The Doublecross

by Jackson Pearce

  No matter what the theory, no one debated whether or not I’d done an excellent job. It didn’t make me popular or faster or a junior agent, but it did make me a lot better armed for conversations like this one.

  “We look like losers,” Cameron corrected me.

  “So I see,” I said.

  “Because we’re dressed as you!” Cameron added, growing frustrated that I still didn’t appear offended. “Get it? Because we’re fat—”

  “Just shut up,” Walter said, shoving Cameron. I wondered if SRS had a specialty program for people who would make especially good doorstops. Cameron seemed like a contender for a spot.

  “Yeah,” Kennedy said, putting her hands on her hips. “All of you shut up. Hale is twenty times the spy you are.”

  Walter laughed hard. “He’s twenty times the spy we are, that’s for sure,” he said, grabbing his fake stomach. Kennedy looked wounded; I gave her a weary look and she trudged back to join her classmates, clearly more embarrassed than I was about the whole thing. I glued another piece of silicone on, ignoring Walter and the Foreheads, who looked disappointed with the short lifespan of their joke.

  “Hale,” someone said in a gravelly voice. Walter and the Foreheads stepped away to reveal Ms. Elma and Otter, though I wasn’t totally sure which one had said my name. Ms. Elma’s scar made the plastic ones the ten-year-olds were applying look ridiculous.

  “I need some measurements,” she said. “Disguise for your next mission.”

  Jaws dropped. I went ahead and dropped mine, too, because even though I wasn’t surprised, given how good my dirt on Otter was, I needed to look it.

  “He’s going on another mission?” Walter asked, voice cracking. “But he hasn’t even tested into junior agent yet!”

  “It was Fishburn’s decision,” Otter said immediately, which I know was supposed to mean I didn’t do this. He still couldn’t look me in the eyes. I was pretty okay with that.

  Ms. Elma was flickering around, her tape measure whipping me like a lizard’s tongue. She scribbled some information onto a pad and then turned to Walter. “You too.”

  “What? I’m going on another mission?” Walter grinned but then realized what this meant. “Wait—I’m going on a mission with him?”

  “Stop fidgeting,” Ms. Elma said, oblivious to Walter’s social concerns. She wrapped the tape measure around Walter’s head as he looked pleadingly at Otter.

  The Foreheads were laughing so hard that the padding in their Hale costumes was jiggling out.

  “Please. Come on, man. Don’t send me with him. Call it a favor. I’ll clean your office. I’ll take venom-collecting duty for a week.”

  “I don’t assign missions, Quaddlebaum,” Otter said, and then turned to walk away. He called back over his shoulder, “It’s Operation Evergreen, just like your last mission, Jordan. Briefing files will be delivered tonight.” I saw a sort of pleased sneer on his face, which was never a good sign. Anytime Otter was pleased, I was miserable.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kennedy won. I was taking her to The League.

  She’d used a tried-and-true method of younger siblings everywhere: she’d begged and begged until I would rather have removed my own eyeballs than listen to her beg anymore. Plus, I was worried that if I didn’t take her, eventually someone else would hear her begging, and we’d be in a real disaster. Since Kennedy didn’t have an errand-running excuse to leave, and even I was concerned about drawing too much attention with dry-cleaning runs, we crept out through the garage.

  “What did you tell Ms. Elma?” I asked her as we rushed past rows and rows of solid black bulletproof sedans, flashy convertibles, and more well-armored SUVs than I could count.

  “That I’m hanging out with Ridley and Emily.”

  “And if she asks Ridley’s and Emily’s parents?”

  Kennedy gave me an exasperated look. “Emily’s in the dorms, and I bet whoever is playing dorm parent for the weekend won’t know the difference. And Ridley’s mom will assume I am with Ridley, who is spending the weekend with Emily and Jordan—”

  “Okay, okay, I just wanted to make sure.”

  “I know how to build a cover story, Hale. I got the highest grade in my Emergency Undercover Ops class last year, remember?”

  “Still not as high as my score in it was,” I said, elbowing her by way of apology. She gave me an even more exasperated look and then grinned.

  “So what did you tell Ms. Elma?” she asked.

  “That I was going to the library to practice my Arabic.”

  “That’s it? Studying in the library?”

  “It’s where I go every weekend, almost,” I said as we cut through a side door and emerged on the back side of the substitute teacher school, where the less fancy cars—like the one Otter and I took to the children’s hospital—sat in the parking lot. The fact that I really did spend most weekends studying made my story both pathetic and believable.

  “Hale,” someone cough-said as we approached the fancy toy store—today’s meeting point. It was Clatterbuck, wearing a truly terrible fake beard and three different types of plaid. He was also still wearing his emerald com unit. I glanced around to double-check for any roaming SRS agents and, seeing none, guided Kennedy toward him.

  “Kennedy!” Clatterbuck said, clapping her on the shoulder. He was making his voice all round, like he was trying to be Santa.

  “Why are you dressed like a crazy person?” Kennedy asked, though she was grinning.

  “I’m not—I’m a logger! See!” Clatterbuck jerked his thumb over his shoulder. There was, indeed, a log truck idling in back of the parking lot. “You said I should use different cars when I pick you up, Hale, remember? No one will ever think a logger is an agent!” Clatterbuck was giddy, and every time he waggled his eyebrows enthusiastically, his fake beard shifted a little off-center. He pointed at Kennedy’s owl-sticker-covered shoes. “Hey—I like those!”

  “Thanks! I like your earrings—I mean, com unit,” Kennedy answered, beaming.

  Clatterbuck drove us back to The League in the log truck, which smelled like sap and cigarettes and was full of pine needles. Kennedy very literally sat on the edge of her seat the entire time, fingertips clutching the windowsill in some combination of excitement and fear. Clatterbuck noticed, and offered her some maple candy that he’d found in the glove compartment. It was super sticky, so trying to chew it occupied her for most of the remaining trip.

  At League headquarters, Kennedy, Clatterbuck, and I joined Oleander, Beatrix, and Ben in the tiny cafeteria. Oleander had ordered another pizza, which we destroyed quickly as we discussed the hospital mission. Kennedy was mostly listening, like she was afraid that if she spoke and made her presence known, she’d be thrown out entirely.

  “Well, Beatrix,” Oleander said, overenunciating her name. Oleander hadn’t said it outright, but it was clear she was a little uncomfortable with just how many kids were involved in her spy organization these days. “Has anything come of watching SRS’s hospital program?”

  Beatrix adjusted her glasses and then removed her Right Hand from her backpack. “Kind of. Maybe it’ll make sense to you, Hale. SRS isn’t really doing anything with the hospital’s computers. They’re just watching them.”

  “Huh? Why do they want to watch a children’s hospital?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. I figured there must be some supersecret pharmaceutical something that they wanted. But all they’re doing is looking at records. You know—heights. Weights. Names. Yesterday someone named their baby Sparkle, by the way. Sparkle Star Nelfman.”

  “I love it!” Kennedy said brightly. All eyes turned to her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, and then removed it to mutter, “I mean, I like the Sparkle Star part.”

  “They’re going back through everyone who was born in the last fifteen years or so, and it looks like they’re flagging files where the doctor has written extra stuff about school or accomplishments or things,” Beatrix continued.

  �
��Interesting,” Oleander said, frowning till her eyebrows nearly touched. “Maybe they’re searching for a specific baby? Someone very important—a diplomat’s or tycoon’s kid? Maybe someone they could hold for ransom . . . I suppose even SRS can always use some extra money, and something small like Operation Evergreen sounds like a way they’d scheme up to get it. Doesn’t get us any closer to Groundcover, though, and that’s what’s most important. Beatrix, I don’t suppose you can use their program to trace your way back and hack into SRS itself?”

  Beatrix groaned. “Trust me, I tried. But they basically have their own little island on the Internet. There’s no way in because their main system doesn’t connect to anything else. If I were inside SRS, sure, I could hack it. But from out here? Sorry.”

  “All right, all right,” Oleander said, putting a hand to her temple to think of something else. “Then, Hale, the upcoming mission you’re assigned to—is it Groundcover?”

  “No. It’s another mission for Operation Evergreen. By the way—I remembered you guys mentioning someone named Creevy the first time I was here. He’s assigned to Groundcover, just like my parents.”

  Clatterbuck made a grumbly noise under his breath. “Figures he’d be assigned to it. Creevy was an SRS agent back in my day. We knew he was an important asset, and we knew he was involved with some pretty major missions, but we could never figure out who he was, what he looked like, how old he was . . . nothing. He was dangerous. Took out some of our best agents . . .” He drifted off and looked sad, which was a strange expression to see on Clatterbuck’s face.

  Oleander pressed her lips together. “Well, just one more reason we need to make Groundcover the goal. We’ll figure this out.” She paused. “Hale.”

  “Come to the gym,” Ben said when Oleander and Clatterbuck left. “I’ve been working on some inventions for your next mission.”

  “Really? Thanks,” I said, feeling rather proud. I mean, back at SRS, I couldn’t get anyone to take me seriously. Here at The League? I was suddenly the top agent, with someone creating new devices just for me. After being Fail Hale for so long, it felt almost disorienting to be the star.

  “He doesn’t even know what his next mission is yet,” Kennedy pointed out as we trundled down the steps and into the basement. Kennedy wrinkled her nose up at the room’s smell.

  “That’s why I pretty much covered all the basics,” Ben said, looking pleased. He walked to the center of the room and whisked away a sheet from a large table, revealing what at first looked like a pile of abandoned junk, but on closer inspection was actually a pile of inventions.

  “Whoa,” Kennedy said. “What’s this—”

  “Oh, be careful! That’s the BENchwarmer. It extends and becomes sort of like a battering ram, I guess. Sometimes it explodes, though.”

  Kennedy gently placed the BENchwarmer back on the table, looking very impressed.

  Ben took us through a few of the others. The CaBEN, which was a weird little pop-up tent that zipped to the size of your palm. The DustBEN, which he unfortunately demonstrated—it created an enormous dust cloud that was supposed to help you escape, but mostly just made us cough. Kennedy’s favorite was the CariBENer, which was a pretty cool gadget that fit inside a backpack but hooked into the cabling of bridges so you could creep along underneath them (Kennedy wanted to try it, but Ben said it was still in testing). Then there was the BEN Seeing You.

  “It delivers a pulse that knocks someone out—you just hold that end down against skin, pull the trigger, and boom, they’re out!” Ben explained. “I made it from pipe cleaners and lasers. Anyway, here—I put some of them on this utility belt for you, like the one Uncle Stan says he used to carry.” Ben revealed a somewhat patchwork belt that had a half dozen pockets and compartments on it. He began tucking the finished devices into it—they fit perfectly. I didn’t know exactly where I’d use something like the CaBEN, but I had to admit, it was a cool thing to have. I went to snap it on.

  “Aw, man, it’s too small,” Ben said when the belt stopped about two inches from closing.

  I tensed—at SRS, this would be prime Hale the Whale time.

  “Sorry, Hale. I’ll fix it though. Oh, I know! I’ve been working on these new hooks that snap automatically!”

  “Those keep cutting off your circulation,” Beatrix reminded him absently from where she sat, staring at her Right Hand.

  Ben shrugged at me.

  “Thanks for making this, Ben. It’s okay, though, that it doesn’t fit. I mean, I can’t really wear a League belt when I’m on a mission for SRS, you know?”

  “Right,” Ben said, but his face fell in a way that told me he’d forgotten this in the excitement of inventing all the gadgets to put on the belt.

  “How about I just take it anyway, though, and that way I’ve got a good way to store all your inventions, even if I can’t wear the belt,” I offered, and Ben seemed satisfied with this compromise.

  “Huh,” Beatrix suddenly said. We all turned to look at her. She had her Right Hand out and was frowning at it. “Ben, they just got to our birth records. SRS, I mean. They’re downloading them now.”

  “You were born in that hospital?” I asked.

  “Yep, but actually, it doesn’t matter—that hospital’s computers network with a whole bunch of other hospitals, so they’re pulling records from all over the place. I mean, it’s not like they were looking for Ben and me specifically. They’re downloading tons—I just happened to see our names go by.”

  “So what does that mean?” Kennedy asked. I turned to see that she was doing back walkovers down one of the gym’s mats, which was comforting. I mean, I figure you only do walkovers when you feel pretty at ease in a place.

  “It means—wow, you’re flexible—it means nothing,” Beatrix said. “Just interesting, that’s all. Let’s not tell Uncle Stan, though, okay, Ben? He’ll just worry.”

  “Where are your parents?” Kennedy said. The question dropped on us like a heavy weight, and I felt stupid for not telling Kennedy what little I knew about Beatrix and Ben’s parents ahead of time, just to avoid this situation.

  Ben glanced at Beatrix before responding. “They were League agents,” he said, and his voice had a slowness to it I hadn’t heard before. It was a slowness I was familiar with, one that I’d heard other kids at SRS use when their parents didn’t return from missions. It said: They were agents, and they were killed in the field. Hearing it from Clatterbuck was one thing, but hearing it from Ben’s mouth was quite another.

  I didn’t know what to say, but thankfully Kennedy did. She gave them a kind of half smile, and said, “Our parents are agents too.” It was totally unnecessary she tell them that, of course—because they knew, and Kennedy knew they knew, and yet all the same suddenly I realized that even though Ben and Beatrix weren’t technically spies, the four of us weren’t really so different from one another after all. I still didn’t like group projects, but if I had to choose a team to work with, I’d choose the two of them and Kennedy over the SRS junior agents any day of the week.

  Even if not a single one of us had passed the stupid junior agent exam.

  A few hours later—after Kennedy tried, in vain, to teach Beatrix a cheer and Ben accidentally set off three firecrackers attempting to make some sort of flash-bang device inside a cupcake—Clatterbuck drove Kennedy and me back to SRS in his log truck. He’d removed the logs, somehow, in the past few hours, because “It wouldn’t make sense for me to return with logs. That’s not how loggers work.” We went around the substitute teaching college and back through the garage. Ms. Elma lifted her head when we walked in the door, her pencil-thin eyebrows rising so high into her hairline that they almost disappeared entirely.

  “Hale, finally,” Ms. Elma said, getting up. “You’ve been gone all day.”

  “Arabic’s a big language,” I answered, but Ms. Elma wasn’t listening to me anyhow.

  She walked to the kitchen counter that, were our parents here, would have been covered in dishes, b
ut had now been perfectly cleaned and wiped down for far too long. I couldn’t believe I legitimately missed dirty dishes. There was a thick folder and a pile of fabric on the counter, both of which she lifted. “This is your uniform for the mission tomorrow. And Agent Otter dropped off this file for you to study.” She shoved Otter’s folder into my hands and then carefully draped the uniform over my free arm. I frowned and looked down at the file. On the front was typed:

  Operation Evergreen

  [Hale Jordan]

  [Cover: Quincy Delfino]

  “Quincy,” I said. “What’s the uniform?”

  “Genius, is what it is,” Ms. Elma said over her shoulder as she sat back down at the kitchen table. “Pure genius.”

  Pure genius was, more specifically, a baseball uniform. I didn’t see the brilliance in it until I put it on in my bedroom, where I realized Ms. Elma had indeed done a genius job of tailoring it to fit me perfectly. If Walter had the same one, I was sure he looked better in it, but I had to admit that there were way more embarrassing things I could be wearing—like the actual SRS uniform, for example. As it was, I looked sort of like the stocky baseball player—maybe a catcher or a pitcher, someone who didn’t usually have to run that far. I lifted the folder and opened it up to see what in the world I was doing that would involve a disguise like this, and groaned.

  Welcome to Nelson Sports Academy

  Where Pain Is Weakness Leaving the Body

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nelson Sports Academy was a series of white warehouse gymnasiums connected via covered walkways. There were giant banners hanging off the sides that depicted silhouettes of kids running, dunking baskets, leaping over hurdles, and backflipping on balance beams. And, in giant red letters across the door, was that same slogan about weakness leaving the body.

  Basically, Nelson Sports Academy was the worst.

  Especially since I had to spend the day there with Walter, looking for an opportunity to sneak into the main office and steal a long list of student files from the owner’s desk drawer for Operation Evergreen. I couldn’t work out why SRS wanted files on a bunch of kids from a sports academy anyway—were they finally creating Kennedy’s SRS cheerleading squad? Or maybe Oleander was right—maybe they were looking to kidnap a specific kid and hold him for some kind of ransom. I tried to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach over that prospect.