Model Spy

by Shannon Greenland

  Everyone cheered again, catcalling and whooping.

  Mystic poked me in the ribs. “Go, GiGi.”

  Parrot bumped my shoulder with his. “That’s our genius girl.” Smiling, I bumped him back.

  Specialist Team Two passed me on their way out, punching my shoulder and thanking me.

  Jonathan bear-hugged me. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Chapling did some sort of jig. “Smartgirl, smartgirl.”

  TL took my hand and clasped it warmly between both of his. Like he’d done so many times over the months to calm, comfort, and reassure me. “I knew you’d fit in.”

  He was right. I did fit in. More than I ever thought possible.

  Mr. Share kissed my cheek. “Young lady, I don’t know what to say to you. ‘Thank you’ is too small to express my gratitude. If it weren’t for you, there’s no telling who would own me now. I owe you my life. If you ever need anything, you just ask. I’ll do everything in my power to make your every wish come true.”

  The meaningfulness in his voice and words left me humbly mute. I had saved his life, hadn’t I? “And thank you. ST and BIR?” I whispered.

  He winked. “I knew where Romanov’s money was. And I thought that a computer whiz with access to a keyboard could use that information.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Perhaps. I have a series of debriefings to go through. I’ve been gone a long time. A known terrorist has kept me prisoner for the past ten years. The United States government has a lot of questions for me. I’ll be relocated soon with a new identity.”

  “What about David?”

  “We’ll see each other occasionally.” Mr. Share kissed my cheek again, and then he leaned back and studied my face. “Gosh,” he said, chuckling. “You look just like your mother.”

  I looked just like my . . . ? What . . . ? My mother . . . ? H-how . . . how did he know what my mother looked like?

  With a quick pinch to my chin, he headed from the room.

  My file. He’d probably seen my file.

  My team shuffled in, surrounding me. I stood in the center, looking at each of their silly smiles. What were they up to now?

  “GROUP HUUUG!” they yelled, and collided together, smooshing me in the middle.

  We laughed and giggled and jabbed one another.

  “Okay, okay, break it up.” David wedged us apart. “Scat. I want a moment alone with the woman who saved the day.”

  “Ooohhh,” my team teased. “He wants a moment alooone.”

  David chuckled and waved them off. “Get outta here.”

  We watched them file out and close the door.

  I smiled. “I really missed them.”

  “Ya know, it’s neat that you all have chosen to go by your code names all the time.”

  Yeah, it was. “Why doesn’t Team One?”

  David shrugged. “Don’t know. We just don’t.”

  They had their matching Specialists T-shirts and we had our nicknames.

  Slowly, David moved in, backing me up against the wall, until we stood toe-to-toe, our faces only inches from each other. My normal, happy, pitter-patter pulse revved to hyperdrive mode, and my stomach nose-dived to the floor.

  “Smell good you.” I shook my head. “I mean, you smell good.” I groaned. “Did I actually say that out loud?”

  His dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “You’re nervous right now. Do you know how I know you’re nervous right now?”

  Swallowing, I shook my head.

  “Because you always mix up your words when you get nervous.”

  “Oh.”

  David tapped my forehead. “I think smart chicks are cool.”

  He’d said the exact same thing back at East Iowa University.

  “So, smart chick, I just wanted you to know you did a great job.”

  “Thanks,” I croaked.

  Smiling, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, linked fingers with me, and led me from the conference room. “Come on. TL’s waiting.”

  My coherence slowly returned as we made our way through the underground corridors, past the mysterious locked doors. “What’s behind all those?”

  “You know I can’t tell you. Everyone finds out when TL wants them to.”

  “Well, that’s a bummer.”

  David laughed.

  “Hey, what about Nalani? And Romanov, too. What happened to him?”

  We came to the elevator. David punched in his code and placed his hand on the fingerprint-identification panel. We stepped inside.

  “Nalani apprehended Romanov. He’s not expected to live long. He’ll die in custody.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in. “Who is she?”

  David folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the elevator’s wall. I enjoyed a delicious second of staring at his tanned biceps, curved out from his white T-shirt.

  “Don’t say a word about this to anyone, okay?”

  I nodded, peeling my gaze away from his muscles.

  “Nalani’s TL’s wife.”

  My jaw dropped. “Shut up. Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. That’s huge.”

  “She works for the IPNC. She’s what we call a preoperator. She goes in before the actual mission and gathers intelligence. Cements herself within the opposing organization.”

  “That’s so dangerous.”

  “She worked for Romanov almost two years.” David lifted off the wall when the elevator stopped.

  “Unbelievable.” What dedication she had to her job. “Why aren’t she and TL living together?”

  David shrugged. “Don’t know the details. This mission was the first time I met her.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me her identity?”

  “TL and IPNC were concerned that she might have defected. But obviously she’s still on our side.”

  “Will we see her again?”

  “Probably.”

  We stepped into the hall. Laughter, music, and the scent of burgers floated from the common area.

  He took my hand. “Let’s go party.”

  “You go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. I just need a minute. I want to change clothes and clean up a little.”

  “All right.” He let go of my hand. “See ya in a few.”

  As he headed to the celebration, I made my way down the hall to my room. I dragged my suitcase from under my bed and opened it. As I pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, my gaze lingered on all my other clothes. I glanced over to my dresser and then back to my suitcase.

  With a smile, I grabbed a wad of clothes, opened a dresser drawer, and tossed them inside. I snatched up another handful and threw them in, too. Then another, and another, and another.

  Finishing up, I shoved the suitcase under my bed with a salute. “So long, suitcase. I’m home now. I’m here to stay.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next book in the series:

  The specialists

  Down to the wire

  Prologue

  Using his homemade, handheld computer, the HOMAS B28, Frankie flipped through prescanned floor plans.

  Impenetrable. That’s what all the suppliers, media, and tech journals were bragging about the Rayver Security System.

  We’ll just see about that.

  He tucked the B28 in his zippered thigh pocket and pulled out a granola bar.

  Unwrapping it, Frankie studied the dark New Mexico Museum of History from the sidewalk. Easy enough to get in the front door. Standard nixpho lock with a keypad. Any kindergartener with half an IQ could do it, too.

  He folded the chewy bar in half and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. Apple cinnamon. Not his favorite, but it was all the corner store had.

  The true challenge of this job lay in the triple-sealed, flex-steel vault. Protected by the oh-so-impressive Rayver Security System.

  Frankie didn’t know what was in the vault. Didn’t care. H
e was here to crack the impenetrable Rayver System. No more, no less. Just to prove he could do it.

  Tossing the wrapper in the already full garbage can, he crossed the shadowed street.

  The two-story brick museum stood at the end of a long dead-end road with woods along the back and sides.

  It was deserted. Too good to be true.

  Frankie pulled his hood down over his face as he neared the entrance.

  Five-five-six-four-three-zero. He punched in the code he’d seen the museum manager use every night this week. Anybody with binoculars and enough patience could’ve retrieved it, too.

  Click. The door unlocked, and he slipped inside.

  Standing in the entranceway, he scanned the dimly lit interior, recalling the layout. Left. Two rooms. Stairwell down. One room to the right.

  “Okay, Frankie,” he whispered to himself. “Game’s on. Don’t get too confident. Never know what might happen.”

  He closed his eyes and blew out a long slow breath. Then, with quiet feet, he shuffled left into the African Bone Room. A glass display case ran the center’s length.

  With his back to the west wall, he watched the corner camera. From his last visit to the museum, he recalled that it scanned in two-second intervals, moving a fraction of an inch to the right with each scan. He needed to make it across the room before it scanned back. No prob.

  Staying in its blind spot, Frankie baby-stepped on each two-second interval and made it safely to the other side.

  He entered the New Zealand Hat Room. No display cases here. No cameras either. Strange-looking hats hung on the walls, each rigged with an alarm should one be removed.

  He squashed the mischievous urge to take one down just to prove it could be done and crossed the carpet to the stairwell on the other side.

  Suddenly, he stopped in midstep. Cold prickles crawled across his skin. Somebody’s in here.

  Slowly, he pivoted, searching every corner, shadow, and inch of space.

  Nothing.

  A good solid minute ticked by as he listened closely. Soft air-conditioner hum. Nearly inaudible camera ticks. Quiet laser alarm buzz.

  Nothing else. No shuffle of a person’s feet. No breath. Funky imagination. That’s all. Although he really didn’t believe himself.

  From his vest pocket Frankie pulled out a wad of homemade gray putty and a six-inch length of bamboo he used as a blowgun. Balling the putty, he fit it in the end of the bamboo.

  The stairwell’s camera hung catty-corner near the bottom. He rolled his black hood above his lips. Sighted down the length of the bamboo. Took a breath. Put it in his mouth. And blew.

  The putty flew like a dart and plunked right on the lens.

  Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.

  He tiptoed down the stairs and hung a right, and his pulse jumped like it did every time a new security system challenged him.

  The impenetrable Rayver System.

  Impenetrable, his big toe.

  He pulled his fiber-lit goggles used for laser detection from on top of his head and fit them over his eyes.

  Bingo.

  Yellow lasers zigzagged the room preceding the vault. Onetwothreefourfivesix . . . twenty ankle high. The same at waist. Six on the ceiling.

  Child’s play. Except for the yellow, skin-sizzling color. Whatever happened to the reliable red set-off-the-alarm-but-don’t-fry-the-burglar color?

  Leaning to the left at a seventy-degree angle, he spied a tunnel-like opening void of lasers. You’d think the tech geniuses would’ve figured this out by now.

  Frankie unbuttoned a pocket in his cargo pants and pulled out the remote-control expander. Pointing it toward the opening of the tunnel, he pressed the expander button.

  A skinny metal wire snaked out, becoming stiff as it left the remote control.

  Steady, Frankie, steady.

  One slight movement and the wire would collapse into the lasers.

  It made it through the small tunnel void of lasers, across the room, and straight into the tiny hole below the vault’s lock.

  The lasers flicked off, and he set his watch. One minute and seventeen seconds until they turned back on.

  Reeling in the expandable wire, he ran over the open tile to the vault. He yanked the tool kit from his vest and laid the triple-folded leather pouch on the ground. He took nitrox, a metal adhesive release, and squirted the control panel.

  It popped off, and Frankie caught it before it clanged to the ground. Anything over twenty-five decibels would set off the alarm.

  Multicolored wires crisscrossed and tangled with one another.

  A diversion.

  He reached in, grabbed the clump, and ripped them right out. Red lasers immediately flicked on, filling the control panel opening.

  Frankie took the extra-long needle-nose wire cutters from his tool pouch and, leaning to the left at a seventy-degree angle, found his opening.

  Carefully, he inserted the wire cutters through the opening surrounded by lasers and snipped the one remaining white wire at the very back.

  The vault clicked open. The control panel lasers flicked off. Frankie checked his watch.

  Twenty seconds.

  Snatching up the tools, he flung the vault door open. A small wooden man, an artifact of some sort, sat on a stand.

  A weight-sensitive stand.

  Crud.

  He hadn’t expected that.

  Frankie estimated the artifact at three pounds and took three one-pound pellets from his tool pouch. Holding his breath, he slipped the artifact off and the pellets on all in one smooth motion.

  And froze.

  Nothing. Only silence.

  No alarms. No lasers.

  He checked his watch.

  Three seconds.

  Frankie sprinted back across the room. His watch alarm dinged. He dove the last few feet and whipped around to see the yellow lasers flick back on.

  Whew.

  Smiling, he did his victory shoulder-roll dance.

  Oh, yeah. Frankie got it going on.

  Go, Frankie. Go, Frankie. Go. Go.

  He packed his stuff, slipped a yellow ribbon from his sock, and tied it around the artifact. It was his signature. He wished he could be here to see them discover it outside its impenetrable vault.

  With a pat to its head, he stood.

  “Cute,” a voice spoke.

  Frankie spun around. Another person stood behind him.

  Pointing a gun.

  His heart stopped. Then he saw the gun shake.

  Why…he’s nervous.

  The other guy flicked it toward the artifact. “Give it to me.” Something distorted his voice.

  Frankie ran his gaze down the length of the other burglar and back up. He looked like a skinnier version of Frankie. Black cargo pants and vest. Black hood. Black martial arts slippers.

  “I said, Give it to me.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Sure.” Why did he care? He hadn’t come for this silly thing anyway.

  Behind the hood, the burglar narrowed his eyes, like he didn’t believe it’d be that easy.

  “It’s all yours.” Frankie stepped to the side.

  The burglar paused. Shook his head. “Hand it to me.”

  Frankie sighed. “Oh, all right.” He snatched it from the ground and tossed it to the burglar.

  The burglar’s eyes widened as he fumbled with the gun and caught the artifact.

  Frankie watched him juggle the two things. He could totally take down this idiot. The burglar was way too amusing, though, and Frankie needed a good laugh.

  Holding the artifact to his chest, the burglar scrambled to get the gun pointed back at Frankie. “You think you’re funny don’t you?”

  He shrugged. Yeah, actually, he did.

  The burglar backed his way up the stairs, still pointing the gun at Frankie.

  “Can’t fire that thing, ya know. You’ll set off the alarms in this place.”

  The burglar paused in his backward ascent as if he hadn’t thoug
ht about that. “You’re the Ghost, aren’t you?”

  Frankie gave his best sixteenth-century bow. “The one and only.”

  “I…I’ve studied you.”

  The small admission pumped his ego. “Then you know I’m no threat. I did what I came for.”

  Seconds ticked by. The burglar slipped the gun inside his vest.

  “Safety,” Frankie reminded him.

  “It’s not loaded.”

  He laughed at having been tricked.

  The burglar raced up the stairs toward the New Zealand Hat Room, and Frankie followed. With his back to the west wall, the burglar inched around the African Bone Room.

  Frankie watched his fluid, timed movements as he kept pace with the camera that scanned in two-second intervals. Not such a novice. He’d been trained.

  “Who are you?” Frankie whispered across both rooms.

  The other burglar stopped and looked back.

  “Keep moving!” Frankie hissed at the exact second the burglar missed his two-second step and set off the alarm.

  Crud.

  The burglar bolted from the room and up the steps to the second floor.

  Frankie raced after him, through a narrow hallway into a huge room, and then disappeared behind the door to a janitor closet.

  Staying right on his heels, Frankie flung open the closet door. The burglar snaked up a rope hanging fifteen feet from an open skylight.

  Quick guy.

  He’d rigged the skylight alarm with an eraser, a small piece of aluminum foil, and, although Frankie couldn’t see it, he knew a dab of olive oil. That particular combination of three elements shorted out standard valumegal wiring. He’d introduced that five years ago, and criminals had copied it ever since.

  Sirens filtered through the air, and his pulse jumped. Cops. About a quarter of a mile away.

  Yeah, baby, thrill of the chase.

  The burglar made it to the roof, and Frankie started his ascent. Halfway there he looked up to see the burglar holding a knife to the rope.

  No.

  “Sorry,” the burglar mumbled, and sliced it clean.

  Son of a— Frankie fell and landed on his back. “Umph.”

  Footsteps pounded outside the door. He jumped to his feet and leapt for the skylight.

  The door flew open. “Hold it right there.”