And if they proceeded with their plans, the Big Guys might actually be able to pin something on them. Maybe not the whole firm, but at least some of the associates.
“We need to get in and get out, and the configuration of the building eliminates the possibility of going in unseen. That means we have to go in unnoticed, and that means we need you girls.”
The next picture on the screen made me wonder if there was a slight chance I was still dreaming.
“Cheer Scout cookies?” I asked.
“Cheer Scout cookies,” the voice said. “This is your cover. As of 1500 hours this afternoon, all five teams will commence fund-raising at strategic locations spread throughout Bayport, specifically, large, commercial buildings.”
It took me a second to realize that one of the locations in question was the building that housed Ross’s lab. I must have been playing this game for too long now, because in a twisted way, this whole cookie thing made sense. If we were all doing “fund-raising,” then the fact that a subset of us chose to do it at Ross’s lab wouldn’t raise suspicions. Clever.
“Girls, I must stress the incredibly sensitive nature of this case. We must acquire the weapon prototype that Ross has constructed, replace it with a decoy, and get out without raising suspicions. Due to the danger involved in penetrating Ross’s lab, we’ve designated the active part of this mission as eighteen and over. We’ll be sending two operatives in; the rest of you will be acting as decoys across town.”
Eighteen and over meant that the CIA wasn’t comfortable handing this part of the case over to minors, which meant that dangerous was an understatement. The last time a case had been given this designation, Zee and Brooke had been caught in a crossfire in Libya.
“Unfortunately, however,” the voice continued, “after a deeper analysis of Ross’s technological capabilities, psychological profile, and security detail, the task force assigned to this case has recommended that at least one of the operatives sent on the primary mission have a strong technological background, superior fighting skills, and…errrrr…”
Chloe preened, sure the voice was describing her.
“The psychological profile revealed that our best chance at countering Ross’s paranoia is to go in with someone young, female, and unintimidating.”
As far as I could tell, that description fit each and every one of us.
“Specifically, it has come to light that Ross is more likely to implicitly trust a young female with a particularly small chest.”
I didn’t even want to know how they’d come to that psychological conclusion. Nor did I want to know why everyone in the room was suddenly looking at my breasts.
Or lack thereof.
“I’m in,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d gotten the coveted assignment based on the flatness of my chest.
“So am I,” Brooke said. “Assuming we only need one operative with that last…special attribute.”
Brooke was admirably trying to be diplomatic about the boob issue.
“I’m sending through all of the information you girls need,” the voice said. “Remember, get in, acquire the weapon, replace it with the decoy, get out. Stealth is the name of the game, girls.”
And with that, the screen went dark, and the phone line went dead.
“You heard the man,” Brooke said, visibly relieved that we’d managed to keep this mission a Squad operation. “We meet back here for seventh period, and at fifteen hundred hours, Operation Cheer Scout begins.”
CHAPTER 21
Code Word: Envy
When you spend your morning on speakerphone with the CIA, the normal ups and downs of high school just don’t quite carry the same punch. During first period, three people asked me where I’d bought my shoes. Halfway through my English class, we had a pop quiz, because the teacher, in all of her wisdom and glory, had noticed the fact that no one was paying attention to a word that she said. When I went to the bathroom in between English and chemistry, I noticed a somewhat unflattering message about me scrawled across the bathroom wall.
Then, just as I was heading back from the bathroom, I ran into Jack, and the two of us may or may not have staged a reenactment of our kiss from the day before. As a result, I discovered that the only thing that stacked up to the kind of morning I’d had was the feeling of Jack’s lips on mine. The warmness that spread up my spine and over my entire body was enough to make me consider the possibility that I’d been missing out by beating guys up instead of making out with them all these years.
Because I clearly have mental problems (or as Zee would say, “intimacy issues”), the fact that anyone could have this kind of effect on me was enough to make me lash out and slug Jack in the stomach, but this time, he was ready for me, and without a word, he sidestepped the punch. “Nice try,” he murmured, nuzzling me as he took my hands in his. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that violence isn’t the answer?”
“No.” I glowered at him, trying to resist the power of his nuzzles. There were a million reasons I shouldn’t have been kissing him, and only one that made me want to do it again.
He turned his head so that his lips were near my neck. I could feel his breath on my skin as he spoke. “Me neither.” He kissed me again, softly, his lips just barely grazing mine. “But sometimes, Ev, it pays to play nice.”
I’m sure something must have happened in my fourth period, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what. By the time lunch rolled around, the entire school knew about The Kiss, Part Deux, and I was starting to think that if I was going to be helplessly girly and turn to Toby mush whenever Jack “played nice,” it might be to my benefit to find a less public venue for our next rendezvous.
Brooke and Chloe apparently concurred, and they demonstrated this agreement by spending the first half of our lunch hour glaring at me in their own, individual it-doesn’t-look-like-we’re-glaring-but-we-really-are ways. Given the fact that Brooke and I were going on an over-eighteen mission in less than three hours, I had to infer that this probably wasn’t a good thing.
“Jack, you dawg!” Chip greeted Jack in a way that reminded me why I’d spent most of my life beating guys up instead of making out with them. “Is she a wildcat, or what?”
Jack let his popularity shield drop just long enough for a single-sentence response. “Chip, you’re an idiot.”
“Whatever, man,” Chip said, perfectly affable. “You dawg!”