The idea of Mary talking to Mr. S about dating me weirded me out. “You probably won’t like me then. You’ll like some other basketball star who’s—”
A roar of an engine shocked the night.
“The boat!” Mary kicked harder, but there was no way the girls could outswim the Dragon Star. The shore was still so far away. Were we going to get run down? Chopped up by the propeller blade?
As Anya powered the boat in a slow U-turn, another engine buzzed in the distance. I whipped my head around and saw a Jet Ski zooming up behind us. It curled around our inner tube, sending a spray of water out behind it. It was Mr. Sloan.
“Get on!” he yelled.
All of us?
“I thought it was illegal to drive a Jet Ski at night?” Grace said.
“It’s also illegal to kidnap children,” Mr. Sloan said. “Now get on!”
Mary swam over to the Jet Ski, and Mr. Sloan helped her get on in front of him. Then Grace scrambled up behind him. I rolled off the inner tube, keeping one arm hooked through the middle. As the saltwater attacked my cut, I fought back a string of swear words and paddled toward the Jet Ski.
Anya’s boat cruised our way, a single headlight splitting the darkness. I climbed up on the Jet Ski and sat behind Grace.
“Hold on tight!” Mr. Sloan yelled. “This craft is only made for two.”
A bar ran around the back edge of my seat, but the smell of coconuts prompted me to grab Grace’s waist. She was even smaller around than Keiko. The Jet Ski darted forward, jerking me back so fast I had to move my hands to the bar to keep from falling off.
The Jet Ski bounced over the dark sea. Grace’s ponytail whipped my face, and I turned my head to see the Dragon Star. Anya was still following, but the distance between us was growing quickly.
Just as I started to relax, another Jet Ski screamed out of the darkness. Mr. Sloan jerked our Jet Ski to the side, and we just missed colliding with Bushi. He whipped his craft around and quickly caught up, bouncing over our wake, just behind on our left. The waves slowed him slightly. I was thankful for that.
Until I heard the gunshot.
REPORT NUMBER: 24
REPORT TITLE: There Are Two of Too Many People
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: Pacific Ocean near Okinawa, Japan
DATE AND TIME: Sunday night, July 12, time unknown
A SECOND JET SKI ZOOMED UP ON OUR right. Keiko. She swerved close and tried to knock her craft into ours. I punched her shoulder, and she veered away.
Another gunshot knotted my insides. I cowered over Grace’s head. Who was shooting? I chanced another glance over my shoulder. Bushi and Keiko were still behind us. Way behind them, Anya followed in the boat, its headlight bobbing left and right. Did she even know how to drive that thing?
A third shot spat into the water beside me. Ahh. Anya had the gun, shooting and driving at the same time. Perfect. Hopefully she shot as well as she drove boats.
The dark shadow of land loomed on our right. There were no lights, but I could make out the shapes of a craggy cliff. Jagged rocks loomed in the water near the shore like we were coming up on a tight zone defense. Mr. Sloan veered toward them, and I grabbed the bar tighter.
The Jet Ski slowed as Mr. Sloan navigated his way through the shafts of rock. The cliffs loomed above like some LA skyscraper. Grace and I jerked left, right, forward, and back in unison, our fate in the hands of Mr. Sloan’s expert driving skills.
He stopped suddenly behind a pointed rock that looked like a tiny cruise ship jutting out of the sea. The air reeked like seaweed.
The Jet Ski idled softly, vibrating under my feet. I could hear the hums of the other Jet Ski engines reverberating off the rocks making it sound like they were everywhere at once.
A breeze sailed past. Grace shivered against my chest. A motor surged behind us, and I whipped around. No one was there. The sound faded, then revved and faded again. They must be driving around the rocks.
The sound rose again then burst as Keiko’s Jet Ski appeared behind us.
“She’s here!” I reached over Grace and tapped Mr. Sloan’s shoulder, but Mr. Sloan had been watching. Our Jet Ski jerked forward. My body fell back, and I barely had time to grab the bar. I got my balance again as Mr. Sloan snaked around the dark boulders.
Between two large rocks, I saw Bushi closing in on our left. Mr. Sloan steered the Jet Ski to the right, and Bushi disappeared from view. We zigzagged around the rocks.
Suddenly, Keiko was speeding toward us in a horrifying round of chicken. Mr. Sloan slowed to a near stop and swerved hard between two rocks. Keiko’s leg shot out and struck my waist. Already off balance from the abrupt change in direction, I fell off.
I plummeted beneath the dark surf. The sound of sloshing water was muffled in my ears. Salt water entered my mouth. I flailed my limbs, desperately searching for a rock to grab hold of or the ocean floor to push myself back up. But there was nothing. How could the water be so deep this close to land?
I flapped my arms and kicked and flapped and kicked. Before I realized I was even close, the muffled water sounds fell away as my right ear emerged above the surface.
I straightened myself to float on my back and gasped for air, choking on the gallon of seawater still trapped in my throat. I scanned my surroundings as best I could from my back. At first, I heard nothing but the ringing in my ears and my own gasping and coughing. Then the water leaked out of my ears, and the sound of the motors was there, buzzing nearby. I pointed my head toward the nearest rock and kicked. Thankfully, this particular rock was extra craggy and looked like I’d be able to climb onto it.
I kicked as hard as I could, but the surf pushed me to the right. So I flipped onto my stomach and doggie paddled toward the rock. I threw in a few wide arm strokes that I thought looked like a crawl stroke, and it seemed to move me faster. If I lived through today, I was so taking swimming lessons.
I finally managed to reach the rock. Before I had a chance to climb up, a wave slammed me against it. I hit my chin on the rock and got a mouthful of ocean water. It wasn’t easy, but I clambered up the slimy thing. My shorts clung to my legs and water ran off me and down the rock like a stream. I squatted on top, careful to get my feet in a good position, then I slowly straightened my legs until I was standing.
The Dragon Star had stopped outside the rocky area, floating on the dark water like a killer whale. The field of jagged rocks were black against the shimmering water. Little black dots of the Jet Skis flickered past the spaces between the rocks. When they were in view, the engine sounds magnified. Out of sight, the engine sounds were muted. It sounded like three mechanical heartbeats: whaawww … whaa … whaawww … whaa … Didn’t they realize I wasn’t—
A wave exploded against the rock, showering me with water and almost knocking me off my perch. I crouched back down and sat.
I ran my hands over my head to squeeze the water out of my hair and realized that I’d lost my iPhone and my cap when I’d fallen in the water. Guys don’t cry. But I wanted to. And I realized then that I’d forgotten to look for my cross necklace too. Anya had broken it and thrown it on the floor. And I’d been too busy obsessing over my iPhone to even think about it.
Now, here I was, sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night, no way of communicating, no trackers to bring help to me, and only my thoughts to keep me company. And my thoughts weren’t very pleasant.
Another wave hit me then. I hung on and held my breath and managed to keep the water out of my mouth this time. When the ocean settled down, I squeegeed my hair again.
Okay, God. I’m an idiot. No one knows this more than You. Is this Your version of Jonah and the whale? Are You trying to tell me I’m an idiot? I get that. I do. I’m selfish and cocky and … Please just let Mary and Grace be okay. It’s my fault they’re in this mess. They were both doing what I should have been doing. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so—
A Jet Ski zoomed
out of the darkness and stopped in front of my rock. I could see Grace’s white T-shirt right away, and then Mr. Sloan and Mary came into focus too.
Oh, thanks, God. That’s real big of You, man. My first answered prayer. Only I hadn’t prayed for help. I’d prayed that Mary and Grace would be okay. Not that I was complaining, but could God not hear me or something?
“Garmond!” Another crashing wave nearly drowned out Mr. Sloan’s voice and almost swept me off the rock. The Jet Ski knocked against the rock, and both girls screamed.
Once the water settled, I quickly slid down to the back of the Jet Ski and grabbed the bar behind me.
“We thought we’d lost you,” Mr. Sloan said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. They’re both way over there.” I motioned toward Anya’s boat. “If we go the other way and keep inside the rocks, I don’t think they’ll see us.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Sloan said, steering the Jet Ski where I’d suggested.
The ride was slow and twisting. We finally exited the rocky area, and Mr. Sloan headed for a small section of beach. He pulled right up onto the sand and killed the engine. A man with a flashlight and a gas can ran toward us.
“Get off,” Mr. Sloan commanded, taking the flashlight and handing it to me.
I hopped off onto the hard sand and held the flashlight on the nose of the craft where the man was unscrewing the fuel cap. The dude had long blond hair like an ’80s rock star. It was tied back in a ponytail.
“Where are Jean and Doug?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“Right here.”
I jumped at the familiar voice behind me. I turned around and stared in deep confusion at the two men standing there. One was Mr. Sloan, but Mr. Sloan was also standing next to the Jet Ski with Grace and Mary. I looked back and forth between the men. They were even wearing the same beige camouflage clothes, which were the standard battle dress uniform (BDU) for the Mission League.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I mean, what was up with all the twins?
The other man, Doug, was wiry with orange hair and a small pointed beard. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. I turned back to the man filling the tank and noticed that he was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts like Grace.
“Are you guys supposed to be us?” I asked.
’80s rock star guy put down the gas can. “You don’t think I can pass for a twelve-year-old girl?”
“I’m fifteen,” Grace said.
“Oh, sorry,” the guy said, capping the tank.
“Garmond, Grace, Mary, come with me.” Our Mr. Sloan, the Jet Ski driver Mr. Sloan, walked off toward a rocky staircase and waved us to follow.
Mary and Grace jogged after Mr. Sloan, and I followed. I could still hear the occasional, distant revving of one of the other Jet Skis out on the ocean.
Mary slowed and waited for me to catch up, then ran alongside me. “You lost your phone?”
“Yee-aahh. When I fell off the Jet Ski. My hat too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but it’s just a phone.” A powerful, gorgeous multi-touch iPhone with all my songs, a camera, unlimited texting, access to an amazing app store, the Internet, GPS … And I’d had that cap since I was eleven. It had been one of the first caps made with Kobe’s new number.
Where the sand turned dry, shards of something bit into my feet. Probably coral. I took quick steps, wincing. We got to the rocky stairs, and I let Mary and Grace go up first. The steps were steep, narrow, and thankfully, smooth. The back of Grace’s tank top had a red stain in the center. She’d been hurt? But then I realized that it was my blood.
I glanced down at my cut. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, just oozing pearls of blood. Between the cut and my bruises, my torso looked like something out of a Brittany Holmes movie. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the roar of our Jet Ski’s engine below. I peeked back down to the beach and saw the dark shape shooting back onto the ocean.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“They’re taking the Jet Ski out to pose as decoys,” Mr. Sloan said. “It’ll be dark for another few hours, so it should stall them for a while.”
At the top of the stairs, Mr. Sloan led us down a grassy path. The moon was full and bright, and it lit the surrounding jungle in a silvery glow. A warm breeze was like velvet on my skin. The crickets sang to us. I felt peaceful suddenly. Safe. Give me a pillow and a blanket and I was done.
We walked about 200 yards and reached a Japanese house with the traditional sloping tile roof. Mr. Sloan stopped at the door and knocked three times.
“Donata desu ka?” a deep voice called.
“Kaeru no ko wa kaeru,” Mr. Sloan said.
The door swung in, held open by a Japanese guy who was also dressed in Mission League BDU. Mr. Sloan ushered us into an open room, and the Japanese guy shut the door.
The place had white walls, shoji screen doors, and bamboo blinds over the windows. The floor was covered in tatami mats. There was one of those campfire hearths in the middle of the floor like Kimura-san had at his house. A porcelain tea set and a steel kettle sat on one edge of the hearth. There was a desk with a bamboo chair against one wall. A few fancy vases filled a shelf. And one of those oriental rugs lay on the floor between the desk and hearth. No couches or tables. The place was pretty bare.
Mr. Sloan pulled back the rug and opened a door in the floor. He started down a wooden staircase, then looked up at me and grinned. “Come on, then.”
At the bottom of the stairs, at least thirty men and women occupied a cramped basement. Most were sitting on the floor, some were standing, and all were dressed in the standard BDUs and were hanging on the words of a gray-haired man who stood in the far corner and was pointing to a large map on the wall.
“Our intel says that Shoko is loading up the shipment and leaving before dawn. So we’re going to apprehend her tonight. The Abaku-kai compound is about a half mile north of here, two hundred yards inland. Alpha squad, you’ll come in from the south. Bravo squad, cover the back of the compound and watch for vehicles on this service road.” The man pointed to a road on the map. “Charlie squad will come in from the north, and Delta squad, you’ll cover the beach. We’ve got a few boats out there in case they get sea bound, but we don’t want to let that happen.”
A hand shot up from the middle of the crowd. “Sergeant
Parish, sir, what about Anya Vseveloda?”
“The Dragon Star is still at sea,” Parish said. “Don’t get in the way of letting it dock. We want all our targets in the compound before we strike. Also, keep in mind that our map of the compound came from an agent-in-training. While everything looks correct, allow for error.”
I wondered if Jun had made the map.
Mr. Sloan tapped my shoulder and waved me to a small bathroom across from the foot of the stairs. “Let’s take a look at that cut. All that seawater likely kept it nice and sterile.”
“I don’t think a can of soda will help this time, huh?” I said.
Mr. Sloan’s eyebrows sank in confusion. “We don’t have anything to drink here but sink water.”
Oh-kay. I guess he’d forgotten about how I drank Grace’s soda on the drive to get my arm looked at. He wet a towel and wiped it gently over my cut. I winced as the fabric made contact.
“Ooh, sorry about that.”
I strained to hear what Sergeant Parish was saying, but the running faucet drowned the man’s voice.
Mr. Sloan cleaned around the wound and applied antibiotics but ignored the blood all over the rest me. He threw the towel to the floor and grabbed a piece of gauze and a roll of duct tape. “Arms up.” He set the gauze against my cut. “Hold that for me.”
I held the gauze over my cut with one finger and lifted my elbows out to the side. Mr. Sloan pulled out a length of duct tape, stuck down one end of the gauze, then wrapped it around my back to the other side. Then he ran the duct tape around my chest a second time. My cut throbbed, but it was likely going to hurt more when that tape came off.
<
br /> “That ought to hold it for now.” Mr. Sloan set the tape on the sink, grabbed a white shirt off the back of the toilet, and tossed it to me. “You’ll live.”
“Thanks,” I said as Mr. Sloan slipped back out to the briefing. I set the shirt back on the toilet and snagged the towel off the floor. I wet a clean corner and washed the blood off my stomach.
I pulled on the T-shirt. It bunched under my armpits, and the hem barely reached my waist. I studied myself in the mirror. My left eye was purple where Keiko—Kozue? who knew, really?—had stomped on it. The shirt said, “I ♥ Okinawa,” but it was so small on me it looked like I was trying to wear Mary’s shirt. My hair felt crusty from saltwater, but it didn’t look too bad.
When I came out of the bathroom, the agents were filing up the stairs.
Mary ran up to me. “Are you okay?” Then her eyes took in my appearance and she smirked. “Nice shirt.”
“I’m fine. Where are they going?”
“They’re moving into position,” Mary said. “That’s what that boss guy said, anyway.”
Grace walked up to us and folded her arms. “I tried to warn you about the twins, Spencer.”
Yeah … I didn’t want to talk about the Beautiful Disasters just then. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“We have to stay down here until Mr. Sloan comes back,” Grace said.
“By ourselves?”
“No one will know we’re down here if they cover the trapdoor,” Grace said. “At least that’s what Mr. Sloan said.”
“Hey, what was up with Mr. Sloan’s look-alike?” I asked.
“Maybe he has a twin like me,” Mary said. “And like Keiko and Kozue.”
Too many twins for my brain to keep up with. “Or maybe he’s a clone. Or maybe the Mission League has those sweet Mission Impossible facemasks.”
“You’re an idiot,” Grace said.
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