherealonefeltvery...scary? No. Not scary. It feltbig. Like the whole placecould swallow me, and itmade me grin and sort ofshake all at the same time. Icut around delis, past foodtrucks cooking mysteriousmeat products, and awayfromthelargerbuildings.

Toward The League’sheadquarters.

I knew exactly whereLeague headquarters were.Everyone at SRS did—andeveryone at The League, Ireasoned, probably knewwhere we were. I mean, ifthere were grizzly bear densnearyourhouse,you’dknowwheretheywere,right?Itooka rightatagrocerystoreandwalked past a group of

Campfire Scouts wearingkhaki-colored sashes andhawking cookies to everypasserby.

Andthen...thereitwas.LiketheSRS,TheLeague

occupied a relativelynondescript building, thoughtheirswasbig,madeofmetaland glass and stretchingtoward the sky. I suspectedthe height was more of adistraction—most of their

facilities were surelyunderground, safely buriedbeneath the city. The lettersEBPwere on the side of thebuilding in bright red blockcharacters, but I was prettycertain they didn’t stand foranything—they were just thesort of letters that a regularperson would nod at,assuming they belonged tosome rich corporation. Thebuilding had wide stairsleadinguptoit,wherepeople

stopped to talk, eat lunch, orstareatthepigeonsthathungout around a weird twistystatue.

This was where my planended. I’d never gotten closeenough to The League’sbuilding to really study itbefore,soIcouldn’tplothowto break in till this exactmoment. I pretended to bebored as I analyzed potentialpoints of entry—my teacher

from last year would beproud,Ibet,sinceshedidtwomonthsofclassesonbreakingintosecurebuildings.

The League had camerasby the front doors. Probablymore inside. There werelikely vents or windows onthe lower levels, but slippingthrough thosewas forpeoplesix sizes smaller than I was.The roof was out, since Ididn’t have air support, as

was burrowing underground.Basically, the only way intoThe League, for me, wasthrough the front doors.WhichmeantIneededawayin—one that would not onlyget me through the frontdoors, but past the agents ontheotherside.

I rose and walked awayfrom the building. I duckedinto the grocery store anddared to spend a handful of

quarters in the vendingmachines across from thebathroomdoors—becauseI’dskipped breakfast, I was toohungry to think straight. Thehoney bun I bought was dryand mealy, but it wassomething. I shoved thelaundrybagintothecornerofthe largest stall and leanedagainstthedoorasIate.Think. And think fast,

because your parents are in

that building, and you’re alltheyhave.

ExceptIhadnothingatall.I closed my eyes andcommanded myself to think.Focus on the mission, Hale.Comeon...

Wait. I didn’t havenothing. I had two dollars inchangeandabagoflaundry.

WhichmeantIhadaplan.

Mission:Breakinto

TheLeagueStep1:Acquire

necessities—knife,tape,andcookies

The knife and tape wereeasy—I wandered the aislesof the grocery store until Ifoundaguyshelvingcansoftuna fish. He seemed like aniceenoughguy, really.So Ifelt bad about intentionally

shattering one of those four-gallon glass jars of picklesone aisle over. I shuffledaway quickly; the tunastocker ran past me andgroaned. Mutteringsomething about floor wax,he stomped off to get abroom.

Meanwhile, I snuck backto the tuna fish, snatched hisboxcutter,andshoveditintomypocket.

Knife?Check.NextIgrabbedabunchof

the stickers from the bulkfood section. They weresupposed to seal the bags ofself-servegrains.

Tape?Check.Cookies were slightly

trickier. I considered juststealing them, but I alreadyfelt pretty high profile afterarriving with a laundry bagand breaking a pickle jar. I

couldn’t afford toget thrownout,orworse:reportedtothepolice.

InsteadImademyway tothe bakery section. A glasscase housed two dozen typesof cupcakes and pies andéclairs and all sorts ofdessertstheSRSwouldneverlet us touch, much less eat.The woman behind thebakery counter smiled at mewithoverlyglossedlips.

“Are these samples?” Iasked her. A plastic platefulof tiny sugar cookies withsprinkles sat on top of thecase.

She nodded, then smiled.“Helpyourself!”

Her smile faded as Igrabbed one of the nearbybakery boxes and shoveledalmost the entire tray ofcookies inside. I shrugged.She had told me to “help

myself.”Cookies?Check.I yanked an OUT OF

ORDER sign off one of thedrink machines across thehall, and then I stuck itagainst the bathroom door togivemyselfalittleprivacy.

Step2:Puttogethertheperfectdisguise

I dumped the laundry bagout on the floor and reachedfor a pair of Dad’s khakis. Istudied them for a momentand then folded them in halfso the cuffs of the legs meteach other. I pulled out thetuna guy’s box cutter.Carefully, I drew the bladethroughthepants,rightbelowthepockets.IttookafewcutsbeforeIfinallybrokethroughthe layers of fabric. Then Igrabbed the bulk foods

stickers and looped them sothey were sticky on bothsides.Foldingtheendsofthepant legs over, I ran thestickers along the edge, untiltheywereflatandsmooth,asclean a line as if the fabrichadbeensewnthatway.

All right, the moment oftruth. I ducked between thetwopantlegs,lettingoneendrest on my left shoulder andtheotheronmyrighthipsoit

becameakhaki-coloredsash.I picked up the box ofcookiesand lookedatmyselfinthemirror.Deepbreaths,Hale.Half of being a spy is

lying. What most peopledon’t realize—andwhat SRSstudentslearninyearone—ismost of that means lying toyourself. It’s easy to trick astranger into believing astory. After all, they don’t

know you—why shouldn’ttheybelieveyou?Butfoolingyourself is something elseentirely because you have tobury the real you so farbeneath the lie that itdoesn’thave a prayer of poking itsheadup.Onceyou’ve fooledyourself, though, that’swhenyourcoverisperfect.

So, even though I’dneverbeen aCampfire Scout, eventhough I’d never even been

camping, period, I walkedtowardTheLeaguewithtotalconfidence.Afterall, IwasaCampfire Scout—I had thesash and cookies to prove it.This was the EBP officebuilding,nothingmore.Iwasjust there to hand out cookiesamples.What did I have toworryabout?

Step3:Walkthroughthefrontdoor

Ireachedforward,pushingthrough the revolving glassdoor...

I froze. The lobby ceilingsoared all theway to the topof the building, with plantshanging off the elevatorlandings on each floor.Everything was marble, butthe building wasn’t quite assleek as SRS’s—it smelledmorelikeorangesandleathershoes than cleaner. Behind a

broad wooden desk with abowl of mints in the cornerwas a skinnymanwearing avest and a dotted tie; otherthan him, the lobby wastotally empty. He gaveme aconfusedlook.

“Can I help you?” heasked.

“Yes,sir,”Isaid,grinninglike the cheerleading animalsplastered around Kennedy’sbedroom—like this moment

was the best moment, ever,ever, ever. I hustled over tohim,dimmingthesmilewhenhe seemed more concernedthancharmed.

“I’mWalterQuaddlebaumfrom Campfire Scouts Troopthree seventy-one, sir, andI’m here to offer samples ofour new line of CampfireScoutcookies.Wouldyoubeinterested in trying one?” Isaidallthisexactly,likeIwas

reciting it from a script atroopleadergaveme.

“Oh!” The man’s eyes litup. “Oh, I shouldn’t. Ishouldn’t...Sugarandall...”

He looked from side toside, like someone mightpounceonhimifhesaidyes,then grinned at me andreachedforacookie.

“Thanks,” I said cheerily.“I’msupposedtogiveoutthe

box to earn my BakemasterBadge.”

“Of course! If you leavethemhere,IpromiseI’ll—”

“Oh, no—I have to givethem out myself to get thebadge.”

The receptionist looked atme and blinked. “But can’tyoujusttellyourscoutleaderyou gave them awayyourself?”

Iwidenedmyeyes.

“You . . .youwantme tolie?” I said this at nearly awhisper, like I’d never heardanythingsohorrific.

The receptionist hurriedlyshook his head and held uphishands.“No,ofcoursenot,butIcan’tlet—”

“I don’t have any badgesyet,” I said, liftingmypants-sash woefully. “And youwantmetolietogetmyfirstone?”

I sniffed and tensed myfaceuntilafewtearsdroppedfrom my eyes. My facealwaysturnedneonredwhenI cried, which usually wasembarrassing—and part ofthe reason I never, ever letWalterandhisminionsmakeme cry—but right now thatfearful color was coming inhandy, along with the factthat I looked about asnonthreatening as a kitten. Imean, a crying kid bearing

cookies? I let my lower lipquiver, just to complete theact.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t cry,”the receptionist begged. “Idon’t want you to lie, ofcoursenot.”

He frowned and glanceddownthehalldirectlybehindhim. “How about you godown that hall, then curvearound and come back uphere? It shouldn’t take long.

Drop it in any of the openofficedoors.”

“What about the closedones?ShouldIknock?”

“Oh, no one works inthose—we’re pretty shortstaffed these days,” thereceptionist said, lookingback down the hall warily.“Allright,goon.”

I grinned, wipedmy tearsaway with the back of myhand, and scurried down the

hall. Glancing over myshoulder, I saw him lookdownathiswatch—Ihadtenminutes, probably, beforehe’d become suspicious andcomeafterme.

I could work with tenminutes.

Step4:FindMomandDad

ChapterEight

Let me explain somethingaboutSRS.

We had offices. Plenty ofthem—halls of them, in fact.But agents were normallyusing them to practicekickboxing or hack into acomputer’s mainframe orlearn to speak Portuguese.Sure, therewere the fewodd

people who sat quietly oncomputers all day gatheringintel,buttheyweredefinitelyintheminority,andtheystilllooked impressive, typingaway, then pausing toscribbledownnotes.IguessIexpected to see somethingsimilaratTheLeague.

Instead I saw . . . officepeople.

Peoplelininguppencilsontheir desks.One guy playing

golf, hitting a ball into acoffee cup. Anotherpretendingtoworkbusily,butactually looking at small,hairless dogs on a dodgyanimal-rescue website.Everyone happily tookcookies, and no one seemedterribly concerned about mypresence.Was this a trap? Ithad to be a trap—this wasTheLeague,afterall.

Icametothecornerwhere

Iwassupposedtotakearightandemergebackinthelobby.I glanced in an office andlooked at a clock—I’d beengoneforfourminutes.

ThatmeantIhadsixmoreminutes to get as deep intoTheLeagueasIcould.Whichmeant it was time to gobeyond theopendoors.Timetogobeyondthissinglefloor.Therewasaheavymetaldoorto my left, totally unlike the

wooden office doors. Ipusheditopen—astairwell.Ileanedmyheadoverthestairrail and took stock. I wasabout only five levels fromthe very bottom, whichseemed the most practicalplacetoholdprisoners.Itooknote of an emergency exitdoor, just in case I neededone later, then hurried downthesteps.

Five flights of stairs later,

my shins were burning. Istoppedatthebasementlevel;ahead of me was a long,musty-smelling hallway.Every door was labeled:WATER, ELECTRICAL,CUSTODIAN. Maybe theywere mislabeled to throwintrudersoff.

I opened the custodian’scloset.Brooms.

Electrical door. Fuseboxes.

Water.Watersofteners.At theendof thehallwas

a larger set of doors, notentirely different from thecafeteria doors back at SRS.It wasn’t until I got a littlecloser that I could read thelabel—TRAINING ANDCONDITIONING. Isupposed it was as good adoorasanyotherI’dseen,soI pushed it open and walkedintotheroom.

ThegymbackatSRSwasfull of sleek equipment.Chrome weight machines,black punching bags,treadmills, stationary bikes,and those weird stair-stepmachines that no one everwanted to use. Otter alwaystold us it was a roomdedicated to our “personalbest,”whichmaybewas truefor some people. For me itwas more of an ode to mymisery. Everything there

smelled like lemon cleaner,burning rubber, and sweat,though not always in thatorder.

TheLeaguegymwasvery,verydifferent.

Forstarters,itsmelledlikeold foam, spilled soda, andgrease—in that order. Thewalls were painted a sort ofcreamy white, like the colorofthegoodvanillaicecream,and there were little bits of

tapealloverthemfromwhereposters or signs had beenstuckupatsomepoint.Therewere jump ropes hunghaphazardly on hooks, somewhite and mauve weightmachines in the far corner,and a rubber track that ranaround the exterior of thewholething.

There were also twopeoplestaringatme.

Iremainedcalm.That was what I’d been

trained to do, after all, thething that teacher afterteacherhadbeatintomyheadas step one in any riskysituation:remaincalm.

Step two: assess thesituation.

The people staring at mewerekids—myage,probably,maybeatinybityounger.Theboy was short with knobby

joints and hair that stuck uplikesomeonehadjustrubbedit with a balloon. He wasarrangingoddsandendsfromthe gym—a three-poundweight here, an uninflatedbike tube there, a few yogaballs at the end—into somesort of elaborate pattern,almost like a maze. The girlbesidehimhadhisblackhair,but hers was neatly pulledinto two short French braids.She also had glasses, the big

kind that looked like theyshould belong to a historyprofessor, and she washolding something thatlooked like several cellphonesduct-tapedtogether.

I dropped the box ofcookies to the ground andbraced myself. Hands to myface, fists ready—I couldmaybe take one of them out,but two? They had to bepartners, if theywere inhere

training together, whichmeanttheyknewexactlyhowto take out a target together.The girl looked particularlyscrappy. I was never goodwithscrappy.“Five-secondrule!”I frowned. It was the boy

whoyelled it—no, screechedit,really.Hedivedforward.Ihunched down, prepared tofling myself on top of himandholdhimdown—Imean,

hey, I’ve got extra bodyweight,Imightaswelluseit,right? I took a step forward,readytolandonhislegs...

He grabbed a cookie andcrammed it into his mouth,lookingpleasedwithhimself.The girl behind him crinkledher nose, making her bigglassesrockonherface.

“You know that five-second rule thing isn’t true,don’tyou?”Iasked.

“Saysthepersonwhoisn’tgettinganycookies,” theboyanswered, his words muffledas bits of sugar cookie fellfromhismouth.Irealizedhisshirt had a picture of a robotfightingadinosauronit.

I did not know how toassess this situation.Theboystoopedforanothercookie.

“Ben . . . ,” the girl said.“They’rehis.”

“Hedroppedthem!”

“Thatdoesn’tmean—”“Whoareyou?”Iasked.I

meant for the words to besharp, hard—more of ademandthanaquestion,butIsounded more confused thananything.

The girl stepped forward.Her eyelashes were so long,they brushed against herglasses, and she had littleheart-shapedstudearrings in.Weweren’t allowed earrings

atSRS—notattoos,piercings,or anything thatwouldmakeit easier for an enemy agentto identify us. The girl musthave realized I was staring,because she reached up andtouched one of the earringsabsently,andthenshrugged.

“I’m Beatrix,” she said.“He’s my brother, Ben. Ouruncle’s an analyst. Do yourparentsworkhere?”

“My. . .uh. . . they. . .”

Quick—think, Hale, think.Thesetwoweren’tagents—orif they were, they hadincredibly good covercharacters. I stood a betterchance with the covercharacters than in a fistfight,though, so I decided to playalong.“Theyworkinintake.”

“Intake?” Beatrix asked,squintingatme.

“Prisoner transport,” Iclarified. “My dad. He just

startedtheotherday.”“Huh,” Ben said. “Weird.

Uncle Stan didn’t sayanything about hiring newpeople. That’s sort of a bigdeal.”Iwaited,expectinghimto press me further, askquestions I didn’t have theanswers to. Instead heshrugged and said, “So whyare you dressed like aCampfireScout?”

“BecauseIamaCampfire

Scout.”“You don’t have any

badges.”“I just joined.” I cursed

myselffornotspendingmoretimecomingupwith a covercharacter of my own. I acedthe class in false identitiesearlier this year, and there Iwas, totally bombing at it inthefield.

“Want to see mymachine?” Ben asked

brightly.“What?”“Mymachine. I call it the

RiverBENd,” Ben said,motioning to the deliberatelyordered collection of gymthings.“Itpoursmeaglassofwater.”

I looked at the row ofthings—there was a brokentrampoline and a janitor’swater bucket among thechaos—and frowned. With a

grin,Bendashedover tooneend, where a yoga mat laycurled up atop a rolling cart.Heslowly,carefullyplacedafinger on the mat, thennudgedthematforward.

Thematunfurled.Whenitflippeddown,theedgecaughtthe end of the bicycle tube.The tube snapped forward,sending three hand weightsrollingdownarampmadeoftowels stretched tautly. The

final weight flipped off theend, triggering a seesaw thatbounced a yoga ball up intothe air. The ball, in turn,slapped the end of a jumprope, which swung forwardthen back, spiraling itselfaroundamop.Themoptiltedto the front of its cleaningbucket,upsettingabroom.Tomy amazement—shock,wonder, delight, even—thebroom handle fell forward,striking the button on the

waterfountain.Thefountainturnedonand

an arc of water shot up intothe sky,missing thedrainbyamile.Itcascadedbeautifullydowntowardaplasticcuponthe ground. I heldmy breathas...

Itmissed.Byaninch,giveor take. We all exhaled indisappointment.

“Oh, come on!” Benyelled in frustration, turning

around and kicking abasketballsohard,itbouncedbackoffthewallandwhizzedbymyhead.

“I told you,”Beatrix said.“I told you the pressure waswrong. You tested it whenyou were pushing down onthe water fountain thing, butthe broom doesn’t push ashardasyou.”

To prove her point, sheturned the cell phone

contraptionaroundsothatwecould see the screen. On itwas a fancy drawing of thearc of the water fountain, anXwherethecupshouldhavebeenplaced.

“Trust the Right Hand,”shefinishedsagely.

“The what?” I asked,worrying this was a codenameforaweapon.

“The Right Hand. Myphone? ’Cause it’s always in

myhand?Getit?It’sajoke.”Itriedtolaugh,butitcame

out as sort of a weirdhuckhucknoise.

“Okay, hang on. I can fixit,”Benmuttered,andwalkedto the water fountain. Herepositionedthecup,andthenbegan to meticulouslybacktrack through themachine,puttingall thepartsin their original positions.Beatrixhelpedhim rebalance

theweights.“So...um...anyway,”I

said. “So, my dad works inprisoner transport, and I wassupposed to check in withhimafterIgaveawaytherestof those cookies . . .” Iglanced at the floor. Lie,Hale,rememberhowtolie.“Ican’t think of where it is,though.”

“We don’t have anythinglike that,” Ben said,

shrugging. “I think we usedto?Maybe?Maybewecouldaskthereceptionist?”

“Oh,Idon’twanttobotherhim,”Isaid.“Maybeyoucallit something different,something I’m not used to.Holding?”

Beatrixshrugged,andBenjust returned to lining up theyogaballs.

They knew. They had toknow, and the fact that they

weren’t telling me made memore convinced than everthat they were agentsundercover.Italsoconvincedmemore andmore that theywere stalling. We were in arace ofwits, and I needed tostay ahead. The only way todo that would be by beatingthemtoaconfession.

I firmedmyjaw,stoodupstraight,andtriedtomakemyeyesallcoal-like,sameason

Dad’s“gettinganswers”face.Ireacheddownandtuggedatmy shirt, stretching the neckdown far enough that myuniform—and the SRS logoon it—was revealed. Tellingthe truth was definitely notsomething I learned intraining, but desperate timescalledfordesperatemeasures,right?

“Enough,” I said coolly.“Nomore charades.Where’s

intake?”Ben frowned, looking

from the uniform and thenback to me. “I really, reallythink we should ask thereceptionist—”

“Intake,” I cut him off,wavingahandathim.“Don’tplay dumb—I know exactlywho you are and who youwork for. I’m an agent withthe Sub Rosa Society, andyouhave five seconds to tell

me where intake is before Isignalmysupportteam!”

Iyelledthis.Ididn’tmeanto yell it, exactly, but as thewords left my mouth, theyclimbed higher and higheruntil I was shouting andshaking and angry. I didn’tcut up a pair of pants andsneakatrayofcookiesjusttoget stalled by two kids in anoutdated trainingfacility.Myhands were clenched into

fists, my eyebrows knittedtogether, and I glared atBeatrix, then Ben, thenBeatrix again, until finallyBenspoke.

His voice was a littlequieter now, more like hissister’s. “I think you shouldliedownforalittlebit.”

“Show me where intakeis!”

“Oh, we will!” Beatrixsaid earnestly. “In a second.

Do you have blood-sugarproblems?Liedown,and...Ben,howaboutyougoget—Oh, good, he’s already gone—”Iturnedtoseethedoorofthe gym swinging, markingBen’sexit.

Thiswasn’tworking.Evenif these two weren’t junioragents or agents in training,surely, whomever Ben wentto get was—and I probablycouldn’t handle myself

againstafullytrainedLeagueoperative. I shook my head,turned, and ran. I shovedthrough the gym doors andtook a hard right, away fromthewayIcame.Thehallwasechoeyandbare, and I couldhear Beatrix padding alongbehindme.

“Where are you going?Wait, come on—maybe wecan talk about this!” sheshouted. Her voice was

gettingfartheraway.Ilookedovermyshoulder

—Iwasfasterthanshewas.This was crazy; I was

neverfastest.But Beatrix was panting

like she rarely ran, and herglasses kept slipping downhernoseasshegaspedbehindme. I sped up, even thoughmy overworked shins werecramping. There was a doorahead—unlabeled—but I

didn’t exactly have the timeto worry. I smashed throughitandintoanotherhallsimilarto the one I just camethrough.

Beatrix was still behindme. I could feel the sweatslicking downmy back. Thestickers holding the sashtogethergavein.Itfelltothefloor.Whereareall thepeople?

All the field agents? Their

computer guys? Theiranalysts?Astaircaseahead—I ran up it. When I lookedback, Beatrix was still closebehind, her hair fuzzy andcheeksblotchyred.

“Hey . . . look, he justwent to get our uncle . . .You’re not in trouble . . .Howmanystairs...Oh...”She was fading fast as wemovedupthestaircase.

InallhonestyIwasfading

too, but I was fueled by thefear of failure—Ihad to findmy parents today, becauseTheLeaguewould inevitablybeonevenheavierlockdownafter a breach. I flung openanother door, spun, andpushedmy back against it. Ilookedaround;Iwasbackonthemainfloor,bytheofficesI’d snuck through earlier.This was not good—evenoffice peoplewould notice ifa Campfire Scout went

tearingdowntheirhallway.Ireachedoverandgrabbed

the red fire alarm, yanking itdown.

A shrill blare rippedthroughthebuilding.

No one moved. I heard afew people sigh and thengrumble about the alarmgoing off; one person roseandslammedherdoor.Run, people! Why don’t

you run? I heard Beatrix’s

footsteps drawing closer andclosertothestairwelldoor.

I hadn’t come this far togetcaught.Ilookedforideas.Above me was a coppersprinkler head. It had a littlebit of red glass in the center—when broken, it wouldsignal the water to startflowing. I knew this becauseof an unfortunate incidentinvolvingme,Walter,andourcleverideatobuildafull-size

catapult in the SRS sparringring.

I swung into the nearestoffice—where the guy wasplayinggolfwithaputterandacoffeecup.Hestaredatthefire alarm, frowning, like itwas a radio turned up tooloud.Ishookmyheadathim,grabbed the putter from hishands, and ducked back outbefore he had a chance toreact.

Beatrix pushed thestairwell door open just intime to see me swing theputter hard at the sprinklerhead.

Thesprinklerheadcrackedoff the ceiling, breaking theredglass.BeatrixandIstaredin unison for a brief secondandthen,justasthegolfclubowner whirled around hisdoor, water began to gushdown. The other sprinklers

obedientlykickedin.Now, finally, there was

action. Screaming, shouting,and squealing rang out.People dashed from theiroffices, papers or pursesabove their heads. From theend of the hall I could hearthe receptionist shouting forpeople to “run for theirlives!”

I questioned thisreceptionist’s threat-response

training.Idroppedthegolfcluband

sprinted back toward thestairwell, brushing pastBeatrix, who lookeddumbfounded and maybe alittle impressed. The doorslammed behind me as Islogged upstairs, leaving atrail of puddle-footsteps. Mystreet clothes were slowingme down; I shimmied out ofthemasIran,darklygrateful

for the waterproof SRSuniformunderneath.

Now I needed a hidingspot—any hiding spot—where I could wait until Ifiguredoutwhereintakewas.I reached the next floor andgrabbedthedoorhandle.

Locked.Itriedthenextfloor.Also locked. Wheezing, I

leaned back against therailingandlookedstraightup.

The stairwell wound up andupandupabovemesohigh,itmademedizzy.

The bottom door flungopen and staring up at mewere Ben, Beatrix, and twoadults. One was tall andskinny and looked like astretched-out version of Ben.The other was a tall blondwoman wearing a pantsuitthat was dripping water. Shepointedtome.

“An SRS uniform, I see.Grab him, Clatterbuck,” shesaid.

“Uh . . . okay,” said thetall man—Clatterbuck, Iguessed—sounding like he’dbeen woken from a nap andthought he might still bedreaming. He blinked backthe water from his eyes andstartedtowardme.

I swallowed. I couldn’tevenbeatmyownclassmates

ina fistfight. Ididn’t standachanceagainstarealagent—much less a League agent. Itried not to look terrified asClatterbuckapproached.Ihadtosaysomething,anythingtostallthem,toconfusethem.

“Groundcover! I’mworking on ProjectGroundcover!” I shouted,sayingthefirstmissionnamethat came tomind—the onlymission name on my mind

lately.Behind Clatterbuck, the

suitladyfroze.“What did you say?” she

whispered. Clatterbuckstopped.Hetriedtolookbackathisbosswithout takinghiseyes off me, which onlycausedhiseyestocross.

“Groundcover,”Irepeated,trying to puffmy chest up. Ideflated when the seams ofmyuniformsounded seconds

frompopping.The suit lady smiled, the

kind where it was all glossylipsticklipsandnoteeth.Shefoldedherhandsatherwaist.

“Relax, Clatterbuck,” shesaid. Then to me: “Do youlikepepperonipizza?”

“I...what?”“Pepperoni,” the suit lady

repeated. “We can orderwhatever you like. Just solong as you’re telling us

everything we want to knowaboutProjectGroundcover.”

ChapterNine

Clatterbuck was Beatrix andBen’s uncle. He didn’t lookimpressive, but I opted tobelievethathewas—forallIknew, he was one of thoseassassin-typeguyswhocouldkill me with his pinkie orsomething. Those guysalwayslookedweird.Thesuitlady didn’t introduce herself,

so it wasn’t until they’descorted me through thewaterlogged hallway andback to her office that I readher name off the door:PAMELA OLEANDER:DIRECTOR OFOPERATIONS.

TheLeague’sdirector—itsversion of SRS’s Dr.Fishburn.

So,doubleterrifying.Oleander sat behind her

desk, where Clatterbuck hadjust set three boxes of pizza.Oleander opened up thenearest box, and steam rosefromit.Sheliftedasliceandtook a bite, dodging a fewdrops of grease just beforethey hit her pantsuit.Clatterbuck took the seatbeside me and reachedforward to steal a slice forhimself.Hemangleditintoalumpofcheeseanddoughashetriedtoopenacanofsoda

without putting the pizzadown.

Oleanderchewedforafewmoments before speaking.“Have a slice,Mr. . . .” Shewaited for me to fill in myname.

“Jordan. Hale Jordan,” Isaid. The League had toknow about my parents—Imean, everyone in the spygamehadheardofKatieandJoseph Jordan. Maybe

learning that I was a Jordantoo would strike a little fearintotheirhearts.

Unfortunately, Oleanderdidn’t react to thename.Shejust nodded and pushed thepizza box closer to me. Itensed the muscles in mystomach to keep it fromgrowling. My vendingmachine breakfast had beenages ago, but no way was Itaking any food The League

offered me—it almostdefinitely had a sleeper druginit.

Oleandershruggedwhenitbecame clear Iwasn’t takingaslice.“Mr.Jordan—let’sbeclear. I’m not offering youpizza after you flooded mybuilding just to be nice. I’mdoing it because Iwant yourhelp.”

I scoffed, but Oleanderignored it. She put her pizza

down and leaned over thedeskalittle,keepinghereyeshard onmine. “I’ve heard ofProject Groundcover. But Idon’t knowwhat it entails. Iwantyoutotellme.”

I worked hard to lookblank—I’d done well inAdvanced Interrogationtechniques and BodyLanguageAnalysis,soIknewOleanderwasalreadymakingmental notes, working out

what would make me crack.Best to give her as littleinformationaspossible.“Youthink I’ll trade youinformation for some pizza?Not a chance.You have twoof our agents,” I said coolly.“Give them back, and we’lldiscussGroundcover.”

“I don’t have them,”Oleandersaid.

“I don’t believe you,” Ianswered.

Oleander sighed and putherpieceofpizzadown.“Mr.Jordan, even if I wanted tokidnap SRS agents, howwould I go about it? Lookaround.Doesthislooklikeanelite spy agency to you?There’s not a single fieldagentinthisplace,muchlesssomeonewiththeskilltotakeout two SRS agents. Thegovernment cut back ourfunding ages ago when wecouldn’tstopSRS.”

Ifrowned.TheLeaguehadgovernment funding? Thatdidn’tmake sense—SRS wasthe government organization.TheLeaguewas thecriminalagency.Whywouldcriminalshavegovernmentfunding?

Oleander saw myhesitationandstoppedonherwaytograbbinganothersliceof pizza. She gaveme a sortof pitying look. “Wait—thatsurprisesyou,doesn’tit?Ibet

everything I’m sayingsurprisesyou.You’vealwaysbeen told that SRS are thegood guys. That The Leagueare the bad guys. Right? Ofcourseyouhave.”

Ididn’tanswer.“And you’ve probably

been told we’re huge andpowerfulandouttogetyou.”

I still didn’t answer, but Iguess I didn’t need to.Oleander rose. “Come with

me,”shesaid.With Clatterbuck on my

heels, Oleander walked medown the hall, past peoplemoppingouttheiroffices,andto the stairwell. She fumbledwith a massive ring of keysthat clinked together like aninstrumentaswewalkedupaflight of stairs to the verydoorI’dtriedtoopenearlier.Oleander gave me a quicklook and inserted a thick

brass key into the lock,turningit.

The smell of age sweptover me, old paper andblanketsand stalebread.Thefloor was completely dark.Oleander stepped in first, theclack of her heels echoingacross theroom.Shereachedtoward the wall and flickedthe lightson.Theyprotested,flickering and snapping asonebyonetheyslowlylit.

“Thiswasthetechfloor,Ithink,”Oleandersaid.

“No, this was the controldeck,”Clatterbucksaidrathersomberly, running a fingeracrossadust-cakeddesk.

“Sorry,” Oleanderanswered. Then to me shesaid,“Itwasbeforemytime.I didn’t take over till afterthey’d pretty much shuteverythingdown.”

I barely heard this, too

shockedbywhatIsaw.A control deck, similar to

the one we had in SRS—dozens of desks, a giganticscreen, maps on the walls,speakers, a bridge liftedslightly above the rest of theroom, like a stage, for themission commander to paceon. Except everything in theroom was wrong. It was old—the desks were empty,stripped of computers save a

few yellowy-gray monitors.The speakers on the wallswere massive and square.Eventhemapswerewrong—countries and territories I’dmemorized when I was ninewere drawn in spots they nolonger existed. It lookedhaunted, like a corpse of aroominsteadofaplacewhererealpeopleworked.Don’t fall for it. They

made it look old.Nothing an

effects team couldn’t pull offwhileyouwereinOleander’soffice.

“We’re broken, Mr.Jordan. We’re not powerful,we haven’t kidnapped youragents, and moreover, we’renot the bad guys. SRS is theplace with high-endtechnology, with agents allover the world. I knowthey’ve convinced you thatthey’rethesecretgovernment

agency,but,well . . . it’snottrue.Theylied.”

“You’re saying that SRShas managed to trickhundreds of agents, supportstaff, and their families intoworkingfor thewrong team?That’sstupid,”Isnapped.

“That’s genius,” Oleandersaid steadily. “Andfurthermore, these agentswho are missing? Look atTheLeague.Andthenlookat

SRS. Which organization doyouthinkhastheresourcestomaketwopeoplevanish?”

“Are you saying SRSkidnappedtheirownagents?”

“I’m saying that’s a lotmore likely than us beingbehind it,” Oleander saidcoolly.Sheretreatedfromtheroom, flicking the lights offas she went; one sparked asthe fluorescent bulb blew.“Wecancontinuethetour, if

youwant.Seventy-ninefloorstotal.I’llshowyoueveryone,if that’ll make you believeme.”

“Itwon’t,”Iscoffed.Oleander frowned at me;

Clatterbuck looked back andforth betweenus like hewaswatching a tennis match.“Well then, Mr. Jordan,”Oleander finally said.“Whatever will we do withyou?”

Ididn’t realize it at the time,but Oleander was asking areal question—whateverwould they do with me?Clatterbuck reported that theintake cells—they did havethem, after all, which mademe feel pretty smug—werefull of storage boxes. FinallyOleanderfrownedandrappeda pen against her lips.“What’s in your office,Clatterbuck?”

“Um...achair,adesk,abobbleheaddog,adeadhouseplant—”

“Imean, that he can stealor read or report back toSRS,”Oleandersaidtestily.

“Oh! Nothing. EverythingonCreevy’sbeenlockedup,”Clatterbuck answered. Ididn’tknowwhoCreevywas,but I didn’twant to let themin on that fact, so I stared atthe wet floor like it was

particularlyinteresting.“All right.” Oleander

nodded. “We’ll lock him inyour office until he tells usaboutGroundcover.”

“And if I never do?” Iasked,foldingmyarms.Iwastrying to look menacing, butgiven the soaked SRSuniform,IsuspectedI lookedmorelikeagiantwetraisin.

Oleander gave me apitying look. “You’ll talk,

eventually.”“WhywouldIdothat?”“Because,” Oleander

answered as she walkedaway, “you’ll realize I’mtellingthetruth.”

Truth.She couldn’t be—there

was no way. And yet, thatword shone like a beacon inmy head, guidingme towardthe last timeI’dheard it.Myparents, talking in the

kitchen,mymom’s voice ontheedgeoftears.Wepretendlikewedon’tknowthetruth.

Couldthisbethetruthmyparentsweretalkingabout?

Clatterbuck warilyescorted me to his office,whichwason the same flooras the gym and tucked awayin a corner—as such it hadbeenspared thesprinklersonthe floor above. Beingbasementlevel,itdidn’thave

awindow, but he’d tacked afew dozen tropical calendarpictures to the back wall,which worked as asurprisinglydecentsubstitute.Tropical pictures aside, theroom looked like it belongedtoacomicbookillustrator,ormaybe a zombie movieaficionado. There werevintagemovie posters on thewall by the door and littlefigurines on every flatsurface. Toy cars still in

boxes and pictures of himwith everyone from theQueenofEnglandtothatguyfrom the action movies. Icouldn’t help but think thisoffice rivaled Kennedy’sbedroom in terms of colorspersquarefoot.

And it didn’t look as evilas I’d expected for TheLeague.

Clatterbuckgavemeasortof smile and turned to go,

yanking a baseball playerbobblehead off a shelf andtucking it safely into hispocketashewent.Assoonasthedoorclicked,Isighedandcollapsed intohis desk chair,wigglingaroundas theedgesof the duct tape covering thecushion pokedme.Mymindfelt crowded, too manythoughts bumping into oneanother.

SRSagentsweretaughtto

trust our guts—it was thevery first thing we learnedwhen we started training atsevenyearsold.Gowithyourfirst instinct and never lookback. I’d always liked that—the idea that the right thing,theground truth,wasalreadydeep inside us, and we justneeded to listen to it. It wasthe lesson that convincedmenot to give upwhen traininggot terrible,whenWalter gotmuscles, when Kennedy

became the best gymnast atSRS—becauseIalwaysknewthatdeepdown,thetruethinginmewasaspy,throughandthrough, no matter howslowlyIranamile.

But now, even while myhead was shouting thatOleander must be lying, thatTheLeaguewas trickingme,the deep true thing waswhispering, chanting overandover:Truth.Truth.Truth.

Findthetruth.

ChapterTen

I thought I was losing mymind—time seemed to begoing in reverse. Then Irealized time actually wasgoing in reverse—thatClatterbuck had some sort ofgoofy backward clock. Ishook my head at it, thencontinued to comb throughhis desk drawers.Most were

full of Chinese menus andpaperclips.

Someone rapped on thedoor.Ieasedthedeskdrawershutandstoodupgingerly.

“Hale?” a tiny femalevoicecalledout.“It’sBeatrix.Beatrix Clatterbuck? Fromthegym?”

“I remember,” I answeredthroughthedoor.

“Ibroughtyousomepizza.Myuncle saidyoudidn’t eat

earlier.”“I don’t want it,” I

answered, though again mystomachgrowledatthatexactmomentjusttomockme.

“Okay,” Beatrix said,sounding doubtful. “I didn’tlick it. Seriously. Open thedoor.”

“It’slocked—”“No,itisn’t,”Beatrixsaid.

“Imean, it is, but it’s lockedfromyourside.Theycouldn’t

just lock you in forever;there’snobathroom.”

She was right about therenotbeingabathroom,thoughit hadn’t occurred to me tillshe’d said it. I strode to thedoor andpulleddownon thehandle;itclickedandthelockpopped out obediently. Iexhaled in disbelief—theyreally had left me in anunlocked room?—and pulledthe door open. Beatrix

grinnedatme,anditwashardnottonoticeherovercrowdedteeth. At SRS, she’d alreadybe in braces. Probablywearing contacts too, Ithought, looking at her pink-rimmed glasses. Agentscouldn’t risk losing theirglasses in the middle of amission.

A thin black net droppedfrom the ceiling overBeatrix’shead.

Beatrix’s eyes widened.She dropped the plate ofpizza as the net whisked heroff her feet. Limbs wenteverywhereasshewaspulleduptotheceilinginaball.Thenet’s counterweight—anotherperson—sank down, landingexpertly in black SRS-issuedboots.

With pink owl stickers onthem.

“Kennedy?” I asked,

wondering if perhaps I washungrier than I’d thought.WasIhallucinating?

“Hale!” Kennedysquealed, bounding forwardtogivemea hug, a flameofred hair bouncing aroundbehindher.“Idid it!Thenettrick! I wish I could tellAgentHartman. She said I’dnever get it before DarcyBellows,butlook!”Mysisterappeared to be either on the

vergeoftearsorlaughter,butit was impossible to tellwhich.

“Why am I in a net?”Beatrix asked from above. Ilooked up and saw that thenetwas slowly spinning sidetoside.Beatrixlookedmildlyinconvenienced, if anything.“That was the last of thepizza,”sheadded,pointingtothe plate that was nowoverturnedonthefloor.

“Are you all right?”Kennedy asked her, puttingher hands on her hips. “It’smyfirstnettrap.”

“I’mokay.BenisgoingtobesomadIgotcaughtinthisinstead of him—what sort ofknot is at the top? I have totell him. Did you use apulley?”Beatrixasked.

“How did you get inhere?”Iasked.

“Ishimmiedthroughsome

windows downstairs. It waseasier than I thought—apparently the building justflooded? Or caught fire?Everyone was too busy withthattonoticeme,Iguess.”

“Okay,okay, let’s justgetout of here,” I said. I didn’twant her to know, but I waspretty mad at her forfollowing me—now I had toleave without answers aboutMom and Dad, since there

was no way I would letKennedy stay here longerthan necessary. “There areguards,” I said swiftly as Istepped out into the hallbesideher.

“League elites or justregular agents?” Kennedyasked.

“I...Idon’tthinkeither,”Isaid.

Kennedy didn’tunderstand, but therewas no

time to explain. “You won’tfit through the window Ishimmied through to get in—”

“Emergency door,” Iinterrupted. “First-levelstairwell.Isawitearlier.It’llsetoff thefirealarm,but it’sthat or the front door. We’llhavetorunforit.”

We froze in unison—footsteps, coming toward usfrom where the hall crossed

up ahead, just in front of the493 DAYS WITHOUT ANACCIDENT! banner.Kennedy faltered. Sneakingintoabuildingwasonething,but facing offwith a Leagueagent was another. She gaveme aworried look—I had tomove first. I was her bigbrother,afterall.Irushedoutinto the hallway, shoessquealing on the floor. Thefootsteps belonged to threemen who were running

straightatus.Ibracedmyself.Kennedy leaped around

me, flipped forward, andplanted her foot squarely onthe closest guy’s chest. Hiseyes widened and hestumbled backward, butKennedy didn’t weighenough to knock him downentirely. Kennedy whirledaroundtolookatmesmugly,nearly bonking herself in theface with her bright red

ponytail. Two other guysstarted toward me. I jumpedforward and grabbed the 493DAYS WITHOUT ANACCIDENT! banner. Iyanked one end down,trailing the string that held italoftbehindme.Iswallowed,thendivedforward,slidingonthe still-wet tiles towardKennedy.

“The string!” I shouted,and she nodded. Shewove it

around the men’s legs, thengrabbed the bit of string thathad held the banner up andwrappeditaroundtheagents’feet as I heaved back tostanding. The third guy, theoneKennedyhadkicked,waswatching everything, eyeswide, like he thought hemight be hallucinating.Gritting my teeth, I ranstraight for him, barrelingintohischest.Kennedydidn’tweigh enough to knock him

over, but I certainly did—hestumbled backward andtoward the other two, whoselegswerenowexpertly lacedtogether. Ihuffedanother lapwith the banner around thethreeuntiltheyweregatheredtogether,wrappedupintothebanner like a very oddbouquet. They shouted—atus, for backup, forwhoever’s-hand-is-on-my-buttto-move-it.

Kennedysteppedbackandgrinnedlikeshewasadmiringagloriouspieceofart.

“Come on,” I said, tryingnot to laugh—they did lookpretty glorious, all thingsconsidered. Grabbing herhand, Ipulledher toward thestairwell. I could hear morevoicesnow.Weburstintothestairwell, then through theemergencyexitdoor.

The now-familiar fire

alarmbegantoscream,but itdidn’t matter—we were out.We dodged through alleysandaroundbuildings,pausingto take deep breaths. Mostpeople didn’t seem to noticeus, but one kid stared at ouruniforms, head cocked to theside, trying toworkoutwhatwewerewearing.

“Scuba divingconvention,” Ipantedathim.We hurried off before he

could remember we werenowhere near a body ofwater.

Bythetimewemadeit tothe train, my legs felt likejelly. Kennedy, on the otherhand,wasbouncing, like shewasdrawingenergyfromthedangerofitall.

“Did you seeme,Hale? Itotally got that guy!”Kennedysaid,divingintothetrainseat.

I looked back the waywe’dcome, sure IwasgoingtoseeaLeagueagentrunningforusatanymoment,butthecity was normal. Busy, butnormal.Still,Ididn’ttakemyeyes off the station platformuntil we’d rolled away andbeguntopickupspeed.

“Didyouhearme,Hale?”Kennedy said, nowwhispering due to the fulltrain,thoughitwasthesortof

whisperthatmightaswellbeashout.“IbetifIkeepdoingthe leg presses AgentHartman’s always moaningabout, I’ll be strong enoughto knock him down nexttime!”

“Does anyone know youleft?”IaskedKennedy.

She shrugged, tugging atthe corner of her uniform.She’dmanaged to get a newone.“Idon’tthinkso.”

“Does anyone know Ileft?”

“Just me. Becauseseriously, Hale, that was theworst fake-sick voice I’veever heard this morning. Iknew you were up tosomething. So, did you findout anything? About wherethey’re holding Mom andDad? That’s why you went,right?”

“That’swhy Iwent, but I

couldn’t find anything,” Iadmitted, and I felt Kennedytense with disappointment. Iput an arm around hershoulders. “Don’t worry,though. I’ll figure somethingout.”

It didn’t take us long towalk back to the BR MBYCOUNTY SUBSTITUTEMATHEMATICSTEACHER TRAINI Gbuilding.Wepushedthedoor

open together, then froze intheopenframe.

A crowd was gathered atthe receptionist’s desk—Ms.Elma, Agent Otter, Dr.Fishburn, and a handful ofagents—some of them myjunior agent classmates.Otter, Green, and Kennedy’steacher,AgentHartman,wereall wearing SRS uniforms;Otter was stashing aswitchbladeinhispocket.My

eyes widened. Seeingsomeone like Agent Otterpreparing to go on an activemission was worrisome,because 1) itwas a remindermyparentsweren’tavailable;2)AgentOtter’suniformwasthree sizes too small, whichwas pretty horrifying; and 3)itmeantKennedyandIwerein serious trouble, if theywere sending senior agentsafterus.

“He’s back?” one of thejunioragents—itwasEleanor—whined. “Does this meanwedon’tgettogo?Man...”

“Who cares?” Rileysnorted. “I didn’t want myfirst mission to be findingFailHale—”

Fishburnclearedhisthroatloudly,whichshutthejuniorsup.Hepointedattheelevator.Shooting me irritated glares,the juniors descended back

intoSRS.Ms. Elma walked toward

us in a slow, practiced way,likeabigcat.Fora second Ithought perhaps she plannedon punching me—her scarseemedtobepulsingred,likesome sort of anger beacon.The senior agents werebehind her. Dr. Fishburndidn’t get up; instead heleaned back in his chair andplaced his fingertips together

delicately.The agents didn’t seem to

know exactly what to dowhen they reached us at thedoors.Weweren’t family,soit’snotliketheycouldsweepus into relieved and happyhugs—and to be honest, theideaofOtterhuggingmewassort of gross anyway.Kennedy, being much moreprecious than I was, got abrief and awkward side-

squeezefromAgentHartman.“Wherewereyou?”Agent

Hartman asked. Her voicewas rough but pretty. Ialways thought she lookedlike she should be playingacoustic guitar instead ofspying.

“IwantedtogoafterMomand Dad,” I began, thenpaused.Truth.

“Jordan?”Otterasked,andI realized I’d been silent for

toolong.“IwantedtogoafterMom

and Dad, but I got scared. Iwas hiding in the coffeeshop.”Itriedtoholdmyeyesand lips still, since those areusually the things that gaveliarsaway,whilemystomachfelt like it was boiling overinto my lungs. We had anentire class on deceptiontechniques, yet it hadn’tprepared me for lying to the

headofSRS.“We checked the coffee

shop,” Fishburn said. Hedidn’t sound mad. He didn’teven sound doubtful. Hisvoice was a straight line, noupsordowns.

“Iwasinthebathroom—”“Ichecked thebathroom,”

Ottersaid,foldinghisarms.“I was in the girls’

bathroom,”Isaidswiftly.Thelie was getting easier as all

the little untrue details fellinto place in my head, likewordsinabook.“Igotmixedup.”

Otter frowned, turned toKennedy. “Is that true?” heaskedher.

Kennedy’s faceimmediately broke into awide grin. “Yep,” she saidsmoothly.“Iheardhimcryingthroughthedoor.It’stheonlyreasonIfoundhim.”

I tried not to glare at heraddition to the lie.That said,her line aboutme crying didseem to convince the othertwo; Ms. Elma and AgentHartman stepped back andturned toward Fishburn,whorose slowly.Hedidn’tmatchtheroom;hewasgraywhereit was brown, cool where itwas warm. Fishburn sighed,walkedovertome,andputaheavyhandonmyshoulder.

“Hale,” he said. “I knowyou’re worried about yourparents.Weall are.ButSRShas protocol in place for areason. You can’t just leaveunsupervised. And youencouraged your sister to doit too! Lucky the downstairsreceptionistsawhersneakingintotheelevator,orwemighthave never known you twoweregone.”

I gave Kennedy a tense

look. Really, Kennedy? Youwent out the front door?Shechewed on her hair inresponse.

Fishburn shook his head,and then continued. “We dida full building lockdown foryou two. But given thatyou’re both under a lot ofstress, and that no real harmwas done, I’m going to letthis breach slide. Kennedy,nogymprivilegesforaweek

. . . Hale . . .” I saw himdebatingwhattodowithme,since revoking my gymprivilegeswasmoreof agiftthan a punishment. Hefrowned. “Hale, janitorialduty for the week. Andplease, Hale, Kennedy—never again. Your parentsbeing captured is a tragedy,notanexcuse.AmIclear?”

“Yes, sir,”Kennedy and Isaid in unison, Kennedy’s

lower lip trembling. I couldcount the number of timesshe’d been in trouble on . . .Well, actually, I couldn’tcountthem.She’dneverbeenintrouble.

“Ms.Elma,takethembackhome? And do keep a betterwatch on them this time,”Fishburn said. Ms. Elmanodded curtly, and she put ahand around me. I think shewastryingtobekind,buther

nails dug intomy arm aswegot on the elevator anddescended back into SRSheadquarters.

“Here we go,” Ms. Elmasaidassheunlockedthedoorto our apartment. “Backhome,safeandsound.”

I nodded and went to mybedroom. SRS was home,sure—itwaswhereI’dgrownup, after all. Apartment 300.Where my family lived,

whereI’dlearnedhowtofakeaSwedishaccentandshotmyfirst laser gun. It was whereone day I’d (hopefully)become a field agent, whereI’d eventually retire andmaybe even teach the nextgenerationofsuperspies.

SRS was home, but all Icould thinkof right thenwaswhatMom andDad said themorning they’d left—thatheroesdon’talwayslooklike

heroes, and villains don’talwayslooklikevillains.

Ihadtoworkoutwhowaswho. I had to work out thetruth.

ChapterEleven

The truth started with myparents. ItwasOleanderwhogave me the idea, really—when she’d suggested thatmaybeSRSitselfwasbehindmyparents’disappearance.Ifthatweretrue, there’dalmostcertainlybesomesortofclueto it in Mom and Dad’spersonnel files. Everything

gotputinthose,fromifwe’dhad chicken pox to ourfavoritevegetables.Personnelfiles, of course, weren’tavailable from any old SRScomputer lab. If I had toguess, they were probablyencryptedandaccessibleonlyby the computers on thecontrol deck, which wasalways full of HITS guys.TheHITSguyswererelaxed,but theystillwouldn’t letmego poking around high-level

encryptedfiles...Ineededhelp.I was good at a lot of

things. Russian, computerhacking, and putting on adisguise in under fifteenseconds, for example. I wasnot good at asking for help.There were a lot of reasonsfor this, but the main reasonwas:groupprojects.

EverysooftenAgentOtterwould assign us fake

missionswe had to completein groups of three or four—you know, stuff like “breakopen this door using fourtoothpicks”or“pretendI’maLeague translator, andconvince me you’re myBulgarian contact.” No onewantedmeontheirteam,soIusually got stuck withwhoeverwasunluckyenoughto havemissed class the dayeveryone picked teams.Group projects at SRS were

rarely about actuallycompletingwhatever the taskwas;theywereaboutmakingthe flashiest presentation. Sowhile the other SRS kids inmy group were figuring outways to rappel into theclassroom from the ceiling, Iwasactuallyopeningthedooror learning conversationalBulgarian.MomalwayssaidIshould talk to Otter about it;Dad said I should jam theirrappellingequipment.Inever

did either—what was thepoint?Ijustwantedtogetthedumbthingfinished.

Anyhow, the point is,group projects didn’t teachmehowtoworkwithateam.They taught me to trust noone.

But therewas one personatSRSIcouldtrust,andrightnow, I needed her. I kickedoffmyblanketsandcreptintothehallway.Ipokedmyhead

intoKennedy’sbedroom.Theeyes of a dozen cheerleaderanimals stared at me, likethey judged me for notwearingpink.Iignoredthem.

“Kennedy,”Iwhispered.“I’m getting up!” she

shouted so loud that I divedfor the bed and clamped ahand over her mouth. Shejolted awake and almostscreamed before realizing itwas me. We both froze and

stared at her bedroom door,cringing, waiting for Ms.Elmatobargeinwithherscarthrobbing.

Nothing.Slowly, I shut the door

behind me. Kennedy’s hairwas tangled on top of herhead, and her eyes werebleary and unfocused—Iwasn’t entirely sure shehadn’tfallenbackasleep.

“I need your help,” I said

quietly.“TofigureoutwhereMomandDadare.”Thatwasa partial lie, but it seemedsaferthisway.

“How?” she askedimmediately.

“Are you really awake?Youneedtorememberthis.”

“Yes!”“What’s seven times

eight?”“I don’t know. I’m not

good at math awake or

asleep!” she answered,wrinkling her nose. “Seventy...fifty-six!It’sfifty-six!”

“Right. Okay—I need theHITSguysoutof thecontroldecktomorrow.”

“When?”“Abouttwoo’clock.”Kennedy looked at me

solemnly for a few seconds,andthennodded.“Okay.”

I knelt down by her bedand whispered quickly,

explainingexactlywhattodo.She recited it all back tomefour times before I noddedandstood.

“Are you sure you’ve gotit?” Iasked,warily.“Wecangooveritagain.”

She rolled her eyes andflopped back onto herblankets,curlingthemaroundher like a nest. “I’ve got it,Hale.”

And then she was asleep

again.Iwished itwere that easy

forme.

Truthfully, there were worsethingsthanjanitorialduty.

I mean, SRS didn’t reallyget that dirty, since therewasn’t much of an outdoorspace. The janitors handedoveradustbinandbroomandsentmeoffintothehallswithinstructions to come back

onceI’dsweptall thewaytothe Disguise Department.Truthfully, they seemedpleased that I was in trouble—liketheywereproudofmeforcausingalittlechaos.

“Except that lockdown,”one of the janitors said in athick Bosnian accent. “I wasstuckoffthecafeteria,bythegarbagebins.”“Žaomije,”Isaid,which

is “I’m sorry” in Bosnian. I

didn’t speak it as well asFrench and Russian, but Iknew how to apologize andsay, “I like your shirt”—which meant the janitorslikedmewaymorethantheylikedanyofmyclassmates.Iwandered off, poking at thefloor with the broom. Theclassroomswereon thishall;through a window I sawWalterdoingpushups.

I wound through SRS,

runningtheendofthebroomalong the baseboards until Ifinally arrived at the controldeck.Iglancedin,assessing.

Nine HITS guys, all withenergy drinks or coffee cupsontheirdesks.Theyweretheonlyonesondeckwhentherewasn’t a mission being run,and though I saw a fewscrutinizing spreadsheets,most seemed to be playingvideo games. The gigantic

screen in the front of theroom blinked, updating theworld map full of little lightdots where active agentswere. I wondered which—ifany—weremyparents.

Mission:Findoutwho’sthehero

(andwho’sthevillain)Step1:Getontothe

controldeck

“Hale!” one of the HITScalled out. He waved to me,his fingers thick with dustfrom a tub of cheese puffs.“So,man.Yesterday.”

“Yeah.” Isighed,steppingintothedoorway.“Idunno.Itwasjust—”

Another HITS shook hisheadatme. “Hey,man,yourparents are missing. Ithappens. They gave youjanitorialduty?”

I smiled a little andnodded.IhatedthefactthatIdidn’t want to become aHITS guy—they were athousand times nicer thanWalter and four thousandtimeslesssweaty.

“Want to take a break?”thefirstHITSguysaidalittleslyly. “Play a round ofStarfighter?”

I grinned, then set mybroom and dustbin by the

door andwalked over to oneof theHITS guy’s desks.Hehurriedly closed a fewwindows on his screen,switchedthesettingsoversoIcouldn’t open any files, andthenofferedmehischair.

“All right,” one of themsaid, clicking something;suddenlythegiantworldmapwas replaced by theStarfighteropeningsequence.I wasn’t really good at the

game, but they were, and Ithink they fully believed thatoneday Iwouldgiveupandjointhem.Andwhenthatdaycame,Iguesstheywantedmeto already be good at theirfavoritegame.

“We got the expansionpack,” one of theHITSguysexplained.

“I thought you said itdidn’t come out for anotherfewmonths?”

“Itdoesn’t,”hesaidwithawicked smile. “Come on,Hale.We’re the tech guys atanelitespyorganization,andyoudon’tthinkwecanbreakintoStarfighter’sservers?”

I laughed and forcedmyself toslouchandrelaxaswestartedupagame. I stolea glance at the clock everytime we paused the game sothey could take long swigsfrom their energy

drinks/coffees. One fifty-three. Come on, Kennedy. Ifeltdumbworrying—thiswasthe nine-year-old who brokeinto League headquarters.Surely she could handlesneakingoutofclassforthis.

One fifty-seven. WestartedupanothergameandIbegan to lose faith—what ifshe’dbeencaught?She’dgetpunished again, and itwouldbemyfault.

Theintercombythecentercomputer beeped loudly, alight at the top flashing red.The HITS guys froze thegame,theteamleaderclearedhisthroat,andtheotherssankdown into their desks—throwingmeoutofmychair—likeonebigchoreographedmotion. They might be theHITS, but they were stilltrainedbytheSRS.

“HITS,howcanwehelp?”

the agent said quickly. Theothers were at their stations,poisedandreadytoact.

“Hi—can you guys comehelpme?I’minthecomputerlab on level four and thewhole thing is actingweird.”My sister’s voice was loudand so high-pitched, it madethespeakercrackle.

Step2:CreateadiversiontheHITS

can’tignore

“Have you triedrestarting?” the agent said astheothersrelaxed.Theyusedthelulltoballuptheiremptychip bags and toss themtowardthetrashcan.Theyallmissed.

“Yeah,butit’sjust—okay,so I’m making a project onhypnosisforclasswithAgentFarley,andIwantedtomake

it pretty, so I downloadedallthesefreefontsoffawebsite.And then this thing poppedupthatsaidI’dwonalaptop,andIclickedit,andthen—”

Again, like a dancenumber, theHITS jumped totheir feet. They sprinted forthe door, their footstepsslapping down the hall soloudly, they sounded like astampede.Iheardthemroundthe outside corner, shouting

about virus protection andsecure networks. It wouldn’ttake long before they sentsomeone back to watch thedeck while the othersperformed software surgeryon Kennedy’s computer. Irushedacrosstheeerilysilentcontroldeckandslidintothecentercomputerdesk—itwasthe one most likely to havefullsecurityclearance.

Step3:Gatherintel

First, ProjectGroundcover. It didn’t takeme long to figureouthow toopencase files—afterall, I’dseen the HITS guys do itdozensoftimes.

ProjectName:Groundcover

Status:GoldLevel

Classified

I groaned, louder than I’dintended—Gold Level meantonly Dr. Fishburn couldaccess it from his officecomputer. Still, I scrolleddown. Most of the missiondetails were grayed out andunclickable. At the bottom,however,wasacategorythat,while unclickable, stillprovided information that

made me freeze for adangerouslylongtime.

ActiveAgents:KatieJordan(Role:RETINASCANREQUIREDTO

ACCESS)JosephJordan(Role:RETINASCANREQUIREDTO

ACCESS)

There were other agentslisted as well. A few werejunior agents, but most werenames I didn’t recognize—Iguessed they were probablyfrom other SRS facilities.One was Alex Creevy, aname I vaguely rememberedClatterbuck mentioning backat The League—EverythingonCreevywaslockedupages

ago. I clicked on all thenames uselessly, hoping toreveal more information, butfinally the computer beepedangrily at me. If I kept thisup,theentirethingmightshutdown—Ihadtokeepmoving.I closed thewindow, openedthe indexofSRSagents, andtypedfrantically.Katie Jordan. Mom’s file

poppedup,thebordersofthewindowbrightredtoindicate

the security clearanceneededto access it. I heardsomethinginthehall—maybejust the AC kicking on,maybe footsteps, but I didn’thavetimetopauseanddwellonit.Thecomputerslowedasthe system struggled to pullup the hundreds of missionsshe’d participated in, ProjectGroundcover included.Meanwhile Dad’s faceappeared slightly smallerbeneath hers, under the

heading “Current Partner.”Finally the computer caughtup, and I scrolled downfrantically. Status, status, Ijust needed to see her status.If SRS was telling the truth,she’dbelistedas“missinginthefield.”

I froze, staring at thescreen.Blinking,angryletterssmashed throughmyeyesallthe way to my brain,rummaged around, and tore

up everything I thought wasreal.

Status:IntheWeeds

Mom and Dad weremarked to be eliminated onsight.BySRS.

ChapterTwelve

You know that feeling whenyou’re in thecar,andyougoover some little dip in theroad, and your stomach goesup for just a second? At themomentyou’realittlescaredbecause you feel all offbalance, but once it’s over,you realize itwas pretty fun,andwant togoover it again.

But then the supervisingagent driving you to thedentist is like, No, we don’thave time to go over bumpsjust for fun, Hale, now bequiet?

Maybethatlastpartisjustme.

Butanyway,thatfeeling—like the world was droppingout fromunderyousuddenly—that was what readingaboutmyparentsbeingInthe

Weeds felt like. The worldfell away, and I keptwaitingfor thatmoment, themomentwhere someone revealed thatthis was all just a joke or atrainingmissionorsomesortof twisted test. I’d beembarrassed that I’d fallenfor it, andmy parentswouldcomeoutandremindmethatI should have kept my cool,andhugme,andthenwe’dgohomeandI’dcomplainaboutmy uniform and we’d talk

about blast-door-wiringschematics over dinner, likenormal.

Thatdidn’thappen.I printed the screen about

myparentsandkeptthepaperfoldedupinmypocket.Eachtime I took it out, I hoped itwould read differently. Eachtime, I was more sure aboutwhatIhadtodonext:IhadtotrustTheLeague.They’dtoldme the truth about my

parents, so there was noreason to think they werelying about everything else.Theyweretheheroes.

I had to go back. I had tobecome a hero too—for myparents’sakes.

For the next week I very,very carefully rebuilt myreputation—whichistosay,IwentbacktobeingFailHale.Therewastoomuchattentiononme,and I’dneverbeable

tosneakawaysolongasthatwas the case. So, I went toclass. I lost the race at theend.IavoidedWalterandtheForeheads—who, given thatI’d revealed their favoritekitchen escape route, werenow especially Walter-y. IignoredKennedy’sconcernedlooks and Ms. Elma’sattempts to convince us thatshe’dactuallycookeddinner,evenwhenwerecognizedthefood from the cafeteria’s

lunchmenu.It paid off—the following

Friday, Otter handed me hisdrycleaningticketandwavedme off whileWalter and theother junioragentsheaded tothe firing range to practicedefensive archery. I breezedpast the receptionist, as perusual, but then instead ofheadingtothedrycleaner’s,Iboarded the first train toFairview.

“Mr.Jordan!Dr.Oleandertoldmeyoumightbeback!”theguyat the receptiondesksaid when I walked intoLeague headquarters, and hisvoice was all flat—like hehadn’t been told, but rather,warned. He kept an eye onmeasheliftedhisphoneandpressed a few buttons, thenspoke quickly into thereceiver. A few momentslaterOleanderappearedattheend of the hallway, walking

toward me quickly, pantsuitcrispandrustling.

“Mr. Jordan,” Oleandersaid kindly, then held out awell-manicured hand. “Iassumewe have a lot to talkabout.”

Ishookherhand,suddenlyaware of how clammy myownwas.“Wedo.”

Oleander led me back toheroffice,whereClatterbuckjoined us. I withdrew the

printout on my parents andhandedittoher.

“I broke into the controldeck and saw that,” I saidquietly. “Katie Jordan andJoseph Jordan. Those are thetwo agents I thought TheLeaguekidnapped.”

“Jordan—they’re yourparents, aren’t they?”Oleander said, and I got theimpression she wasn’tentirelysurprised.

I nodded. “I think theyknew. About everything, Imean—I think that’s whythey were marked In theWeeds.Theyfiguredout thatSRSwerethebadguys.”

Oleander exhaled. “Well,Hale, the news could beworse.They’reIntheWeeds,not Contained. That meansthey’re on the run. SRSdoesn’t have them. And I’mguessing thatalsomeans that

whenyouwereherelasttime,you lied about being on amission for ProjectGroundcover. You came onyour own to rescue them,didn’tyou?”

Inoddedagain.Oleander smiled a little.

“That was very brave ofyou.”

I didn’t know how toanswer, both because thanksseemed like a stupid thing to

say, and because my chestfelt like it was defrostingfromhowgoodit felt tohearsomeone say that. I waited afewmomentsbefore takingabreath and continuing. “I’msorry I lied aboutGroundcover—but myparents really were workingonthatmission,whateveritis—that’s what they were outon when they went missing.I’msure ifwecan find themor make it safe for them to

come to us, they’ll tell youwhat they know. And in themeantime,IfigureIcandrawup blueprints of the SRSfacility.Iknowyou’relowonpeople here, but I thinkwithmy blueprints, a fifteen-manteam could get in there andcause enough damage to setthem back. To really takethemout,you’llneedat leastfifty people, and I don’t . . .Well . . . I don’t think weshould hurt any of them.

They’reallprobably just likeme—they have no ideathey’re fighting for the badguys.Sowegoback,getmysister, and then . . . I don’tknow, I guess we live herewithyouguys?”

“Mr. Jordan, that won’twork,” Oleander saiddelicately.

I stared. “Where are wegoingtolivethen?”

“Oh,no,Idon’tmeanthat

—you’re welcome to live inour dorms here, thougheveryone at The Leagueactually lives off campus—Clatterbuckandthetwinslivein that beige apartmentcomplex across the street?Never mind, that’s not thepoint.What Imeantwas,wecan’t go intoSRS at all.Notwith fifty men, not withfifteen. Literally, we can’t—we don’t have the resourcesfor a mission like that. We

barely have the resources tokeep the lights on. You’retalking about putting ourmiddle-age former fieldagents up against SRS’sflawlesslytrainedarmyof...of...”

“Hard bodies,”Clatterbuck offered, lookingdownathisbellymournfully.

Oleander looked annoyed,but she nodded. “AgainstSRS’sveryfit,veryfast,very

smart, very well-suppliedagents.Hale,Groundcover isthe pin in the middle of allthis—I don’t think it’s justwhat your parents wereworking on when they wentmissing. I thinkGroundcoveris why your parents wentmissing—orat theveryleast,ithadtobewhattippedthemoff about what sort oforganization SRS really is.Wehavetoknowmore.”

I paused, trying not to betoo bothered that there wassomeone else telling me to“thinkofthemission”insteadof my parents. I guessdirectors of spy agencies arejust mission-focused bynature. I said, “I don’t knowanythingelse.Groundcoverisa highly classifiedmission. Ican’t access any informationon it, and it doesn’t soundlikeTheLeaguecaneither.”

“But maybe together, wecould,”Oleandersaid.

“Whatdoyoumean?”Oleander took a deep

breath and glanced atClatterbuck beforeresponding. “We’d like youtogobacktoSRS.We’dlikeyou to be a double agent.Keepworking forSRSwhilereally working for TheLeague. Ifwe figure out andstop Groundcover, not only

have we kept SRS frombecomingmorepowerful,butI think we’re a lot closer tomaking it safe for yourparentstocomehome.”

Nowitwasmyturntotakea deep breath. “Things don’twork out well at SRS fordouble agents,” I finally saidgrimly. I said agents, but I’dactually only ever heard ofone double agent—it wassupposed to be a secret, so

naturally, everyone knewabout it by the timewewereseven.I’llspareyouthefinerpointsofwhatSRSdidwhenthey realized they had atraitorin-house.Let’sjustsaythat Kennedy swore she’dseenhisghostonce.

“We know,” Oleandersaid. “Don’t think I’moblivious as to what thiswould mean, Hale. Butwithoutan insideman,we’re

left exactly where we werebeforeyoubrokein—”

“I didn’t say I won’t doit,” I cut her off. “Just thatthingsdon’tworkoutwellforthem.Butyes—I’min.I’llbeadoubleagent.”

Oleander looked pleased.She rapped her nails on thedesk a bit and then spoke.“Allright,Hale—whatsortofmissions are you on rightnow?Whatweneedis toget

you assigned to ProjectGroundcover, but we’ll needtoknow—”

I lifted my eyebrows,halting her. “I don’t go onmissions.”

“I’msorry?”“Idon’tgoonmissions,”I

repeated. “I can’t pass thephysical exam, so I’m not ajunioragent.”

Clatterbuck and Oleandergave each other wary looks.

“Areyou...closetopassingit?” Clatterbuck askedhesitantly.

“No,” I answered. “Look,I’ll do what you want—butthere’s noway they’re goingto start sending me onmissions.”

Oleander frowned. “Well.Huh.Clatterbuck?Anyideas?What would you have donebackinyourmissiondays?”

“We would’ve sent in a

different agent,” Clatterbucksaiduselessly. “How is akidable to break intoand out ofLeague headquarters not ajunioragent?”

“Your security isn’t verygood,” I muttered.Clatterbuck looked offended,but Oleander sort of noddedinagreementandthensighed.

“Hale,whydon’tyouheadtothecafeteriaandgrabsomedinner while we sort this

out?”“All right,” I said. “But

I’ve got to be back at SRSbefore lockdownat seven, orthey’ll miss me.” I trudgeddown to the cafeteria, handsslunginmypockets.

I wasn’t quite sure whyThe League called this acafeteria—itwasreallyawallof vending machines and abasket of sandwiches madefrom questionable-looking

cheeses. There wasn’t anattendant, but there was ajarfulofcoinsandasignthatsaid HONOR SYSTEM. Ididn’thaveanymoney,andIdidn’tthinkit’dbodewellforme to take one withoutpaying—after all, that wouldmean my first act at TheLeague was to flood theplace, andmy secondwas tosteal.Therewas a littlebowlof candy on one of thechipped-up tables, though, so

I slumped down into one oftheclosestchairsandateone.

“Hale!” someone saidcheerily. I looked up to seeBen walking into the room,followed by Beatrix. “Youcameback!”

“Idid,”Ianswered.“Did you sneak in? Did

you use another disguise?”Beatrixaskedexcitedly.“Benand Iwere talking about thatCampfire Scout uniform—

well, actually, everyone wastalking about it. That wasgenius.Genius.”

“It was just some cut-uppants,” I said, though I didfeelmyselfswellalittle.Thatoutfitwasprettyclever,andIknew it. “But no, I didn’tsneak in. I came to talk toOleander.Shewasright.SRShasmyparentsmarkedIntheWeeds.IsnuckintotheHITSroom and looked up their

files. But now theywantmeto go rogue and be a doubleagent—”Istopped,becauseIrealizedBenandBeatrixwerestaringatme,wide-eyed.

Ireallyhadnoideahowtotalk to kids who weren’tspies.

Ben sat down on thetabletop,swinginghislegsoffthe edge. Beatrix took thespotacrossfromme.

“So, is it like in the

movies? Do you knowkarate? I took karate once,butIwasn’tverygood,”Bensaid. I opened my mouth toanswer,buthekeptongoing.“Ibetit’sjustlikethemovies.Doyouwalkawayfromalotofexplosions?”

“What?”Iasked.“You know. Something

explodes and you just walkaway. Because you don’teven care. You’re that cool.

Walkaway.”“Uh,no.Idon’tthinkI’ve

ever walked away from anexplosion,”Isaid.

“Have you ever killedanyone?” Beatrix askedhesitantly.

“What? No. We’re spies,notassassins!”Ianswered.

Ben changed the subject,sort of, which I appreciated.“So you’re going to be adouble agent? You’re going

tospyonSRS?”“I was going to. But

Clatterbuck and Oleander’splans all revolve around megetting sent onmissions, andI’mnotajunioragent.”

I reached forward to takeanother candy out of thebowl.Theywerepurple, so Iimaginedtheyweresupposedtobegrape,but they tastedalittle strange.Beatrixmade ayelping noise and dived for

myhand.“Have you been eating

those?”Bensaid,andhistonewas urgent. Urgent enoughthat I realized we weretalkingaboutsomethingmoreserious than a broken honorsystem.

“Yes—well, I ate one,” Isaid,liftingmyeyes.Beatrix,who was clutching myforearmhalfwaytothecandydish,madeawhistling sound

throughherteeth.“That’s not good,” Ben

said.“What?Wait,isitpoison?

Whyisitoutintheopen?No,never mind that—antidote.Get me the antidote, andhurry,” I said throughpursedlips.Iwantedtoshoutthat,ofcourse,butIknewfromIntrotoChemicalCompounds thatpanicking would make myheart race, which would just

getthepoisonintomysystemeven faster. I took a deepbreath.

“It’snotpoison,”Bensaid.“Don’tworry. It’soneofmyinventions.”

I let the breath out. “Youinventedhardcandies?”

“Notall the hard candies.Just these specifically.They’recalledJellyBENs.”

“JellyBENs?”“I put my name in

everythingIinvent.Thatwayno one can rip me off. EverheardofNikolaTesla?”

“Ithinkso...,”Isaid.“Well, he invented the

radio, but who got credit forit? Marconi. All he did wassteal the idea, and suddenly,oh, thanks, Marconi, yourinvention is totallyrevolutionizingcommunication! Teslashould’ve gotten that award.

Anddon’tevengetmestartedon Niagara Falls—did youknow that Edison totallyripped Tesla off? Hepromisedtopayhim...”Benranted, throwing his handsaround.

Beatrix gave me asympathetic look. “Ben getsveryupsetaboutTesla.”

“Clearly,”Isaid.“SowhatdoJellyBENsdo,exactly?”

“Well,” Ben said,

frowning. “They’re supposedtohaveasideeffect.But. . .Beatrix, shouldn’t it havehappenedbynow?”

“That’s what my notessay,” Beatrix answered,looking down at her RightHand. “Hang on—no! Wehavetoaccountforhisheightandweight—”

“There!” Ben said,pointing enthusiastically atme.

I frowned and looked atmy hands. Nothing washappening. Beatrix finallypressed a fewbuttons on herRight Hand and held thescreen up to me. She’dflippedthecamerasoIcouldseemyselfonthescreen—myentirefacewaspurple.

Not like, oh-is-he-choking? purple. Really,really purple—the sort ofcolor you’d expect to see on

rare Amazonian frogs. Thecolor of the kittens on thewalls inKennedy’sbedroom.Bright,obnoxiouspurple.

“Ben, Beatrix,” I saidcalmly. “Why is my headpurple?”

“Oh, it’s not just yourhead,”Bensaid. “It’ll spreadto your chest—Oh, I think italready has! Wait, is yourbuttpurpleyet?”

“I haven’t checked,” I

said. “How long will thislast? Because I have to gobacktoSRStonight.”

Beatrix shrugged. “Sinceyou only ate one, the colorshould fade inanhouror so.Now, if you’d eaten all ofthem,you’dbepurpletill...I’dsaynextThursday?”

“At least,” Ben agreed.“Beatrix was purple foralmost three days, but youweighmorethanshedoes,so

you’llburn thechemicalsofffaster.”

I exhaled. Somehow theinside of my mouth tastedpurple. “All right, all right.How’d you learn to do this,anyway? Does The LeagueteachclasseslikeSRSdoes?”

“Classes? No—Beatrixand I are homeschooledthrough the Internet. But Ididn’t exactly learn how todo this—I found some

leftover chemicals in drystorage and started inventingthings.”

“So...that’swhatyoudoallday?Youmixchemicals?”

“No!Ofcoursenot.Somedays we just rewire things,”Beatrix said, lookingoffended. “Sometimes it’sjust for fun, but theJellyBENs . . . We thoughtmaybe someone would likethem for April Fools’. You

know, ‘Turn all your friendspurple!’and—”

“That’sit!”Icutheroff.Ilooked at the bowl ofJellyBENs, then back up atthem.Igrinned.

“Oh, his teeth are purpletoo!” Beatrix exclaimed, andtyped this into her RightHand.

“Guys,” I said, “I’ve gotan idea for these, and it hasnothing to do with April

Fools’.”

ChapterThirteen

I un-purpled a little bit laterand leftTheLeaguewithmypockets jammed full ofJellyBENs. I thought aboutexplaining the plan toClatterbuckandOleander,butIendedupkeepingmymouthshut since, for one, I figuredBen probably wasn’tsupposed to be playing

around with expiredchemicals and second, if thewholeplanfailedmiserably,Ididn’twant themlosingevenmorehopeinmydoubleagentabilities.

“Don’t worry, Hale,”Clatterbuck told me as wedrove back toward SRS. Iwasinthebackseatofabeat-up Chevy, hunched downunder a blanket just in casesomeonefromSRShappened

to glance into the car.“Oleander and I will figuresomethingout.I’vejustgottoget back into the agentmindset, you know? Makemymindallsteelyagain.”Hethumpedhistempleashesaidthat. “I tell you, Hale, I wasone of the elite back in theday. Where should I dropyou?”

“Thedrycleaningplace,ifyoudon’tmind—have to get

AgentOtter’sjackets.Doyouhave fivedollars? I spent themoney they gaveme for drycleaningontrainfare.”

“I’m sure I’ve gotsomething. The train isn’tgoingtoworkforeverthough—what if you need to cometo see us and there’s not atrainleavinganytimesoon?”

“True,” I said. “Plus, thatsortofregularityisrisky.Weneedtomixitup.Maybeyou

coulddriveadifferentcarandcomegetme,nexttime?”

Clatterbuck’s face lit up,and I couldn’t exactly figureoutwhy.“Yes!Yes,Icandothat. You know, I was justabout to start doinginternational field work, butthen,well...thenIsortahadto take in Beatrix and Ben,whichmeantretiring...”

I frowned. “Why’d youtakethemin?Wherearetheir

parents?”Clatterbuck sort of shifted

in his seat. “Theywere fieldagents too. Beatrix and Benwere only three. They don’tremember much,fortunately.”

I layverystill, thoughmystomach was flipping overandover inmygut.Iwantedtoknowhow,when,why,butall the questions in my headsounded prying. I was

grateful when Clatterbuckfinallyeasedthecartoastopandturnedaroundtofaceme.I pulled the blanket off myheadbutstayeddownlow.

Clatterbuck smiled,shaking off at least the mostobvious bits of sadness overBen and Beatrix’s parents.“Right, here you go—fourdollars and sixty-seven centsis all the cash I have onme.But I do have this for you,”

he said, and extended hisclosed fist with a grin. Hestuckhishandrightundermynose and then opened hispalm dramatically, revealinga thick gold bangle with alargerubyinthecenter.

“You got me a prettybracelet?”

“It’s a communicationunit!” Clatterbuck saidbrightly.

“Is it?” I didn’t mean to

sound doubtful. It was justthat the thing was massivecompared to the coms weusedatSRS.Plus?Itwasall...sparkly.

“Oh, comeon, just hide itunder your sleeve,”Clatterbuck said, reachingforward and slipping thebracelet—I meant, com unit—overmywrist.Isighed.AtleastifWalterandhisfriendssaw it, they’d be too busy

laughing to realize I wasdouble-crossing SRS.Clatterbuck continued,“That’s just the microphone—itdoesn’thavegreatrange,but we can pick upconversations within a fewfeet.Theearpiece...Well...youdon’thavetowearitallthe time. Just put it onwhenyouwanttotalkwithus.”Hereached into his vest pocketandremovedaheavy-lookingruby earring. The clip-on

kind, the sort that was toofancy and overdone topossiblybearealjewel.

“You have got to bekiddingme.”

“Now, come on, Hale.This is theonlycomunitwehave that’ll work fromunderground. Actually, it’stheonlyonewehavethatstillworks, period. All the othershad dead batteries and Icouldn’t figure out how to

change them out. Only oneearring is an earpiece, butthere’s a second—hang on,it’sdowndeepinmypocket.. . Oh, there it is. Anyway,there’sasecondso they looklike a set of earrings. You’dlook stupid just wearing oneearring,afterall.”

“AndIdefinitelywouldn’twant to look stupid,” Imuttered, plucking theearringsfromhisfingers.

“I’ve got a set too, onlymineareemeralds. Ipromiseyou, Hale, I’ll be wearingthemall the time just incaseyouneedus.Allthetime.”

“Even in the shower?” Isaid, grimacing. I didn’t liketo think of talking toClatterbuck in the shower. IlikedtheideamuchlesswhenIrealizedhe’dnotonlybeinthe shower, but wearingladies’jewelry.

“Well, no. They aren’twaterproof. I know! I won’tshower until I hear fromyou!” He nodded at mesincerely.

“Thanks,” I said, andweirdly enough, I wasgrateful.Itwasn’teverydayIsawsomeonesodedicated totalkingwithme.Ijumpedoutof thecarandcutaround theback of the building. It tookonly a few moments to grab

Otter’sdrycleaningandslidebackintoSRSheadquarters.

“Youmissedit!”Kennedysaid when I walked into ourapartment. Her volume toldme that Ms. Elma wasn’taround, which was a relief.Shewasstillprettymadatmeover the lack of Present-Paloozaafewweeksback.

“Missedwhat?”Iasked.“We did a field exam

today,” Kennedy said,

hopping fromone foot to theother.“AndmyteachersaysIcan maybe test for junioragentlaterthismonth!”

My mouth dropped. All Icould see were our parents’names beside the status “Inthe Weeds.” How couldKennedy still be excitedabout being an agent forSRS?

Becauseshedidn’tknow.Ididn’tfeelgoodaboutit,

butIliedtoKennedy.AfterIgotbackfromtheHITSlab,Itold her I couldn’t findanything. I told myself thiswas because I was worriedshe couldn’t keep it a secret,but really, it was because Ijust couldn’t handle tellingmy sister that our home, ourschool,ourworldwantedourparentskilled. Itwas just toomuch. She was only nine,afterall.

“Congratulations,”Isaid.Iwalked to the couch andflopped down next to her.“I’m sure you’ll pass.You’llbeagreatjunioragent.”

Thiswas true—Iwas sureshe would pass. And I wassure she would be a greatjunioragent.

Whichterrifiedme.

Timingiseverythingtoaspy.Onesecond tooearly,you

get spotted. One second toolate,youmissabrushpass. Ididn’t just need the rightsecond,though—Ineededtherightday.

The troublewas, agents—especially junior agents—didn’t typically get a lot oflead time on missions. Myparents were usually notifiedthe day of for a domesticmission; for an internationalmission, if they were lucky,

they might get twenty-four-hours’ notice. It made sensefor Fishburn to keepinformation close—he oftensaid, “The more movingparts, the more things thereare to break.” Too manypeople involvedwithmissiondetails,andtherewastoobiga chance of somethingaccidentallygetting leakedordiscovered or hacked andwreckingtheentirething.

So,Ihadtowait.“No double cuts, and if it

blows, you start over,” Otterbarked at us on Friday, likewe’d offended him just byshowing up for class. Wewere diffusing mock bombs,and I was pleased to seeWalterwasfailingmiserably.HisbombblewupthreetimesbeforeI’devenbegun,largelybecause hewasn’t taking thetime towork out how itwas

wired—he was just hackingand hoping for the best.Luckily for him, theseweren’t actual explosives—they were just computerprograms that flashed theword “boom” at you andplayed a cheesy explodingsoundifyoumessedup.

Thefakebombinfrontofme had a half dozen wiresstrung between the cylindersof metal. The wires were a

mess—tangled and knottedtogether, and the ends werestrippedoftheircolorssothatyou couldn’t always tellwhich color wire really wasconnected to what. A timerhad been fixed to it, whichwas new to us, and it madethe whole diffusing thing awholelotharder.

Walterblewupagain.I inched my fingers into

the bomb, reaching for the

pink wire that was lodgeddown by the bottom. Thatcontrolled the bulk of thedevice, so surely it was agoodplace to start. I reachedin and clipped it. Nothinghappened. I grinned andturnedtolookatthetimer...

Iblewup.“Oops,” said Michael—

one of the Foreheads.“Butterfingers,Hale?”Waltersnorted in response and the

twoof themdidsomesortofhandshake that involvedbothchest-andfist-bumping.

“Butterfingers? Nope,” Imuttered, clippingadifferentwire.Ipaused.

Itdidn’tblow.My computer screen

turnedbright green. I pushedmychairbackandfoldedmyarms.

“Don’tlooksohappywithyourself,” Walter told me.

“Come next Friday, you’llstill be here, making latterunswhileI’minthefieldonanactualmission.”

“What, like interviewingkids at a chesschampionship?” I mutteredunder my breath. Walter’sfirst junioragentmissionhadbeenafewmonthsback,andit hadn’t exactly been arivetingpage-turner.

Waltergloweredbutdidn’t

say anything else. Instead hecut another wire and hisscreen turned green. It wasonlyamomentlaterthatmostof the class’s screens did.Cameron,theotherForehead,was last. I thought it waspretty ridiculous that no onegotmockedforcominginlastplace here. Otter walked tothemaincomputerand typedin a few things; our bombsreset, with differentparameters this time, andwe

beganagain.Ibeatmyclassmatesevery

time,butIhardlynoticed.Mymind was on the mission—my mission for The League.But moreover, whatevermission Walter planned ongoingonnextFriday.

Walterwouldn’tbegoing.But if everything wentperfectly,Iwouldbe.

ChapterFourteen

Whilemost everyone at SRSatedinnerintheirapartments,lunch was pretty muchalways eaten in the cafeteria.Noonewantedtorunbacktotheirapartments,eat,andthenrushbacktoclassorworkorCentral Asia, so everyonewas willing to muddlethrough whatever super-

healthy and super-tastelesscombination of foods thenutritionistshaddrummedup.After Thursday’s morningclasses—duringwhichWaltermanaged to take his shirt offnot once, but twice—we allwalkedtothelunchroominapack, Otter trailing alongbehind us. I kept pace withthe others. Then, when wecleared the cafeteria doors, Ihurriedaheadintheline.

Mission:GetsentonFriday’smission

Step1:Waitforchiliday

Four-bean chili wasfamous at SRS, because itwas the closest thing thenutritionist would make tojunk food. Sure, it wasmeatless and cheeseless, andthe nutritionist was always

trying to convince you thatsoft tofu was a perfecttopping, but still. In a sea ofsalads and fish cakes, chiliwasprecious.Noonemissedgettingatleastonebowlful.

Todaywaschiliday.A few ladies fromEnemy

Surveillance were alreadyeating but rose when wejostled our way toward thesoup station. They lookedannoyed thatabunchofkids

were interrupting their lunchbreak. I got to the servingcounterfirst,grabbedabowl,and reached for the ladle.Cameron pressed in closebehind me, like if he didn’tpractically stand on myshoulder bones, he mightmissout.

Step2:Forceproximity

Proximitywaskeyforthissort of trick. The closer youwere to someone, the lessthey could see. Everyoneknew that—in fact, everyoneatSRSknewthisentiretrick,since we learned it in yearthree. But since it didn’tinvolve explosions, daringescapes, or fancy codes, Isuspected my classmateswouldn’t even realize I waspullingoneoveronthem.

“Back off,” I huffed athim, taking my time liftingthelidfromthepotofchili.

“Come on, Hale,”Cameron said, rolling hiseyes at me. “You’re holdingeveryoneup.”

Step3:Createadiversion

Iloweredtheladleintothechili, scooped up a serving,

and brought it toward mybowl.Ilettheladlestrikethesideofthepot,spillingabouthalf of its contents over theedge and onto the floor.Cameron behind me jerkedbackward so the splatterdidn’t get him, forcing thosebehindhimtodothesame.

“Careful, man!” heshouted, and a few of thepeopleinthebackofthelinecranedtheirneckstoseewhat

theholdupwasallabout.“It’s your fault! You’re

right on top of me. What’syourproblem?” I said, tryingto puff myself up the wayOtterdidwhenhewasangry(take a moment to be asfreaked out as I was to beactinglikeOtteronpurpose).Cameron’s eyes jolted fromthe ground to mine,challengingme.WhichmeantI had the last thing I needed

topullthisoff.

Step4:Gettheirattention

You couldn’t keep youreyes on someoneand on thegiantvatofchili.

“That was rude. Youshould apologize,” Cameronsaidthreateningly.Atthis,thelinebehindhimwentsilent.Ihesitated.

“Whatever. Fine. I’msorry,” I said swiftly. Then Ibroke our eye contact andreturnedtheladletothechili,scoopingup a small bowlful.Ihurried tograbaseatwhilethe rest of the class filedthrough the line. Otterfinished flirting with thenutritionist and followedbehind them. Soon the otherclasses started filing in—theeleven-year-olds, then theten-years-olds, and then

Kennedy’sclassofnine-year-olds. They all took bigbowlfulsofchili.

Step5:Everyoneenjoysfour-beanchili

Well, technically, it wasnow five-beanchili, since I’dmanaged to dump nearly theentire bag of JellyBENs intothe vat during the diversion.Theysankdownintothechili

while IheldeyecontactwithCameron.Andnowtheywerebeing eaten by every singlepersonatSRS.Includingme.

I dug my spoon in andtookafewbites.Icouldtastethe bright flavor of theJellyBENs,butonlybecauseIwaslookingforit.Iliftedmyeyes tomake sure the restofmyclassmateswereeatingasenthusiastically as expectedon chili day. They were; in

fact, some were nearlyfinished with their firstserving. So far, this wasgoing perfectly. I just hopedthere were enough thateveryonegotatleastone.

Someonescreamed.Itwasajunioragent,agirl

from my class with prettyhair.Personally,Ithoughtherhair looked even prettiercomplimented by thelavender shade her skin was

turning, but based on thehorrified looks she wasgiving her ever-purplingpalms,shedisagreed.

“Is she choking?”someoneshouted.

“Does she needmouth-to-mouth?” Michael shoutedlouder.

“Don’t youdare!” thegirlshrieked back. “What’shappening?What—”

Another shriek. This time

from a boy a year youngerthanIwas,whowasnowthesort of flat colorof squashedplums.ThenMichaelhimselfturned,thenOtter,then...

I looked down andsuppressed a grin.My handswere turning a now-familiarshadeofviolet.

Step6:Everyoneturnspurple

Someone went running toget the on-call nurses, whothen ran in with bags full ofshots and wraps and pills,none of which wereespecially useful against aplagueofpurple.Theysealedoff the doors, just in casewhatever we had wascontagious, but it didn’t takelong for everyone to figureout that whatever it was, ithad todowith the food.Thenurses picked through the

remainsofthechilivat,butitwas mostly empty. Whenthey looked at the pot thenutritionist had beenmoments from bringing out,they found nothing but fourkinds of regular old beansswimming in a thick broth.Still, they took samples,which they passed off to afewagentsfromchemlabfortesting.

“ItoldDr.Fishburn!Itold

him to stop getting chemicalshipmentsthroughthekitchendoors! This was bound tohappen! Bound to happen!”the nutritionist cried as sheflipped through her recipebook frantically, like she’dsomehow missed a note thatwarned“maycausepurple.”Ifelt a little bad about howupsetshewas,butgivenhowoften she tried to pass offcucumbers as a dessert item,myguiltdidn’tlastlong.Isat

back. A few people hadapparently missed out ongetting a JellyBEN in theirchili—but luckily for me,they were mostly the nine-year-olds. Otter was aparticularly rotten-lookingcolor, but oddly, it suitedhim,thoughhelookedalittlebit like a walking tomato ashe frantically talked toFishburnoveracomunit.

“Hale!” someone shouted

besideme. I spun around—itwas Kennedy, who wasalmostneonpurple.Addedtoherbrightredhair,shelookedlike some kind of exoticflower.

“Don’t worry, Kennedy—”Ibegan,butKennedycutmeoffwithabiggrin.

“I’m not worried! This isawesome! Hey—wait. Yoursisfading!”

“Huh?”

Kennedy motioned at me,and I looked down. Sureenough,thepurplewasfadingslowly,justlikeithadbackatThe League. First my nose,then my cheeks and ears. Itwasanothertwohoursbeforethe color was gone entirely,butbythetimetheyletusoutof the cafeteria, I wascompletely normal-colored.Thenursesswarmedme.

“Huh,” said the oldest

nurse, a woman with wispygray hair and big glasses. “Iguess he metabolized itquicker.Makessense—he’sabigger guy than the rest ofthem.”

“You’re saying Hale isn’tpurple anymore because he’sHale the Whale?” Walterasked,laughing.

Iliftedaneyebrowathim.“YoulooklikeanEasteregg,and you’re making fun of

me?”Walter sniggled to a stop

androlledhiseyes,butIsawhisegodeflatea little.Itwasverysatisfying.

Walter and the otherpurple people walked out ofthecafeteria.

Otter stepped though thecrowd. Ihadn’tevenrealizedhe was still here. “Hale! Dr.Fishburn and I will need totalk with you. His office,

thirtyminutes.”“Yes,sir,”Isaid,nodding.

It was hard not to grin—myplanwasworking.

IwalkedKennedyback toour apartment, where Ms.Elmawaswaitingforus.Shedidn’tbelieveintakinglunchbreaks, so she’d been sparedthewholeincident.Sheactedlike Kennedy hadn’t triedhard enough not to turnpurple. I made it back to

Fishburn’s office just a fewmoments early and sat downbythedoor,leaningmybackagainstthesleekfrostedglassthat made up theadministrative sector. I couldhear Fishburn talking withsomeone—I think thenutritionist?—on the otherside.

Down the hall, anotherdooropened.Ileanedforwardto see who it was, then

tightenedmychest toholdina groan. Mrs. Quaddlebaum,wearing a suit so stiff that itlooked a little like a beetle’sshell. She gave me a firmstareasshepassed,clutchingseveral folders to her chest.Shewastheassistantdirector—did she know about myparents being In theWeeds?Did she know that SRS wasreally the criminalorganization? It wasimpossibletotell.

Walterwasjustbehindhismom. His skin was aparticularlyfeminineshadeofpurple,likethecoloroffancyeye makeup or expensiveflowers. Walter scowled atmeandcontinuedonafterhismother;justashereachedthedoor that led out of theadministrative sector, hestopped.Isawhimarguewithhimself for a moment,looking at the ceiling andtapping his toes. Eventually,

he glanced over his shoulderatme.

“Uh,I’m...I’mrealsorryto hear about your parents,Hale,”hesaidswiftly.

“Thanks.” It wasn’t untilthewordleftmymouththatIrealizedIwassayingit,andithung in the air between us,inflatedbytenyearsofbeingfriends and one of beingmortal enemies. It felt likeone of us should say

something else, but what?We’d already fought aboutWalter ditching me. We’dhad shouting match aftershouting match about how“peoplechange”and“it’snotlike we wanted to be bestfriends,wejustendedupthatway.”

So there was nothing left,really.Walterpulledopenthedoorandshutitbehindhim.

Ipuzzledinthequietfora

second, but then the door toFishburn’s office swungopen.Thenutritioniststeppedout cradling her cookbooksandsnifflingtoherself.Iroseand walked in; Otter wassitting in a chair byFishburn’sdesk.

“Sit down,” Otter said,rubbing his temples like hecouldn’tbeartolookatme.

I loweredmyself into oneof the metal chairs across

from Fishburn’s desk. Itwasn’t until I was sittingdown that I felt my stomachdrop a little. They weren’tjust Otter and Fishburn, myteacher and director,anymore. Now they wereOtter and Fishburn, my . . .enemies? That word seemedtoo strong, but it was true.Ottermight’vebeen too low-ranking to know my parentswere In the Weeds, butFishburn definitely knew.

Fishburn was the one who’dcalled for it, in fact—hewasthe director, after all. Howcould he?Thiswas his fault,everythingwashisfault...

I took a sharp breath andforcedmy thoughts to ahalt.If I let my emotions get thebest of me, Otter andFishburnwould see it onmyface, and my whole planwouldberuined.

“Hale,” Fishburn said

carefully as he rolled hisfingers across a pencil. “Asyou know, today we had alittle bit of . . . what wouldyoucallit,AgentOtter?”

“Pandemonium? A totalbreakdown of a basicordering-and-deliverysystem? A potentialpoisoning—”

“Drama,” Fishburn saidtartly.“Let’ssaywehadabitof drama today in the

cafeteria.”Fishburnpausedtodouble-check that the pencilsonhisdeskwereall linedupcorrectly. “Wehadamissionscheduled for tomorrowmorning—an important one,one that only a junior agentcan help with. But from thelooks of things, whateverdrama happened in thecafeteria today has turned allour junior agents purple.Wecan’t exactly send purplepeople on a mission. They’d

attractallsortsofattention.”“Right.”“So,we’vechangeda few

of the parameters andstreamlined things. And wewouldlikeyoutogoinstead.”

Step7:Becomethelastresort

Iblinked.Imean,thiswaswhat I’d wanted. This was

what I’d planned for. YetactuallyhearingFishburnsayit?Mymindfeltallblankandsoggy. I stared. I knew mymouthwashangingopen,butI couldn’t remember how toshutit.

“Tobe clear, you’renot ajunior agent. We just don’twant to scrap the mission—it’s really very simple,anyway. Planting a small bitof software onto the

computers at a children’shospital. We’ve got a folderfor you here.” He paused tolift a blue folder from hisdesk and hand it to me.“Tomorrow, zero eighthundred, you’ll meet AgentOtter by the elevators.Okay?”

“Gotit,”Isaid.Fishburn gave me a kind

smile, but it was a littleforced. Otter didn’t bother

trying; instead he sucked athisteethandshookhishead.Ithanked them both a fewtimes, then left. Once I wasaloneinthehallway,Itookabig breath and closed myeyes. A balloon had beeninflating inmy stomach, andnowitfeltlikeitwasgoingtoburstoutofmychest.FinallyIwasbeingsenton

amission.Arealmission,notsome stupid errand. I was

being trusted, I was a spy, areal spy, and now everyonewould know it. I thoughtabout how Kennedy wouldreact, how Mom and Dadwouldreact...

The balloon in mystomach deflated. I’dimagined this day hundredsandhundredsof timesbefore—literally dreamed about it,even. And in every singleversion,Iranhometotellmy

parents. They celebrated andcheered and beamed like thesunandbroughtouticecreamandtoldme,Wealwaysknewyou could do it, Hale! Inevery single version, I wasworking for the good guys,notthecriminals.

This wasn’t the way I’dplannedonithappening.

But real spies can dealwithachangeofplans.

As expected, Kennedy losthermindwhensheheard thenews of the mission. Shebounded and rebounded offall the furniture, talkingquickly about how excitedshewas,howexcitedIshouldbe, had I thought aboutwhatform of martial arts I woulduse? Had SRS provided mewith a cover character?Becauseifnot,shecouldhelpme think of one. Ms. Elmaregarded Kennedy’s

enthusiasm with a horrifiedlook,likemysisterwassomesort of lab experiment gonewrong—though that mighthave just been because shewas still a little lavenderaroundtheears.

Eventually Kennedy’sboiling glee reduced to asimmer.IsaidIwasgoingtostudy the folder of missiondetails,thengotosleepearly—Ihadtobeupatzeroeight

hundred, after all. That waspartiallytrue—Ididstudythemission details, going overthem again and again. Ididn’t, however, go to sleepearly. I listened to Kennedygo to bed, then Ms. Elmacreak down the hall to myparents’ bedroom, where Ididn’t like to think abouthersleeping.ItwasonlythenthatIopenedmybedroomdoortoretrievetheLeaguecomunit.

It’shardtohidethingsinabuilding full of spies,especiallywhenonesuchspyis your kid sister who isn’tafraidtomesswithyourstuff.Plus, I didn’t trustMs. Elmanot to snoop around in myroom while I was away inclass. But . . . there was alinen closet directly oppositemy bedroom, full of towelsandsheetsbutalsofulloffatwinter blankets that wewouldn’t need anytime soon.

I’d carefully tucked thejewelry away in the folds ofthe largest one; I darted myhand between the folds,retrieved the com, and—feelingsomewhatsmugaboutmy hiding spot—went backto my bedroom. I holedmyself up in my closet withthe com and the missionfolderFishburnhadgivenme,then lifted the earring to myear. I could hear faint staticthroughit.

“Clatterbuck,”Iwhisperedinto the bracelet’s enormousrubycenterpiece.“It’sme.” Ibegan towishwe’d comeupwith call names on the oddchance someone at SRS washackingintothecom.

“Hale?Hale?”Clatterbucksaid on the other end almostimmediately. “Hold on, myearringisn’tonright.”

There was a rustlingsound. When it stopped, I

continued. “I’m going on amissiontomorrow,”Isaid.

Clatterbuck’s voice wasloud now, so loud that Iworriedthisancientcomunithad some sort ofspeakerphone setting.“Really? What kind ofmission?”

“It’s not forGroundcover,” I said with asigh—that’d been the firstthing I’d checked for in the

folder.“It’spartofsomethingcalled Operation Evergreen.AnotheragentandIaregoingto a children’s hospital inFairview—I’ll be undercoveras a sick kid named CliftonHarris,andanotheragentwillbe playing my father. Theobjectiveisforus to installaprogram on the hospital’sservers.”

“Like a . . . like acomputer program?”

Clatterbucksaid.Hesoundedlikehewas trying to speakaforeignlanguage.

“Yes! Of course. I don’tknowwhat it does, though. Imean, I can’t see themintentionally crashing theservers in a children’shospital,but—”

“Hale?” a newvoice said.I frowned, confused for amoment.

“Beatrix?”Iasked.

“Hey. My uncle isn’treallyacomputerperson—hewas an agent back whencomputerswere the size of asuitcase,youknow?ButIcanhelpyou.”

“How?”“I canwrite a program to

goontopofwhateverthey’vecreated. I’m guessing they’llhave it on a flash drive,right?” Beatrix’s voice wasbright and cheery, like we

were talking about sharing aphotocollection.

“I’m leaving at zero eighthundred. There’s no time towriteaprogram.”

Beatrixmadea littlenoiseof indignation, and I heardher lean away from thereceiver—fromthebracelet,Iguess. “He thinks I can’twrite one before eight in themorning! I know!” She wasback and loud in my ear. “I

canwrite the program; I justneed to figure out how thechildren’shospitalwrotetheirprogram, and then figure outwhat the most obvious waywould be for SRS to writetheir program, and thenreverse.Youknowwhat?Just. . . Icando it. It’llbe readybyeight.”

Iwasn’ttotallyconvinced,butseeingashowherbrotherhadalreadyprovenhimself a

pretty excellent inventor, IhadnoreasontothinkBeatrixwasn’tequallytalented.

“Great,” I said. “SRS’sprogramhastowork—iftheydon’t get whateverinformation they need, I’msure they’ll find a way toblame me and that’ll be theend of me going onmissions.”

“Got it!” Beatrix saidexcitedly. “I’ll work on it

tonight, and then tomorrowI’llgetit—”

We both stopped. Howcould Beatrix get me theprogram before tomorrowmorning? It wasn’t like shecouldjustsendittomeinanenvelope, and theHITSguyswould definitely catch arogueprogram if she tried toe-mail it. I’d have to get ahardcopyfromhertomorrowat the hospital. Otter would

beabletospotabrushpassamile away, so she’d have todrop it somewhere,somewhere only I would beable to pick it up. But Icouldn’t just root through apotted plant or in a lightfixture with Otter standingrightthere...

“Are Ben and your unclenearby?”Iasked.

“Yep.”“Great. I’m going to need

everyone’shelpwiththis.”

ChapterFifteen

Otter and I stepped into theelevator lobby at exactlyeight o’clock. He gave me abitter look, like he’d hopedI’doverslept.Wecutdownashorthallwayandemergedina parking lot behind thesubstitute teaching school.ThereOtterunlockedaboxy-looking carwith faded paint.

I brushed some crumbs offthe fabric seats before sittingdown.

Otter turned on the radioto a truly terrible countrystation, and drove us out ofCastlebury, toward Fairview.It wasn’t until the city—complete with The League’stower—came into view thatwespoke.

“So, I’m Clifton Harris,and the file said I live in

southernOregon,”Isaid.“That’s right. And I’m

your dad. Don’t make thatface—Idon’tlikeitanymorethanyoudo.Thedoctorswilldoyourexaminaroomwithcomputers that require afingerprint scan every timethey wake up from sleepmode. So, when the doctorsteps out of the room to goget your test results, I’llinstall the program.You just

sitthere,gotit?”Ottersaid.“Surething.”The children’s hospital

was an enormousbuilding inthe center of the city, just afew blocks over from TheLeague’stower.Itwasmostlywhite, but windows on thetopfloorsweredeckedoutinred,yellow,andbluecurtains,andtherewasagiantfountainwith a teddy bear in thecenter in the front courtyard.

Otter pulled into a parkingspot, then stalled therewhileheshuthiseyes,preparingforhis character, I guessed. Ichecked my watch for themillionth time. This wasgoingtobeclose—wewerealittlebitearly.

“Let’s go, Clifton.” Otterturned the car off, pulled theparking brake, and then weboth opened our doors. AsOtter stepped out, he tapped

the Lock button on thedriver’s side. The locksobedientlypoppeddown.AsIwent to shut my door, Iquickly flippedmineback sothecarwasleftunlocked.

Otterdidn’tnotice.I rubbed my temple and

drooped my head in mockpain. When I reached thetrunkofthecar,Ottermetmeand put an arm around myshoulders, guiding his ill son

toward the main hospitaldoors. When we crossedthrough them, the blast ofcool air and the smell offlowers layered overantiseptic hit me. The lobbywas decked out in paperbutterflies and rainbow-colored rugs. This was thesectionforeverydayillnesses,ratherthansuperseriousstuff,and you could tell—even thepaper butterflies looked sortofbored.

“Slowdown,”Iwhined toOtter in what I hoped was aClifton Harris voice. “It’sfreezinginhere.”

“That’s just ’cause yourtemperature is so high. Here—takea seat and I’ll signusin,” Otter said, ushering meovertoa turquoisechair.Mystomach clenched—were weearly?Wecouldn’tbeearly.Ichanced lifting my eyes andglanced around the waiting

room, then held in a sigh ofrelief. There were a fewinfants,someharriedmotherswith young children, andthere, off to the side, wereClatterbuckandBen.

Mission:InstalldualspyprogramswithoutOtternoticing,turning

meintoSRS,andputtingmeInthe

WeedsStep1:Benand

Clatterbuckgettothehospitalfirst

I let my eyes graze overthem, but I quickly lookedbackdownatmyhandswhenBengrinnedatme.Iwassurehewasn’t trying to blowmycover,buthewasgoing to ifhe kept this up. I saw

Clatterbuck elbow himthroughmyperipheralvision.Ben’s face crumpled and hewent back to pretending tohave a terrible stomach bugjustasOtterfinishedwiththesign-insheetandrejoinedme.

Step1a:Bengetscalledtogobackfirst

“Benjamin Smith?” avoicecalled.Ididn’tlook,but

I heard Clatterbuck and Benrise across the room. Smith?Seriously, Clatterbuck? No,no, it’ll work—it’s soobvious, it’s forgettable. Adoorclickedshut,andnow... I had towait. Ben had onejob,andnomatterhowsmallor easy it was, it wasimportant. So much of thismission relied on everyoneelse doing their parts. Asscary as it was, I think Ipreferred breaking into The

League.AtleastthereIhadtorelyononlymyself.

“CliftonHarris?”thesamevoice called several minuteslater. I let Otter spring upbeforeme,thenIroseslowlyand dragged my feet behindhim. The nurse who calledmy name smiled atme, thenusheredmethroughthedoor.

I’d actually never been toa real hospital before. SRShad its ownmedical staff, of

course, and they oversaweverything from allergies toknee-replacement surgery. Ibadly wanted to look aroundat the bustle of nurses anddoctors, study the bulletinboard of notes, and listen inon conversations in case Ieverneededtoreplicatethemsomeday for a disguise. Thenurse brought me around acorner and took my weight,thenmeasuredmyheight,justlike at SRS. And then, also

likeSRS...“We’ll need a urine

sample, of course,” she saidbrightly,likeaskingsomeoneforpeewasahappything.

“Right,” I said, keepingmy voice low and sickly. Iplucked the plastic cup fromherfingers.

OttermadesmalltalkwiththenursewhileIsteppedintothe little bathroom and shutthedoor,crossingmyfingers

thatBenhadn’tbeentakentosome other bathroom afterhe’d been checked in. Ihurried over to the toilet andverycarefullytookthelidoffthebackofthetank.

Step2:Benplantstheflashdriveinthe

bathroom

I grinned—there, floating

inasealedsandwichbag,wasachippedandancient-lookingpurple flash drive. I fished itfrom the tank and pocketedthe drive. It took me a fewsecondsmore to fill the cup,and then I rejoined Otter inthe hall. It was so seamlessthatIalmostfeltuneasy, likethe bottomwould fall out ofthewholething.

The nurse led Otter andmetoasmallexamroom,the

kind with paper bedding.Cartoon characters had beenpainted on the walls, andthere, in the corner, was thecomputer, complete withfingerprint scanner. I tooknote that theUSBportswereonthesideofthemonitor.

“Clifton!” a cheery voicesaid.Amaledoctorwithred-and-gray speckled hairstepped in. He shookOtter’shand, then mine, and went

throughadanceofsmall talkwhile he pressed astethoscope to my chest andasked me to take deepbreaths. He looked in myeyes and my ears, listenedwhile I told him I felt tiredandmy head hurt and how Ihadn’tmissedanyschoolyet,but worried I might, and Ireally couldn’t because Iwasn’t getting a good gradein language arts. Not that itreally mattered, since I

wanted to be a musicproduceranyway.

Clifton Harris was acomplexcreature.

“Well, your results shouldbefinishingupshortly—butIwouldn’t worry too much,”thedoctorsaid,slidingontoalow stool and facing thecomputer. He pressed hisfinger against a reader; thecomputerobeyed,poppingupa form for him to input new

patient info. He typed up allmy stats, and even made anote about how I wanted tobe a music producer—forfuturedoctorsmalltalktimes,I supposed. “Looks good!Give me just a moment,Clifton, to go grab yourchart.”Herose.IsawOtter’shandmovetowardhispocket,where the flash drive withSRS’sprogramwas.

Footsteps in the hall—

heels, running, clackingloudly on the tile floor. Thedoctor lifted his eyebrows,and then he was nearlysmacked in the face as thedoor to the exam room flungopen. A wide-eyed nursestood on the other side,pointing emphatically atOtter.

“Your car!” she said,panting,outofbreath.“It’sintheroad!”

Step3:ClatterbuckforcesOttertoleave

theroom

“Huh?”Ottersaid.“It’sintheroad—itrolled.

It’s in the intersection!” shesaid,steppingback.

I gritted my teeth inexcitement. Clatterbuck hadcome through and done hispart.

“Oh!” Otter’s jaw locked,hiseyespanicked.He lookedfrom me to the doctor andbackagainandagain.

“Go!” the doctor saidswiftly.“Hurry!”

“Ican’t—Clifton—”“I’ll be fine, Dad, go!” I

said urgently, biting mytongue when I finished,punishing myself for callingOtter“Dad.”Ottergavemeameanlook,buthedidn’thave

a choice unless hewanted tototallyblowourcover—whatkind of man just lets his carsit in an intersection? Hepatted me on the shoulderswiftly and then took offdown the hallway. I foldedmy arms over my chestnervously, catching the flashdrive Otter had seamlesslytucked intomyT-shirt collarbefore it fell all the waythrough to the floor. Thedoctorlookedbackatme.

“Wow! Well, let’s hopeeverything goes fine withthat. While he’s saving thecar, I’ll go grab your results.Beback shortly!”Heslippedoutthedoor,closingitbehindhim.

Step4:Installtheprograms

Ileapedupandchargedtothe computer, nearly

knocking the whole thingover as I slid onto thedoctor’s chair. I poppedSRS’s flash drive into thecomputer’sUSBport.Iknewexactly how to install it—uploading spy software wassomething we’d learned inKennedy’s grade. I clickedthrough, tapping my footanxiously.Acaterpillar-greenprogress bar inched alongpainfully slowly. It finallyloaded, and I typed

frantically, making sure theprogram was deeply hiddeninside the operating system.The relief I felt wheneverythingwascompletewasshort-lived. I yanked outBeatrix’s bright purple flashdrive and fumbled to push itinto the USB. Nerves weregetting tome—I tookadeepbreath.

Beatrix’s program poppedup, a white wall of text. I

typedwhatshe instructedmeto yesterday: “beatrix iscooler than ben.” The screenflashed foramoment, then itall went black and I felt thethicktasteofpanicriseinme.Something had gone wrong.We’dtrippedafirewall,she’daccidentally wiped a system,thecomputersimplycouldn’thandletheprogram...

The screen returned. Itlooked normal—a chart with

CliftonHarris’snameonit.“Huh,” I said aloud,

marvelingatBeatrix’swork.Ihearda rustleoutside,astep,a hand on the doorknob. Iyanked the flash drive fromthe computer and dived ontothebed.

“Clifton!Goodnews!”thedoctor said brightly,sweeping back into the roomamillisecondaftermybutthitthebed.“Ithinkoddsarethat

you’ve just got a bug. I’vewritten you a prescription.”Thedoctorpausedtoyankthetop sheet off his pad. “Whydon’t you go back to thelobbytowaitonyourdad?”

WhenIgottothelobby,Ifought theurge to laugh.No,wait, that was putting it toomildly—I fought the urge tofallonthefloor,laughingandpointing like a cartooncharacter.Otterwas standing

in the middle of anintersection beside his boxy-shaped car, surrounded bycars with smashed bumpersand shattered headlights.Other drivers were shoutingat him, hands on their hipsand faces stretched in anger.Otterwasyellingback,whichwasn’t helping. I suspectedone woman was threeseconds away from taking aswing.

Itwasperfect.The hospital was focused

on new patients now, so Islunk out the front door andhurried over to help him.Beatrix’s purple flash drivemade a pleasant plunk as Itossed it into the teddy bearfountain on my way to theintersection.

“Forgetit,man—we’renotletting you drive off. It’sillegal not to have insurance

in this state, you know!” anangry old man howled atOtter. He looked like thecenter of a rage-and-car-shapedflower.

“You’re the one who hitmycar!”Ottersnappedback,livid. He was hanging on tothe open driver’s-side door,like itwas holding him backfrom charging everyonedown.

“You’re the idiot who

forgot to pull his parkingbrake! You’re lucky the cardidn’t hurt someone when itrolled through theintersection!”

Otter stared at the car andmadeacombinationofvowelsoundsthatweresupposedtobe words but hadn’t quitecooked long enough in hisbrain. I could tell he wastrying to remember if he’dpulled the parking brake or

not.I,ofcourse,knewhehad—itwas just that I’d leftmydoor unlocked so thatClatterbuck could drop thebrakeandgive thecaraniceshove. I hadn’t expectedClatterbuck to shove it quitethishardthough.Ifiguredthecarwouldenduptappingtheedge of the teddy bearfountain, ormaybe denting anearbycar.Stoppingtrafficinthe center of a majorintersection?Thiswasalittle

more than I’d bargained forwhen I set up the plan lastnight, and it was all startingtofreakmeoutalittle.

In thedistanceIheard thefaint sound of police sirens.We had to get out of therebefore the cops came—because, from the twistedlookonOtter’sface,hedidn’tprepare false insurance or afalsedriver’s license.Gettingarrested wasn’t rare for SRS

members,butgettingarrestedfor something like a trafficviolation? That was justembarrassing. Plus, it wouldmean that no one wouldrememberhowsuccessfulourmission was—they’d justremember how big a messhad beenmade at the end ofit. As much as the idea ofOtter in handcuffs thrilledme, I had to get us out ofhere. I looked around, takingstock of what we could use,

but therewas nothing exceptafallenbumperortwo,somebroken glass, and an ever-growing crowd of onlookers,staringlikethiswassomesortofincrediblyboringmovie...Movie.That’llwork.“Whoa, wait—is that

gasoline?” I said, franticallypointing to a pool of liquidunderneath Otter’s car. It

wasn’t gasoline—it was justwindshield wiper fluid, if IwasrememberingEmergencyCar Acquisition (or what weaffectionately called GrandTheft Auto) class correctly.“It is! Dad, we’ve gotta getaway!Thewholethingmightblowup!”

People’s eyes widened,Otter’sincluded.Theylookedat the gasoline and hurriedlybacked up toward their cars

like they weren’t positivethey believedme, but they’dseenplentyofcarexplosionsinmovies.And just likeBenback at The League, they allassumed that movies werecorrect. Otter suddenlyrealizedwhatIwasdoingandducked into the driver’s seatand slammed the door. Heunlocked the doors at thesame moment he turned thekeyintheignition;I’dbarelyshut my door before he

peeledoutof the intersectionthrough the space the othershad left when they slunkaway from the potentiallyexplodingcar.

I was relieved. I expectedOttertobetoo,buthemostlylooked shaken. I’d have feltbadforhim,ifIdidn’tdislikehimsomuch.

“So, the program isinstalled.Ihadplentyoftime.Everythingshouldbegood,”I

said curtly. I pulled the graySRS flash drive from mypocket and dropped it in thecupholderunceremoniously.

“Imusthavenotpulledtheparkingbrake.”

Ididn’tsayanything.Hecontinued,voiceblank,

“It nearly messed up thewholemission.Doyouknowmymissionsuccess rate? It’sperfect.Absolutelyperfect.”

“WhatabouttheAcapulco

incidentmydadmentioned?”“That wasn’t my fault. I

didn’t know the parrot couldtalk!”Otter finally exploded,sending spit all over thewindshield. I shrunk back ashe continued to mutterangrily to himself aboutparkingbrakesandparrots.Itwasn’tuntilwewerewelloutofthecityandnearlybacktoSRS headquarters that hecalmed down. At a stoplight

heturnedtome.“You’renot to tellanyone

about the incident with theparkingbrake.”

“What? Why not? It’sgoing in your mission reportanyway—”

“HaleJordan,”hesaid,hisvoice dangerous. “You arenot to tell anyone. Are weclear?”

Iranmytongueacrossmyteeth. Otter was annoying,

andhehatedme,andhewasentirely too sensitive aboutwhatever happened inAcapulco, but he was still adangerous man to cross.However,thiswastooperfecta chance to pass up. I shookmyhead.

“I’m not lying for you.You’d have told everyone atSRS if I’d been the one toscrewupthewholething.”

For a second I was

actually afraid Otter wasgoingtopunchme.Insteadhegripped the steering wheeltighter, ignoring the fact thatthe light had changed. “Fine.I’ll tell everyone therewas aproblem, and you had toinstalltheprogram.Makeyouout to be a real hero.But noonehearsthatIforgottopullthebrake.”

“Okay, that fixes half ofit,”Isaid,nodding.“Because

Isavedyourbuttbyinstallingtheprogram.ButIsavedyourbutt again by creating adiversionsowecouldescapethe intersection before thecopsshowedup.Youowemeforthattoo.”

Otter cursed—loudly.Several times, and in severallanguages. Icouldpracticallysee the battle in his head:Whichwasworse?Admittingto everyone thatHale Jordan

saved him? Or admitting toHale Jordan that he owedhim?

“Fine. What do you wantforthesecondone?”

“I want to go on anothermission.”

“You’re not a junioragent,”hehissed.Ishrugged,andhecursedseveraltimesinEnglish. “Fine. I’ll tellDirectorFishburnthatIthinkyou should go on another

mission.But that’s the best Icando.”

“Perfect.”

ChapterSixteen

OtterandItoldFishburnthathe’d been called out of theroombythedoctortodiscusssomethingtodowithmytestresults,whichiswhyIhadtoinstalltheprogram.Itworkedlike a charm—Fishburn wasdelightedI’dcomethrough.Iguess everyone loves anunderdogstory.

“Kennedy!” I shoutedas Iwalked into our apartment. Ifrowned when I saw thecouch—Ms. Elma had beenstabbingtheupholsteryagain,then sewing it back together.Living with us wasn’t verygoodforherhead,whichwasworrisome.Howmuchlongerbefore they sent me andKennedy to live in the SRSdorms? I shook off theconcern. Once I got myparents back, living at SRS

wasn’t going to happen,period.Wherewouldwelive?Ahouse somewhere?Leagueheadquarters?

My mind twisted—aftereverythingthat’dhappened,itwasstillhardtopicturelivinganywhere but apartment 300.I headed towardmy room tochange into clothes thatdidn’t smell like a hospital,reminding myself that whenmy parents came home,

they’d sort out where wewould live. “Kennedy,whereare you?Want to hear aboutmymission?”Icalledforheragain.

I walked to my bedroomand frowned. It sounded likemy clock radio was on,turnedupfullblast.Icreakedopen my bedroom door.Whenitwasjustafewinchesopen, someone crashed intome. Kennedy—I could tell

fromtheflashofredhair.Sheweighed so little that shedidn’t so much knock me tothe ground as drag me thereslowly.

“Hey,what—whatareyoudoing?”Isaid,half laughing.Ifoundherfaceintheseaofhair and neon green shorts.Her eyeswerewide, and shewas holding a finger to herlipsfrantically.Iletherfinishdraggingmetothecarpetand

then leaned in so she couldwhisperinmyear.

“Someone bugged ourapartment.”

My heart sank deep intomy stomach, dissolvingamong the bile thatimmediately twisted aroundinmygut.Theapartmentwasbugged. Someone at SRSheard the conversation I’dhad with The League lastnight. I was caught. There

was no point in running—itwasallover.

Kennedy jerked a fingertowardmy bed, and togetherwe slowly, silently lifted thecomforter up. On the bed,among my ruffled blankets,wasthebugshe’ddiscovered.A ruby earring and braceletset.

“I turnedon theradiorealloud,soIdon’tthinktheycanhear us now, butwhoknows

how long they’ve been here?They’re old—I don’t thinkthey’reSRS,Hale.Ithink...I think . . .”Shedroppedhervoice even lower so that Ialmost couldn’t hear her atall. “I think The Leagueplantedthem.”

“Oh,no,Idon’t...Idon’tthinkit’sTheLeague,”Isaid,trying to keep the visiblerelief off my face. “Maybeone of my friends planted it

inhereasajoke.”Kennedy’s face twisted,

andIcouldtellsheknewthiswas a lie but didn’t want tocome right out and say,But,Hale, you don’t really haveany friends anymore. Insteadshe stared at the jewelry andclenchedhersmallhandsintofists.

“Well, if that’s the case,I’m reporting them. Theycan’tkeepactinglikethis—”

“No!No,don’treportit.”Iwas torn between horror thatshemight report thebracelet,andhumiliation thatmy littlesisterwasnowtryingtostanduptobulliesforme.Thiswasanewleveloflame.

Kennedyputherhandsonher hips. I could tell shewanted to get much louder,perhaps even yell, but shedidn’t dare while strangerears were listening. “Hale,

theybuggedourhouse.Whatiftheyare fromTheLeague,andthisishowtheygotMomandDad?”

“Why were you goingthrough the linen closetanyway?”

Kennedy gave me a sourlook but then cracked. Sheducked her head to theground and seemed to shrinkbefore my eyes. “I didn’twant to go snooping around

in Mom and Dad’s room,since it smells likeMs.Elmanow and that freaks me out.But theblankets in theclosetstill . . .They still smell likeMom, and so . . .wait.”Shefroze. Then she lifted aneyebrow. “I never told you Ifound them in the linencloset.”

Iexhaled.Well.Waytobea great spy, Hale. You justburned yourself to your little

sister.“Come over here,” I said.

Kennedyand Iwalked to thebed.Wesatdownontheedgetogether, and I reached backto pick up the jewelry set.“Youdon’t need tobe afraidof these. I put them in thelinencloset.”

“You bugged our house?”Kennedyasked.

“No. Iwashiding theminour house. I didn’twantMs.

Elma to find them. I didn’twantyoutofindthemeither,but I figured you would if Ilefttheminmybedroom.So.. . don’t freak out, but—you’reright.ThesedobelongtoTheLeague.”

Her eyes widened. Shewasfreakingout,butshewasdoingsosilently,andIdidn’tadmonish her for it. Icontinued.

“Kennedy, when I was in

theLeaguebuilding,theytoldme that . . . Well . . .” Ilaunched into theentirestory—how SRS were the badguys, how The League werehelpingmefigureoutProjectGroundcover, how I wasofficially a double agent. Iended it all by showing herthe printout of Mom andDad’s file, the one thatshowed them listed as In theWeeds.

I didn’t think it waspossible, but her eyeswidened even more. I pokedher in the stomach, forcingher tobreathe,whichseemedtodohersomegood.

“Are you sure, Hale?Really, really sure? Becausethis is big. Like . . . huge,”shewhispered.

I nodded. “I’m positive. Iwouldn’t do it if I weren’tpositive.Ithinkworkingwith

themmight be the only waytogetourparentsback.”

“IntheWeeds.TheylistedTheTeam as In theWeeds,”she said breathlessly. Ithoughtshewasabouttocry,but then Kennedy reachedover and picked up thejewelry from my hand. Shesomewhat shakily wrappedthe bracelet on herwrist andclipped the earrings to herearlobes. She looked

ridiculous—like a little girlplaying dress-up with hergrandmother’s costumejewelry. She lifted thebracelet to her lips andwhispered.

“Hello?”“Theymightnotanswerif

it’s not me. They’reunderfunded,butIdon’tthinkthey’re going to just talk toany old person who comesacrossthecom—”

“My name’s Kennedy,”shesaid,hervoicewarmingalittle. I put my head in myhands. Seriously,Clatterbuck?WhatifshewassomeonefromSRSlookingtobust me? “Yeah,” shecontinued,nowgrowingmoreenthusiastic. “That was me!Hale and Iwrappedall thoseguys up in the sign? And Itiedthatgirlupinanettrap?Oh!Yeah,Iwouldliketotalkto her—I felt a little bad

about the whole thing. Sheseemednice.”

I tried to feelbad, tried tomakemygut twistwithguiltforbringingKennedyintoallthis insanity. But, as shekicked back on my bed andbicycled her legs absently attheceiling, talking toBeatrix—orwas itBenon theotherline now? I wasn’t sure—Icouldn’thelpbutfeelrelievedthattherewasonelessperson

tokeepmysecretsfrom.

“Kennedy, no. You can’tcomewithme.IfIgetcaught,I’mnottakingyoudownwithme,” I said. Again. Andagain. And again. It wasstartingtosoundlikeasong.

“You just never want meto do anything,” Kennedysaid. Or someone withKennedy’s voice said. Itwasa Disguise Day, and she’d

beenmadeuptobeabrunettewith zero freckles and thickeyebrows. She lookednothinglikeKennedy,butshestill bounced around like adeer that’d had too manysodas. Iwashalfway throughapplyingmyowndisguise—avery old man with droopyeyes. It was a difficult one,and talking to Kennedy keptmaking the silicone wrinkleson my cheeks crack off. Ireapplied awrinkle and gave

Kennedyapointedlook.“What? It’s not my fault

you’rebecominganoldman.No one else picked one thathard,” she said, noddingtoward the rest of the SRSstudent body. All togethertherewereaboutseventy-fiveofus,andwewerespreadoutaround the cafeteria. TheDisguise Department, whichwas usually carefully tendedtoandcatalogedbyahandful

of agents, appeared to haveexploded on us—tables werecovered inwigs and makeuppots and spilled spirit gumbottles—which was exactlywhy Disguise Days onlycameonceeveryfewweeks.Iwatched a group of eight-year-oldsbeingtaughthowtoputwigson.

“Hale! Please!” Kennedywhined.

“No.It’stoodangerous,”I

said, fixing one of mywrinklesagain.

“More dangerous thanstaying here with the peoplewhowantourparentsdead?”she asked, and I nearlytackledhertoquietherdown.She looked pleased to havemy full attention now, andshe dropped her voice tocontinue seriously. “I’mgoingtotakemyjunioragentexam soon, Hale, and then

I’m going to be a doubleagent like you. Becauseyou’re my brother, and ifsomething happens to you,I’llbestuckhereallalone.”

I frowned, because thisactually hadn’t occurred tome.Kennedywasneveralone—she was almost alwayssurrounded by friends—butshe was right, of course.She’dbeallalone,andintheway that counted. I sighed.

“But I also can’t just let you—”

“Let you what?” a malevoicesaidbehindme.Ididn’thavetoturnandlook—Isawthem reflected in my mirror.WalterandtheForeheads.Allthree of them were wearingpadded suitsunderneath theirstandard SRS uniforms, andthey’dusedsiliconetoplumpuptheircheeks.

They’d disguised

themselves as me. Well—ahilarious, super-fat, super-geeky version of me. Theireyes glowed, and theycrackedupwhentheysawthelook of recognition on myface.

“You like them?We usedall thepadding they set out,”Walter said. How could thispossiblybethesameguywhotold me he was sorry aboutmy parents just a few days

ago? It was like he’d gotteneatenbyjerkaliens.

“Lovethem,”Isaid.“Youlooklikesomeonewhomightdo an amazing jobimprovising on a mission.Maybe someone thatFishburn would make aspecial announcementabout?”

After the hospital missionfor Evergreen, Fishburn hadmadeapointofcomingtomy

class to tell everyonewhat agreat job I’d doneimprovising, and how I’dreally saved the day. Otterrepeated the sentiments,though he didn’t appearhappyabouthavingtocallme“the hero of the day.”Fishburn never came toclassrooms,sotherewasalotof speculation as to why ourmission warranted a visit. Iheard everything from “Haleactually took a bullet for

Otter,butwe’renotsupposedto know” down to “FishburnjustwantedtomakeHalefeelgood, since his parents aremissing.”

Nomatterwhatthetheory,no one debated whether ornotI’ddoneanexcellentjob.Itdidn’tmakemepopularorfasterorajunioragent,butitdid make me a lot betterarmed for conversations likethisone.

“We look like losers,”Cameroncorrectedme.

“SoIsee,”Isaid.“Becausewe’redressedas

you!” Cameron added,growing frustrated that I stilldidn’t appear offended. “Getit?Becausewe’refat—”

“Just shut up,” Waltersaid, shoving Cameron. Iwondered if SRS had aspecialty program for peoplewho would make especially

good doorstops. Cameronseemedlikeacontenderforaspot.

“Yeah,” Kennedy said,puttingherhandsonherhips.“All of you shut up. Hale istwenty times the spy youare.”

Walter laughed hard.“He’s twenty times the spywe are, that’s for sure,” hesaid, grabbing his fakestomach. Kennedy looked

wounded; Igaveherawearylookandshe trudgedback tojoin her classmates, clearlymoreembarrassed thanIwasaboutthewholething.Igluedanother piece of silicone on,ignoring Walter and theForeheads, who lookeddisappointed with the shortlifespanoftheirjoke.

“Hale,” someonesaid inagravellyvoice.WalterandtheForeheads stepped away to

reveal Ms. Elma and Otter,though I wasn’t totally surewhichonehadsaidmyname.Ms. Elma’s scar made theplastic ones the ten-year-oldswere applying lookridiculous.

“I need somemeasurements,” she said.“Disguise for your nextmission.”

Jaws dropped. I wentaheadanddroppedmine,too,

becauseeventhoughIwasn’tsurprised, given how goodmy dirt on Otter was, Ineededtolookit.

“He’s going on anothermission?” Walter asked,voice cracking. “But hehasn’t even tested into junioragentyet!”

“It was Fishburn’sdecision,” Otter saidimmediately, which I knowwas supposed to mean I

didn’t do this. He stillcouldn’t lookmeintheeyes.Iwasprettyokaywiththat.

Ms. Elma was flickeringaround, her tape measurewhipping me like a lizard’stongue. She scribbled someinformation onto a pad andthen turned to Walter. “Youtoo.”

“What? I’m going onanother mission?” Waltergrinned but then realized

what thismeant. “Wait—I’mgoing on a mission withhim?”

“Stop fidgeting,” Ms.Elma said, oblivious toWalter’ssocialconcerns.Shewrapped the tape measurearound Walter’s head as helookedpleadinglyatOtter.

The Foreheads werelaughing so hard that thepadding in their Halecostumeswasjigglingout.

“Please. Come on, man.Don’tsendmewithhim.Callit a favor. I’ll clean youroffice. I’ll take venom-collectingdutyforaweek.”

“I don’t assign missions,Quaddlebaum,” Otter said,andthenturnedtowalkaway.He called back over hisshoulder, “It’s OperationEvergreen, just like your lastmission,Jordan.Briefingfileswill be delivered tonight.” I

sawasortofpleasedsneeronhis face, which was never agoodsign.AnytimeOtterwaspleased,Iwasmiserable.

ChapterSeventeen

Kennedy won. I was takinghertoTheLeague.

She’dusedatried-and-truemethod of younger siblingseverywhere: she’d beggedand begged until I wouldratherhaveremovedmyowneyeballsthanlistentoherbeganymore.Plus,Iwasworriedthat if I didn’t take her,

eventually someone elsewould hear her begging, andwe’d be in a real disaster.SinceKennedydidn’thaveanerrand-running excuse toleave, and even I wasconcerned about drawing toomuch attention with dry-cleaning runs, we crept outthroughthegarage.

“What did you tell Ms.Elma?” I asked her as werushedpastrowsandrowsof

solid black bulletproofsedans, flashy convertibles,andmorewell-armoredSUVsthanIcouldcount.

“That I’m hanging outwithRidleyandEmily.”

“And if she asks Ridley’sandEmily’sparents?”

Kennedy gave me anexasperatedlook.“Emily’sinthedorms,andIbetwhoeverisplayingdormparentfortheweekend won’t know the

difference. And Ridley’smom will assume I am withRidley, who is spending theweekend with Emily andJordan—”

“Okay,okay,Ijustwantedtomakesure.”

“I know how to build acover story, Hale. I got thehighest grade in myEmergency Undercover Opsclasslastyear,remember?”

“Still not as high as my

score in it was,” I said,elbowing her by way ofapology. She gave me aneven more exasperated lookandthengrinned.

“Sowhat did you tellMs.Elma?”sheasked.

“That I was going to thelibrary to practice myArabic.”

“That’sit?Studyinginthelibrary?”

“It’s where I go every

weekend, almost,” I said aswe cut through a side doorandemergedonthebacksideof the substitute teacherschool, where the less fancycars—liketheoneOtterandItooktothechildren’shospital—sat in the parking lot. Thefact that I really did spendmost weekends studyingmade my story both patheticandbelievable.

“Hale,” someone cough-

said as we approached thefancy toy store—today’smeeting point. It wasClatterbuck, wearing a trulyterrible fake beard and threedifferent types of plaid. Hewas also still wearing hisemerald com unit. I glancedaround to double-check foranyroamingSRSagentsand,seeingnone,guidedKennedytowardhim.

“Kennedy!” Clatterbuck

said, clapping her on theshoulder.Hewasmakinghisvoice all round, like he wastryingtobeSanta.

“Whyareyoudressedlikea crazy person?” Kennedyasked, though she wasgrinning.

“I’m not—I’m a logger!See!” Clatterbuck jerked histhumb over his shoulder.Therewas,indeed,alogtruckidling in back of the parking

lot. “You said I should usedifferentcarswhenIpickyouup,Hale, remember?No onewillever thinka logger isanagent!” Clatterbuck wasgiddy, and every time hewaggled his eyebrowsenthusiastically, his fakebeard shifted a little off-center. He pointed atKennedy’s owl-sticker-covered shoes. “Hey—I likethose!”

“Thanks! I like yourearrings—Imean, comunit,”Kennedyanswered,beaming.

Clatterbuck drove us backto The League in the logtruck,whichsmelled likesapandcigarettesandwasfullofpine needles. Kennedy veryliterallysatontheedgeofherseattheentiretime,fingertipsclutching the windowsill insome combination ofexcitement and fear.

Clatterbuck noticed, andoffered her some maplecandy that he’d found in theglove compartment. It wassuper sticky, so trying tochewitoccupiedherformostoftheremainingtrip.

At League headquarters,Kennedy, Clatterbuck, and IjoinedOleander,Beatrix,andBen in the tiny cafeteria.Oleanderhadorderedanotherpizza, which we destroyed

quickly as we discussed thehospital mission. Kennedywasmostlylistening,likeshewas afraid that if she spokeand made her presenceknown, she’d be thrown outentirely.

“Well, Beatrix,” Oleandersaid, overenunciating hername.Oleanderhadn’tsaiditoutright, but it was clear shewas a little uncomfortablewithjusthowmanykidswere

involved in her spyorganizationthesedays.“Hasanything come of watchingSRS’shospitalprogram?”

Beatrix adjusted herglassesandthenremovedherRight Hand from herbackpack. “Kind of. Maybeit’llmakesensetoyou,Hale.SRS isn’t really doinganything with the hospital’scomputers. They’re justwatchingthem.”

“Huh?Why do they wantto watch a children’shospital?”Iasked.

“I have no idea. I figuredthere must be somesupersecret pharmaceuticalsomething that they wanted.But all they’re doing islookingatrecords.Youknow—heights. Weights. Names.Yesterday someone namedtheir baby Sparkle, by theway.SparkleStarNelfman.”

“I love it!” Kennedy saidbrightly. All eyes turned toher.Sheclappedahandoverhermouth,andthenremovedit to mutter, “I mean, I liketheSparkleStarpart.”

“They’re going backthrough everyone who wasborn in the last fifteen yearsorso,anditlookslikethey’reflagging files where thedoctor haswritten extra stuffabout school or

accomplishments or things,”Beatrixcontinued.

“Interesting,” Oleandersaid, frowning till hereyebrows nearly touched.“Maybe they’researchingfora specific baby? Someonevery important—adiplomat’sor tycoon’s kid? Maybesomeone they could hold forransom . . . I suppose evenSRS can always use someextra money, and something

small like OperationEvergreen sounds like awaythey’d scheme up to get it.Doesn’t get us any closer toGroundcover, though, andthat’swhat’smost important.Beatrix, I don’t suppose youcanusetheirprogramtotraceyourwaybackandhack intoSRSitself?”

Beatrix groaned. “Trustme,Itried.Buttheybasicallyhavetheirownlittleislandon

the Internet. There’s no wayin because theirmain systemdoesn’t connect to anythingelse. If I were inside SRS,sure,Icouldhackit.Butfromouthere?Sorry.”

“All right, all right,”Oleandersaid,puttingahandto her temple to think ofsomething else. “Then,Hale,the upcomingmission you’reassigned to—is itGroundcover?”

“No. It’s another missionfor Operation Evergreen. Bythe way—I remembered youguys mentioning someonenamedCreevythefirsttimeIwas here. He’s assigned toGroundcover, just like myparents.”

Clatterbuck made agrumbly noise under hisbreath. “Figures he’d beassignedtoit.CreevywasanSRS agent back in my day.

We knew he was animportantasset,andweknewhe was involved with someprettymajormissions,butwecouldneverfigureoutwhohewas, what he looked like,howoldhewas . . .nothing.Hewas dangerous. Took outsomeofourbestagents . . .”Hedriftedoffandlookedsad,which was a strangeexpression to see onClatterbuck’sface.

Oleander pressed her lipstogether. “Well, just onemorereasonweneedtomakeGroundcover the goal. We’llfigure this out.” She paused.“Hale.”

“Come to the gym,” Bensaid when Oleander andClatterbuck left. “I’ve beenworking on some inventionsforyournextmission.”

“Really? Thanks,” I said,feeling rather proud. I mean,

back at SRS, I couldn’t getanyone to takeme seriously.Here at The League? I wassuddenly the top agent, withsomeone creating newdevices just for me. AfterbeingFailHaleforsolong,itfelt almost disorienting to bethestar.

“He doesn’t even knowwhathisnextmissionisyet,”Kennedy pointed out as wetrundled down the steps and

into the basement. Kennedywrinkled her nose up at theroom’ssmell.

“That’swhyIprettymuchcovered all the basics,” Bensaid, looking pleased. Hewalked to the center of theroom and whisked away asheet from a large table,revealingwhatatfirst lookedlikeapileofabandonedjunk,but on closer inspection wasactuallyapileofinventions.

“Whoa,” Kennedy said.“What’sthis—”

“Oh,becareful!That’stheBENchwarmer. It extendsand becomes sort of like abattering ram, I guess.Sometimes it explodes,though.”

KennedygentlyplacedtheBENchwarmer back on thetable,lookingveryimpressed.

Bentookusthroughafewof the others. The CaBEN,

whichwasaweirdlittlepop-uptentthatzippedtothesizeofyourpalm.TheDustBEN,which he unfortunatelydemonstrated—it created anenormousdustcloudthatwassupposed tohelpyouescape,but mostly just made uscough. Kennedy’s favoritewas the CariBENer, whichwas apretty coolgadget thatfit inside a backpack buthooked into the cabling ofbridges so you could creep

along underneath them(Kennedywantedtotryit,butBen said it was still intesting). Then there was theBENSeeingYou.

“It delivers a pulse thatknocks someone out—youjust hold that end downagainst skin, pull the trigger,and boom, they’re out!” Benexplained. “I made it frompipe cleaners and lasers.Anyway,here—Iputsomeof

them on this utility belt foryou, like the oneUncle Stansays he used to carry.” Benrevealed a somewhatpatchworkbeltthathadahalfdozen pockets andcompartmentsonit.Hebegantucking the finished devicesinto it—they fit perfectly. Ididn’t know exactly whereI’d use something like theCaBEN,butIhadtoadmit,itwas a cool thing to have. Iwenttosnapiton.

“Aw,man,it’s toosmall,”Ben said when the beltstopped about two inchesfromclosing.

I tensed—at SRS, thiswould be prime Hale theWhaletime.

“Sorry, Hale. I’ll fix itthough. Oh, I know! I’vebeen working on these newhooks that snapautomatically!”

“Those keep cutting off

your circulation,” Beatrixreminded him absently fromwhere she sat, staring at herRightHand.

Benshruggedatme.“Thanks for making this,

Ben.It’sokay,though,thatitdoesn’t fit. I mean, I can’treally wear a League beltwhen I’m on a mission forSRS,youknow?”

“Right,” Ben said, but hisfacefellinawaythattoldme

he’d forgotten this in theexcitement of inventing allthegadgetstoputonthebelt.

“How about I just take itanyway,though,andthatwayI’ve got a goodway to storeall your inventions, even if Ican’twearthebelt,”Ioffered,and Ben seemed satisfiedwiththiscompromise.

“Huh,” Beatrix suddenlysaid.Weallturnedtolookather. She had herRightHand

out and was frowning at it.“Ben, they just got to ourbirth records. SRS, I mean.They’re downloading themnow.”

“You were born in thathospital?”Iasked.

“Yep, but actually, itdoesn’t matter—thathospital’s computers networkwith a whole bunch of otherhospitals, so they’re pullingrecords from all over the

place. I mean, it’s not likethey were looking for Benand me specifically. They’redownloading tons—I justhappenedtoseeournamesgoby.”

“Sowhatdoesthatmean?”Kennedy asked. I turned tosee that she was doing backwalkovers down one of thegym’s mats, which wascomforting. I mean, I figureyouonlydowalkoverswhen

you feel pretty at ease in aplace.

“It means—wow, you’reflexible—it means nothing,”Beatrixsaid.“Justinteresting,that’sall.Let’snottellUncleStan, though, okay, Ben?He’lljustworry.”

“Whereareyourparents?”Kennedy said. The questiondropped on us like a heavyweight, and I felt stupid fornot telling Kennedy what

little I knew about Beatrixand Ben’s parents ahead oftime, just to avoid thissituation.

Ben glanced at Beatrixbefore responding. “TheywereLeagueagents,”hesaid,andhisvoicehada slownessto it Ihadn’theardbefore. ItwasaslownessIwasfamiliarwith,onethatI’dheardotherkids at SRS use when theirparents didn’t return from

missions. It said: They wereagents, and they were killedin the field. Hearing it fromClatterbuck was one thing,but hearing it from Ben’smouthwasquiteanother.

Ididn’tknowwhattosay,but thankfully Kennedy did.Shegave themakindofhalfsmile, and said, “Ourparentsareagentstoo.”Itwastotallyunnecessary she tell themthat,ofcourse—becausethey

knew, and Kennedy knewthey knew, and yet all thesamesuddenlyI realized thateven thoughBenandBeatrixweren’t technically spies, thefour of us weren’t really sodifferent from one anotherafter all. I still didn’t likegroupprojects,butifIhadtochoose a team to workwith,I’d choose the two of themand Kennedy over the SRSjunior agents any day of theweek.

Evenifnotasingleoneofus had passed the stupidjunioragentexam.

A few hours later—afterKennedy tried, in vain, toteachBeatrixacheerandBenaccidentally set off threefirecrackers attempting tomakesomesortofflash-bangdevice inside a cupcake—Clatterbuck drove KennedyandmebacktoSRSinhislogtruck.He’dremovedthelogs,

somehow, in the past fewhours, because “It wouldn’tmake sense for me to returnwith logs. That’s not howloggers work.” We wentaroundthesubstituteteachingcollege and back through thegarage. Ms. Elma lifted herheadwhenwewalked in thedoor, her pencil-thineyebrows rising so high intoher hairline that they almostdisappearedentirely.

“Hale, finally,” Ms. Elmasaid, getting up. “You’vebeengoneallday.”

“Arabic’sabiglanguage,”I answered, but Ms. Elmawasn’t listening to meanyhow.

Shewalked to the kitchencounterthat,wereourparentshere, would have beencovered in dishes, but hadnow been perfectly cleanedand wiped down for far too

long. I couldn’t believe Ilegitimately missed dirtydishes. There was a thickfolderandapileof fabriconthe counter, both of whichshe lifted. “This is youruniform for the missiontomorrow. And Agent Otterdropped off this file for youtostudy.”SheshovedOtter’sfolderintomyhandsandthencarefully draped the uniformovermy free arm. I frownedand looked down at the file.

Onthefrontwastyped:

OperationEvergreen[HaleJordan][Cover:Quincy

Delfino]

“Quincy,” I said. “What’stheuniform?”

“Genius,iswhatitis,”Ms.Elma said over her shoulderas she sat back down at the

kitchentable.“Puregenius.”Pure genius was, more

specifically, a baseballuniform. I didn’t see thebrillianceinituntilIputitonin my bedroom, where IrealizedMs.Elmahadindeeddoneageniusjoboftailoringit to fit me perfectly. IfWalter had the same one, Iwas sure he looked better init, but I had to admit thatthere were way more

embarrassing things I couldbe wearing—like the actualSRS uniform, for example.As it was, I looked sort oflike the stocky baseballplayer—maybeacatcherorapitcher, someone who didn’tusuallyhavetorunthatfar.Iliftedthefolderandopenedituptoseewhat in theworldIwasdoingthatwouldinvolvea disguise like this, andgroaned.

WelcometoNelsonSportsAcademyWherePainIs

WeaknessLeavingtheBody

ChapterEighteen

Nelson Sports Academy wasa series of white warehousegymnasiums connected viacovered walkways. Therewere giant banners hangingoff the sides that depictedsilhouettes of kids running,dunkingbaskets,leapingoverhurdles, and backflipping onbalancebeams.And, ingiant

red letters across the door,was that same slogan aboutweaknessleavingthebody.

Basically, Nelson SportsAcademywastheworst.

Especially since I had tospend the day there withWalter, looking for anopportunity to sneak into themain office and steal a longlist of student files from theowner’s desk drawer forOperation Evergreen. I

couldn’t work out why SRSwanted files on a bunch ofkids from a sports academyanyway—were they finallycreating Kennedy’s SRScheerleading squad? Ormaybe Oleander was right—maybe they were looking tokidnapaspecifickidandholdhimforsomekindofransom.I tried to ignore the queasyfeeling in my stomach overthatprospect.

In addition to baseballuniforms, Walter and I hadbeen given some registrationpaperwork and two sacklunches to complete ourdisguises as new recruits. I’dmanaged to hide the too-small utility belt Ben hadgivenmeandmyLeaguecomunit underneath the peanut-butter-and-ketchup sandwichMs. Elma had made (she’dinsisted that tomatoeswere afruit, so it was a legitimate

peanut-butter-and-jellysandwich, but I definitelywasn’t going to eat it). Theplanwas forClatterbuck andthe others to listen in on themission via the com and, ifpossible, Iwould relay someofthefileinformationbacktothem so we could figure outwhatSRSwasupto.

“We’re here,”Walter saidbreathlessly as we pulled upinaminivan—itwasmeantto

make it look like we werebeing dropped off by ourmom. I took the time to goovermylegendagain.QuincyDelfino. From Long Island.Parents are real estateinvestors. Varsity baseballplayer.Iturnedthefactsoverandover inmyhead. Icoulddothis.Solong,ofcourse,asthey didn’t actually expectmetoplaybaseball.

The agent who was

playing our mom turnedaround inher seat.She liftedour brown bag lunches—myheart stopped for a second,thinkingabouthowcloseshewas to The League’s stuff—and shoved them in ourdirection.Bothofushadbeengiven pocket digital scannersso we could make copies ofthe files SRS wanted. Iwondered if Walter’s was inhis lunchbag, likeminewas,or taped on his leg

somewhere.“Have a good first day!”

shesaidloudly.Then,quietly,andwith far less enthusiasm,“I’ll return for you at fifteenhundredhours.”

Wegotoutof thecar andfaced the building as theagent drove away.Likemostof SRS’s work, this was a“cleanmission,”whichmeantthatweweresupposed togetin and out without anyone

ever realizing a spyorganization had beencreeping around. The onlyway that would work was ifthe agent—our mom—leftand then came to pick us upwhen school was over, likeany other parent would.Walter, who lookedunsurprisinglyfantasticinhisbaseball uniform, hurried tothemaindoors.Hepaused.

“I’m Nathan Delfino.

Third baseman. Two LittleLeague World Series wins,”hewhispered to himself. Hisvoice was jumpy—notscared,exactly,butpunchyinaway that didn’t fit with allthebragginghe’ddoneabouthisfirstfieldmission,backatthat chess championship. Ifrowned at him. Plenty ofseemingly perfect agents hadtrouble pulling it together inthefield—andgivenhisvoiceand the jitter in his step, it

looked like Walter might beone of them. I steppedforwardandopenedthedoor,since I was beginning todoubtWalterhadthenervetodoit.

Step1:EnrollatNelsonSportsAcademy

This place looked like

somesortofOlympicfacility.There were timers along thewalls, mats on the floors,peopletumblingpastusagainand again and again whileheavyset coaches shouted atthem in foreign languages.Therewere signs in the littlelobby area, pointing us toother gyms for wrestling,basketball—even ballet.Anothersigntoldusthemainoffice was down the hall toourright.Whenwearrived,I

saw the door held a list ofjuniorOlympiansandasign-up sheet for a twenty-four-hour endurance run, whichwasn’t something I evenknewexisted.

“New students?” said anold man with a cactus-likebeard when we pushed themain office door open. Theplace was clean and lookedwell organized, but the smellof plastic gear and foot

powder was overwhelmingdespite the efforts of acoffeemaker hissing away inthe corner. There were rowsandrowsofthickfilecabinetsbehind a large desk, andopposite that, a wall ofcubbies that appeared to befull of students’ cell phones,purses, and street clothes. Icouldhearthemuffledsoundof piano music comingthrough the wall—I guessedthe ballet studio? The coach

rolled his eyes as the musicswelled. “Wouldn’t kill themtodance to somethingwithagroove,” he muttered, andthen walked over to the filecabinets.“Yournames?”

“Nathan and QuincyDelfino,”Walter said a littletooquickly.“Baseball,sir.”

“I’mnotsir—I’mCoach,”the man said. “Forms,please.”

We handed them over.

Coachscannedthroughthem.“Little LeagueWorld Series.Nice. Now, look—justbecause your father ownsmostofMontana andagoodportion of Texas doesn’tmean you’re going to getspecial treatment here. Youwant to be pampered?Go toWellington Sports Prep withthe other sissies. You thinkwegivethePrimeMinisterofBrunei’s son specialtreatment? No. He’s doing

laps with the rest of them.And speakingof laps, you’regonna get them today forbeinglate,I’msure.”

“On the first day?” I said,pouting. I figured QuincyDelfinowassortofawhiner.Coach rolled his eyes atme,and then dropped Walter’sand my forms into folders,whichhe turnedandput intothefilecabinetbehindhim.

“All right, rookies.

Baseball practices on thefields. Go through thesedoors, down the stairs, pastthewrestlinggym,aroundtheside, and you’ll see them.Youcan’tmissthem.”

“Thanks. Hey, when’slunch,bytheway?”Iasked.

Coach gave me a long,appraising look. “Wouldn’thurt you to think ofsomething other than food,son. Lunch is at noon—most

of the other students buytheirs here, since we’vespecially formulated mealsfor peak performance. Fortoday just leaveyourbags inthecubbies,”he said, jerkinghis hand toward the wall. Iwas a littlewary to leave allmyLeague stuff—andSRS’spocket scanner—ina randomcubby. Walter lookedhorrified at the prospect, butneitherofusreallyhadmuchofachoice, sinceCoachwas

watching. We shoved ourlunch bags into a cubbytogether and then left themain office. Walterimmediately started towardthe baseball fields, just likeCoachhadinstructed.

“Stop,”Ihissed.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Our mission—there’s aplan, Hale, and we have tofollow it. Though Iunderstand if you’d rather

wait here for lunch,” Waltersnapped.

“Don’t be stupid—I wasasking so I could find outwhenCoachwouldbeoutoftheoffice.”

Step2:Sneakoutofbaseballpracticeand

collectthefiles

Walter’sfacefell.Ittooka

lotofwillpowerformenottolooksmug.

“Anyway—wecan’tgo tothe baseball fields. They’reontheothersideoftheworld.We’ll never be able to getbackheretocollectthefiles,”Icontinued.

Walter’s eyes flitted fromone end of the hall to theother. “But . . . that was theplan...”

I gave him an impatient

look. “We’ll have to pickanother sport—somethingclosertotheoffice.”Ilookeddownatmybaseballuniform.“I guess we can’t exactly goto gymnastics dressed likethis.”

Walter nodded, like thevery act of creating a newplan would help his nerves.“Maybe we could pass thepantsoffas...Hm.Whatdosoccerplayerswear?”Walter

asked as he untucked hisshirt, trying out a fewvariations on the baseballuniform.Eventuallyhetookitoff entirely, revealing hissleek black SRS uniformunderneath.

“Oh.Oh, no.No, no, thatcan’t be the only way,” Igroaned,puttingmyheadintomyhands.

“What?What’s theway?”Walter asked, stooping to try

toturnhisbaseballpantsintosomethingsoccerlike.

I exhaled and pointedthrough the closest window.Theballetstudentswerelinedup at the barre, and pianomusicroseandfelllikewavesaround them as they bentknees, extended toes, andtiltedchinsupliketheyfoundthehardwoodfloorstoogoodfor them. There weremostlygirls, but a handful of boys,

andeverysingleoneof themwaswearingablackleotard.

Step2:Sneakoutofbaseballballetclassandcollectthefiles

“Oh!”WaltersaidwhenhesawwhatImeant.“Oh.”

“Balletisrightbythemainoffice.Look—we’dbeabletoseeinthemirrorwhenCoach

leaves, even. Come on,” Igrumbled, and stripped mybaseball shirt off. Walterlooked like he had half adozen Hale-in-his-uniformjokes on hand, but I guessnone of them were as funnywithout the Foreheadsaround. I balled up mybaseballuniformandchuckedit into the nearest trash can.Walterfollowedsuit.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll

giveyouacue,understand?”“A cue? What do you

mean? Tell me exactly,”Walter said, swallowingwarily.Iopenedmymouthtoexplainmywholeplantohimin detail—since, apparently,despite being a junior agent,Waltercouldn’thandlealittleimprovising—but suddenlythe door to the ballet studioflungopen.

“What are you doing out

here? You should be inclass!” the ballet mistresssnapped.Shewasatiny,troll-like woman, and she held ayardstick in one hand. Ithought she and Ms. Elmawould probably get alongwell.

“Sorry, ma’am—we’re inyour class, actually. Newstudents,” I saidquickly, andthenmovedforward.Ihadtoturn around to grabWalter’s

arm—he seemed suddenlyparalyzed. We followed theballetmistress into the room,and the entire class turned tofaceus likeourentrancewaschoreographed. They lookedsleek, put together, and quitealotlikeclones.

“I was not told to expectnew students,” the balletmistress said. She had aFrench accent, but it was sodiluted that it was nearly

undetectable. She grewcloser,andIcouldseefireinher beady eyes. I consideredwhatitwouldlooklikeifsheand Agent Otter got in astaring contest, then realizedher comment about nothavingnewstudentshadbeenhanging in the air for quitesometime.

“You didn’t?” I frowned.“We’re from Le Ballet deQuebec. I’msorryyoudidn’t

receive word we werecoming. I get the impressionNelson Academy doesn’tvalue its ballet program verymuch. Coach said he hadn’tfinished our paperworkbecause hewas busy dealingwiththesports.”

“He said that? That man.Baseball and football all thetime. No respect for theballet!” She rapped heryardstickonthenearestbarre,

and the crackechoedup intothe ceiling and made thedancers jump. Stillmutteringabout Coach, the balletmistress finally pointed to aspot on thebarre in thebackof the room; Walter and Ihustled to take our placestherebesidethemaledancers.

The ballet mistress cuedthemusic, and thepianist—areal pianist, I realized—launched into a fast and

chirpy number. “Tenducombination!” the balletmistressshouted.

I matched my feet to thedancers’. Or at least, I triedto.Theymoved so fast.Firsttheir feet were a V shape,then shoulder-width apart,andthentheybenttheirkneesand turned and began againand really, I began to thinkthat SRS should considerinvestinginaballetprogram.

Itwouldprobablyhelpagentslearntomultitask.WalterwasdoingmuchbetterthanIwas,becauseofcoursehewas.Histoes weren’t pointed and hewasn’texactlygraceful,butatleasthis feetweremoving intime. The ballet mistresscircled around the class,eyeing everyone hawkishly.When she got toWalter, hernose crinkled.When she gotto me, her entire facecrinkled.

“To the floor!” she said,and the class spread outaround the room, away fromthe barre. “Step, pas debourrée, glissade, assemblé,right and left, repeat everyeight counts!” The musicbeganagain,andthefirstrowdid thecombination, then thesecond, then the third, ourturn. I elected not to look inthe mirror at my attempt,whichwasamistake,becauseall I could see was Walter

soaring like some sort ofballet prodigy. Iwas sobusybeing annoyed that I almostmissed the main office dooropening, and Coach walkingout.Icoughedabitundermybreath as the next exercisestartedagain,andWaltermetmyeyesin themirror.Itwastime.

Thiscombinationinvolvedsome sort of crazy, prancingjump.Westepped,chassé-ed,

jumpedup,and—Bam.I hit the ground like a

rock, crumpling over myselfand rolling a few steps. Thepianomusicabruptlystopped,and everyonewhirled aroundto faceme, hands clasped tomouths.

Step2.SneakIgeteveryone’sattention,

andWaltersneaksoutofbaseballballetclassandcollectsthefiles

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Istruggledtostand,wincinginfake pain as I tried to putweightonmyankle.

“Draghimofftotheside,”theballetmistressinstructed.

“No, Iwant . . . Ineed todance. This is just weakness

leavingmybody!”IprotestedasWalterswoopedintohelpme. I letmy feet get tangledupinhislegs,andIsmackedagainst the ground again. Iwas finally able to giveWalter a meaningful look.Go!

FinallyWalterunderstood.“I’ll go get ice,” Walter

volunteeredimmediately.“Ugh, fine, fine. I’ll page

thenurse.Everyoneelse take

awaterbreakorsomething.Itwas terrible anyhow,” theballet mistress said, andstalked toward the side door.Isawherpullapackof longfancy cigarettes from herpocket, and a whoosh ofmistyairsweptintotheroomwhen she opened the door,leaving it propped with heryardstick. Walter vanishedintothehallway.

I rubbed my “hurt” ankle

tenderly until the nursearrived,pushingawheelchair.Iheavedmyselfintothechairpiteously, and the otherdancers gave me friendlylooks as I left, which Ithought was awfully nice ofthem given a) how longthey’dknownmeandb)whata mockery I’d just made oftheir sport. Imoaned in painasthenursepushedmealongthe hall.Walter should be inthe office now; I began to

groanalittlelouderwhilewepassed it, both so he knew Iwasgoneandtocoverupanynoise he might be makinginside.

“I’vejustgot tograbyourfile. I can’t give you anymedication without checkingit for allergies,” the nursesaid, suddenly stopping mychair.

“I don’t have anyallergies!” I protested. I

imaginedWalterinside,inthemiddle of a dozen folders,caught red-handed. It wouldbe my fault. Playing thesupportsideonamissionwasscarier than I’d thought—Ididn’t much like havingsomeoneelse’ssuccessinmyhands, especially sinceWalter’s success seemed alittle fragile to begin with.DidClatterbuckfeelthiswayback at the children’shospital?

“Quincy, please,” thenursesaid.“Ipromise,I’llbequick. Your last name wasDelfino,right?”

“Right, but—” I was cutoff as the nurse turned theknob and cracked the dooropen, her eyes still on me.Walterwasn’tanywheretobeseen inside, which shouldhave made me relax, butinsteaditmademeevenmorenervous.Whywasn’thethere

already?What was the pointin me playing support if hewasn’tgoingtogetthefiles?

“I’ll hurry!” the nursepromised, and pushed thedoortherestofthewayopen.I suddenly saw Walter—hewas pressed up behind thedoor so that it shielded himfromherview.Hehadatleasteightfoldersinonehand,andthe scanner SRS gave us tocopy them in his right.

Assuming he’d alreadyscanned those eight, he stillhad . . . thirty-four to go. Inodded at him almostimperceptibly—I could buyhimtimetodotheremainingthirty-four.

Step2.SneakIgeteveryone’sattention,andWaltersneaksoutofbaseballballetclass

andcollectsthefilesImprovise

“Owwwwww! I think it’sswelling!” I shouted. Thenurse rolled her eyes a little,but she had my folder inhand.Shehurriedtothedoorandlookeddownatmyankle,which clearly wasn’tswelling. She gave me acurious look and then tiltedmyfolderopen.Suddenlyher

face changed; she closed thefolder and gave me a tightsortofsmile.

“You know, I need tocheck on something withCoach really quickly. Waithereforme?”shesaid.

“Wait? I can’t walk! Ishould never have signed upforballet.Ishouldhave—”

“Wait here,” the nurserepeated, and hurried downthehall,herlowheelstapping

against the floor. Iballedmyhands into fists. She musthaveseen inmyfolder that Iwas supposed to be inbaseball, not ballet. I shouldhave told her that I hatedbaseball, that I loved ballet,that my father wasn’tsupportiveofmyneed topasdechat.Ishouldhavetoldhera thousand distracting storiesthat would have boughtWaltermoretime.

But I hadn’t acted fastenough.Islammedmyhandsagainst the arms of thewheelchair, furious withmyself, and jumped to myfeet. And Walter leapedstraight up in the air when Islammed the office dooropen.

“Hale—Quincy!What—”“She knows something’s

up. Let’s move,” I saidsternly.“Whereareyou?”

“I’ve got the first twelvescanned in,”hesaid, flinginga cabinet open. He began tofumble as our plandisintegrated.

“I’llworkfromthebottomup.Don’tscan—we’llhavetotake the originals,” I said,snatchingmylunchbagfromthe cubby. I yanked outSRS’s scanner and went towork on Zooblish,Undermeyer, Quailer, and

Quigley,stackingthefinishedfoldersuponthedeskbehindme. Move, move, move, mymind chanted over and overasIrushedthroughfivemorenames.

“They’re coming,”Waltersaid,andhewasright.Icouldhear the nurse’s heels on thefloor again, but this timetherewereotherswithher.

“Let’stakewhatwehave,”I said. “Come on.”We burst

throughtheofficedoor.Andfroze.Blocking the exit was the

nurse.AndCoach.And,fromthe looks of it, the entireNelson Sports Academywrestlingclass.

ChapterNineteen

One of the wrestlers reachedupandshovedamouthguardpasthislips,andthencrackedhisknuckles.Theyall lookedboth very unhappy and verystrong.

“Well!” Coach said.“Well!”

I said nothing. Walter’shands trembled, but he did a

decentjoboftryingtohideit.“You think I’m surprised

to seeyouhere?You think Idon’t know what you’redoing? I know exactly whatyou’redoing.”

“Oh yeah? What?” Iasked.Keepthemtalking.Aslong as they’re talking,they’renotpummelingus.

“You’re spies!” hesnapped.

“Oh.”Imean,Ihatedtobe

impressed, but this was thefirsttimeI’dheardofatargetjustguessingitoutright.

“You’re spies forWellington Sports Prep!”Coachcontinued.

“Ooooooh,” I said,nodding. This made moresense.

“You think you can stealmy students’ information?Think you can steal mystudents from me?

Wellington is a joke! Theydon’t even give out pushupsthere!” He turned to thewrestlers.“Get’em,boys!”

The wrestlers lunged.WalterandIleapedbackwardand ran, folders flying, feetsliding on the tile floors.Weburst through theballet roomand made for the exteriordoor the ballet mistress hadused earlier. Walter sailedahead, legs carrying him

twice as far as me. Thedancers watched, baffled, ashe streaked out the door. Iwasrightbehind,rightbehind...

Thensomeonetackledme.I hit the ground—again—

withaloudslap,andthistimeIdidn’tneedtopretendIwasinpain.Theweightof ahalfdozen wrestlers compoundedon top of me, and before Icould even imagine fighting

them off, they had my armstwisted behind my back andmy head pinned to the floor.The dancerswere screaming,the ballet mistress waslightingacigaretterightatthefrontof theroom,andCoachwascacklinglikehe’dcaughtabrag-worthyfishratherthanatwelve-year-oldinspandex.They hauled me to standingand, military style, marchedme back to the main office.They sat me down in the

chair and, I suppose as anextra precaution, stuck mytorsotoitwithathletictape.

The wrestlers steppedback, pleased with theirhandiwork. “Miss Valerie,tell everyone togather in thebasketballgym—Idon’twantany risk of that boy whoescapedsneakingbackinandpolluting our students withthis Wellington talk,” Coachsaid, and the nurse bounded

off to obey. Sometime amidmegettingtapedtomyseat,awrestler had collected allmyfallen foldersandhanded thebent-up pile of papers toCoach. I glanced over at thecubbies.Therewasmylunchbag, and in it, Ben’s utilitybelt. Surely, there wassomething on the belt thatcouldgetmeoutofthis—butI’dhavetogettoitfirst.

“So,”Coachsaid.“This is

revenge,huh?Itakeafewofyour students, and suddenlyyou guys are sending overpeople to sneak into mybaseball program. Should’verealizedyou’renotabaseballplayer.” He paused, lookingmeupanddown.“Whatsportdoyouplay?”

“I’mreallymoreofateammanager,”Isaiddryly.Coachsnortedandkepttalking,butIignored him. The wrestlers

were standing on all sides ofme, leaning against filecabinetsorhangingoutinthedoorframe, likeCoach’s ownpersonalwolfpack.

“Look,” I said. “Howabout rather than you tie meup like this, Igiveyou someinformationonWellington?”

“Why would I wantinformationonWellington?”

“Whywouldyouhavesentspies to Wellington if you

didn’t?”Iasked.This was a gamble, but I

figured that the only reasonCoach would be so quick toassume Walter and I wereWellingtonspieswasbecausetheideahitalittletooclosetohome. Coach frowned, andfor a moment I thought I’dmisjudged him. But then hegaveacrazedsortofgrin.

“All right, all right. Howabout, foreach thingyou tell

me about Wellington, I’llloosen a little of that tape?Give me excellentinformation—like, say, whothey plan on putting forwardfortheOlympicfencingteamthis year—andmaybe I’ll letyougocompletely.Ifnot...well. We’ll have to let thepolice know about yourtrespassing.Nottomention... the state athleticassociation!”Theeyesofthewrestlers in the room went

wide,likethisthreatwasjusttoomuch.

I tried to look equallytraumatizedbythethreat,andnoddedfervently.“ButIcan’tjust tellyouwith themin theroom. They mention thisonline or to a friend, it’ll allcome back to me. I’ll loseeverything.”

Coachconsidered this andthen made a small flickinggesture with his hand. The

wrestlers exited the room.“Stay in front of the door,”Coachsaid.Theynoddedandthen shut the door behindthem.

“Okay—I’mgoing tostartwith the big one, okay? Thething Wellington would killmeiftheyknewIwastellingyou. It’s . . . it’s your balletprogram,”Isaid.

Hefrowned.“What?”“Wellington’s ballet

program is a thousand timesbetter, and word is that youdon’t appreciate yours here.Some people say you don’teven think it’s a real sport.So, we were supposed torecruitballetstudentstocomejoin us atWellington. That’swhy we snuck into thatclass.”

“They want my balletclass? I have dozens ofamazing basketball players!

Awholefootball teamofall-stars! I’vegotgymnastswithmoregoldmedalsthanIhaveteeth.Andtheylikemyballetprogram?”

“Exactly. See, you forgetabout them. Do you knowhow many professionalfootball teams there are inAmerica?”

“Thirty-two.”“Well, there are a whole

lot more professional ballet

companies in the UnitedStates, and thousands moreworldwide. Ballet is the bigfish, and you’re letting itswimaway.”

Coach stared at me like Iwasspeakingtotallunacy,butthen he stepped forward andpopped open the tape aroundbothofmywrists.“Allright.Interesting.Notenoughtogetyou out of here, butinteresting.” He flipped

through a few of the filesWalter and I had removedfrom the cabinets. “Thesearen’tballerinas,though—notallofthemanyway.Thesearethe shining stars out of myyoungest students. The kidswho will practically ownprofessional sports someday.”

I shrugged at Coach.“Can’tblameus for trying toget their info.Wewant them

atWellington.”“I’m sure you do. You

know,Quincy, I think it sayssomething about Wellington,thatyou’vebetrayedthem.

That’s your team!No onelikesafair-weatherfan—”

I spun around, kicked offthe lockers, and launchedmyself in the rolling chairtowardmy lunch bag.CoachdivedformejustasIgotmyhands in the bag, but I

grabbedthefirstoneofBen’sinventions that I could,hoping that it was the BENSeeing You. I mashed thebutton on it as I pulled myhandout.

Atentpoppedopenoutofnowhere with so much forcethat it threw me against thecubbiesandCoachagainsthisdesk—the CaBEN. Igrimaced, looked at the belt,andsnatchedtheBENSeeing

Youfromitspouch.Iduckedunder the tent and, whileCoach was busy processingthe fact that his office wassuddenly a campsite, pressedit up against his arm and hitthe button at the end. Therewasasmallpop,andbeforeIcouldevenworryaboutwhatthe soundmeant, Coachwason the floor in a heap,breathing steadily. The roomwasquiet.

“Whoa,” I said. Ben wasbothimpressiveandterrifyingat the moment. I wonderedwhohe’dtestedthisthingon.

IglancedupatthedoorasI hurriedly peeled the rest ofthe athletic tapeoffmyarmsandtorso,flinchingasittookthehaironmyarmswithit.Icould still hear the wrestlersoutside,milling around. Thatwasn’t an option for an exitroute. I glanced up. There

were ceiling tiles thatinevitablyledtoairducts,butI didn’t fit inside the ones atSRS; there was no reason tobelieve these would be anydifferent.Focus. Think of the

mission.Idumpedouttherestofmylunchbag,fumblingtoputonmycomunit.

“Clatterbuck,youthere?”Isaid into the bracelet as Ishoved the belt down my

uniformshirt.Thankfully,theblackmaterialmadeit lookalot less lumpy than Iexpected. “Clatterbuck!” Iyelledagain.

“Um,yep—Ben!Bequiet!Hale’s talking to me! Yep,right here,” Clatterbuck said,andIheardpapercrumpling.

“These files . . .apparently,they’reallNelsonAcademy’syoungeststudentsand—”

“Thebest.Weheardmostof it,” Clatterbuck said.“Look, forget the files, Hale—you’ve got to get out ofthere, and we’re going tohelp.”

“What? No! You can’t.Walter’s surely signaledSRSby now. If you guys crosspaths,I’m...well.Let’sjustsay,I’mintrouble.Ipromise,Icangetmyselfoutofhere.”

Clatterbuck made a

disapprovingnoise.“Icantryto cancel our exit plan, Iguess. But it might be toolate.”

“Do it, Clatterbuck!” Isnapped, and instantly felt alittle bad about it. “Okay,write this down—maybe it’llhelp us figure out what SRSwants these kids’ files for.Lavender Dalton, she’s agymnast, and apparentlyshe’s the only girl in the

world who can do theTkachev salto, whatever thatis. Simon Bells, he’s abasketballplayer,but,huh...he hasn’t really been on agreat team—oh! He’s one ofthosetrick-shotguyswhocanmake a basket fromanywhere.LeslieGordonisaballerina, she set a pirouetterecord—”

Coachgroanedalittle.“That’ll have to be

enough.I’vegottogetout,”Isaid swiftly. Exit strategy,exit strategy, come on. Onlyone door. No routes throughthe ceiling. I looked at thegroundandranmyhandoverit—nope, tile over what feltlike solid concrete. I spunaroundandlookedatthegraywalls nearly covered inframed certificates andawards...

Gotit.

Well,hopefully.

Mission:EscapeNelsonSportsAcademy

withoutgettingbeatenupbyacountry’sworthofwrestlers

Step1:Literalsmokescreen

Irantothecoffeemakerinthe corner and grabbed thecontainer of sugar—it washeavy and felt new, perfect.The potted plant on Coach’sdesk—there was no sunlightinhere,sohehadtobegivingit fertilizer, or the thingwould have been dead. Ihurriedlyopenedafewofhisdesk drawers—yes, fertilizer.I unwound an entire roll ofpaper towels by thecoffeemaker and stole the

tube from the inside, thencloseduponeendwithawadoftape.

It wasn’t pretty, but itwould work. I poured sugarand fertilizer in the tube, afewshakesofeach,onerightafter the other. When it washalfwayfull,Ipausedtoputalong strand of the athletictape inside, leaving a fewinchespokingoutofthetop.Icontinuedfilling,faster,faster

...Coachmoanedagain,andhisfingertipswerestartingtomove. My paper towel tubewas complete; now I justneeded something to light itwith...

I ransacked Coach’sdrawers, but there wasnothing.

“What’s going on? Whatare you doing?” Clatterbuckaskedoverthecom.

“Lookingforsomethingto

lightthisexplosivewith.”“What?”“Not now, Clatterbuck!

I’ve got to think—” Yes,that’sit!

I heaved myself up ontothedesk,stoodonmytoestopop off the cover on theoverhead light, and held thetube against the lightbulb. Itburned the tipsofmyfingersbefore the tape finally beganto smoke. I pulled it down

andcuppedmyhandsaroundit, coaxing it into the flame.When it was going strong, Iplaceditbythedoorandthenran around and grabbed thefolders SRS wanted, tuckingthem into the front of myuniform. I crouched downbehind Coach’s desk. Thetape burned down and then,when it hit the sugar andfertilizer I’d mixed togetherin the tube, white smokeappeared. It grew thicker,

thicker, thicker, and I finallyheardpanicon theoutsideofthedoor.

Itwas really just a simplesmoke bomb—nothing toodangerous. But I guess theydidn’t really know aboutsmokebombs, seeingashowthey went to sports schoolinsteadofspyschool.

The smoke was so heavyin the room now that Icouldn’tseeathing,butthen,

Ididn’tneedto.IwaiteduntilIheardthewrestlersflingthedooropen,thesprayofafireextinguisher (which onlyadded more smoke), and aclatter of people and limbsandshouting. Iwaiteduntil Ifeltpeopleallaroundme,andthenIroseandrushedforthedoor, hidden by the smokeandcommotion.

Step2:Getoutofhere

I hurried down the hall tothe side door of the balletroom. It wouldn’t take longfor the smoke to fade, andthen...

“Hey!Watchit!”someonesnappedasIplowedintohim.Istumbled,strugglingtoholdon to all the stolen folders,and then I face-planted intothe dirt. The speaker snorted—Iknewthatsnort.

“Walter?” I said, lifting

myhead.Itwashim.“What’dyoudointhere?”

he asked, looking at thesmoke billowing out the sideofthebuilding.

“Smokebomb.Thanksforall your help with thatescape,”Isnapped,gettingtomy feet. My tolerance forWalter’s crappy fieldworkwasatanall-timelow.

“Hey, Iwascomingback!That’s why I’m here instead

ofatSRS!”“You’reherebecauseSRS

isn’tsendingtheagenttopickus up until three!” I said aswe tromped around the sideofthebuilding.

“It’s not my fault—thiswasn’t inthemissionpacket!We should have planned anemergency exit. We shouldhave—Are you wearingjewelry?”

I fought theurge to flinch

—ifIdid,Waltermightseeitandrealizesomethingwasup.So I rolled my eyes. “Thosewrestlersdidittomakefunofme. You know—sort of likehowyouandyourfriendscallmeHaletheWhale?”

“That’s different. We’rejust kidding,” Walter said,scoffing. We were nearly tothe lower parking lot now,and I could hear shoutingback at the school. I was

pretty sure that at this pointthey’d be calling the policerather than the state athleticassociation.

“Yeah, a joke. It’shilarious,Walter.Arealriot,”I muttered, reaching up toyankthecomoff.

A squeal of tires. Walterand I both spun around andtensed. It was a shiny blackcar, like one of the dozensSRS had in their garages. I

couldn’t decide if I wasoffended—clearly, SRSthought we might fail, andthey’d built in an exitstrategy. But then again, weneededit,especiallynowthatI could hear sirens in thedistance. The car came to ascreechinghalt in frontofusand, without missing a beat,Walter lunged for the doorand leaped inside. I followedhim, dragging the door shutbehind me, and the driver

mashed theaccelerator to theground. We fishtailed as wecutoutoftheparkinglotandbackontothestreet.

“Whoa,”Waltercalledoutto the agent driving. “Won’tthis car give us away?Whathappenedtothevan?”

“Seriously? You seriouslythink thecar iswhat’sgoingtogiveusaway?”Imuttered,andWalterscowledatme.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” a

woman’svoiceanswered.My chest went all cold.

The driver’s eyes flickedbacktome.

It was Oleander. Thiswasn’tSRS’sexitstrategy; itwas The League’s. WalterQuaddlebaum was in the carwith The League, and I wasthe one responsible for it. Itried tokeepmy face steady;maybeWalterwouldn’t evennotice. There were hundreds

of agents at SRS, and eventhoughweknewthemallonewayoranother,itwaseasytogetthemmixedup...

“Wait, who are you?”Walter asked, leaning overthecenterconsole.Ithadducttape on it, patching a fewholes. The car’s upholsterywas likewise tattered—thiswastheLeague’scar.

“I’m Agent Macoby,”Oleander said swiftly. “I’m

usually in Tactical Support?With Agent Smith?”Oleander’svoicewassmoothand sure—she’d even name-checked an actual TacticalSupport agent, though Isuspected she’d just taken asuper-generic last name andrunwithit.

“I knowAgentSmith, butthenhowdoInotknowyou?I know everyone in TacticalSupport. Hale, do you know

her?”“Sure! Yeah, Agent

Macoby. You don’tremember?”

Walterstopped.Helookedatmyfaceforalongtime.

I was a great liar—oractor, if you’d rather call itthat. But Walter and I wentway back, far enough backthat even though we weren’tfriends anymore, he stillknew all my tells. I saw the

shock of realization in hiseyes—that there wassomething going on withmeand this stranger driving usaroundinacrappycar.Hesatback,buthiseyeskeptflittingbetween me and Oleander. Itried to think of all thepossiblewaysthiscouldend.

Option one: Oleanderdrives us back to SRS. Shecan’t park the car inside,because it isn’t actually an

SRS car. She can’t come inwith us, because she’s thedirector of SRS’s enemyorganization.Sowewouldbecaught.Iwouldbeexposedasa double agent. Kennedywould get sent to live in thedorms and I’d meet someterriblefate.

Option one was no good.It’dhavetobeoptiontwo.

“Walter?” I said, reachinginto my pocket. “I’m sorry

aboutthis.”“Sorry about wha—” he

began, but he didn’t get tofinish, because I zapped himwiththeBENSeeingYou.

Oleander looked at me inthe rearview mirror. “Allright,Hale.Whereto?”

ChapterTwenty

“DoesSRSevenhaveagentswho aren’t kids?” Beatrixaskedthoughtfully,tiltingherhead to one side. We weregatheredaroundWalterintheLeague’s gym. He was stillout cold;Oleander and I hadcarried him down here andheaved him onto a mat. I’dasked Clatterbuck to go pick

upKennedy(whichexplainedhisracecardrivercostume).Ifigured that having anotherSRS person here to explainthingscouldn’thurt.

“Of course!” Kennedysaid. “He’s just a junioragent.”

“Doesthatmeanhe’sevenbetter than Hale?” Beatrixasked,eyeswidethatthiswaseven possible. I pretendedhearing that didn’t sting, but

really,alittlepartofmyheartsank. SRS was already theWalter Quaddlebaum show,soitwaskindofsadtothinkofTheLeaguebecomingonetoo.

But Kennedy laughedBeatrix’s question off. “Noway.Noone’sbetterthanmybrother; they just think theyare.”Theothersnodded, likethey should have realizedthis, and that sinking part of

me lifted back up. Kennedywent on. “You know, I’mgoingtotakemyjunioragentexam soon. Then I can be adoubleagenttoo.”

“No,”Isaid.“What?Whynot!Youget

tobeadoubleagent!”“She has a point,”

Clatterbuck said. “I mean,technically,anyway—”

“Don’t encourage her!” Isaid, which was something

Mom always said to Dadwhen he was teachingKennedyhow toback-talk inCantonese.

“Don’t encourage who?”Walteraskedsleepily.

We all stopped talking.Clatterbuck,Ben,andBeatrixeach took a giant step back.Oleander,whowashangingalittle farther away from usanyhow, clasped her handsneatly likeshewaspreparing

fora fancybusinessmeeting.Based on my own attemptedescape from The League,Oleander had already askedClatterbuck to disable thesprinkler systems. I thoughtthatwise.

Walter’s eyes were stillclosed.“Didwe...Werewecompromised?”heasked,likehecouldn’tquitefigureoutifthiswasadreamornot.

“No,” I said. “But we

aren’tatSRS,Walter.”“Huh?”“We’re . . . at League

headquarters.”Walter’s eyelids snapped

openandhejumpedup.Oratleast, he tried to—the gymmat that he was on wassquishy, so he sank, lost hisfooting, and toppled over tothe side. Ben and Kennedyhadtoleapoutoftheway.

“Walter, stop—stop!” I

shouted as he found hisfooting and spun around,panicked. He looked likesome sort of wild animal,ready tochargeatwhomeverhe needed to in order toescapebeingcaught.HiseyeslandedonBeatrix.Icouldseehim determining she wouldbe the easiest to barrelthrough.SoIdivedontopofhim.

“Getoffme!”heroaredas

I tackled him back onto themat.Kennedy, seeing thathewasabout togetaway,divedontopofme,flingingredhairall in my eyes and knockingthewindoutofme.

“What are you twodoing?” Walter shouted,trying to twist away. Hesounded terrified, and Icouldn’t help but rememberthe first time I was in TheLeague—before I knew that

the scariest thing in thisbuildingwas the back of thecafeteria’sfridge.

“Just listen! Walter.Listen,” I said, making myvoice calm. “It’s not whatyou think. If you just listen,we’llgetoffyou.”

Walter stopped, though Iwasn’t sure if itwasbecausehe was willing to listen orbecause he was just out ofbreath.Kennedyeasedoffme

and then I slowly eased offWalter,holdingmypalmsoutlike I was steadying a vase.Walter’s eyes stayed onOleander, Clatterbuck, andthetwins,dartingbetweenallofthem.

“They’re League agents?That lady—she was ourdriver. She’s a Leagueagent?”heaskedquietly.

“I’mactuallythedirector,”Oleander said. I cringed and

then dived back on top ofWalter before he had achancetorunagain.

Ittookanothertenminutesto convince him not to run,andeventhen,heonlyagreedtostandstillifeveryonefromThe League took six stepsbackward. It seemed areasonablecompromise.

“You’reworkingwithTheLeague? Hale. They tookyour parents,” Walter said,

lookinghorrified.“They didn’t, though.

That’s what I’m saying. Ibroke into this place to lookforthem,andallIfoundwereBeatrix,Ben, andabunchofoldgymequipment.”

“You broke into Leagueheadquarters?”Walter asked,andIshrugged.Heshookhishead. “No, no.You’re crazy.You and Kennedy both.Maybe Fishburn will let this

go; maybe you’re justtraumatizedoveryourparentsgettingcompromised. I’ll tellhim you didwell on the lastmission. I’ll put in a goodwordwithOtter,even.But... you doublecrossed SRS.Hale,youknowwhattheydotodoublecrossers.”

I looked over to Ben; henodded and handed me theprintout from SRS that I’dasked him to have on hand

for this. I unfolded it andgaveittoWalter.

“And this iswhat they doto their loyal agents,Walter.They put my parents In theWeeds.”

Walter’seyeswidened.Herubbedthepaperbetweenhisfingers and then flapped it alittle, tryingto tell if itwasafake. When he realized itwasn’t,hiseyeswentwider.

“SRS wants my parents

dead—my parents. The mostloyalagentsintheworld.TheTeam. TheLeague aren’t thebad guys—they’re barelyeven functioning these days.Look around. This isn’t anelite spy facility. It’s barelyeven a facility. Come on,Walter—you knowme, or atleast, you used to. Do youreallythinkI’mthetypetodosomething this crazy withoutbeingsure?”

A long pause settled overthe room. Then hoarselyWaltersaid,“No.”

I took a deep breath. “Allright.Well, then. This is Dr.Oleander. That’s Beatrix.She’s a computer genius,basically.Shewroteanentiresub-program overnight a fewweeks ago. And that’s herbrother, Ben. Ben inventedthe BEN Seeing You thingthatIzappedyouwith—”

“Haveyouseenanyspots,bytheway?”Benasked.

“Uh, no,” Walteranswered.

“Oh.Well,ifyouseesomespots, don’t worry. It’s allpartoftheprocess.”

“Great,” Walter said,sounding defeated. His eyesrosetoClatterbuck.

“And I’m StanClatterbuck, their uncle,”Clatterbuck said, grinning

broadlyandextendingahandto Walter. I probably shouldhave suggested he take hisrace car driver costume offbefore making theintroduction.

Walter shookClatterbuck’s hand weakly,likethemanwasmaybejustafigment of his imagination. Isighed. “Can I talk toWalteraloneforaminute,guys?”

Everyonenodded.

“Nice to meet you,Walter!”Beatrixcalledoutasthey filed out of the gym.“Hale, could you check thetime when he sees thosespots?Weneedtologit!”

Iwalkedoveranddroppeddown on the mat besideWalter. He kept folding andunfoldingtheSRSprintout.

“I know it’s hard tobelieve.”

Walter finally put the

printout down. “I alwayswonderedwhyIcouldn’tbeachef.”

Iblinked.ThiswasnottheresponseI’dexpected.

Waltercontinued,“Imean,I’mnotsayingIwanttobeachef.ButIgetnervousinthefield,andthenittookmeagesandagestoevenbeabletodohalf the physical stuff, andI’m still no good withlanguages, and I just . . . I

alwayswonderedifIcouldbesomethingelse.SoonetimeIaskedmymom.”

“What’dshesay?”“ShesaidthatIwasgoing

to be anSRS agent, and thatwas all therewas to it. ThenshesaidIshouldbemorelikeyou,actually.Evenwhenyouwere terrible at something,youwerealwaystryingtogetbetteratit.Youalwayscaredsomuch.Youwantedtobea

fieldagentsobad.”“Yeah,and lookwhereall

that gotme,” I scoffed. “MyparentsareIntheWeeds,mysisterandIare traitors,andIstillcan’trunamile.”

“But you still quit SRS,”Waltersaid.

Ididn’tknowwhattosay.“Anyhow,” Walter went

on, “ever since then I’vewonderedwhatkindofplacedoesn’t let people quit. So I

guessit’snotreallysurprisingthat the answer is: a badplace.”

Walter looked around,taking in the crappy gymequipment, the closet full ofBen’s inventions, theoutdated fitness posters onthe walls. “Did you knowLeague headquarters lookedlike this before you brokein?”

“No,” I answered. “I was

expecting SRS. But TheLeague hasn’t had a missioninyears.”

Walter frowned. “Theymust be doing some sort ofspying on us, though. ThatOleander lady knew AgentSmith was in TacticalSupport.”

“Smith?Thatwas a luckyguess on a common name.Seriously, Walter—it’snothing like we thought. No

heavyartillery,nowarrooms,no undercover ops, no junioragents, even. The League isjust...well...this,”Isaid,motioning to the dilapidatedgym.

Walterlickedhislipsashelooked around. “So. Youthought The League waseverything we’ve been told,andyoucameanyway.Wow,Hale. Imagine what Michaeland Cameron would think if

theyknew—”Icringedatthementionof

theForeheads.“Youcan’ttellthem. Walter, you can’t tellanyone.It’stoodangerous.”

Walter lifted an eyebrow.“Peopleshouldknow,Hale.Imean, this changeseverything.Besides, you toldKennedy. Can’t I tell mymom?”

“No—she might alreadyknow, Walter. She might be

in on the whole thing. She’sassistant director! There’s noway to know for sure. Wecan’triskit.”

Walter opened his mouthto argue, but then he shut itfirmly. He looked crushed,but he knew I was right. Helickedhislipsagain,andthensaid,“Okay,butclearly,noneofthekidsatSRSknow.Ibetsome of the junior agentscould help you. I mean, if

some of those guys knewaboutyoubreakinginhere,ifthey realizedwhatallyou’vedone—”

“I’m sure they’d still findplenty of reasons to call meHale the Whale,” I cut himoff, growing frustrated. “I’mnot trusting my life with abunch of jerkswho hateme,Walter.”

Walter’s face dropped. Itwas a long time before he

spoke, and when he did, hewas quiet. “Look, Hale. Ididn’t mean to stop beingyourfriendlastyear,exactly.I just . . . all of a sudden, Iwas good at things. It was,like, all that time I spentworrying about being adisappointment . . .Suddenlyitdidn’tmatter.Doyouknowwhat that’s like? And thenthey wanted me to be theirfriend, and all of a suddenpeoplewerelookinguptome

andlikingmeandwantingtohangoutwithme.”

“Iwantedtohangoutwithyoufromthestart.”

“I know. It’s just . . . it’snot that easy, I guess.Wheneverything you’ve ever triedto be falls into your lap, it’shardtoletthingsstaythewaythey’ve always been. It wasnice to be . . .Well, cool. Itwasnice tobecool foronce.And we really were just

kiddingmostofthetime,likeIsaidearlier.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Ianswered, folding my arms,andWalter turned an uneasyshadeofpink.

“Yeah . . . I just . . .well,I’m sorry. I really am. I’vebeen sorry for a long time,actually, but I just didn’tknowhowtosayit.”

Herewasthething:Walterwasajerk.Imean,Iknewit,

and I was sure he knew it.There wasn’t really anythinghecouldsaytometoundoallthe timeshe’dcalledmeFailHalealongside theForeheadsthepastyear.Itwouldtakealong time forme to get overthat. But even though Iwasn’t ready to be Walter’sfriend again, we at least hadtowatcheachother’sback—becausewewereonthesameteam now, like it or not. Iexhaled.“Comeon.”

“Wherearewegoing?”“Oleander probably had

thereceptionistorderpizza. Idon’t think she knows whatelsekidseat.”

“You get pizza here?”Walteraskedincredulouslyashe rose and followedme outthedoor.

ChapterTwenty-One

Kennedy snuck back intoSRS through one of theservice elevators. SinceWalter and I had supposedlybeen on a mission that wentvery, very south, we had tocome back in through thefront door and pretend likewe’d only just made it backfrom Nelson Academy.

FishburnandOtterjumpedonus immediately, demandingexplanations. It was anastoundingly easy story—wejusttoldthetruth,saveforthevery last part about how wegot away. I watched Waltercarefully, worried he wouldcrackandtellthemaboutTheLeague, but no. He held ittogether, spinning a storyabouthowwegotaridebackto SRS via a friendlycabdriver and three train

stowaways.“Youmean to tellme that

Hale Jordan is fast enoughandstrongenoughtojumponamoving train?”Otter askedwitheringly.

“I helped him,” Waltersnorted.“Obviously.”

I grimaced. We’d agreedthatitwouldlooksuspectforWalter to suddenly stopmocking me, which meantbackatSRS,hewas still the

same old Walter whoeveryonehadcometoexpectinthepastyear.

“We got these, though,” Isaid, pulling the stolen filesfrom my uniform andhandingthemtoFishburn.

“Oh!” Fishburn said,surprised. “Is this all ofthem?”Inodded.“Well.Thisis a huge step for OperationEvergreen then, though Ican’tsayI’mverypleased to

hear you two wrecked whatwas supposed to be a cleanmission. Nelson SportsAcademy is on every newsstationinthecountry.”

“Sorry, sir,”Walter and Isaidinunison.

“Still, I’m impressed thatyoumanaged to get out, andevenmoreimpressedthatyoukept your identities and theinformation private. Welldone, both of you. Now . . .

we’ll continue to work onOperation Evergreen, but atthis point, I’d like for youboth to help us out with anupcomingmission.”

“Sir,” Otter said stiffly.“Hale Jordan still hasn’tpassed his junior agent exam—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Buthe’s done quite well in thefield thus far. I’d like tocontinue this experiment.

Perhaps our physicalrequirements need to bereevaluated,”Fishburnsaid.

Otter looked like he verymuchwantedtoburyhimselfinsomesortofhole.Fishburnignoredhim.

“We’ll be giving outbriefings on the new projectover the next few days. It’sexciting work, though—andyour particular role involvesparts only people your age

can play, so we’re veryfortunate to have so manytrained and qualified junioragents. I’m looking forwardtoit,”Fishburnsaid.

“What’s the new projectcalled,sir?Ifyoudon’tmindmyasking,”Walterasked.

Fishburn had alreadyreturned to reading the thickstack of papers on his desk.“The upcoming one? It’scalledProjectGroundcover.”

Walter and I walked backtowardtheapartmentsinnearsilence. I could tell he wasstill processing everything,and even though Iwanted toask—justtomakesure—ifheplanned on telling anyoneaboutTheLeague,IdecidedIhad to just trust that hewouldn’t. Itwasn’t easy, andmy stomach was swirlingwhen we split off and Ifinished the trek to ourapartmentalone.

Inside, Iheard thescreechoftapebeingpulledoffaroll.I frowned and pushed thedooropen.

“What are you doing?” Iasked,adeadenedmixtureofhorror and anger rippingthroughme.ItwasMs.Elma.Shewas in themiddleofourlivingroom,tapingshutaboxthat, if the label on the sidewas accurate, was full ofJUNK FROM THE LIVING

ROOMDRAWERS.“Calm down, Hale. You

knew my staying here wasonlytemporary.”

“Soyou’repackingupourapartment?” I shouted. Irushed over and steppedbetween her and the box ofmyparents’things.

“We’re just putting thingsin storage for now. As soonas your parents are found,we’ll help them move

everythingback—”I hollowed with

realization. Packing up ourapartment,movingon...Didthis mean SRS had finallyfoundandkilledmyparents?My voice shook violently.“Wait—has anythinghappened? Did we hearanythingaboutthem?”

“No!” Ms. Elma said.“There’sbeennonews.ButIneed to get back to my own

responsibilities, so I can’tbabysit you any longer. Youand Kennedy will need tomoveintothedorms.”

Kennedy suddenlyemerged from her bedroom,facepuffyandtear-stained.

“ShesaysIhavetoputallmy posters in a box,” shesaid,spittingthewordsatMs.Elma.

“Don’tworry,”Isaid.“It’sjust temporary, okay? They

won’tbetherelong.”This did little to console

Kennedy, who had ameltdown at the idea ofputting any of her posters inboxes.Ihelpedhertakedownher posters and carefully rollthem, and together weselected which of her manypom-poms could be packedand which had to stay withher. Ms. Elma continued topack up the living room and

kitchen, treating things socasually that I almost—and Imeanalmost—wentandusedtheBENSeeingYouon her.When she started towardmyparents’bedroomwithagiantboxinhand,Istoppedher.

“Don’t touch their things.I’ll do it,” I said, and tomysurprise, Ms. Elma lookedstartled—maybe even a littleafraid.

“I’ll help,” Kennedy said.

Ms. Elma glanced inKennedy’s room and saw itwas still mostly a mess ofneon and doll hair, but sheshrugged and went back topacking up our silverware. Ishut the door to our parents’roomsothatwecouldn’thearthesoundoftheclanging,andKennedyandIstared,unsurewheretostart.

“Maybe just the boringstuff first,” she finally said.

“Likethesocks.”That seemed liked a good

enough place, so we put thebox between us, opened ourparents’ sock drawer, andthen began slowly droppingthesocksinoneatatime.

“Hale. I’m going to passmy junior agent testtomorrow.”

“Of course you will.You’re great,” I said, tryingtosmile.

“AndwhenIdo,youhavetoletmehelpyouat...The.. .” She didn’t say the word“League” out loud, which Iappreciated. “You have to.Otherwise there’snopoint tomebeingajunioragentatall,becauseI’mnotgoingtohelpSRS.Idon’twanttobeabadguy.”

Istopped,fiddlingwiththesock in my hands. “It’s justthat it’s so dangerous,

Kennedy.You’reonlynine.”“You’reonlytwelve.”“You still sleep with a

stuffedhedgehog.”“Don’t bring Tinsel into

this,”shesaid.“Okay,you’rereally,um.

..small?”“Andyoudon’tlookmuch

likeaspyyourself,”Kennedysaid,butshesaidsoinawaythat was totally unlike thewayOtterwouldhavesaidit.

She tilted her chin upproudly.“Butit’sokay,Hale.Real heroes don’t alwayslooklikeheroes,remember?”

For my little sister, shewas awfully smartsometimes.

The SRS dormitories wereabove thecafeteriaand, truthbetold,theyweren’thorrible.Everyonehad theirownverytiny bedroom, with a shared

shower for boys and anotherforgirlsattheendofthehall.

“It’llbeallright,Kennedy.You’redownthehallinroomtwenty-three thirty-four.Wantmetocarryyourbag?”Agent Farley asked—he wasthis week’s dorm parent.Kennedyshookherhead,andIgaveAgentFarleyasortofmeek smile before he turnedaround and walked away.KennedyandImadeourway

towardherroom,pastdozensof open doors. Inside each,watchingusknowingly,werefamiliar faces—people fromvariousgradeswhoIknewbyvirtue of how small acommunitySRSwas,butalsoEmily, one of Kennedy’sfriends, and Stewart andMerilee, who were twins inmyclass.Emilydashed fromher room to hug Kennedytightly as we made our waydownthehall.

“It’s not so bad here,”Emily whispered beforereleasingher.Kennedydidn’tseem to really hear her,whereas I felt like I washearing Emily’s voice overandoverinmyhead.Notherwords, exactly, but how sadshe sounded. Here was awhole floor of kids whoseparents were gone, someforever, and for what? Theymighthavebeenjust likeourparents—theymighthavenot

realized SRS was evil. Ormaybetheyhad realized,andthat was why they’d beeneliminated.

I never thought I hadanything at all in commonwith the dorm kids, but nowtheyweremorelikeKennedyand me than anyone else inthis horrible place. Iswallowed, because if Ididn’t, I might have shoutedeverything I knew. Just run

through the halls, yelling it,telling everyone, warningthem that the organizationtheyworked forwas nothinglikeitseemed...

“Doyouwanthelpsettingyour room up?” I askedKennedyasIdroppedheroffat her door. I tried to soundsomewhatupbeat,butIfailedprettymiserably.

“No,” she said. Sheopened the door, andmygut

twisted—she hadn’tunpackedanything.Theroomlooked stark, white, andentirely un-Kennedy-like.“We’renot stayinghere longanyway.”

“Shhh,” I said, gratefulthat the agent who’d justwalked by had hadheadphones on. “But . . .you’re right. I’m just downthehallifyouneedme,okay?I’llleavemydoorunlocked.”

Kennedy nodded and thenhugged me tightly beforedisappearing into hermiserable-lookingroom.

I went down to my ownroom,whichwasattheendoftheboys’halfofthehall.Justas I was openingmy door, Iheard shuffling upstairs. Ilooked up and frowned. Iknewthereweremoredormsup there, but they’d alwaysjust been used for storage. I

glanced down the hall tomake sure no one wouldcatch me, and then I snuckinto the connecting stairwellanduptothenextlevel.Oncethere,Ipressedmyeartothedoor.Nothing.Idaredtopushthedooropen.

“Hale Jordan!” a womansnapped. I leaped backward,nearly tumbling down thestairsinsurprise.

“Mrs. Quaddlebaum!” I

said.“I’msorry—IjustheardsomeoneuphereandthoughtI’dlook—”

“You’resupposed tobe inyourroom,”shesaid,foldingherarms.

“Well, yeah, but I heardsomeone up here and . . . Iwas just curious.” I didn’tdare take my eyes off Mrs.Quaddlebaum, but with myperipheral vision I could sortof see the hall behind her.

The lights were all on, andthe room had the lemonyscent of a space freshlycleaned. Why were theycleaning this level? Therewere plenty of roomsdownstairs.

“Just clearing out somerooms,” she said sternly.“Nowgoon.I’llletyouslideon being out past curfew,since I’m assuming you justdidn’tknowthedormrules.It

isyour firstday in thedorm,right?”

Inodded.Mrs. Quaddlebaum

pointed,andIbegantoretreatdownthesteps.AsI left,shecalledafterme.“We’redoingeverything we can to findyour parents, Hale, sohopefully you won’t be inthose dorms for long,” shesaid in a rare show ofsomething resembling

sympathy.I turned and gave her a

fake smile even the BodyLanguage Analysis teacherwouldn’t have been able tosee through. “I’m sure Iwon’tbe.”

ChapterTwenty-Two

The following day I lost theraceattheendofclass,asperusual.

Walter jeered me alongwiththeothers,asperusual.

And I spent a lot of timethinking about Groundcover,asperusual.

Otter, who was still bitterabout the whole hospital

thing, sent me out to dry-clean all his heavy wintercoats (I was almost positivetheyweren’tevenhis.Ithinkhe just collected them fromthe Wardrobe Departmentbecause he knew they’dpractically breakmy arm offwhen I carried them to thedry cleaner). It wasobnoxious, but at least itmeant I had a legitimateexcuse to leave SRS insteadof sneaking out again.

Clatterbuck, dressed as afarmer, picked me up in atruck filled to the brim withwatermelons.

“Isn’t Oleander going tobe mad that you keepspending The League’s littlebit of money on things likecostumesandwatermelons?”

Clatterbuck shrugged.“She doesn’t care what Ispendthemoneyon,Hale,solongasitmeanskeepingyou

safe. You’re our mostimportantasset.”

I blushed, hating myselfforit,andsaid,“Tobetotallyfair,I’myouronlyasset.”

“No!We still have a fieldagent out in Japan. I mean,wehaven’theardfromhiminseventeen years, and we’repretty sure he sold off theagency car to pay somegamblingdebts, but . . . he’sthere.”

At League headquarters,Oleander and I wonderedabout Groundcover togetherfor a while, and then Benshowed me a few newdevices he’d made for myutility belt—which he’d alsofinished the auto-close clipsfor, so it now fit around mywaist nicely. There was theRoBEN, a little windup birdthat delivered a high-decibelshriekthatcouldshatterevenbulletproof glass, and the

HellBENder,whichhedidn’tmuch explain beyond tellingmethatitwasonlytobeusedas a last resort. He also hadmore jewelry com units, oneeachforKennedyandWalter.

“So, these really are theonly ones The League hasthatwillwork given how farunderground SRS is. I didupgradethemalittlethough.”

“It’s going to be hard tosell Walter on wearing

earrings,”Isaid.“Butthanks,Ben.”

“No problem,” he said,lookingpleasedwithhimself.“Beatrix helped, though. Shehad to recode part of the oldsoftware.”

“Where is Beatrixanyhow?”Oleanderasked.

“I don’t know. She tookUncleStan’swallet togogetsodas earlier, but that wasages ago,” Ben answered.

Clatterbuck patted his pantspocketandlookedalarmedtosee his wallet was missing.“Shedidn’tpickpocketyou—you left it on the counterwhen you changed into yourfarmeroveralls.”

“Oh! I figured farmersdon’t carry wallets whenthey’reworking in thefield,”Clatterbucktoldme.

Ben shouted Beatrix’sname, and we continued to

pore over the blueprints.When she didn’t come, hewent upstairs to the cafeteriaand thendown to thegym tolook for her. When shewasn’tineither,allfourofuswentsearching.

“Maybe she’s in the . . .”Clatterbuck finally said,givingBenamysteriouslook.

“Should we show them?”Ben answered. “If she’s notthere, she’ll be mad we

showedthemwithouther.”“I’ll be mad if you don’t

show me whatever you’retalkingabout,”Oleandersaid,folding her arms, a seriouslookonherface.

BenandClatterbuckdidn’tseemparticularlyhappyaboutit, but they ledOleander andmeupstairstothedoorofthemission control roomOleander had shown me thedayIbrokein.Iremembered

it well enough—full of oldcomputers and abandonedchairs and enough dustbunniestomakeapterodactylnest. Clatterbuck and Bengrinnedateachotherandthensweptthedooropen.

“Whoa,” Oleander and Isaidinunison.

The chairs were gone, aswere the dust bunnies. Theold computers appeared tohavebeenfixedupandfused

together,much likeBeatrix’sRight Hand, and were nowdisplayingaprojectedmaponthe back wall. There wereseveral stations constructedoutofdesks,andthemissiondirector’s platform appearedtohavebeenrepainted.

“We fixed it!” Ben saidjubilantly. “It was supposedto be a surprise for after wefoundyourparents,Hale.Wethought maybe they could

comehereandwecouldstartrunning actual missionsagain.”

“This is amazing,”Oleandersaid.

She was right. I mean,sure, it still looked a littleshabby compared to SRS’scontrol room, but . . . thisplacewasreal.Itwasn’tbuiltonliesandtricksandphysicalexams. Therewas still a sortofdarkplaceinmyheart,the

reminder that when all wassaidanddone,SRSwouldn’tbe my home anymore. Butseeing a real mission controlroomhereatTheLeague...

“It’sperfect,”Isaid.“Well, not exactly.

Because Beatrix hasn’tprogrammedthosecomputersyet.Andalso,she’snothere,”Bensaid,shakinghishead.“Idon’tgetit.”

Clatterbuck and Oleander

glanced at each otherwarily,each trying to gauge howserious theother thought thiswhole thing was. I wasn’tworried—Beatrixwastiny,soitseemedprettyplausibleshewastuckedawaysomewhere,totally absorbed in some sortof computer-genius-typework. Iwas about to suggestwe check the upper emptyfloors, when Clatterbucksuddenlygrabbed forhisear.Someone was talking to him

overhiscomunit.“Whoa. Slow down—

actually, hang on. Ben, canyou transfer this to theoverheadspeakeryet?”

“Surething,”Bensaid.Herantooneof thestationsandflipped a few switches up.There was a sharp buzzingnoise,butthen...

“Hale?Areyouthere?Cananyone hear me?” Walter’svoice boomed through the

overhead speaker. Benwinced and turned it down alittle.

“Yeah!What’sgoingon?”Icalledout.

“Well,Iwasonmywaytodo an extra jujitsu session,and I heardmymom’svoicefromdownthehall.SoIwasjust curious, and I stick myhead around the corner tolook, and she’s leading thislineof people—kids our age.

Newkids,notSRSkids.”“New kids? Like,

strangers?Why are strangers—”

“One of them is Beatrix,Hale!Beatrixishere.”

“What do youmean she’sthere?”Iasked.

“Imean she’s here! She’swiththem!”

Ben and Clatterbuck spunaround to look at me. Mymouthdroppedopen, butmy

mind immediately began towhir. Beatrix. Beatrixwas atSRS, and we had to get herout.Wehadtoplan.

I said, “Okay. Theysomehow must have caughther helping me. Maybe herprogramatthehospital—”

Walter cut me off, “Hale,this can’t be you. If theyknew she was a part of thewhole doublecross, thenthingswouldbealot...um.

..worse.Plus,whybringinadozen new kids if Beatrix isthe problem? I think this isOperation Evergreen—Irecognize one of the kidswhose filewe stole from thesports academy. Thegymnast, I think.Andoneofthe other kids I rememberseeing back on my firstmission at that chesstournament—”

“They’re recruiting,”

Oleandersaidsuddenly.The three of us spun to

face her. She puffed her lipsfor a moment, like shecouldn’t believe this hadn’toccurred to her before. “SRShas always been immenselyprivate. They’ve ensuredloyalty by having familiesworkingthere.Buteventuallyeveryone needs new blood.So they collected hospitalrecords. Files from sports

academies.”“Chess championship

information,” I said,remembering Walter’s firstmission.

“Exactly. Everythingyou’ve done for OperationEvergreen has involvedtrackingexceptionalkids.”

“Beatrix said she saw herfiles getting transferred toSRS . . . The doctors musthave written down that she

was a computer genius, likethey wrote down stuff aboutClifton Harris . . .” I feltguilty for not seeing thisbefore,buthowcouldIhave?SRS never brought in newpeople.

“Are you two sayingthey’re going to turn mysister into an SRS agent?”Benasked.

Walter crackled over thespeaker again. “Your sister

and about fifteen others, Ithink.Letmego—I’mgoingtotrytofollowthemandfindoutmore.I’llkeepaneyeonher, Ben. Don’t worry.”Walter’s voice vanished,replaced by the steady soundofstatic.

Itookadeepbreath.“He’sright, Ben. Don’t worry.Beatrixisn’tgoingtobecomeanagent,becausewe’regoingtogetherout,”Isaid.

“Wecan’t,”Oleandersaid.Ben and Clatterbuck’s

mouthsdropped.“Not yet,” Oleander

continued, holding out herpalms like itmightcalmBenand his uncle down. “She’sfine.They’renothurtingher.Hale, you sneak out of SRSall the time—but they knowyou, and they trust you. Noone blinks an eye if theydon’tseeyouforafewhours,

because they just assumeyou’restudyingorathomeorthe library. But if a newrecruit vanishes? They’regoing to notice quickly thatshe’s gone. Then they’regoing to want to know howshe escaped. Then they’regoing to check video feeds.They’re going to see Beatrixleaving, but they’re alsogoing to see you andWalterand Kennedy going andcoming way too often to

ignore. The wholedoublecross will be blown.We won’t get the chance towork out Groundcover, andwe definitely won’t get anyclosertofindingyourparents,Hale.”

“So you’re sayingwe justleave her there?” I couldn’tbelieve what I was hearingand, from the looks onClatterbuck’s and Ben’sfaces,neithercouldthey.

“I’msaying,Hale,thatthismight be our only chance.The odds of you breakingBeatrix out of SRS withoutrevealingyourself,Walter,orKennedyareveryslim.Onceyou’regone,you’regone,andwe’ll never get a chance tolook at that place from theinside again. If she’s not inany real, present danger, Ithinkwe shouldwait it out abit,justuntilwe’vesortedoutGroundcover. The three of

youcanlookafterher,andifanything goes wrong, youhavemywordthatwe’llgoinandgether.”SheturnednowtoClatterbuckandBen.“SRSare better than we are.There’re more of them,they’rebetter funded, they’rebetter trained, and they’rebetter equipped. Hale’sdoublecross is the only cardwe have to play. If we let itgo too soon, we’ll havenothing.”

“But they’ll have myniece,”Clatterbucksaid.

“Say the word, Stan, andwe’ll get her,” Oleanderanswered,hervoiceheavy.

“Weshouldaskher!”Bensaid before his uncle couldrespond. We turned to him.He took a deep breath, andcontinued. “Let’s just askBeatrix what she wants todo.”

ChapterTwenty-Three

By the time I got back toSRS, everyone was talkingaboutthenewkids.Whotheywere, where they’d comefrom, why Fishburn thoughtwe needed new people. Thejunior agentswere especiallypricklyabouttheentirething.

“I’m just saying, we’ve

beendoingthissincewewereborn. How are some randomkids going to do better thanus?”Iheardagirlwhisperingloud enough for everyone tohear.

“Maybe that’s the thing,though.Maybe some randomkids actually are better thanus,”anothersaid,worried.

“Noway,”anothersaid.“I heard they’re from the

CIA.”

“SomeonetoldmetheFBItrainedthem.”

“You knowMI6?They’refrom a secret division calledMI9.”

“That’simpossible.Iheardthem talking. They’re notBritish.”

“You don’t think a spytrainedbyMI9couldfakeanAmericanaccent?”

Even the adults wereswapping rumors. In every

version, SRS had recruitedthekidsorrescuedthemfromterrible homes or orphanagesor, according to one of theForeheads,offasinkingship.I didn’t hear a shred of thetruth—or anything aboutOperationEvergreen.

Mrs. Quaddlebaum wasguarding the new recruitscarefully;peoplecouldtalktothem, but only for a fewseconds at a time, and then

wewerehurriedoff.IfinallysawBeatrix,whosefacelitupa little too much when shesawme.Iliftedmyeyebrows,and she quickly dropped hergrin.

“Hi—you’re new here?” Iasked warmly. She and theothers were in line near thenurse’s office, apparentlygettingblooddrawnandtheirtonsils checked. Beatrix wastoward the back of the line,

leaning against the wall. Aspromised, she didn’t lookparticularly scared andcertainlywasn’thurt.

“Yep, today. Are you oneof the spies? We’ve beenrecruitedtobecomespiestoo,justlikeonTV.We’regonnabe heroes!” she said all thisquickly, giving me as muchinformationasshedaredwithMrs. Quaddlebaum so closeby.

I gave her an appreciativenod before saying, “Sort of.I’maspyintraining.Areyouguysstayinginthedorms?Inthebrand-newrooms?”

“I think so—they looknew,anyway.Thewholehallisjustus,”shesaid,andthengesturedtotheotherrecruits.

“Ohyeah,whichroomdidyouget?”

“Ithinkit’s...thirty-threethirty-seven?”

I sucked air through myteeth.“Oh, toughbreak.Thatone’s haunted. Should’vegone with thirty-three thirty-four.”

“Hale Jordan,” Mrs.Quaddlebaum said, walkingover. I knew she’d beenlistening in. “There is not asingle place in this buildingthat’s haunted. Stop pickingonthepoorgirl.Don’tworry,Bernice—”

“Beatrix,”Beatrixsaid.Mrs.Quaddlebaumwaved

herhandslikeBeatrix’snamewas a matter of opinion.“Right. Don’t listen to him.Hale, I expected better fromyou,pickingonaclassmate!”

I badly wanted to ask herwhereherlectureswerewhenWalter was picking on me,but I figured this reallywasn’t the time. “She’sjoiningourclassesthen?”

“Well, she’s not. She’sgoing to join the HITS, Ibelieve. Right?Oh, there aretoo many of you. I can’trememberwhoisdoingwhat.Come on, everyone! We’regoingtogolookatoneoftheExplosives classrooms now,then we’ll be done with thetour and get some dinner.Let’s move along!” Shesounded cheery, which wasweird and made it feel likeshe was Mrs. Quaddlebaum

in shallow cover as Mrs.CheeryQuaddlebaum.

She put an arm aroundBeatrix and led her awayquickly, back to the others.Beatrix glanced over hershoulder,andImouthedroomthree-three-three-four. Icouldn’ttellifsheunderstoodmyplan,butIdidn’thavethechance to work it out, sincethey disappeared around thecorner.

ThatnightWalterandIsatinKennedy’s dorm room—room 2334—which was stillsparse and sad-looking. Icould tell the whole placemade Walter feel awkwardabout how he was going toget to go home to his ownbedroom, with his mom, inhis own apartment, mainlybecause that was how Iwould’ve felt, visiting thedormkids.

“What if Beatrix didn’tunderstand?” Kennedysighed, fiddling with one ofthe fake diamonds on herLeague com unit. I’d givenWalter his too, but he’dquicklypocketeditlikeitwasjust toogross to lookat.Benhad hurriedly set up a finaloneformetogivetoBeatrixaswell.

“I don’t know,” Ianswered Kennedy. “We’ll

have to figure out anotherwaytotalkwithheralone—”

A knocking noise stoppedus—a noise coming fromoverhead. I grinned andcrossed my fingers that Iwasn’t just misinterpretingthe sound of someonearranging furniture. Walterhoisted Kennedy up onto hisshoulders (where she wantedtostopandpracticesomesortof cheerleading move). She

poppedoutoneoftheceilingtiles and passed it down tome.

Walter handed her thelaser saw I’d stolen earlierfrom the tactical supplycloset,andweallcringedasitbuzzed to life. Kennedyslicedthroughtheflooroftheroomabove.Shepusheditupand, to our relief, we sawBeatrixabove,helpingliftthefloor out. Room 3334—right

aboveKennedy’sroom,2334.“Hi,guys!”shewhispered,

waving down at us. She setthe piece of her floor aside,andKennedyhoppeddown.Ittook a littlemore convincingforBeatrixtojumpdownintoWalter’s arms, but sheeventuallydidit,lookingverypleased with herself as hecaughthersquarely.Ihuggedher tightly as soon as shesteppeddown.

“I’m okay,” she assuredmewhen I lethergo.“Hale!I’m fine, I promise. Reallygoodideaabouttheghost,bythe way. I told Mrs.Quaddlebaum I was scared,then cried until she let meswitchwith the girlwhohadthisroom.”

“Oh yeah, she hatescrying,” Walter said sagely.Beatrix plopped down onKennedy’s bed and, though

she didn’t say it aloud, Icould tell even she thoughtthis room was entirely un-Kennedy.

“Allright.So,youwanttoknowhowIendeduphere?”shesaid,andwenodded.“It’sactually pretty basic.Remember how I saw themlooking through my andBen’shospitalrecords?Well,I saw that they were sortingthem and pulling out the

recordsthathadnotesinthem—you know: ‘this kid playshockey!’and‘thiskidprefersto go by “Junior” ’ and ‘thiskidwon a science fair!’So Iwent ahead and put stuff inmy file—you know, how Iwon a programming contestonce,andhowIfiguredoutabetter algorithm for filteringout Internetspam, things likethat, just to see what wouldhappen.”

“Youwonaprogrammingcontest?”Walterasked.

“Yes,butIgotdisqualifiedbecause it was supposed toonly be for Germans.Anyway, these guys in suitsstoppedmeonmywaytothegrocery store to get sodas,and then one of them stuckme with some sort ofknockoutgas,and then . . . Iwoke up here with all theotherkids.Oneofthemisthe

best chess player in theworld.Seriously.Apparently,they flew him in fromBelgium.”

“How are they notfreaking out? How are younotfreakingout?

“Well, they are, actually.Alotofthemcried,andsomeofthemareinshock.Buttheybasicallytoldusthatweweregeniuses, and the countryneeds for us to become

superspies,whichalotoftheothers are excited about. Iwassortofscaredatfirst,butI figured that you guyswerehere, for one, but also thatthisisgreat.SRShasaclosedsystem—I could never havehacked into their networksfrom the outside. But nowI’montheinside!”

“Yeah,butyou’restuckonthe inside, Beatrix!” I said,exasperated.

“HowcanIbestuck?Yousneak out all the time,”Beatrixremindedme.

I sighed and told herexactly what Oleander hadtold the rest of us—how mebeing gone wasn’t news, butanewrecruitslippingout?

Beatrix’sfacefell.“I guess I didn’t think of

that,” she said, folding herarms over her chest. Herpride seemed to bedeflating,

and Walter looked veryworriedshemightcry.“Whatarewegoing todo?”Beatrixasked as Kennedy patted herback.

“We’llgetyououtofhere,Beatrix. But Oleander thinkswe should wait. Once theyrealize I’m double-crossingthem,Icannevercomeback.This is our last chance tolearnaboutGroundcover.”

“So . . . I ruined

everything?” Beatrix asked,and her voice cracked a tinybit. “I thought Iwashelping.I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Ididn’tmean—”

“No, no. You’re right—nowthatyou’rehere,youcanbreak into their system. Youcan help us figure outGroundcover, and thenwe’reallsafetoleave.But . . . it’llmeanyouhavetostayhereafewdayswhile I figureouta

plan.It’syourchoice.Doyouwant to escape now, or doyouwanttowait?”

Beatrix shifted a little. “Icanwait,” she said, and thenlooked atKennedy. “Canweleave the floor open, though,incaseIgethomesick?”

“Of course,” Kennedysaid, and we all nodded inrelief. We had more time,evenifitwasonlyalittle.

“What about my mom?

Whathappenstoherwhenwebreak Beatrix out?” Walterinterruptedmythoughts.

Kennedy snorted, likeWalter was being ridiculous.“She’ll be fine. It’s not likewe’re breaking Beatrix outwith guns and grenades oranything.”

“Iknowthat,”Waltersaid.“Imeant—Ican’texactlytellheraboutallthis,becauseforall we know, she’s in on it.

Butwhatifshereallydoesn’tknow anything, even thoughshe’s assistant director? Ican’tjustleaveherhere...”

“You’ll have to,” I saidfirmly, but I hoped notunkindly.Therewasnootherway, though. We were alsoleaving the dorm kids andKennedy’s friendsandplentyof other people who Istrongly suspected had noidea about what SRSwas. It

wasn’t something I wanted,or something I felt goodabout,butitwastheonlywayI could safely get outeveryoneIcaredabout.

Walter faltered for asecond, opening his mouthlike he was going to argue,but then he shut it in a firmline.

Hisvoice shooka little ashesaid,“Ijustwishtherewasa way to show everyone at

SRS the stuff onGroundcover and Evergreen.Showthemhowyourparentsare In the Weeds. That waythere’re no more secrets.Peoplecanchoosetheirsides,and we don’t have to worryabout innocent people beingstuckhere.”

I nodded. “Maybe . . .Beatrix, do you think youcould leave yourself somesort of back door into the

system?Andthenoncewe’veread the Groundcover files,we can send them to everycomputer here or something—”

Beatrix was shaking herhead.“They’llfinditandshutit down before we can evenreadthefiles.”

“Right,” I said, sighing.“We’llfindawaytotellthemeventually, Walter. If wehave to drop in on missions

andhandthemlittlescrapsofpaper that say, ‘SRS is evil!’thenwewill.Okay?”

“Thanks,”Waltersaid,andkind of half smiled. He stilllooked worried, but I guessthat was to be expected. Iknew how he felt. Knowingthetruthwasalotharderthanbelievingthelie.

Walter and I returned toour rooms. I could hearBeatrix talking to Ben over

her com unit—I guess wedidn’thavedifferentchannels—so I waited until she wasdone to get one and ask forClatterbuck and Oleander. Iupdated them on everythingand told themIwasgoing toworkonaplan.

Oleander didn’t soundvery excited—I guessbecause our team was fivekids and an ex-agent who,lastIsawhim,wasdressedas

aracecardriver.“Itjustcan’tgo wrong, Hale. If it’s toorisky, we should wait. Youknow how missions work.The more moving parts, themorethingstobreak.”

I agreed with her 100percent, and told her so. Anhour later I pulled the sheetsonmybed tightly and begandrawing my finger acrossthem, formulating planswithout ever actually putting

a pen to paper, since the lastthing I needed was hardevidence. There was no wayto make this simple. Weneeded stuff from theDisguiseDepartment.

We needed access to theSRS cameras. We needed acheerleading squad. Onewrong move and we’d alllikelybeIntheWeeds.

Easyenough.We just couldn’t make a

singlewrongmove.

ChapterTwenty-Four

Kennedy had to do theimpossible for the plan toeven get off the ground:finallyconvinceFishburnthatSRS badly needed acheerleadingsquad.

IhadtoadmitthatthiswasthestrangeststarttoamissionI’d ever heard of, much less

ever planned. It was alsoperhapsthemostdifficult,themost time sensitive, and themost specific—because let’sface it: this was somethingonly Kennedy could do. NomatterwhatsortsofmissionsI’d gone on recently,Fishburn would still beincredibly suspicious if Icame to him with a burningdesireforpom-poms.

Inthemeantime,therewas

nothingformetodobutwait.SRS kept the recruits prettyfar away from the rest of us.According to Beatrix, theywere suffering through acrash course in everythingSRS, which was taught byMrs.Quaddlebaumandafewothersenioragents.SinceshewasslatedtobecomeaHITSanyway, they’d allowedBeatrix to skip all thephysical stuff andgo straightto the deck with the other

HITS guys. It was perfect,since it meant she wasalready learning her wayaroundtheSRSsystem.

Beatrix tucked her feetundertheedgeofmyblankets—the stupid dorms werealways cold. She said, “It’sgenius.Theyhaveitsetupsoif anything triggers thesystem, everything shuts off.Literally,justpowersdown.”

“What’re you going to do

then?”Bensaidoverthecomunit. It was Thursdayafternoon, which made menervous since it meant somany people might overhearus,but I figured itwassmartto mix up the times of oursecretmeetings.Stillnowordfrom Walter, and Kennedywas just finishing class, so itwasjustBeatrixandme,withClatterbuckandBenoverthecomunit.

“Well,Icanstillgetin,butI can’t change anypermissions or send out anyfiles or change anything,basically. Anything like thathappens, it’ll trigger ashutdown.”

“Doesthatmeanyoucan’tcrack theGroundcover file?”Iasked.TherewasnopointinBeatrix taking risks if shecouldn’t discover anythingmore than what I already

knew.“Well, itmeans that Ican

locatethefile,butIcan’tpullituponthecomputerIuseinthecontroldeckbecausenoneof the computers in therehave that level access. It’slabeledasaGoldLevelfile—what computers or peoplewouldhavethat,Hale?”

Isighed.“That’sFishburn.I hoped you’d be able tocrackitfromupthere,but...

we’dhavetogetonhisactualcomputer to look at it. Hisofficeislockedupandhasanalarm system that I can’t getpastwithoutgettingcaught. Iwouldn’thaveenoughtimetoread a single page beforeagentswereontopofme.”

“What if I printed thepages?” Beatrix askedcarefully.“HehasaprinterinhisofficethatIcouldaccess.”

I frowned. “That’d be

better—but I’d still have tobreak into the office and setoff the alarm. We couldn’tmakeacleangetaway...but. . .maybe. Letme think onit.”

Beatrix nodded. “Soundsgood. You know, I feel sortof bad. The HITS guys arenice. Everyone here is nice,really, except Mrs.Quaddlebaum,andevenshe’sokay. I can see why you

never realized this placewasfullofbadguys,Hale.”

“The villains never looklike villains,” I said quietly,thinkingaboutwhenDadsaidittome.Hewasright.Really,reallyright.

Kennedy suddenly flungopen my dorm room door.Shewasgrinning, and itwaspretty heartwarming to seehercartwheelover tous, justlike she would have done

back when Mom and Dadwerehere.

“I think Fishburn’sconvinced!”shesaid,landingsquarely on the bed besideBeatrix.

“How’d you do it?” Iasked.

“ItoldhimIwasreallysadthat the new kids were allseparated from us, and thatwe should do something tobringeveryone together.And

hesaidthatnewrecruitswerejust having a hard timeadjusting,andIwaslike,‘No,we should do something toshow them we’re fun andexciting and not really thatdifferent from them!’ and hesaid, ‘You mean like eatingdinner together?’ and I waslike, ‘No, like an activity,’and then hewent off on thislong thing about makingfriendship bracelets andfinally I told him that

cheerleading teams werebasically famous for beingsuperclose to one another.AndIremindedhimthatmostof the new recruits probablyknew exactly whatcheerleading was, so what ifweallgot together anddidaperformance for the rest ofSRS?Sointheend,hesaidIhad to ask the new recruitsfirst, and that I had to get atleastasmanykids fromSRSonboardtomakeitworthall

theeffort.”“Andtheuniforms?Didhe

approve uniforms?” I asked.That was themost importantpart.

Kennedynodded.“HesaidMs.Elmacoulddouniforms,butheaskedmenot tomakethem complicated, becauseshewasalreadybusy.”

I exhaled. “Okay. Okay,thisisgood.Beatrix,canyouconvince all the new recruits

to sign up? Without tellingthem what we’re doing?” Ihatednottolettheminonourplan, but there was no waywecouldtrustadozenregularkidswithasecretthisbig.

“I think so—but I’ll havetotellthemwhatwe’rereallyupto,Hale.”

“No,wecan’t—”Beatrix continued, her

voice patient. “We’ve prettymuch been kidnapped. Even

the ones who were excitedabout becoming spies arestarting to get pretty freakedout.Wouldyouwant tobeacheerleaderifyouwerebeingheld captive by SRS?” Shewaited to continue until afterI’d sighed and shaken myhead. “I know they’re notspies, but neither am I, andyoutrustme.”

“If they say anything,we’ll all be In theWeeds,” I

said.“I know—and I’ll make

sure they know. They onlyhave tokeep it a secret for afewdays,anyhow.”

“Andnowwe’llknowthatwhen we say run, they’llreally run,”Kennedyoffered,andInodded.

“All right, all right—tellthem,buttellthemaslittleaspossible, okay? And,Kennedy, you think you can

get a dozen kids from SRS?Remember that you can’tcountme,”Itoldher.

She nodded. “I think so. Imean, if I can convince Dr.Fishburn, surely, I canconvince other people,right?”

This proved harder thanshe’d thought. While plentyof kids thought cheerleadingwas interesting enough, farfewer were interested in

participating—especiallysince it wasn’t entirely clearwhat they’d be cheering for.Still, shemanaged to get sixgirls and two boys from herown class, and then Walterhelped her convince a fewjunior agents. Once Beatrixgot the recruits on board—which she said was indeedeasy,oncetheyknewbeingacheerleader would meangoing home—Ms. Elmabegan working on the

cheerleading uniforms. Sheliked to loudly complainabout them wheneverKennedy,I,orFishburnwerewithin earshot. I couldn’texactly blame her; goingfrom sewing bulletproofpanels into ball gowns tomaking cheerleading skirtswas probably a littleinsulting.

The cheerleading squadwas just one part of all the

preplanning that had to bedone.We also needed a newdevice from Ben, one thathe’d stayed up all night—literally—to invent.Clatterbuck, dressed as asandwich cart guy, deliveredit to me the followingmorning. He handed it offwhilepretending tosellmeagrilled cheese on wholewheat (whichwas delicious).I couldn’t useBen’s creationright away, of course—the

HITS guyswould notice. I’dhave to plug it in at the lastpossible moment. Ben calledit the BENoculars, which Ithought was a pretty clevername.

Finally, on the nightbefore my plan truly wentinto action, Kennedy and Iwere in the DisguiseDepartment.Iwaspretendingtotutorheronartificialbeardapplication.Secretly,wewere

stuffingourbackpacksfullofsupplies we’d need thefollowingday.

“Think we need a neckprosthetic?” Kennedywhispered while dabbingspirit gum along her jawline.She had half a long bristlybeardon,anditlookedprettyexcellentexceptthatitwasonanine-year-oldgirl.

“I think so,” I answered.“Taketwojustincase.Isthe

cheerleadingroutinedone?”“We’ve practiced every

day this week. We’re reallygood! I wish we could gocompete somewhere. I thinkwe’d do okay. I mean, weprobably wouldn’t place, butstill. Walter does this reallycoolstuntwithoneofthegirlchessplayers.”

“I’m sorry I’ll miss it,” Itoldher.

“It’s okay. You’re sort of

saving our parents and all,”Kennedyanswered.“Besides,I think we’re going to get itonvideo.”

The next morning I got upearly. Iwasn’t going to classtoday,butIneededtomakeitlook like Iwas. Ipackedmybag carefully, puttingeverything we’d stolen fromtheDisguiseDepartment intothe main section. At eighto’clock, I put on the League

com unit to check in witheveryonelikewe’dplanned.

“It’s Hale. Everyonehere?”

Ben,Beatrix,andKennedysaid hello, then Clatterbuck,who added, “And Dr.Oleanderisherewithme.Hercomgotbrokenlastnight,so—”

“You broke my com lastnight,” I heard Oleander sayinaveryfirmvoice.

“I thought they werewaterproof!” Clatterbuckprotested.“Anyway,”Ben said, then

cleared his throat. “Leaguebasetofieldagents—let’sgetstarted.”

ChapterTwenty-Five

Mission:FigureoutProject

Groundcover/SaveBeatrix/

Savethenewrecruits/EscapeSRSStep1:Installthe

BENoculars

TheBENocularsweremaybeBen’s most clever inventionyet. They looked like an airfreshener, the kind you pluginto the wall. They wereactuallysomesortofwirelesssignal device. Whencombined with a tinyunnoticeableprogramBeatrixhad written and installed onthe SRS computers, they

would transmit a signal thatwould give Ben access toSRS’s security cameras. Ofallthemillionandahalfpartsthis plan involved, theBENocularswere the piece Ihad the most confidence in.After all, Ben’s devices hadnever failed me before. Ipluggedthemintoanoutletinmydormroom.

“All right,” Ben saidthroughmy com unit. “I see

that they’re plugged in. Thecameras are trying to load.They’re loading. I thinkthey’re loading. Hang on—mycomputerfroze.”

Igroanedandwonderedifmaybe I could steal a newSRS laptop to replaceoneofthe ancient ones The Leaguewasstillusing.

“Got them!” Ben saidtriumphantly. “Wait, no.Theywent out again. I think

you need to plug them insomewhere else. The signaljust isn’t able to make itthrough all the walls whereyou are. Go someplace bigandopen.”

“The cafeteria?” Kennedysaidoverthecom,hervoicealittle lost in the chatter fromall the cheerleaders. Thecheerleading squad’s debutperformancewouldtakeplaceduring lunch today, which

meant they’dgetoutofclassearlytogetready.

Beatrix, however, was onthe command deck with theHITS guys, just as she wasmost days, so she had towhisper,“Thecafeteriaistoolow,probably.”

“Hangon,”Isaid.Irootedthrough my trash can andremoved the aluminum foilwrapperthatClatterbuckgaveme with my sandwich at his

pretend food truck. I torealongtheedgesuntilitwasacircle,andthencurveditintoa cone shape. With a littletape, I stuck it on top of theBENoculars,where the scentwould come out if it wereactuallyanairfreshener.

“Try now,” I instructedBen.

“Hey!That did it.What’dyoudo?”

“Boostedtheantennae.Do

you have eyes oneverything?”

“Pullingthemupnow. . .yes. I’vegoteverycameraatSRS, as far as I can tell.Including one in an office—oh,gross, thatguy ispickinghisnose!Oh,nowhe’s—Oh,thatissogross—”

“Focus, Ben,” I remindedhim. I double-checked thattheutilitybeltwashiddenbymy shirt, and then I left my

dormroom.Ituckedthecombracelet under my sleeve,hiding the earring bypretending I was scratchingmy neck whenever someonepassed me in the hallway. Iglanced up at the hallwaycameraasIwalkedpastit.

“I see you, Hale,” Bensaid. “All right—go aheadandheadtowardtheclosettowait. You’ve got plenty oftime.Beatrix, have theHITS

guys noticed the signal fromtheBENoculars?”

“Nope, they don’t evenknow to look for it. Don’tforget, Hale, that SRS canstill see you on the camerastoo. Go ahead and headtowardthebathroom.”

“Onmyway,” I said, andwent down to theadministrative wing. There Iswung into one of thebathrooms andwaited by the

sinks.

Step2:Wait

This was the hard part—there was nothing more formetodo.Ihadtositbackandlet everyone else play theirparts for the next fewminutes.I tookadeepbreathandleanedagainsttherowofsinks.

“Howare thenewrecruits

holding up, Kennedy?” Benasked.

“They’re good. Nervous,but good. I think everyoneelse just thinks they’renervous about theperformance. Walter iscalmingsomeofthemdown,”shesaid.“IsittimeformetogogetBeatrix?”

Bensaid,“Yep,goahead.”Then he quickly doubledback, his voice sinking.

“Whoa, everyone. Majorproblem—Fishburn hasn’tlefthisofficeyet.”

I put a hand to myforehead. Everything wouldfall apart if Fishburn didn’tgo to the cheerleadingperformance.

Step3:BreakintoFishburn’soffice(anddon’tgetkilleddoing

it)

“Okay, okay, let methink,” I muttered at theemptybathroom.Noonewasfree, exactly, to go off scriptand come get Fishburn.Exceptmaybe...“Walter,”Isaid. “Walter will have tocome get him. Kennedy, canyoutellhim?”

“Hey, Walter! Dr.Fishburn isn’t here yet. Can

you go get him?” Kennedyimmediately shouted abovethe fray. On the coms,everyonewassilent;Iwishedthat,likeBen,Icouldseetheexpression on Walter’s face.Of all the people to go offscript...

“Sure,” Walter’s voicerangacrossKennedy’scom.

“He’s going—Hale, he’srunning,”Ben said, soundingsatisfied.

“Right,” Kennedy said.With both Kennedy andWalter gone from thecafeteria, the noise on thecoms faded into uneasysilence. I could hear themuffled sound of Walter’sfeet slapping against thefloor, which grew louder ashenearedme.IsteppedupsoI could see the hallway, andwemadebriefeyecontactashe flew past the bathroomdoor.You can do it, Walter.

Don’t get nervous . . . Hedidn’t even have to lie toFishburn,really,sinceYou’relate for the cheerleadingperformance! was the truth.ButbasedonwhatIsawbackat Nelson Sports Academy,hestillcouldchoke.

Bennarrated. “He’sat theoffice,Hale.Okay,he’sgoingin . . . talking to Fishburn—yes! Fishburn’s up, they’releaving, now Fishburn’s

locking his door. Wow,Walterlooksrelieved—”

“He and I both,” I said,though I couldn’t deny I feltkind of proud of Walter. Iwaited until I heard Walterand Fishburn dash past thedoortoletoutthedeepbreathI’dbeenholding.

Ben reappeared on thecom. “All right, Fishburn isnearly to the cafeteria. Hale,hold your position.Kennedy,

time to clear out the HITSroom—”

“You’resupposed tobe inuniform, Beatrix! And youguysareallsupposedtobeinthe cafeteria for theperformance!” Kennedyshrieked into her com unit.Well, not exactly over hercom unit—she was sayingthis to Beatrix and the HITSguys. My com unit wassuddenly filled first with the

soundofgrumbling,andthenwith the sound of computerschiming as they were shutdownandlockedup.

“Oh, come on! I don’twant to go!” Beatrixanswered.

“You have to. Youpromised!” Kennedy arguedwithherforthebenefitoftheHITS audience. “Go change,fast. We’re starting in oneminute.”

“Fine, fine,” Beatrix said.The sound of the cafeteriacrowdgrewlouderinmycomunit. A minute passed, thenanother—we were nowofficially behind schedule. Iforced myself to breatheslower,waitingforBen’scue...

“Hale, you’re clear to gototheoffice,”Bensaid.

I walked from thebathroomdownthehall, then

stoppedinfrontofFishburn’snow-darkened and lockedoffice.Thiswasit.

“All right, ready,everyone?” Kennedy calledout to theother cheerleaders.Thecrowdhushed.

“Stand by, Hale,” Bensaid.Aclick,andsuddenlyanexplosive remixed pop songraged over my headset. Icouldn’t hear Ben anymore,couldn’thearanythingbutthe

thudofthebassandpoundingmelody.Ihadtotrustmygut—itwastime.

I withdrew the RoBENfrom my utility belt andwoundthelittlebirdup.Isetitontheofficewindowledgeand then backed up, pinningmy palms to my ears. TheRoBENscreeched,asoundsoimpossibly high that it mademysinuseshurt.JustlikeBenpromised, the window

shatteredintoathousandtinypieces that fell to the floorlikebitsofrockcandy.

“You’re a genius, Ben,” Isaid into my com, though Ididn’tknowifhe’dheardme,since at that exact momentthe alarms went off. Lightsflared, sirens wailed, and Iknew every single room atSRS had identical alarmsgoing off—letting the entirebuilding know of a Gold

Levelsecuritybreach.Ididn’tcare.I mean, I did, but what I

reallycaredabout?Thethickstack of papers just ahead,resting patiently onFishburn’sprinter.

Groundcover.

ChapterTwenty-Six

“All right,Hale, it looks likethe HITS guys are runningback to their desks . . .Yep.They see that it’s you oncameras four and five. Forwhat it’s worth, they lookmore concerned than angry,”Ben muttered in my ear. Icould barely hear him overthe noise on everyone else’s

coms. I reached through thebroken window, unlockedFishburn’s door, and raninside.Isnatchedthestackofstill-warm papers from theprinter.Ibadly,badlywantedtolookat them,but itwasn’texactly a good time to sitdownanddosomereading.

“Gotthefile,”Ianswered.I tuckedthepapersundermyarmandhurriedbackintothehall,awayfromthecafeteria.

“Perfect. Uncle Stan,you’re in position, right?”Benasked.

“Dr. Oleander and I arepulling into Castlebury now,Ben, and awaiting yourorder!” Clatterbuck saidbrightly.

“Good. All right, Hale, itlooks like Fishburn is abouttomakeanannounce—”

Ben was cut off by thesound of Fishburn’s voice.

“Attention,SRS:HaleJordanhas violated a Gold Levelsecurity entrance. PleaselocateanddetainHaleJordanatonce.Allseniorandjunioragents on deck. HaleJordan.” He said my namethe last time like he couldn’tbelieve it. And from themurmuring I heard overKennedy’s com, no one elsecouldbelieveiteither.

Step4:Hidethenewrecruitsinplainsight

“All right, how are welooking, Kennedy?” Benaskedher.

“Hale!” Kennedyscreeched, and for a secondmy heart stopped—but thenshe went on, and I realizedshe was yelling for effect.People had to be staring ather right now,whatwith her

brotherbeingthesubjectofamanhuntandall.“Howcouldhe? Ugh—come on, Walter.Help me find him before hedoes something stupider.”Her voice was gravelly andrageful, almostunrecognizably so. I heardWaltershoutinagreement.

“Goodjob,Kennedy,”Bensaid. “Now you and Walterhavetogetoutofthere.ThatQuaddlebaum woman is

heading your way to collectallthenewrecruits,”Bensaidurgently.

“Come on, everyone—let’s go look upstairs. I justwant to find him beforeeveryone else—maybethere’s a reason. There’dbetter bea reason,”Kennedyfumed loudly. “Hurry—we’ve got to run.” The lastword was full of weight forthenewrecruits.

“Perfect,”Bensaid.“Hale,the SRS cheerleading squadhassplitupintofourseparatesearchparties.”

“Can you tell which onehasKennedy andWalter andtherecruits?”Iasked.

“Not really. They all lookthe same in their uniforms.The recruits shouldbeoutofthe building and to you,Uncle Stan, in thirtyseconds,”Ben said, sounding

pleased. “Fishburn is on hiswayback toyou,Hale.Let’sgetyouout.Takearightandgoback toward the cafeteria,and you should be able toavoid the closest pack ofagents,” Ben said over thecom. I nodded and jumpedbackintothehall.

Step5:Gettherecruits(andmyself)asfar

awayfromSRSaspossible

“How’re we doing withthe recruits?” I whisperedinto my headset as I hurriedalong the hallway. I couldhear voices a few halls over,but I had to trust that Benwouldguidemealong.

“We’re loading up now!”Clatterbuck said. If all hadgone according to plan, he

was just outside SRS’scafeteria loading docks in agiant yellow school bus,dressed up as its driver. Iwondered if Oleander hadarrived in costume as well.Somehow,Idoubtedit.

“We’re out, Hale,”Kennedysaid.

“Everyone’s safe?” Iasked.

“I’m on board,” Beatrixsaid.

“All here, Hale,” Waltersaidafterabriefrustlingfromhimputtinghiscomon.“Butmymom figured out that allthe recruits are missing. Shetried to run after us butcouldn’t figure out whichgroup of cheerleaders therecruits were from the back,so I think she went to tellFishburn and the HITS guysthatshedoesn’thavethem.”

“No,” Ben said. “She’s

actually running back to thedorms, I think. Hale, you’llhave to take a left up ahead,because there’s a group ofsenioragentsattheendofthehall. They have their backstowardyou,butgofast.”

“Got it,” Isaid, taking theleft. I wanted to look backover my shoulder and checkwherethesenioragentswere,butno,IhadtotrustBenandkeepmoving.Iheardthebus

squealforwardovermycom,followed by cheering fromthe recruits; the sound madesomethinginmychestmeltalittle. If everything elsewentwrong,atleastwegotthem—and Beatrix, Walter, andKennedywiththem—out.

“Hang on, Hale, takeanotherlefthere,”Bensaid.

“IfItakealeft,Igofartherfromtheexit,”Isaid.

“I know, but Fishburn is

headed back toward hisoffice.Andthen—wait,Hale.Mrs. Quaddlebaum justkickeddownthedoortoyourbedroom. She sees theBENoculars! She’s—” Bentookasharpbreath.“I’velostmyfeed,”Bensaid.Hisvoicewas dead for a second, andthen he repeated himself,panicked.“I’ve lostmyfeed!Hale? She unplugged theBENoculars. I can’t see thecameras anymore. I have no

ideawhere you are orwhereanyoneelseis—”

“It’s fine,” I answered,eventhoughtitwasn’t.Ifrozein the hall and tried to listenback to thesoundsofvoices.Focus,Hale, I toldmyself inavoicethatsoundedalotlikemy Dad’s. I wanted to doanything but focus. I wantedtofreakoutandrunandhide.But that wouldn’t help merightnow.Spiesexisted long

before computers and RightHands and cameras andBENoculars.Icoulddothis.

I cut right, jogging downpast the secretary’s office.There were people in there,but they were preoccupiedwithsneakinguptoadoorinthe back where I guess theythought I was hiding. Morefootsteps ahead, and Irecognized the sound ofFishburn’sfancyshoesonthe

tile. I hung another right andcircled the hall block to passjustafewyardsbehindhim.Icould hear the breathing ofmy friendsover thecom,butno one was speaking, likethey were all afraid a singlesound would break myconcentration.Idaredtopeekaround another corner—therewas Ms. Elma, walking myway.

“Walter, Kennedy,” I

whisperedintothecom.“I’minthebackoftheadminhall.Ms. Elma is coming towardme. Fishburn is already backin his office. I need an out.Help me think.” I had tomove—I dropped to myknees and crawled under theDisguise Department’s frontwindow. I could hear morevoices now, younger voices.The other junior agents,probably still in their SRScheerleading uniforms, were

starting to filter down to thispartofthebuilding.

“Oh, what about throughthe shooting range?”Kennedyasked.

“Give me the com,”Oleander said, apparentlysnatching Kennedy’s. “Hale?I’mcomingintogetyou.”

“What? No, you’ll getcaught,”Iprotested.“Don’t.”

“You’re themostvaluableasset we have, and I’m not

letting you get trapped inthere.Ineedtoknowexactlywhere you are.” I heard thebusairbrakesexhaleoverthecom.

“I’m in the DisguiseDepartment—”

“I’vegotan idea!”Walterinterrupted, his voice a littleshaky. “Dr. Oleander, don’tgo in after him—wait,where’dshego?”

“I’malreadyinside.I’llbe

the backup plan,” Oleanderwhisperedthroughher—well,Kennedy’s—com. “What’syouridea,Walter?”

“Okay, Hale—there’s anemergency stairwell near mymom’s office in the adminhall, not too far from theDisguiseDepartment.”

“What? I’ve never seen astairwellthere.”

“You’dneverknowitwasthereifyoudidn’tgointoher

office all the time—just trustme! It should be a straightshotfromwhereyouare.Thedoor’s locked, but it gives ifyou shove it hard enough—Cameron and Michael and Iusedtosneakoutthatwayallthe time.We’ll park the busright outside—just make itdown the hall and up thesteps.Comeon!”

Ipaused.“I’llhavetopassFishburn’s office. And

there’re other agents downthere helping him by now,andIthinkafewofthejunioragents would see me at thehallwayintersection.”

“It doesn’t matter! We’reright here. You just have tostaya littleaheadof themonthestairs.”

Iexhaled.“Ican’tdothat,Walter.”

“What? Why not? It’sperfect! Look, Clatterbuck

says he and Ben put somesort of fancy engine in thisbus. They’ll gun it themomentthatyouhit thedoorand boom, we’re gone. Youcandoit!”

“No,Walter.Youcandoit,maybe.ButIwon’tbeabletostay ahead of them on thestairs. I’m not fast enough.HaletheWhale,remember?”

I didn’twant to say it outloud any more than my

friends wanted to hear it.Walter made a few haltedsounds like he wanted toargue,buthestoppedhimself.Beatrix and Clatterbuckbegan shouting othersuggestions, panic rising intheir voices. Oleanderchanted over and over that Ishould stay put, that shewasmakingherwaytome.

I sighed and then lookeddown at the stack of

Groundcover papers in myhand.Once Iwascaught, I’dnever have the chance tolook. Never have the chanceto learnwhatevermyparentshad known that had forcedthemintohiding.Neverhavethe chance to pass all of italongtoTheLeague,sotheycouldstopSRS.

Icouldn’tescapeSRS,butat least I could get someanswers. I reached up and

pulled the com earring off,then slipped into the archiveroom,whereIdroppedtothegroundandbegantoread.

ProjectGroundcoverMissionStartDate:

01-01-84ProjectedEndDate:

Indefinite

Objective:

ProjectGroundcover seeks toplace young agentsinto deep cover acrossthe globe, where theywill be able toinfiltrate government,cultural, and religiousagencies, assuringSRS’s control of saidagencies.

[OperationEvergreen, sub-

program,will seekoutpotential candidatesfor these missions, aswell as replace absentSRS students who areassigned toGroundcover.]Istared.SRSwasplanting

kids across the world. Ofcourse they were—it madeperfect sense. It was genius,even. A few kids here and

there, and boom, suddenlythey controlled the planet.This was what my parentsmeant,whentheysaidProjectGroundcoverwouldgiveSRStoo much power—it wouldgive them all the power,practically, and with morekids coming in throughOperation Evergreen, they’dcontinue growing andgrowing until they ruledeverything. The next fewpages included maps,

diagrams, blueprints, andinformation on the placesSRS planned on sendingjunior agents. Then therewere dozens and dozens ofjunior agent files, and fromthe looks of it, Groundcoverinvolved kids from differentSRS facilities all over theworld.

Eleanor, from my class,was supposed to go to astodgy boarding school in

France, where she’d be ableto befriend diplomats’children and spy on theirparents. Michael would, intwo years, be sent toRussia,where he’dwork hisway upthe ranks of its navy.Walterwas going to Spain, wherehe’d be put in place to—oh,gross—impress thepresident’sdaughter,whohada thing for shouldermuscles,andhopefullystartdatingher.I flipped another page and

wassurprised to seemyownfile—I guess Fishburn wasserious about letting thatwhole physical exam thinggo.ItappearedIwasslatedtogotoNorway,whereI’dbe...

I rolled my eyes. WhereI’dbehelpingoutabutler inthe royal household. WaltergetsaSpanishgirlfriendandIgettodeliverthepaper.Somejunioragent.

I shuffled through thepaperstillIgottothesectionwhere senior agents werelisted. There were plenty Ididn’tknow,butitdidn’ttakeme long to find my parents.Theirsectionswerethick,fullof long mission reports andtranscripts. The cover pageswerethemostinformative.

[SeniorAgentAssignments]

KatieJordan

Role:ResearchShallow Cover - French

EmbassyShallowCover-Homeof

FrenchPresidentShallowCover-Houseof

LordsShallowCover -Russian

ParliamentNewAgentPlacement

Momwassupposedtotakekids and set themup in theirundercover roles.Nowondershe didn’t like it. There wasan official SRS photo of heron the last page, andunderneath it, smaller photosofherinvariousdisguises.

JosephJordan

Role:ResearchShallow Cover - French

EmbassyShallowCover-Homeof

FrenchPresidentShallowCover-Houseof

LordsShallowCover -Russian

ParliamentOppositionRemovalAndDadwas supposed to

stop anyone or anything thatgotinMom’sway.

Itriednottothinktoohard

aboutwhatthatmightmean.IlookedatDad’sphoto longerthan I shouldhave, seeing ashowIcouldstillhearrunninginthehalls,andthenIturnedthepage.

AlexCreevy

Role:ResearchShallow Cover - French

EmbassyShallowCover-Homeof

FrenchPresidentShallowCover-Houseof

LordsShallowCover -Russian

ParliamentDeepCover-TheLeagueIreaditagain.Andagain.What?I flipped the page, to

where the photo of AlexCreevy should have been.

There was a pretty womanwith black hair looking backat me, though the photolooked a little old. I wassurprised—Clatterbuck hadmade me think Alex Creevywasaman,butIsupposehe’djust assumed, and Alex wasoneofthosenamesthatcouldgoeitherway.Ilookeddown;underneath the official photoweredozensofphotosofherin disguise, just like Mom’spage. Here she was as a

redheadorwearingahijaborwith blue contacts in orwithher eyebrows overpenciled.Hereshewaswithblondhair.

Mystomachflipped.Thereshewaswithblondhair.

IknewAlexCreevy.OnlyI knew her as PamelaOleander.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

My hands shook for amomentbeforeIforcedthemtobe still.Howcould Ihavemissed this? There wereclues, clues that screamed atme in hindsight. She hadn’tjust guessed the nameAgentSmith in the carwithWalterand me that day; she knew

Agent Smith worked inTactical Support. She hadn’tpressed so hard aboutGroundcover because TheLeague needed to know;she’d done it so she couldfind SRS’s securityweaknesses. She hadn’t evenasked me how to get to theDisguise Department only afew moments ago when shewas breaking in to “rescueme.” Why would she ask?She knew where the

department was. She was anSRSagent.

“Guys,AlexCreevy.She’s—”

The door to the archiveslammed open. Someonepunched at my arm and thecom bracelet went flying. Iwhirled around, but anotherhand struck the side of mytemple. It didn’t knock meout, but the world wentsideways for aminute, and I

couldn’t tell where theground was. There werevoices, I was caught, but Ihad towarn the others aboutOleander.Imean...Creevy.

“You mean me,”Oleander/Creevy said, and Ilooked up. “You weremumbling out loud. Ithappens sometimes with ablowtothehead,”sheadded.

“Youjustpunchedakidinthe head, Alex,” someone

else said. I was surprised tosee Otter standing in thedoorway.

“I just punched a rogueagentwho is double-crossingus,” Creevy corrected. Ottershrugged and collected myfallen com.Then he droppeditintohispocketandshuffledall the Groundcover paperstogether.

“Let’sgo,Jordan,”Creevysaid,haulingmetomyfeet.

“You’re not reallyOleander,” I said dizzily.“Howcanyou...Howcouldwe...”

“I’m very, very good atmy job, that’s how,” Creevysaid.

My vision was becomingclearer, butmymindwasn’t.Itfeltlikemyentirebrainhadbeen tossed around untileverything I knew was truewas mixed up with

everything I knewwas a lie.OleanderwasCreevy.CreevywasOleander.

Villainsdon’talways looklikevillains.

Ifeltsick.In the hall outside the

archive room were Fishburnanddozensof agents—juniorand senior—staring. Icouldn’t get away with thismany people watching, evenif I could somehow

overpowerCreevy—whowasobviously pretty willing tohurt me. Fishburn walked infront ofmewithCreevy andOtter just behind. Everyonewaslookingatmewithshockand disgust, and I heardmutters like “How couldyou?”and“Thiswouldbreakyourparents’hearts.”

Fishburn gave his brokenoffice window a dismayedlookwhenwewalked inside.

“Ah,herewego.AgentOtter,wouldyoumindwatchingthedoor while Agent Creevy,Hale, and I speak?” he said.Hisvoicewas still calm, likethiswas some sort ofbizarreparent-teacher conferenceratherthanmydoom.

Otternodded.“Yes,sir.”“Thanks for helping us

find him. I can’t believe youwere right. I didn’t peg himfor a hider,” Creevy said,

smiling as she passed Otter.She gave him a look thatmade me think they didn’tlike each other very much,andmademeknow that theywent way back. They wereaboutthesameage;Iguessedthey were in SRS classestogetherwhentheywerekids.

“I’veknownJordanlongerthan you have,” Otteranswered. “The key with akid like that is remembering

thathe’snotgoingtodowhatthe other kids will do. He’snot fast enough or strongenough to actually make itoutofherepastallthesearchpartieswehad.Allhecandoishide,really.”

I gave Otter the nastiestlook I could muster, but Iwasn’tsurehowmuchgooditdid. We moved intoFishburn’s office, where Iwas forced into the chair

across from his desk, thesame chair I sat in whenFishburnhadtoldmethatmyparents had beencompromised. I assessed thesituation. Dozens of agentsoutside,Otteratthedoor,andno way to contact anyone atTheLeague.IstillhadontheutilitybeltBenhadmade forme.

Creevy reached forwardand clicked the belt, then

yankeditoff.ShetossedittoOtterinthedoorway.

“Stop, Hale.” Fishburnsighed at me. “I can tellyou’restilllookingforawayout, and you know, I respectthat.Butstop.Therearealotof angry agents out there.TeresaQuaddlebaumaloneisreasonenoughtostop, ifyouaskme.”

Creevy nodded. “I’ll talkto her, if you want. I think

youcan still getWalterbackforSRS.”

“What about KennedyJordan?”Fishburnasked.

Creevy snorted a little.“Notachance.It’sapity too—shewould’ve been a greatjunioragent.”

“She would have. Andplenty of those kids wouldhave been perfect assets allover the world,” Fishburnsaid,turningasteelyeyeback

to me. “But now we’vepractically got to start overwith Operation Evergreen,thanks to you, Hale. Youmustbefeelingprettypleasedwithyourself.”

I firmed my jaw. “Forfreeing a bunch of kids youkidnapped?Yeah,Iam.”

Fishburn’s eyes widened,like I’d said the mostoffensive thing possible.“Those kids would have had

amazing lives! They wouldhave become princesses andheirs and presidents! Andnow they’re going to be,what, top chess players?Junior Olympic swimmers?The tall girl, we were goingto get her married to theprince of England. Nowwhere is she? Back to beingsome diplomat’s boarding-schooldaughter?”

“You still kidnapped

them,” I said, ignoringFishburn. “And you put myparentsIntheWeeds.”

Fishburn slammed hishandsdownonhisdesk, andittookeverybitofwillpowerI had not to jump. “Yourparents were going to leteveryone know about SRS.We told them whatGroundcoverwasallabout—we thought we could trustthem—and thenext thingwe

know, they’re digging intoSRS itself. This organizationraised them, sheltered them,fed them, and educated theirchildren. They’re traitors.”There was a pulsing vein inthe middle of his foreheadthat reminded me of Ms.Elma’sscar.

“Myparentsbetrayedyou,maybe,buttheydidwhatwasright,”Isaid.

“Abandoning you and

yoursisterhere?”“Refusing to work for an

organizationofmonsters.Justlike I’m refusing. I quit,Fishburn. How do you likethat?”

“Oh,Hale,I’msorry,butIwon’t be accepting yourresignation. We need you,”Fishburn said. His voicemade my spine crawl in theworstway.

“Whateveritis,Iwon’tdo

it,”Igrowled.“You won’t have to do

much. See, we’re going tohold you here to draw yourparents back. We’ll need toget information across theappropriate channels—Alex,write this down, please.”Creevy looked annoyed atbeing given a job usuallyreserved for a secretary, butshe lifted paper and a pen.“Makesureitgetsoutthatwe

have the Jordans’ son. Tellthe Carraway brothers, MI9,the guys from Pakistan—we’rewillingtotradehimforthetwoofthem.”

“They won’t come in,” Isaid. “But go ahead. Wasteyourtime.Lockmeup.”

Creevy spoke, her voicedark. “SRS has plenty ofholding cells, Hale. We canwaste as much time as ittakes, because they’re not

going to get away with this.Yourparentswanted toblowa mission that’s cost me tenyearsofmylife.Stevewasashoo-in for the deep coverassignment, but then, noooo,he had to go and wreckAcapulco—”

“That wasn’t my fault!”Ottersnappedfromthedoor.

“Whatever, Steve. Youdon’thave togoback toTheLeague, so be grateful. That

wholeplaceisonegiantdeadend.Ican’tbelievewedidn’trealize their funding wasbeing cut before theyinstalledmeasdirector.Whatacareer-killer.”

“You think Clatterbuckand the others will let youcomebacktoTheLeague?”Iscoffed.

“Youthinkwe’regoingtoallowyou to tell themwho Ireallyam?”Creevyanswered,

folding her arms. I began tosee just how great a spyCreevy was—because thewoman in front of me wasnothingatalllikethePamelaOleander I thought I knew.Hercovercharacterwastrulyremarkable.

“I already told them. Theminute I saw your picture.Sure,Ididn’thavetimetogointo detail, but they’ll figureit out.” This was a lie, of

course, but I couldn’t letCreevy go back to my sisterandmyfriends.

Creevylookedatme,andIcould tell she was trying tostudy if my pupils weredilating—one of the easiestways to spot a lie.Momhadtaughtme how to keep themstill, though—by breathingslowly and focusing onsomething close by—so inthe end she looked at

Fishburnforadvice.“Well, if theyknow,we’ll

have to eliminate them,”Fishburnsaid,shrugging.

Spies were supposed tokeep a cool head. We weresupposed to think clearlyeven in the most stressful ofsituations.

ButIbasicallysnapped.I lunged forward at

Fishburn—to do what,exactly, I wasn’t sure—but I

flung myself over the deskand toward him, shoutingcurse words that would havegottenmegroundedforyearsifmyparentshadbeenthere.Creevyleapedatmeandtriedto wrestle me back into mychair, but she couldn’t do italone; Otter jumped into theoffice and, between the twoof them, they managed toforcemebackdown.Itriedtocontrol my breathing—Ishouldn’t have done that.

Shouldn’thaveletthemknowthey’dgottentome.

Though, they shouldn’thave threatened my littlesister.

Now that he wasn’t indangerofbeingpummeledbya twelve-year-old, Fishburnlooked indignant. Hesmoothed his hair andglowered at me, shaking hishead.

“Really, Hale? You

attacked me? I guess youmust really think you’resomething.You go on a fewmissions,dodgeafewagents,start to feel likeyou’re not afailure, and next thing youknow,you’resoarrogantthatyou’ll attack your owndirector. Let me tell yousomething—do you think Ijust decided to ignore thephysicalrequirementsforfun,to give the chubby boy achance togoonamissionor

two? Don’t be ridiculous. Ilifted them so you’d havesomethingtodothatkeptyoureturning to The League. Ihoped that you’d tellClatterbuck or ‘Oleander’ oreven those twins somethingthat would lead us to yourparents. It wasn’t becauseyou’dearnedaplaceonthosemissions, Jordan. Look atyou.You’renofieldagent.”

I didn’t letmy expression

change. Eyes locked, mouthfirm. But inside, everythingfelt broken. It had all beenfake.Everybitof it. Iwasn’tahead of them—they’d beenaheadofmetheentiretime.

Ireallywastrapped.

ChapterTwenty-Eight

“Take him to holding,”Fishburn said. “Both of you,just in case he gives youtrouble.Don’tletanyoneelsegetclosetohim.”

“Yes, sir,” Otter said. Heflungmyutilitybelt overhisshoulder, then reachedforwardandpluckedthestack

of Groundcover papers offFishburn’s desk. “I’ll gettheseshreddedtoo.”

I rose,andOtterproduceda pair of plastic handcuffsfrom his pocket. He loopedthem around my wrists, andthen he and Creevy walkedon either side ofme throughthe office door. The crowdwas still there, though nowthey were mostly silent. Ididn’tlookatanyone’sface.I

had to focus on the mission.Only, there was no missionanymore.SoIfocusedonthewall. We broke through thecrowd,andtheyledmedownseveral hallways, towardintake. Never had the wordsoundedmorelike“prison.”

“So, Steve.What’s it likebeing a teacher?When’s thelast time you went on anactualmission?”Creevysaid.Her voice was teasing, but

notinafunway.“Just the other day,

actually. With Jordan. ForEvergreen.He . . .well . . .”Otter cleared his throat. “Hedid a fine job on it.Improvised well. Surprisedevenme, and let’s be honest—I’veneverlikedthekid.”

Creevy’s voice filledwithdisdain. “That doesn’t count.I mean a real mission. Thathospital thing was just a

distraction tomakeHale feelgoodabouthimself.”

“It was a real mission!”Otter said. “We had anotherjunioragentslatedtoplaythepart beforeHale turned themall purple. Which was alsoimpressive,Ihavetosay.”

“Oh, write him a loveletter already,” Creevy said,rollinghereyes.

“Mypoint is,Alex,”Ottersaid,makinghernamesound

like a bad word, “that SRSclearly trained him up well.HebrokeintoTheLeague,heran point on those missions,andhebrokeadozenrecruitsout today and got his wholeteam out. If you weren’t anSRS agent, he’d have gottenaway with it, all withoutpassing the physical exam.That’s a hell of a thing for afatkid.”

“Thanksalot,”Imuttered,

wishing he’d shut up. Ottershovedmeinthebackalittle,and I tumbled, just barelycatchingmy balance. Creevylaughedunderherbreathanddidn’t look over.Which wasa good thing, because evenwithallthespytrainingintheworld,Iwastotallyincapableofhidingmysurprise.

The handcuffs on mywristsweren’ttight.

I only noticed because

whenOttershovedme,Itriedto put my hands in front ofmyself to keep fromsmashing into the ground. Ihadn’t needed to, but tryingalone made me realize thatthey were big. Big enoughthatwith a little twisting andmaybe a few pinches, I’d beable to pull my hands free.Did Otter realize? I wasn’tsure.Eitherway, I needed towaituntilIhadapossibleexittotryanything...whichwas

going to be really hard withCreevy justahalf stepaheadofmeandOtterastepbehind.

“You know, Alex,” Otterspit aswe took another turn,“wedon’thavetofighteverytime we’re in the sameroom.”

“We don’t?But I enjoy itso much,” Creevy said,flashingasmileI’dbelieveifIdidn’tknowhertobetotallyevilonalllevels.

“Wedon’t.We’vegot thesame goals, Alex. So we’reonthesameteam.”

Iswallowed.Because I knew then that

Otter wasn’t talking toCreevy. He was talking tome.My parents had said thesame thing to him ages ago,backinhisoffice.It tookmea long time to process whatthismeant,becauseitseemedeven more impossible than

Pamela Oleander being AlexCreevy.ItmeantthatOtter,of“Is that what you call a sit-up?”fame,washelpingme.

Creevywasslowingdown—we were about to takeanother turn, and if the giantmetal door she meant to gothrough was any indication,this would be my final stop.Sheapproachedthedoorfirst,andwhenshelookeddownatthehandle,IglancedatOtter.

Hegavemethesmallestofnods.

I yanked my hands fromthe handcuffs in one swoop.Otter droppedmy utility beltand the Groundcover papersand dived for Creevy, whoimmediately began to fighthim off. Otter was quick,though, and he held his ownagainst her. I dropped to theground and grabbed my beltand as many of the

Groundcover papers as Icould. The alarm began tosound again, even shrillerdownhere in the land of tilefloors and heavy doors—they’d spotted us on thecameras.

“Go!”Ottergruntedatme,reaching into his pocket andflinging my com unit at me.Creevy kicked him in thestomach and lunged for me,but I ducked and set her

flying over my head. Sherebounded, but Otter cut heroff again. She was in bettershape—it wouldn’t be longbefore she got the best ofhim.

Otterwasgoingtopayforthis.AsoftenasI’dwantedtomake him pay, I couldn’t behappyaboutthat.

ButIran.Iraceddownthehall thewaywe came, lungstightening and muscles

begging for rest. There wastheheavydoor,probablywithagents on the other side. IclippedonmyutilitybeltasIhuffed along, then jammedmy com back onto my earjust as I heard the sound ofCreevy’sheelson tile, racingafterme.

“Ben!Ben,areyouthere?”Iwheezedintothecom.

“Hale!” Ben shoutedtriumphantly, and I heard

cheering.“You’realive!”“For now—I’m trying to

get out. What does theHellBENderdo?”

“Huh?”“The HellBENder! I’m

about to run into the SRShall,alone,andthat’stheonlythingI’vegotleft.Yousaiditwas a last resort”—I had tostop to take abiggulpof air—“but I can’t use it if it’sgoingtoblowupthebuilding

orkilleveryoneorsomething—”

“Hale,againwiththedarkstuff. Do you seriously thinkI’dinventsomething—”“Whatdoesitdo?”Isaid,

hacking into the earring.Thedoor was growing closer.Therewasn’tanytimetostopandtalkthisthrough,notwiththe sound of Creevy bearingdownonme.

“Take it,” Ben said

confidently. “Just take it. It’salastresort,butdon’tworry.We’ll be here to get youwhen itwearsoff, so longasyou can make it out of thebuilding.”

I had no idea what hemeant. Ididn’tevenseehowI could take something thatlookedlikeatubeoflipstick.But I reached down for mybelt and plucked theHellBENder off, and then I

pulled the cap off the tube.Sure enough, what lookedlikelipstickturnedouttobeasinglefatpill.Iliftedittomymouth as I hit the door thatledintothehall.

Agents.Senior agents,notjunior ones. Staring at me,fingers flexed, heads down,wearing sleek black SRSuniforms.

I swallowed theHellBENder.

Ididn’tknowhowIknewthis,butIwasprettysurethatthe moment the HellBENdertook effect felt exactly likewhat eating the sun wouldfeellike.

My whole body wasenergy. All of it. It was likemychestwas fullof sunandvolcanoes. Suddenly mylungsdidn’tseemtoosmall—they seemed too big.Adrenaline raced throughme

in ways I’d never known. Itossed a handful of theGroundcover papers at thesenior agents and thenbarreled through them. Theylashed out at me, kicking,punching, backflipping, but Iforged ahead, strength I’dneverknownblastingthroughme.

Afewmoreagentswereinfront of me, racing to getdown to where the alarms

were sounding. They bracedthemselves, but I was pastthem before they realizedwhatwas happening. I threwanother handful of papers inthe air at them and keptmoving.Theelevatorswouldbe shutdown,but thegarageexits might still be open. Iflew toward the cafeteria,ignoring the faces of myclassmates, my teachers, theveryconfusedHITSguy thatIwaspassing...

Ben was suddenly in myear again. “Hale, hurry. Bymy watch you’ve only got afewsecondsleft!”

“Till what?” I shoutedback.

“Go!” Ben roared, andnow he sounded scared. Ifinallythrewthefinalhandfulof Groundcover papers overmy head. They rained downbehind me like confetti. Itwasn’t theneatestway to try

to tell people aboutGroundcover, but it wouldwork. At least, I hoped itwould.Surely, ifnewsofmedoing an impression of Mrs.Quaddlebaum could getaround in an hour, news thatSRSwaskidnappingkidsandtrying to kill off their ownagentscouldgetaroundevenfaster? I threw my weightagainst the doors to thegarage and ran past sportscars and trucks and a tank

some department wasrefurbishing.

The garage doors. Theywerebeinglowered,slowly.Ionlyhadafewsecondstogettothembeforethisexitwouldbe useless. I squeezed myeyes shut and somehow,impossibly, sped up. It feltlike every cell in my bodywas exploding, every bit ofbloodwashotandangry.Thecrack of sunlight under the

garage grew slimmer,slimmer,slimmer...

I flung myself at theground and tumbled out intothesun.

Iwasout.But I also couldn’t move.

There were footsteps,footsteps I wanted to runfrom but couldn’t becausesuddenly my arms weighedentirely too much for me tolift.But thenClatterbuckand

Walter were lifting me up,running with me. There wastheschoolbus,andtherewasKennedy.

And then there was justblackness.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

“Hale!Do!You!Hear!Me!”Yes. I hear you. Stop

yelling. I was trying reallyhard tosay thatout loud,butitwasn’tworking.

“Ithinkhe’sinshock.”“He’snotinshock.”“Hemightbeinshock.”

“Youdon’tknow.”“Guys, be quiet. I think

he’swakingup.”“Hecan’twakeup;he’sin

shock.What’dyouputinthatthing?”

“It’s sort of a super-adrenalinespike.Soyouburnfast,butshort.That’swhyit’sa last resort. I used all thecaffeineIcouldlegallybuy.”

“I’minshock.”“See!Itoldyouhewasin

shock!”It took me a moment to

realize I’d finally saidsomethingout loud. Iwincedand opened my eyes very,very slowly. The twins,Kennedy, and Walter weregathered around me, and theoverhead lights wereincredibly bright. Or so theyseemed,anyway.Ittookonlya moment for them to fadeinto regular gym lights. We

were back at Leagueheadquarters.

“Seriously,”Isaid,“I’minshock.Whathappened?”

Walter answered first.“Youpassedout.Wegotyou.We brought you here. Butyou’ve been totally out foralmost a day and a half.Kennedy’stheonewhodrewtheunicornsonyourarm—”

“What about Creevy?” Ifeltfrantic,likemymindwas

stillallHellBENderedbutmybody wasn’t listening.“Oleander—she’sCreevy—”

“We know, Hale. Weknoweverything.Hey,Ithinkyou should eat something.That should help you feelnormalfaster,”Bensaid.

“Did it help when youtested the HellBENder?”Beatrix asked as Walterhelped me stand. Ben didn’tanswer, which told me he

hadn’tactually tested it.Thatwasn’tsurprising.

What was surprising,however, was what I sawwhenwegot to thecafeteria.There,eatingasandwichwithClatterbuck,wasAgentOtter.He looked thoroughlydisgusted by the entire placeandkept inspectinghisbreadas if he thought he’d findmoldonit.Walterhelpedmelimp over to him; he didn’t

lookup till Iwasonly a fewfeetaway.

TherewerealotofthingsIwanted to say, but I settledfor the thing begging to beasked. “How did you getout?”

Ottergavemeasourlook,like he was really veryannoyedthatIwasconsciousagain. “I took a page out ofthe Hale Jordan book andcheated. They chased after

me, and I took them out onebyoneusingwhateverIcouldfind. Took a few shortcuts,threw around a few emptywater jugs. Beat them to thedoorbyahair,buttheydidn’twant to risk exposing thefacility by chasing me intothestreet.”

“I don’t cheat,” I said,because I had to make surethatwasclear,butIsmiledathim a little. I expectedOtter

to sort of smile back,maybebecause we’d pretty muchbeenthroughalottogetheratthat point. Instead hescowled, threw his sandwichinto its plastic wrap, andwalkedaway.

“Huh,” Beatrix said,watchinghimgo.

“Yougetusedtohimaftera while. A long while,”Walter assured her. Hehanded me a different

sandwich, and we sat down.Well. They sat down—I sortof slumped into my chairuselessly.

“Who else is here?” Iasked. “Other than Otter? Ithrew as many of thosepapers out as I could, but Idon’tknowhowmanypeoplesawthem.”

Kennedy and Walterlooked at each other a littlenervously. “No one,”

Kennedy finally answered.“Yet. Leaving SRS will behard for them, Hale. Maybethey’llneedmoreconvincingthan we did.” She gaveWalter a pitying look as shesaid this—this meant hismomwasstillbackatSRS.

“But,”Waltersaid,likehewas trying to look on thebright side, “all the recruitsareontheirwaybacktotheirhomes. And we figured out

Groundcover.”“So that means . . .” I

looked over at Kennedy.“Mom and Dad can comehome.”

She nodded at me,beaming, and then did awalkoveroutofherchair.

“They’re going to hearabout it any day now, don’tyou think? I mean, I knowthey’re lying low, but I’msure they’re still keeping up

with things. IbetbyFriday,”she said as she rightedherself.

Friday came. Friday went.Our parents still hadn’tcontactedus.

TheLeague,however,hada very good week. Not onlydidthegovernmentgivethemall sorts of funding back—theyhad,afterall,stoppedanSRS world takeover—but

they named a new director:Agent Otter. I wasn’t sayingthey chose him because hewas literally the only choiceavailable, but . . . he wasliterally the only choiceavailable. Also, he needed ajob, and it was hard for aformer spy from a top-secretorganization to just get a jobat a sandwich shop orsomething.

“What do you expect me

todo,Jordan?”hesnappedatme. We were in his office.Amazingly, he’dmanaged tomakeitOtter-yinamatterofhours.GonewereOleander’sorchids and pictures ofsunsets. In their place werealready-dying houseplantsandemptynailhooks.

“The League just got allsorts of funding back! Iexpectyoutousethatmoneytohelpfindmyparents.”

“Just got funding backafter years and years ofnothing. The governmentwantsustotakeoutSRS,onemission at a time, but wedon’t even have a decentcomputer.Wedefinitelyhaveto buy new servers. And wehave to somehow recruit andtrain new agents—other thanClatterbuck,who,let’sfaceit,isn’t exactly a shiningexampleofa spy, there’snotanother agent in this entire

building.”“There’sme.AndWalter.

And Kennedy. And Beatrixand Ben, even if they aren’tfieldagents.”“You are not a junior

agent,”Ottersaid,pointingafingeratme.

“Will you get over thatstupid physical exam?” Iyelled—really, yelled—andleaned over the desk. “It’sjust a pointless test! I’m a

good field agent, Otter; youknowIam!WhatamIgoingto have to do to prove it toyou?”

“The physical exam!”Otteryelledback,wavinghishands at how obvious thiswas.

Iclenchedmyfists.“Look,believe me—believe me—Idid not think we’d end uphaving to work together. Ithought I’d leave SRS, and

Mom and Dad would comehome, and to be honest, Inever thought for a secondwhat would happen to youbecause . . . whatever. Buthere we are. I’m not askingyou to pay me—I’m notaskingyoutoevenbenicetome—but I am asking you tohelpmefindmyparents.”

Isatbackdown.ItfeltlikeIwasexperiencingsomesortof anger high, and it took a

fewmoments for me to stopshaking.

Otter seemed to beexperiencing the same thing.He rolled his tongue aroundhis mouth for a while andthenbalancedhispencilonitstip. Finally he reached intohis drawer and pulled out anewspaper,whichhedroppedonthetableinfrontofme.

“Here. I don’t knowwhatitis,butIthinkit’sforyou.”

Thenhegotuptoleavetheoffice. Just after he passedme, he stopped and spokewithout looking at me. “It’snot a pointless test, Jordan,any more than the otherjunior agent tests are. It’sthere to keep you safe. Toprove that when it all goesdown in the field, you’ll beable to make it out alive. Idon’t like you, Jordan, butthat doesn’t mean I want tosendyouofftogetkilled.”

I waited a moment,considering this. He wasright.Iknewthat.Andyet...

“Don’t worry about megetting killed, Agent Otter.My friends wouldn’t let thathappen.”

Ottermade a gruff sort ofnoiseandthenlefthisoffice.I thought I heard himmuttering something aboutentitlementinthehall.

I opened the newspaper

carefully and went to theclassifieds. I knew exactlywheretolook,becauseahalfdozen ads had been circledandthencrossedout—IguessOtter was looking for codesor ciphers in them. One adwassimplycircled,anad foralostpet.Itread:

LOSThedgehog.AnswerstoTinsel.

$1,523reward646-961-4253for

moreinfo.

I was holding my breath,but it wasn’t until I had togasp for air that I realized it.This was a message for me,all right. If the hedgehognamed Tinsel were therealone, I might get worried itwas some sort of SRS trick,

but there was the code, ourcode—1523,mybirthdayandKennedy’s birthday together.I grabbed the phone—it wastaupe—off Otter’s desk andfranticallydialedthenumber.

It rang. It ranga thousandtimes, it felt like, beforefinally therewas a click, anditwenttovoicemail.“Hi, Hale and Kennedy,”

my mom’s voice said, and Iclosed my eyes. I hadn’t

heard her voice in a longtime.“We know you’ve beenwaiting to hear from us, andwe’resorryithastobeoveravoicemail likethis.We’resoproud of both of you. Hale,whatyoupulledoffatSRS...Well . . .we always believedinyou,butyoutook‘believe’to a whole new level.Groundcoverisdead,atleastfor now—SRS won’t riskputtinganymoreagentsonitsince you and The League

could expose them. And Iknow you think that meansyour dad and I will get tocomehome.“Iwishitwerethatsimple.

Butthetruthis,Groundcoverwas just the biggest projectwe knew about. When wesuspectedSRSwasn’t exactlywhat they’d always told us,westarted investigating,and,guys, it’s bigger than oneproject. There are hundreds

of agents, hundreds ofmissions, and hundreds ofSRS facilities,andnotoneofthemisuptoanygood.“Right nowyou’re safe at

The League because SRS isafraid if they hurt you two,your father and I willretaliate and expose them. Ifwecamethere,though,they’dhave everyone capable ofexposing them under oneroof. SRS has always been

hesitanttoattackTheLeagueoutright, what with thembeing in themiddle of a cityandall,butallofustogether. . . I’m not sure they’d beabletoignorethat.“What I’m saying, Hale,

Kennedy, is that we’re safe.Andyou’resafe.Andweloveyou, and we’re glad to seeyouworkingwithTheLeague—thoughIdidhearthatSteveis running that shownow, so

sorryaboutthat.Butwecan’tcome back to you just yet,which . . .Well, it’shard forme toevensay thatout loud,because I know how muchyoubothwantedit.DadandIwantedittoo.“We’llkeepaneyeonyou

two,andthemomentit’ssafetocomehome,wewill.Inthemeantime stick with TheLeague. They were the onlyspy organization ever brave

enough to stand up to SRS,andIthinkwithalittlework,theycanbegreatagain.“We have to go—we

bounced this call off a messof different servers, butsomeone can probably traceit if we’re here longer thantwoandahalfminutes.Sobesafe, be strong, andremember to be careful outthere.Weloveyou.”

She sniffed, and I heard

mydad say something in thebackground, though Icouldn’t tell what. And thenshehungup.

A prompt asked me if Iwantedtorepeatthemessage.Idid.Againandagain,untilIcouldreciteitprettymuchbyheart. Without meaning to, Ibegan analyzing where Ithought the call came from.Therewasacarengineinthebackground, something loud,

andIthoughtIheardabird...IfIcouldworkoutwhatsortof bird, and cross-referencethat with carmodels popularindifferentareas...

No.Theywere right. Itwasn’t

safe for them to come backyet.

SoIhungupthephone.

ChapterThirty

Mission:BecomeaSuperspy

Step1:Findanacceptablehomebase

“Wheredidyoufindallthis?”Kennedysquealed.Seriously,she squealed. Her voice

sounded like car tires didright before they gainedtraction.

Itwasendearing.“This store at the mall.

BenandBeatrixwouldn’tgoinwithme,”Clatterbucksaid,givingthemadarklook.

“I could smell the pink.I’m serious. You couldactually smell pink,” Bensaid. Beatrix nodded inagreement.

We were in Kennedy’sbedroom—her new bedroom,whichwasoneoftheLeaguedorms. It had a pink rug, apinkbedspread, and somanykittencheerleadingpostersonthewallthatitlookedlikeshewasbuildingakittenarmy.Itwasn’t exactly like her roominourapartmentbackatSRS,butitwasclose.

“Look, I put this in,”Bensaid, and he pulled a purple

lever beside the door. Themattress rose and floppedover on its side. I thoughtsomething had gone wrongfor a second, but then itflopped open again, and Irealized it had turned itselfintoatumblingmat.Kennedyreached levels of excitementthatonlydogscouldhear,andhuggedBenand thenBeatrixandthenClatterbuckandthenme and then Walter, whohadn’t had anything to do

with thisstuffandwasreallyconfusedbyallthepink.

“And I’m here,” Beatrixexplained, pointing to theroomnexttoKennedy’s,“andthen Ben, then Hale, thenWalter, and then Uncle Stanis going to be at the front ofthe hall. And thenOtter saidhe’s just going to sleep threefloors up because he’s afraidwe’llbotherhimatnight.”

“What, you mean, like, if

we snore?” Clatterbuckasked.

“No—he said it wouldbotherhimifwewerealiveatnight,” Beatrix answered,shrugging.

We were all moving intoLeague headquarters. It justmade sense, really—Walter,Kennedy, and I wouldn’t fitinto the apartment that thetwinsandClatterbuckusedtolivein,andOttercouldn’tgo

far since he was the directornow.Most of the other staff—the handful of computerresearchers Kennedy and Ihad tiedup the firstday,andthe receptionist—weren’tstayinghere,butIhopedthatbefore too long there’d beotherfieldagentsmovingintothe empty rooms. It’d be along timebeforeTheLeaguehad numbers that comparedto SRS but . . . The Leaguehadus.

Well,actually,TheLeaguebasicallywasus.

“Come on,” ClatterbucksaidafterKennedyfoldedandrefolded her bed/tumblingmat a few more times. “Wehaveabriefingonthedeck.”

“Really?”Walterasked.“That’s what Director

Otter said,” Clatterbuck said.We walked together to thedeck, which still lookedshabby compared to SRS’s,

but it was really comingalong. Otter had had thewhole thing painted a sleekgray, and there was newcarpet.Plus, thestationsnowhadrealofficechairsat theminsteadofcafeteriachairsBenand Clatterbuck hadoriginally stolen. Otter wasstanding in theback, lookingthroughastackofpapers.

Step2:Organizeand

defineoperations

“What’sup?”Iasked.“I’ve put together

everything I can rememberfrommylast fewmissionsatSRS.Theywereawhileago,since I’ve been teaching youpeopleforthepastfiveyears,but it’s something. There’soneinparticularIthoughtweshould check out as our firstmission. There’s the case

nameatthetop—pullituponyourmachine . . . thing . . .Thathand thing . . .”hesaidto Beatrix, and gave her oneofthedocuments.

“Right Hand,” Waltercorrectedhim.Otterrolledhiseyes.

“Why this one?” Beatrixasked as she typed a fewthings into her Right Hand.Theenormousscreeninfrontofusclickedonandwassoon

displaying a variety ofpictures and documents thatseemed to depict a bank. ASwissbank,ifIhadtoguess.

“Because it’s the one Ichose, and I’m the director,”Ottersaid.Whenweallliftedour eyebrows in near unison,he exhaled. “And because ifwepullthisoff,wecrackintoSRS’s funding, which is apretty great first strike.Besides, we bankrupt them,

and we can afford to hiresome cafeteria workers.Okay?”

I looked at the others.“Well.Let’sdoitthen.”

Step3:Gettowork

Acknowledgments

As with all books, TheDoublecross was not a soloeffortbutratherastoryraisedby a metaphorical village.Manythanksto:

The editorial crew atBloomsbury—SarahShumway, Cat Onder, andCarolineAbbey,allofwhomI’d want on my superspy

team.Myagent,JoshAdams,for

a ridiculous amount ofguidance, support, andenthusiasm.

Maggie Stiefvater andSaundraMitchell,forreadingearlyand/oroften.

To the real-lifeClatterbucktwins,withmanythanksfortheuseoftheirlastname.

To my family, who

toleratedmeworking on thisbook nonstop over theholidays,andtoNelsonDean,whoIhopeenjoyshavinghisvery own sports academy inthisbook.

And of course, to all thereaders who, like me,wouldn’t have passed theSRSphysical examatHale’sage. Don’t worry about it,guys.You’reawesome.

Copyright©2015byJacksonPearce

Allrightsreserved.Youmaynotcopy,distribute,

transmit,reproduce,orotherwisemakeavailablethispublication(oranypartofit)inanyform,orbyanymeans(includingwithoutlimitationelectronic,digital,optical,mechanical,photocopying,printing,recording,or

otherwise),withouttheprior

writtenpermissionofthepublisher.Anypersonwhodoesanyunauthorizedactinrelationtothispublicationmaybeliabletocriminal

prosecutionandcivilclaimsfordamages.ForinformationaddressBloomsburyUSA,1385Broadway,NewYork,

NY10018.

FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesofAmericainJuly

2015

byBloomsburyChildren’sBooks

ThiselectroniceditionpublishedinJuly2015www.bloomsbury.com

BloomsburyisaregisteredtrademarkofBloomsbury

PublishingPlc

Forinformationaboutpermissiontoreproduceselectionsfromthisbook,

writeto

Permissions,BloomsburyChildren’sBooks,1385

Broadway,NewYork,NewYork10018

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-Publication

DataPearce,Jackson.

Thedoublecross:(andotherskillsIlearnedasasuperspy)

/byJacksonPearce.pagescm

Summary:Overweightand

non-athletic,twelve-year-oldHalemayhavebeenbornandraisedtobeaspyfortheSubRosaSocietybutitseemsheisunlikelytobecomeafieldagentuntilhisparentsarecapturedbytheevilLeagueandHalesetsoutonasolomissiontosavethem.

[1.Spies—Fiction.2.Schools—Fiction.3.Familylife—Fiction.4.Missingpersons—

Fiction.5.Overweightpersons—Fiction.6.Ability

—Fiction.]I.Title.PZ7.P31482Dou2015[Fic]

—dc232014025349

eISBN:978-1-61963-415-2

Tofindoutmoreaboutourauthorsandbooksvisit

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