A Spy Like Me

by Laura Pauling

  Five

  Aimee and I arrived outside the dirty white warehouse known as Spy Headquarters seconds to nine. Weeds spilled out of the cracked pavement and black and red spray paint dripped down the walls. Overall, it was kind of creepy—exactly what Dad wanted. I gripped the metal handle, and the door opened with a familiar screech. Once the door closed behind me, I felt safe from any random, unexplained bullets.

  In one of the office-turned-dressing-rooms, we rushed to change our clothes, put on our gear, and then get in position for our grand entrance. When Aimee wasn’t looking, I ditched my armor, but it wouldn’t be for long. Every noise that sounded close to a ping or ricochet sent fear coursing through my veins. A serving tray could possibly save my life. Maybe.

  Aimee climbed the steps on the side of the warehouse, and I followed. Newly spun webs clung to my face and neck. I brushed them off with one swipe. At the top, Aimee and I helped each other hook the zip line cables onto our belts and tighten the safety straps. Then step-by-step, keeping my eyes focused on the back of Aimee’s head and not the fifty-foot drop, I sidestepped a rafter to our position. My fingers dug into the support beam.

  “You can do it!” Aimee whispered.

  As we inched closer to our take-off spot, I watched my coworkers perched like pigeons, waiting patiently. Gray Chalston, Dad’s right hand man, always coordinated the staff and made sure the games ran smoothly. Frankie Newtz, the eccentric guy in his twenties who still wasn’t sure what to do with his life, played a great psychopath, miscreant, hostage, murderer, whatever the games called for. His wild red hair and acne scars just added to it. Nancy Jergen, a housewife from upstate New York who loved to wield a gun, (thank God they were never loaded), played the double agent. And then there was Aimee and me, the lowly informants.

  They all nodded hello. Dad had strict orders—no talking in the rafters. My palms grew sweaty, like last time. This was our second round with the “grand entrance,” and the drop scared the crap out of me.

  The spies trickled in, timid at first at the large empty space and the cold cement floor. No chairs or tables or water coolers were in sight. Or free, tasteless coffee.

  “Look at them,” I whispered.

  A group of balding men walked in wearing trench coats. True wannabes. They wore sunglasses and carried backpacks probably filled with spy gadgets they’d bought off eBay. I couldn’t look down for long because my stomach felt queasy and vertigo hit me like a sugar high. Aimee had no problem standing on the roof rafter; after all, she was the one who wanted to climb mountains. Not me. I rubbed my arms. It was damp and the chill started in my toes and coiled around my body until I was shivering like a naked spy on a rooftop in January.

  And then this macho man breezed through the entrance, full of swagger, wearing leather pants and sunglasses. He posed in the middle of the room, ready, willing, and waiting for danger.

  The ultimate spy.

  I made a mental note to stay away from him. His stomach pouched over the edge of his pants as if he’d eaten one too many donuts, and when it came to hair gel, he was my dad’s twin.

  The beam beneath my feet creaked. I swayed and clenched my teeth to hold my breakfast back. The smell of bat excrement made me feel positively sick.

  Aimee nudged me. “It is about to start.”

  A light sweat formed on my body as our time to plummet towards the cement floor drew near. I checked and rechecked my cables and attachments. A cold draft sent goosebumps down my legs. Maybe I’d end up in a hospital next to Malcolm. Or the morgue.

  Aimee whispered, “You can do this.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

  Gray gave us a stern look to stop talking.

  As soon as Dad strode through the side door, his boots echoing on the cement, everyone quieted. Kind of like when God created the earth, I imagined. Dad evoked this kind of scary presence when he was in full Spy Games mode. By his long stride and the swish of his leather pants, the sway of his shoulders and his slicked-back hair, they would never know that six months ago he sold herbal remedies to constipated old ladies. Unfortunately, his dramatic efforts worked on everyone but me. That was because I’d seen him in his sweats, singing to Barry Manilow, while he burned our instant mac and cheese.

  Dad took full advantage of everyone’s gawking stares. He glanced around as if a hundred men in black suits with ear buds were about to burst through the door. It was all part of the act.

  “We have a serious situation.” His deep booming voice bounced off the walls and echoed between the rafters. “A high profile executive has been taken for ransom. It’s your job to follow the clues and save him. Before it’s too late.”

  The warehouse door screeched open, and everyone looked. Malcolm entered.

  Malcolm? He was alive! Joy burst through my veins and flooded my body. A zillion-ton weight lifted off me, and I felt like I could float off the beam if I let go. We needed to throw confetti and drink lemonade because I wasn’t a murderer after all.

  Malcolm strode across the room and I drank in the sight of him, his moving limbs, his chest rising up and down as he breathed! He settled into the back of the crowd, cool and composed.

  The instantaneous burst of joy over the fact I wasn’t a murderer faded, and my blood went from simmering to boiling. All this time, I believed he could’ve been dead. He could’ve called, texted, or thrown pebbles at my window. Anything! He probably didn’t show up to work at Les Pouffant’s just to torture me.

  I leaned slightly forward to catch a look at his guilty face. I felt a spinning sensation before I realized I was falling forward. I desperately reached for Aimee, swinging my arms wildly. She caught the edge of my shirt, but gravity ripped it from her hands. Air whooshed around me and I forgot all proper form in free falling. My stomach dropped. Images of me going splat on the cement floor flashed through my mind.

  My whole body jerked, and it felt like my arms were going to be ripped from their sockets. I stopped, suspended in the air about ten feet from my rafter, high above the heads of the wannabes who were so into my dad they didn’t notice a thing. I swung back and forth, dangling from a wire. Gray held the line, and I silently pled with him to pull me back up. Clearly, he needed to develop his skills of telepathy.

  Sweat tickled my armpits and dotted my forehead as the cement and the heads of the people swung back and forth in my vision. Malcolm became a blur. I was stuck until it was time to drop. I’d look like a loser, but I didn’t care. Solid ground. Nice, hard cement under my feet. That was all I cared about.

  Dad continued with his speech, obviously not aware that with one slip of Gray’s hands, his one and only daughter could become a floor decoration. “You’ll have to work together or it will be very hard for your team to succeed—”

  I blocked the rest out. I just wanted to stop swinging like a monkey.

  “And here’s the staff to help you with your spy mission today. Give a hand to Nancy!”

  Crap.

  Nancy swooped past me to the cheering of the crowd. Dad boomed out their names as they dropped down. Frankie. Then Aimee. Of course, they all performed perfectly. One leg down, one leg bent in the wire hook, one arm holding on, and one arm out (kinda cheesy if you asked me). They all landed with grace and style.

  And then there was me.