Spy to the Rescue

by Jonathan Bernstein

  After she’s done terrorizing the staff and customers, Vanessa pulls the bike over and leaves it with the shell-shocked manager of the deli counter. She takes off her helmet and picks up a banana from the ground.

  Vanessa walks toward the car, her eyes on mine. She peels the top of the banana and takes a bite.

  I pull out Red and throw him at her. He bounces straight off the windshield and flies back at my face. I scream in shock as he whistles past my ear.

  “Shatterproof,” says Dale.

  Red bounces off the back window and comes flying at me again. I make a grab at him and shove him back in my pocket.

  Vanessa struts right up to the car.

  “Three steps ahead, peanut,” she says.

  Then she gives Dale a little pouty smile. “You can do better,” she tells him.

  Vanessa climbs up on the hood of the car. She stretches out a leg and lifts herself onto the roof. I hear her slide across. I squirm around in my tiny seat and watch her make her way down the trunk and back onto the ground. She holds up the banana for me to see, wiggles it in a good-bye gesture, and then she sticks it in the tail pipe. We were never going anywhere, but she couldn’t resist one last slap in my face.

  I watch Vanessa walk away, slowly and leisurely, because once again, she knows my eyes are on her.

  “Sorry,” says Dale.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, turning back around. And now I see he wasn’t saying sorry to me. The staff and customers of Fresh & Frozen Quality Goods are heading toward the car. They do not look happy. Vanessa was a moving target. She had the element of surprise. We do not. We’re stuck here.

  I kick at my door. Useless, of course, but I can’t just sit here. I’ve got all this anger building up in me. How could she do this to me again? I punch the dashboard. I punch the roof.

  “Stop hit-hit-hit-hitting me,” hiccups the car.

  “How can this car speak, how can it drive itself, how can it have a fake driver in the window but it doesn’t have a sunroof?” I yell.

  A can of peaches hits the windshield. I scream in fright. The Fresh & Frozen mob has turned ugly. A can of peas follows. Then an egg splatters across the windshield. More eggs follow until a sheet of yolk and egg white acts as a curtain between us and the angry staff and customers.

  “Stooooooop thrrrrooooooowwwwwing foooooood,” groans the car, its voice slowing down and coming to a long moaning halt.

  “I don’t know if this is going to work,” says Dale. “It probably won’t.”

  “What?” I say.

  “I found this,” he says. “Lying on the highway. After the whole thing with Spool.”

  He holds a tube of lip balm out to me. Burned. Dented. But still recognizably . . .

  “Smoky pear,” I breathe.

  I twist the bottom. Was it once for smoke, twice for Taser? I could never remember.

  A laser beam shoots out. It burns a hole in the dashboard.

  “Sorry,” I say, wincing because I’ve caused the wounded car even more pain.

  I point the laser up at the roof and turn it in a circle. Dale gets up and pushes both arms over his head. I join him. We make a hole. A hole big enough to climb out of.

  “Bye, car,” I say sadly as I take my leave. We had our differences, but I’ll miss her.

  I emerge from the roof of the trapped car to see a frozen chicken headed straight for my face. I whip my laser at the bird and it defrosts, smokes, and catches fire in seconds.

  The angry mob freezes.

  “I’m sorry about the mess,” I say. “We won’t pay for it and we won’t help clean it up, but we’re going to do something better. We’re going to catch the perpetrator, we’re going to drag her back here, and we’re all going to throw eggs in her smug face! Who’s with me?”

  A few cheers. Not the hysteria I was hoping for. Whatever. I slide across the roof and down the trunk on to the ground. And now I start running.

  I don’t have to run far. Vanessa is only half a block ahead of me and she’s impossible to miss. Traffic is backed up and she’s on the roofs of the cars, skipping from one to the next.

  Incensed drivers honk their horns and shake their fists at her. Some climb out of their cars and try to catch her, but she’s too fast. She keeps skipping from roof to roof.

  And then Vanessa stops on the roof of a black Mercedes.

  A rope ladder seems to drop from the sky and unfurls in front of her. She grabs it and starts to climb. The driver of the Mercedes gets out of his car and stares upward in disbelief. The other drivers trapped in the snarl-up do the same. Dale breathlessly catches up to me and says “Come on!” again.

  He’s right. What else is there to say when you watch your adversary making her latest escape up a ladder into a waiting helicopter?

  I pull back a hand to throw Red at her but I know it’s a fruitless gesture. I can’t ask any more of the little guy, so I let my hand drop back down to my side. Dale takes it.

  “There’ll be another time,” he says.

  I nod. I know he’s right. I need to accept this is over and move on.

  But then I hear something. It’s faint but it’s high and piercing.

  Laughter.

  Vanessa’s laughing at me.

  Even from this distance, even over the roar of traffic and helicopter blades, I can hear her mocking, condescending, triumphant laughter. (Or maybe I’m just imagining it because—I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this—I hate her so much.)

  “This will not stand,” I say out loud. “You do not get to make a cool getaway!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Spy in the Sky

  “Bridget, no!” yells Dale.

  I know he knows what I’m about to do and I know he thinks it ranks at the top of my list of all-time terrible ideas. But I can’t stop myself. I run into the street and clamber up on the trunk of a gray Honda idling in the long line of non-moving cars, and I run across the roof, spring onto the hood, and jump onto to the next car.

  The same honks and shouts of anger that greeted Vanessa moments earlier are now aimed my way. I hear but I don’t care. Rage fuels me: it makes me run faster and jump higher. I’m two cars away from the black Mercedes. Vanessa still hangs from the bottom rung of the rope ladder as the black helicopter hovers above the buildings. The roar of the chopper blades drowns out the car horns and the abuse hurled my way.

  Vanessa holds on to the ladder by one hand, and with the other she brandishes her phone and takes what I’m sure are unflattering pictures of me with my arms flailing and my mouth hanging open. She looks up at the helicopter and mouths, “Let’s go!”

  But as I jump from a station wagon to the trunk of the black Mercedes, she’s still hanging there.

  “I said let’s go!” she screams over the sound of the blades. The black helicopter starts to pull away. Vanessa begins climbing the ladder. I reach the roof of the black Mercedes but I know I’m too late. Frustration sweeps over me as I watch my nemesis fly out of my life.

  “Get off my car,” I hear the driver beneath me yell.

  “It’s her!” squeaks another voice.

  A chorus of boos and jeers erupt from the minivan directly in front of me. A familiar head pops out of a window. A familiar head wearing a big bow and a look of disgust. More heads pop out. It’s my old friends, the Bronze Canyon Valkyries!

  “What are you doing here?” demands Big Bow. “Are you trying to sabotage Classic Cheer? Is that next on your diabolical agenda?”

  I start to laugh. Not a ha-ha, isn’t life hilarious in its randomness and unpredictability laugh. More of a just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they just got worse laugh.

  I look up at my nemesis, Vanessa—my Vanemesis!—and then back at the angry, accusing faces of the Bronze Canyon Valkyries. And then I stop laughing.

  “Hey, ladies,” I shout. “Can I ask you to do me a favor?”

  They gasp in unison.

  “What? You want to steal another kitten?” as
ks the willowy blonde with the baby voice.

  I point upward at Vanessa, who is still climbing the rope ladder.

  “That girl making the cool getaway? She’s the real culprit behind the Classic Cheer choreography blackmail scam thing. She set me up and she tried to steal your winning cheer. Help me bring her to justice.”

  “How?” demands Big Bow.

  I leap from the Mercedes to the roof of the minivan.

  “Get me up there,” I say.

  The faces of the Bronze Canyon Valkyries look confused.

  “Why would we do that?” demands the willowy blonde.

  “Look at it this way,” I shout down at them. “If you don’t throw me high enough, I fall to my death. If you throw me too high, I get decapitated by the helicopter blades. It’s a win-win for you.”

  Instantly, Big Bow squeezes out of the window and joins me on the roof of the minivan. From below, I hear the other cheerleaders fight for the honor of tossing me to my death. The willowy blonde is the victor. She joins Big Bow on the roof. They link hands. The rest of the Valkyries spill out onto the street and break into a hip-shaking, hand-clapping routine, which, I’m sure, the traffic-jammed motorists appreciate.

  “Seriously,” I tell them. “Try not to kill me.”

  I step onto their linked hands. Is stopping Vanessa’s escape worth this? I ask myself, and then I remember how much I detest her, and let them lift me effortlessly into the air.

  “One,” says Big Bow.

  “Two,” says the willowy blonde.

  “Three!” they both scream and hurl me upward.

  These are strong girls. I feel the wind on my face as I rocket skyward.

  From far beneath me, I hear a collective “Oooh!” The Valkyries are either scared for my safety or anticipating my imminent demise. I reach out a hand and grab the bottom rung of the rope ladder. I swing a leg up and almost touch the ladder. The rope swings out into the air as the helicopter pulls away. I close my eyes and try to remain calm and focused. Then I try again. This time I kick as far as I can go. My leg hits the bottom rung of the ladder. I pull myself into a standing position and then I feel a stabbing pain in my fingers. A perilously high heel is jabbing into my hand.

  “Sorry, peanut, no room for you,” Vanessa shouts down at me. Her heel comes down toward my hand. I let go of the ladder for a split second and then grab the back of her shoe.

  Vanessa screams in fright and tries to shake me off. The black helicopter is now pulling up high over the city and I am hanging on for dear life with one foot on the ladder and one hand on the back of Vanessa’s shoe. The roar of the chopper blades deafens me. The wind in my face is blinding. On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about looking down. All I can do is cling on as tightly as I’m able.

  “Get off me,” I hear Vanessa shriek in a voice so huge and filled with fear and anger it overpowers the thunderous noise of the helicopter. The more she tries to kick me away, the harder I grip. I grip so hard that I pull her shoe off and I’m left grabbing air. For a second, I think, That’s it. That’s me. I’m over, but sheer determination pushes me forward. I claw at the wind and I am rewarded with a handful of rope. I pull myself up with both hands and manage to get my feet on the bottom rung. Above me, I see Vanessa with her one shoe and one bare foot, climbing to the top of the ladder and pulling herself into the helicopter.

  She looks down at me and shakes her head in what I would like to think of as admiration at my tenacity. There’s a vast bubbling cauldron of hate between us but, weirdly, also a small amount of mutual respect. Vanessa thought I was a joke. Now she sees me as a worthy adversary. From her, I’ve learned to step up my game, to never be complacent, and to be prepared to face the worst the enemy has to offer. Like now, for instance.

  Vanessa smiles down from the inside of the helicopter. She brandishes a small knife and shows me what she plans to do with it. She mimes cutting the rope ladder, and then she sets about actually doing it. Can I get up the ladder before she hacks the top ropes to shreds? I don’t know. I feel a bit like my friend the car as she ran out of gas. My limbs are heavy. I don’t have the energy to haul myself up the steps that stretch out above me. Hanging on to the ladder as it sways from side to side is making me nauseous.

  “That’s right, peanut, you give up,” I hear Vanessa’s voice giggle above me. “Have a rest. You deserve it. You put up a nice little fight. I commend you. But now I’ve got to let you go.”

  I put up a good fight, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t know that I’ve got anything left to give.

  It might be my imagination, but from far beneath me, I think I hear voices, angelic voices.

  “Let’s go, Bridget!”

  Clap-clap.

  Is that . . . can it be the Bronze Canyon Valkyries cheering me on?

  “Let’s go, Bridget!”

  Clap-clap. Clap-clap-clap.

  Now, maybe by let’s go, they mean hurry up and fall to your death, but I choose to believe they’re encouraging me. Their belief relights my dimming fire. Maybe I do have a little fight left in me.

  Vanessa continues sawing away at the rope ladder. I reach into my pocket for my dented, burned lip balm. I twist the bottom three times. A plume of smoke wafts out like a breath on a cold day. That’s it? I twist again. A limp laser beam shoots out a few inches and then wilts and vanishes. I can’t fault the gadget. It gave me what little life it had left.

  I twist one more time and the Taser setting I never used explodes out of the tube, firing an electrode straight toward Vanessa. She shrieks and tumbles backward inside the helicopter. I haul my tired arms up the ladder and climb as fast as I can. I reach the top and jump inside the open door.

  Vanessa lies in a gasping, panicky heap on the ground between the two rows of passenger seats.

  “Bridget Wilder,” says the pilot in a cultured, amused voice I find instantly familiar.

  “Sir Edward,” I say, taking in his white hair and dark glasses. “I mean, Edward.” Why do I keep calling him Sir Edward?

  “Kill her,” yells Vanessa. “Throw her out of the helicopter. Squash her like the insect she is!”

  “Why would we do that,” Edward says, “when we could use her to our advantage?”

  “How?” says Vanessa, pulling herself up to sit on a chair.

  “Yeah, how?” I say. I feel suddenly trapped and vulnerable. Two Dominions and one me in a helicopter. There’s no easy way out this time.

  “Imagine the satisfaction of bringing her to our side, finding out how she thinks, extracting information about who she works for, taking all she’s been taught, and using it to further our cause. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

  Vanessa glows at being treated as an equal, at being noticed.

  She gives me a slow, taunting smile. “Very interesting.”

  “I’m not talking to you,” he says.

  Vanessa looks confused. “Who are you talking to?”

  Edward removes his dark glasses. His eyes vanish, leaving a strip of static. The rest of his features freeze and fade away. He raises a hand to his neck, pushes a finger to his chin, and his face falls off.

  “My daughter,” says Carter Strike.

  “Nanomask!” I shout.

  “Nanomask,” he agrees, and pulls off the white wig.

  I see Vanessa’s mouth drop open.

  “Four steps ahead, Blabby,” I crow. I’m lying. Strike’s appearance is as big a shock to me as it is to her, but I figure I’m allowed to enjoy the moment.

  “The CIA has your father,” Strike tells Vanessa. “The Forties is out of business. Now we have to figure out what to do with you.”

  Vanessa looks from me to Strike. I see the emotions fly across her face. First, she’s stunned. Then a little bit weepy. Now she starts calculating. What angle can she work here? What character can she become? What weakness can she exploit? I see her features soften. Her eyes moisten. She clasps her hands together.

  “I feel like I never really had a father,” she say
s to Strike in a wispy little voice. “Someone I could look up to. Someone who could show me right from wrong. You’re a kind man, Mr. Strike, I can tell that just by looking at you. I’d like to learn from you. I’d like to . . . ow ow ow ow!”

  Yeah, I threw Red at her. He bounced off her forehead—not enough to knock her out, just enough to shut her up. Just enough to let her know I won. We won. I get up to join Strike. As I rise, I hear a knock on the door. A knock on the outside of the helicopter door.

  “Get that, would you?” he says, giving me a grin.

  I slide the door open and Irina climbs in.

  “Oh God,” moans Vanessa.

  “You got away from me once,” says Irina. “That’s not going to happen again.”

  “Miss Ouspenskaya,” Vanessa pleads. “I never had a mother. Someone to teach me right from wrong.”

  Irina cracks her knuckles. “Lesson one. What I’m about to do is wrong.”

  Vanessa gives me an imploring stare. “Don’t let her hurt me.”

  “A minute ago you wanted me thrown off the helicopter,” I remind her.

  “That’s our thing.” Vanessa laughs desperately. “Our funny back-and-forth.”

  “Sit down, Irina O,” says Strike. “No one’s killing anyone.” He gestures to his earpiece. “I just got word from the CIA. Vanessa’s being placed in a facility.”

  “Wh-what kind of facility?” she stammers.

  “A place where you’ll be very happy,” says Strike.

  “Or very unhappy,” says Irina.

  “Most likely very unhappy,” agrees Strike.

  Any fight left in Vanessa vanishes. She hugs herself and rocks back and forth in her seat.

  I almost feel sorry for her. Almost

  Irina sits down next to me and takes my hands in hers.

  “Okay, now, we’re going to spend some time together. We’ve got till Monday, so what do you want to do?”

  “Well,” I say, “I’ve got this date I’m supposed to go on. I really need to find something to wear.”

  “Date?” says Strike. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”