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?