I was just starting to feel in control of the situation, when Bex's leg swung swiftly around, catching me off guard, dropping me to the top of the pile. "Yeah, like Cammie doesn't know what she's going to be when she grows up."
Before I could reply, we saw a man walking toward us, so we scrambled to our feet. He wasn't tall or short; he wasn't handsome or ugly. He was the kind of person you could see a dozen times and never quite remember, and with just one glance I knew he was a pavement artist—I knew he was like me.
"Very nice," the man said. There was no telling how long he'd been in that crowded loft, watching. "You girls are sophomores, is that right?"
There was an extra bounce in Bex's step as she inched toward him. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice full of swagger.
"And you're all studying Covert Operations?" he asked with a sideways glance at Liz, who had somehow gotten her hair tangled in the laces of my shoe.
"Just for this semester," Liz said, sounding totally relieved.
"Next semester we can specialize if we want to," Bex clarified. "But a lot of us continue training for fieldwork."
I'm pretty sure she was getting ready to slip into the conversation how she got to be lookout for her dad once while he took out an arms dealer at an outdoor market in Cairo, but the man didn't give her a chance.
"Well," he said. "I'll let you get back to your practice." He placed his hands in his pockets and smiled. When he turned to walk away, I didn't think he'd seen me at all, until he glanced in my direction and nodded. "Ms. Morgan." If he'd had a hat he would have tipped it.
On the other side of the room, Ms. Hancock blew her whistle again and yelled, "Circle up, girls. Let's show our guests how we play rock-paper-scissors."
Bex winked at me and rolled up a copy of the October Vogue that she'd borrowed from Macey.
I felt sorry for whoever drew rock and scissors.
Operation Divide and Conquer The operation, which took place on Friday night, October 29, was a basic four-man op with three agents holding in secure sweeping patterns throughout the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women. The Reserve Operatives were assigned a portion of the main campus, and when asked where Agent Morgan was, The Operatives were to reply "I don't know" or "I just saw her heading that way" while pointing in a very general direction.
If asked more directly about the location of Agent Morgan, The Operatives were to exclaim, "You just missed her!" and then walk very quickly away.
I followed Bex and Macey through the corridors. Sounds bounced off the hardwood floors and stone walls as newbies drooled over the Mr. Solomon-like recruiters from the CIA, and a flock of seventh graders oohed and aahed over the latest satellite feeds from Homeland Security. (So that's what Brad Pitt's bedroom looks like…)
Bex was totally right. I've seen the Gallagher Academy in states of organized chaos before, but never have I seen it so alive. The air was full of something (and not just the gases that had escaped from the labs when someone from Interpol got a little too close to one of Dr. Fibs's classified projects).
"Okay," Bex said to me beneath her breath. "Knock 'em dead."
I glanced at Macey. "You'll be fine," she said, and I started to feel really good. Then she finished. "Just don't be an idiot."
I turned down an empty corridor, leaving the sounds of our future behind me, and sensed something else drawing closer. I reached out for the tapestry and the crest-slash-trigger behind it, when I stopped frozen at the sound of my name.
"You must be Cameron Morgan."
The man strolling toward me had a dark suit, dark hair, and eyes so black they could get completely lost in the night.
"And where are you running off to?" the man asked.
"Oh, they needed more napkins at the refreshments table." (Whether you agree or disagree with my actions, you've got to admit that my fibbing ability was totally getting better.)
He laughed. "Oh, child, don't you know that anyone with your pedigree should never have to fetch the napkins?" I stared blankly at him, unable to smile, until he extended his hand. "I'm Max Edwards. I knew your father."
Of course he did. I'd met a half dozen men like Max Edwards already that day—men with stories, men with secrets—all wanting to pull me aside and return a little piece of my father to me. Even without Josh waiting for me at the end of the tunnel, I think I might have felt like running the other way.
"I'm with Interpol now." Max Edwards said, eyeing me. "I know you're a CIA legacy and all, but that's no reason not to give the rest of us a shot, eh?"
"No, sir."
"Started the CoveOps training yet?"
"Yes, sir, with the intro class."
"Good. Good. I'm sure Joe Solomon is finding plenty to teach you," he said, patting me on the-shoulder, emphasizing the word in a way I didn't understand. Then he leaned closer and whispered, "I'm going to give you some advice, Cammie. Not everyone can live this life, you know. Not everyone has it in their blood—the stress, the risk, the sacrifice." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card with a phone number centered and alone on the plain white background. "Call me anytime. You'll always have a place with us."
He patted me on the shoulder again and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty stone corridor. I watched him turn the corner; then I counted to ten and slipped behind the tapestry. Halfway down the tunnel, I stopped and changed my clothes. I never saw that card again.