I should probably point out that in all that time, the man never turned around. Not once did he check his tail. I was starting to think that this was the easiest covert operations lesson ever, when he slipped through a small gate in the fence that ran behind the merry-go-round, but I didn't hesitate. I didn't wait. I just did what I was born to do: I followed, knowing that whatever guards were following me would be quick to do the same.
It was quieter there, behind the barricades. A large manmade lake stretched out beside me. The smells of corn dogs and popcorn were lost beneath the scent of oil and grease.
The bright lights and spinning wheels of the park were gone, replaced by a maze of carefully placed trees and perfectly engineered scaffolding that stretched high into the sky, blocking out the sun.
I thought of all the things I might say if someone saw me: I was there to meet my boyfriend. My classmates had sent me on a dare. I'd seen a stray animal come this way and it had appeared to be hurt.
So I wants afraid when the man stopped and opened the door of a long building that sat hidden in the midst of the park. I waited ten seconds, then followed, praying the door's hinges wouldn't speak as I pulled it slowly open and stepped inside.
Christmas decorations lined one wall, and Fourth of July sparklers and banners covered the other. There were broken, faded bumper cars and log ride relics, and a statue of a clown. It was like a graveyard - where amusement came to die.
And that was the thought that filled my mind as I eased down the center aisle - soaking in the sights and smells and sounds that filled the air around me. Every fiber in my training and my gut wound together to tell me that the workman was gone - lost, out of sight.
But then I heard the faint scruff of heavy shoes on concrete and knew I was anything but alone.
"You really shouldn't be here."
Chapter Twenty-Six
The first time any of us had seen Joe Solomon, we'd thought he was a highly trained operative, a seasoned CoveOps veteran and . . . well . . . hot. But a year and a half later I barely recognized my teacher in the man who stood behind me. His face was drawn and pale. His hair was longer, his clothes grungier, but it was his eyes that had changed the most as he stepped toward me and demanded, "Cammie you have to come with me. You have to come right now!"
As he reached for me, I jerked away. I didn't know whether to hug him of hit him (a feeling that frequently associate with Blackthorne Boys, to tell you the truth), so I just shook my head. "No."
"Cammie, if I heard you were going to be here, then they'll know you're here. I have to get you out of here. Now!"
"It's true, isn't it?"
"The Circle could be here any second."
"You are the Circle!"
Joe Solomon had had far more practice telling lies than I've had detecting them, but I could see the truth in his eyes.
"It is true, isn't it?" I asked, even though, deep down, I knew it wasn't really a question.
Even though I knew.
"I'm sorry, Cammie." he ran his hand through his hair. "Cammie, I'm so -"
"No," I said numbly. I felt myself backing away, my left hand tracing the cinder-block wall of the building. I scanned the room, looking for a piece of a pipe of a tool - a weapon of any kind.
"Cammie, listen to me. I'll explain everything, but if my sources are right, then you're not safe here. You have to come with me."
"I'm not going anywhere with you!"
I wasn't think about the guards, who, moments before, I had been sure were watching my every more. I didn't reach for the panic button that I wore around my wrist like a watch, or call into my comms unit for help. I wasn't thinking as I brought my hand up along the side of his face - hard.
It was just a slap - nothing special. Hardly something they would teach in P&E. and yet I felt like doing it again. And again.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" I said, striking out again.
"I'm not. I'm not. I'm . . ." I stopped and stared at him. "How could you?"
"I was young, Cammie."
"You were my age! And you grew up and . . ." I didn't want to cry, and so I screamed.
"You killed him!"
I expected him to lash back, strike me down where I stood. He was bigger, stronger, and more experienced, but rage is a force of its own. I watched him stumble back as if he knew that - as if I scared him.
"He's dead because of you!" I yelled, stepping forward, but Mr. Solomon didn't brace to block the blow.
Instead, he leaned against the wall, his eyes deeper and darker and sadder than anything I've ever seen, as my father's best friend stared at me, voice cracking and whispered, "I know."
What happened next was a scene I've played and replayed in my mind a thousand times.
I'll probably play it a thousand more. All I know for certain is that one second, a man I had revered, trusted, loved, and hated (in that order) was in front of me, crumbling. And in the next moment, time seemed to freeze as the door to the building swung open and a long shadow sliced across the concrete floor, and I heard a woman say, "He said we'd find you here."
I remember everything about my trip to Boston last summer - the sight of the balloons, the sounds of the crowds, and of all, the way a masked woman and two men walked toward me through the spinning shadows of a helicopter's blades.
"No," I said, as if that simple word could stop it from happening again.
The woman looked so calm as she stood in the open doorway, as if nothing could go wrong this time. As if it were over. I reached for my watch, punched the button again and again, not daring to calculate the odds of beating the Circle for a third time - not willing to waste one second more.
"No!" I yelled. It didn't matter that she was older and taller and probably far more experienced - I charged toward her, knowing that my only hope lay on the other side of the open door.
But then I stopped, because the woman was no longer alone. Agent Townsend was there.
Agent Townsend was looking at Joe Solomon and me as if Christmas had come early.
"You were right," the woman told Agent Townsend with a smile. "This was almost too easy."