Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover

Page 18

Wild eyebrows. Mustache," I rattled off identifying characteristics as quickly as I could think of them.
The Operative realized that incredibly high heels made it very hard to pursue people quickly across very slick floors!
The band played. People drank. And where the train stood at the end of the platform, I saw the face again. I recognized something in the way he moved, and my mind flashed back to the hotel lobby in Boston while the Texas delegation sang.
And then I glanced at the train and saw Aunt Abby standing in the wings, ten feet from Macey and exactly where she was supposed to be. And the white-haired man moved closer.
I didn't know how to describe him, and that was maybe the most notable thing of all. He was just moving through the crowd as if there were someplace else he had to be. Call me crazy, but I couldn't shake the feeling that no one pays $20,000 to leave in the middle of the main event.
I hurried through the crowd as quickly as I dared without A) falling down, and B) attracting attention. And I was doing pretty well at both, until a waiter picked that moment to lose his grip on a tray of champagne. As the glasses fell, I sidestepped and spun.
And ran right in to Preston Winters.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, gripping me by the shoulders as if I were about to fall down. (Which I wasn't, but he probably didn't need to know that I've had entire sections of Protection and Enforcement class dedicated to helping an operative keep her balance.) "Are you okay? Can I get you some…punch … or something?"
"I'm fine, thank you, though," I said as I ran through the mental checklist of things that were going wrong at that moment, forgetting the most troublesome thing of all.
"Have we met before?" Preston asked, looking at me in a way that said that, despite the long black wig and tight black dress, there was something way too familiar about me.
"No, I don't believe we have," I said in my best Southern accent. I tried to pull away. The man was easing down the length of the train and into the stone tunnel from which it had emerged, and I just stood there thinking about my options.
The Operative regretted not packing Dr. Fibs's new Band- Aid-style Napotine patches. She also regretted not packing some regular Band-Aids, because her shoes really did hurt her feet.
Preston's father stood on a makeshift stage behind the caboose of the old-fashioned train—a physical homage to better times—and told the crowd, "We're going to get America back on track!" The crowd cheered, but I was too busy listening to two voices. One belonged to the boy in front of me, who was asking, "I know, you were at the Atlanta rally, weren't you?" The other buzzed in my ear as
Bex cried, "You guys are never going to believe who's here! Eyes," she said again. "I have eyes on—"
But then there was nothing but static as my roommate's voice faded away. My first thought was to bring my hand to my ear and scream like a total amateur, but I didn't.
"Now, I just know we've met before," Preston went on, oblivious to the panic I was feeling. "Come on. Help me out." I could have lied. I could have fought. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so I took a chance and called upon a Gallagher Girl's weapon of last resort. I flirted.
"I'm sorry," I said, batting my false eyelashes. "I just get a little tongue-tied anytime I'm around such a handsome man."
"Um…" Preston swallowed hard. "Handsome?" Instantly, I felt the tables turn.
"Yes," I replied, reaching to grip his bicep. "I swear, you are even stronger than you look on TV."
He swallowed again and somehow managed to mutter, "You know I lift…things."
"Oh, I can tell." In my ear, Bex's voice was drowning in static, but my mission at that moment was to get away from Preston Winters without him realizing that the girl in the black dress was also the girl on the roof. "You know, this is my favorite of your suits. I also like the navy pinstripe, of course, but you were wearing that one in Boston, weren't you? So now this is my favorite. …" I started to chatter on about which of Preston's ties went better with his eyes, but before I could say a word, Preston was already pointing to his parents across the room.
"Wait. Oh, you know, I think they need me for … stuff."
"Oh, but—" I said as he started to walk away.
"Thank you for your vote," he called, turning back.
But I was already gone.
"Duchess," I tried as I inched closer to the train tunnel. "Duchess," I tried again, with one glance back at the party, at Macey and Aunt Abby, and I knew I had two choices. One, I could wave down my aunt, which would result in reinforcements and the possibility that she would tell my mother what I was doing. Or two, I could follow a person of interest in a kidnapping attempt into a dark tunnel, without backup, without help.
So I did the second one because, at the time, it was the least scary of my options.
As I stepped inside the dim space, the sound of the crowd faded behind me while, in my ear, my comms unit began to crack and buzz.
I strolled down the darkened tunnel, my (totally uncomfortable) shoes as quiet as a whisper against the cold concrete. But that was before a hand clasped over my mouth, an arm gripped me tightly around my waist, and someone pulled me out of my shoes.
"Hey, Chameleon, how's it going?" Bex's voice sounded strong in my ear.
My first thought was to struggle against the arms that were holding me. My second was, Hey, how can Bex be talking in my ear if my comms unit is out?
But then the arms released me and I spun to face my best friend. "What are you doing in here?" I asked.
She smiled. "Guess who else made the drive up from Roseville?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"Bex, it's Saturday. I'd really rather not take a quiz if I can help it."
Then she gripped my shoulders and turned me around. "Look."
The first time I ever saw Joe Solomon, he was strolling into the Grand Hall during the welcome-back dinner of my sophmore year. None of us knew where he'd come from or why he was there. Standing in the shadows, it wasn't hard to remember how that had felt.
"He's hot in a tuxedo," Bex said, and I started to snap because…well … it kind of went without saying, and also we had other things to worry about. Some seriously important other things. Because just then Mr. Solomon wasn't alone anymore.
"Ooh, he has a hot tuxedoed friend," Bex teased. But I knew better—I'd seen that man and his wild white hair and crazy eyebrows before. I'd seen him. In Boston.
The two men spoke for a moment, then Mr. Solomon turned and started to walk away, varying his pace in order to hear the footsteps of anyone who might be following in the dark tunnel, a textbook countersurveillance procedure if ever there was one. Bex winked at me, more than up for the challenge, then slipped into the tunnel a safe distance behind our teacher. But I just kept staring at
the guy left in Joe Solomon's wake.
Someone Mr. Solomon knew.
Someone Mr. Solomon seemed to respect.
Someone who had a knack for being where Macey—and I—happened to be.
Maybe it was some inherent hotness that Bex had seen and I'd missed. Maybe it was the way the man with the white hair had straightened in the dark tunnel and moved with grace that didn't belong with the rest of his body. But for some reason, I thought back to the way Mr. Solomon had stood in "Art's" uniform and told us how the art of deception and disguise isn't complex—it's simple: just give the eyes something new to look at so that the mind doesn't truly see.
My mind flew from Boston and back again, the deja vu growing stronger, the pieces of a puzzle falling into place. I closed my eyes and saw eyes and not eyebrows, a mouth and not a mustache. I stripped away the cover piece by piece until I stood in the dark, finally seeing.
"Zach."
I have to admit that at that moment I had seriously mixed feelings about the situation. I had seen Zach! Sure, he was wearing a disguise. Sure, all boys (much less Blackthorne Boys) are probably experts at the art of deception!
But that didn't change the fact that I'd thought I'd seen him a dozen times before actually coming face-to-face with him in Ohio. And at that moment, I knew better. I breathed, realizing that, on the one hand, I hadn't had Zach on the brain in Boston. My mind hadn't been playing tricks on me. I wasn't boy—or any kind of—crazy.
On the other hand, I'd had him on my tail, and as a spy I didn't know which was worse.
The Secret Service was standing guard at the ends of the tunnel, but a small service hatch was open, a cart loaded with trays of food and crates of beverages was waiting to be wheeled on board. Zach walked slowly toward it, and then in a flash he vanished.
For a second I had to blink, but there wasn't a doubt in my mind where he'd gone. The only thing left to wonder…was why.
I could see Bex nearing the end of the tunnel, still keeping her distance from Mr. Solomon. As soon as she left the tunnel and got back reception on her comms unit, she would tell Liz that she had eyes on our teacher. In the distance, the string quartet was playing the same song we'd heard in Ohio, following the same speeches. Steam gushed from the train beside me. I heard the metallic groan of a machine that wouldn't be held back for long.
And I did the only thing I could.
I got on board.
Chapter Nineteen
I learned a lot that day. Like never let Bex pick the snacks during road trip stops. Always bring a spare pair of shoes. And a half hour later, I knew to add one more thing to the list:
Never, ever volunteer to do surveillance on a moving train.
Especially if the train is also occupied by your aunt, one of your best friends (who doesn't exactly know you're there), and thirty-seven members of the United States Secret Service!
The train was seventeen cars of narrow aisle and armed guards, of tight compartments and people high on polling numbers and caffeine. So I lowered my head and squeezed down the aisle and tried not to forget that, when faced with being somewhere you're not supposed to be, rule number one is simple: be someone else.
I picked up the nearest clipboard and moved purposefully down the crowded aisle. The engines squeaked, coming to life. The compartments buzzed. And I kept moving, smiling,
acting like I was thrilled to be a part of history.
Zach could have been anywhere, and judging from his disguise-and-deception abilities so far, he could have been anyone. So I kept pushing my way down the corridor, rocking with the moving train, until one of the interns called to me. "Hey, where are you going?"
"New speech for Peacock," I said, flashing the clipboard and rolling my eyes.
"Oooh," one of the guys said, making a sympathetic face. "Compartment fourteen," he said, pointing to the next car. "Have fun," he mocked, and I knew Macey's cover was still firmly in place as I opened the door to the connecting car.
I eased down the crowded aisle, not knowing what I'd find. But just then I knew I might have made the biggest mistake of my life. Behind me, I heard a very distinct voice coming through the crowd, saying, "Peacock is moving."
I was away from school. And in a disguise. And wearing a very little black dress while my favorite (and only) aunt was coming up behind me!