Only the Good Spy Young (Gallagher Girls) (19 page)

I
t was loud inside the helicopter. I tried to move, but the entire right side of my body was on fire.

Fire.

“Mr. Solomon,” I started, but the words were strangled in a cough, as if my lungs had carried the explosion with them. “Zach...”

“Sweetheart, your shoulder is dislocated. There’s going to be a great deal of pain when the shock wears off.”

What shock?
I wanted to say, but I reached for my mother’s hand instead.

“Dad,” I whispered. “She was going to take me to Dad.”

“She’s hallucinating, Rachel.” Agent Townsend was talking above me. He and my mother were talking about me.

“He’s alive!” I bolted upright and a pain like I’d never known shot through me. “They’re dead,” I mumbled, but everything was swirling, fading into black.

* * *

Upon admission to the Gallagher Academy infirmary, Operative Morgan was poked, prodded, shot, scanned, X-rayed, and bandaged.

She was not, however, questioned, interrogated, debriefed, or told what the heck was going on.

“Mom?” My voice was so scratchy, I barely recognized it as my own. “Is my mother here?”

“No.” Someone behind me spoke. I heard the door close, watched Agent Townsend walk to the foot of my metal bed. “She isn’t.”

I might have been drugged and bruised and bandaged, but the irony wasn’t lost on me. I knew we hadn’t come very far since London.

“I want to talk to my mother.”

“She can’t be here at the moment, Ms. Morgan. I’m afraid you’ll have to start with me.”

“I can wait.”

He smiled. “But I can’t. You see, I have a plane to catch.”

Okay, so maybe it was the drugs they had me on, but that almost sounded like good news.

I tried to sit upright, but my body didn’t want to obey. My shoulder ached, and my right side was one continuous, massive bruise.

“Nothing’s broken,” he said, as if it were a miracle, and I guess it really was. “But you’re going to be sore for a while. The fall dislocated your shoulder and you inhaled a lot of smoke, but you’re going to be okay, young lady.”

He sat down in the metal chair at the foot of my bed. “Now, tell me what happened in the tombs.”

I told him everything—I really did. From finding out the truth about Blackthorne to the sight of the Circle dragging Mr. Solomon back to the place that, in a way, had started it all.

I told it in detail and in order.

Joe Solomon would have been extremely proud.

As I talked, Agent Townsend listened, but he didn’t take a single note—he didn’t say a single word.

“And then I jumped,” I told him finally. I looked down at my bruised body. “I guess . . . I guess you know the rest.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. I suppose I might even know a bit more than you.” He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned closer.

“They’ve pulled three bodies from the wreckage so far, and they’re still digging. Your roommates are completely unharmed, although probably more than a little irate that they’re being kept from you,” he added, as if the drama of teenage girls was seriously starting to weigh on him.

Then he leaned closer, his voice low as he added, “And something else.”

He walked to the door and came back with a wheelchair. A minute later Agent Townsend was pushing me into a dim room that was larger than my own. Machines beeped. Nurses and doctors moved with noiseless steps. And in the center of it all, a man lay on a bed, broken and burned, one eye swollen completely shut.

“A young man brought him here late last night. He has no ID. No name.” As Townsend pushed me closer, I felt myself stop breathing. The man on the bed was bandaged almost from head to toe, and yet when the wheelchair stopped, I saw a face I’d first seen at the back of the Grand Hall a year and a half before.

“So perhaps we’ll just call him . . . Mr. S.”

I wanted to take his hand, but I didn’t want to touch him and risk finding out it was a dream.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Morgan,” Townsend said. “I’m afraid I really must be leaving. MI6 has a lot of questions, as you might imagine, and I—”

“But—”

“My job here was to find Joe Solomon, young lady.” He looked at me for a long time. “And Joe Solomon is dead. Witnesses saw him die in an explosion just last night.” Tears swelled in my eyes, but I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t say thank you or I’m sorry or any of a dozen other things that Agent Townsend probably had no desire to hear.

Instead, I watched him look at the man in the bed—the man who’d come closer to destroying the Circle than anyone alive. I saw him nod at Mr. Solomon and heard him whisper, “There’s no need for anyone to chase him anymore.”

Townsend was halfway to the door when he stopped.

“Oh yes,” he said, turning. “You were clutching this last night.” He pulled the small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket and handed it to me. I almost didn’t recognize it without its plastic wrapping. “Interesting choice of books you have there, Ms. Morgan.” He turned slowly around. “Most interesting indeed.”

“How long have you been chasing the Circle, Agent Townsend?” I called suddenly, stopping him at the door.

“A long time,” he said.

“Do you think my father is with them? Do you think he’s alive?”

His voice was flat as he said, “No.”

Then he turned and walked away.

“H
ey, kiddo,” my mother said from behind me. But instead of turning, I stayed seated, staring at Mr. Solomon, wondering, not for the first time, if I was looking at a ghost.

“Is he . . . Is he going to make it?” I asked.

“It’s too soon to say, sweetheart,” Mom admitted. She moved closer. “How are you?”

But I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned and asked, “Where’s Zach? He’s the one who brought Mr. Solomon back, isn’t he? Is he here? Is he—”

“He’s fine, kiddo. A little burned. A little bruised. But he’ll be fine. And yes, he’s here.” She inched closer. “In fact, I’ve been on the phone with the trustees all morning, getting their permission for him to finish the semester with us.” She took a deep breath. “There’s no place safe for him to go.”

As she talked, her hands went almost involuntarily to Mr. Solomon—straightening his blanket, smoothing his bandages—and I knew that, unlike me, she couldn’t stop touching him. She would heal him with her bare hands if she could.

“Dad’s alive.”

And just like that, my mother pulled her hand away.

“He’s alive, Mom,” I said, cursing the wheelchair, needing to face my mother and the world head-on and not like an invalid, like a child. “He’s alive. She . . . Zach’s mother said so.”

Mom sank to her knees and looked into my eyes. “Listen to me, Cammie.
Listen
. They will say anything—they will do anything to get what they want. And what they want right now is you.”

“Why?” I asked, the question burning inside of me. “They came to Blackthorne because Mr. Solomon told them Dad’s journal was there. They’d go anywhere to find me.
What do they want
?”

Mom smoothed my hair. “We don’t know, kiddo. I think your father was probably getting close to something. I think that’s why they killed him.”

“She said he’s alive!”

“Don’t let yourself be fooled, Cammie!” my mother snapped, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t let yourself ... hope.”

I know too well how dangerous hope can be, how it grows and sometimes dies, taking its host with it. It’s more powerful than anything Dr. Fibs keeps in his labs, more precious than all the secrets inside Sublevel Two.

“Maybe she wasn’t lying,” I said. “Right? Tell me she might not be lying.”

“We don’t know.” She said each word slowly, carefully, as if they were as much for her as for me. “But I’ve spent years looking for your father and I think—in my professional opinion—he probably isn’t ... alive.”

Operatives who always lie make the worst spies. Their intel is discounted, their missions are abandoned. There always has to be some truth among the scraps. Covert Operatives call it chicken feed. But in that room on that day, my mother simply called it hope.

As my mother pushed my wheelchair to the door, I handed her the old spiral-bound notebook. “Mr. Solomon wanted Zach to have this. Can you see that he gets it?”

“Give it to him yourself, kiddo. He’s waiting right outside.”

His face was still covered with soot and ash. His clothes had been singed. There were bandages on his right arm, and yet everything about Zach was perfect. He had come through it all unscathed. Alive.

My mom pushed me toward him, but he didn’t take my hand. We didn’t hug or kiss. The fire somehow was still between us, and neither of us moved toward the other, afraid we might get burned.

“Here. You should have this.” I held out the journal. “When he wakes up...”

He reached for the journal. His fingers brushed mine.

There were a million things to say, or maybe more, but the feeling of his skin was enough in that brief moment. We were warm. We were alive.

“Cam!” My roommates’ voices echoed down the hallway, followed by the sounds of hurried footsteps against the hardwood floors.

“Cammie, we were so worried!” Liz cried. Bex and Macey threw their arms around me with slightly more force than someone should use on a person who has a full-body bruise and a dislocated shoulder.

“I’m okay, guys,” I pleaded. “I’m fine. Zach and I are—”

But then I trailed off. I turned to look behind me and saw nothing but an empty hall.

PROS AND CONS OF THE LAST FEW
WEEKS OF OUR JUNIOR YEAR

PRO: Bex’s mom volunteered to take a temporary leave from MI6 to teach CoveOps for the rest of the semester.

CON: Mr. Solomon was still sleeping.

PRO: Turns out, when a current Gallagher Girl gets seriously injured by an ex (and evil) Gallagher Girl, other Gallagher Girls from all over the world send awesome get-well presents—like chocolate. From Switzerland.

CON: Your roommates’ new “Cammie doesn’t go anywhere without
two
of us” rule means the chocolates don’t last very long. At all.

PRO: Being on the P&E “Cautious Practice” roster gives a girl lots of time to work on her crossbow skills.

CON: Crossbow practice almost always includes Liz (who only
grazed
Madame Dabney that one time, no matter what you might have heard).

PRO: An incredibly smart, incredibly hot, incredibly mysterious boy had come to the Gallagher Academy.

CON: Not one of us could let ourselves forget why.

* * *

“What about Lisbon?” Bex asked the day I left the infirmary. The sun was shining, and she stretched herself out on a blanket by the lake, closed her eyes, then bolted upright again. “Oooh . . . Geneva! My mom loves Geneva, Cam. I bet we can get my parents to—”

“Geneva for what?” I asked, trying to sit down beside her. My pride hurt as much as my body when Macey took my good arm and helped me to the ground.

“For this summer, silly,” Liz said.

Summer . . . I stared blankly at the lake. I’d totally forgotten about summer.

“I go to the ranch in summer,” I said, as if they didn’t know that.

“Well, see, Cam. I heard my mom talking to your mom about it, and—”

“It’s too dangerous,” I finished for her.

It was sunny there by the lake, and yet a shadow seemed to fall across my best friends’ faces.

“Mom and Dad are going to help,” Bex blurted. “Just like winter break. And your mom too. And . . . it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know . . . It sounds . . .” Risky. Dangerous. Deadly. “I don’t want you to give up your break for me.”

“Are you kidding?” Macey asked. “It’ll be great. Hey, what about my parents’ ski house in Austria? The place is a fortress.” Macey crossed her long legs.

“Thanks, Macey, but—”

“No. Seriously. It is an
actual
fortress. In the Alps. No way the Circle gets you there.”

They sounded so confident—so sure. It was the prettiest day we’d had in weeks, and practically the entire school was outside, rowing across the lake, jogging through the woods, or, like us, lying on blankets, studying in the sun. Fresh air filled my lungs, and I could almost forget about the smoke and the tombs. Almost.

“Oooh,” Bex said. “He
appears
.” As she pointed across the grounds, she made it sound as if Zach’s presence at the school was less
visiting student
and more
ghost
. Watching him walk through the woods, far out of earshot of the passing girls, I could easily see why.

His hands were in his pockets. His head was down. He seemed paler somehow.

“So...” I started slowly, “how is he?”

Macey shrugged. “We don’t know. We hardly see him.”

Bex looked at me. “How should he be?”

But I just stared off in the distance, thinking about all the things I did not know.

* * *

The Sunday of finals week, I woke up early and crept out of the suite, leaving my roommates sleeping as I softly closed the door.

The halls were empty. A heavy dew was on the grass, and as the sun rose, it cast a sort of rainbow across the grounds. The world was beautiful and quiet and seemed utterly at peace as I climbed the stairs to the infirmary and pushed open Joe Solomon’s door.

The machines still beeped and buzzed, but the bandages were fewer. The bruises seemed to have faded. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the table, but the biggest change was the fact that, this time, my mother sat in the chair beside his bed. Her head rested on his pillow. Her fingers were laced with his as they both slept—both waiting for my teacher to come home.

It felt like I was spying on my mother (and not in the cool covert sense of the word), so I was easing back toward the door, trying to slip silently into the hall, when I ran into something tall, broad, and strong.

“Oops!”

“Sorry,” Zach blurted. He gripped my shoulders gently as if to keep me upright. We hadn’t spoken—hadn’t touched—in weeks. Standing there, I felt like we were still in the tombs, the walls closing in around us.

“I didn’t see you. . . . Sorry,” I blurted dumbly, then turned and ran away.

Zach found me with the pigeons. Someone must have erased the boards, because Mr.

Solomon’s code was gone and I was alone, looking out across the countryside, staring across the grounds.

I didn’t turn when I heard him. I just said, “He should be awake by now, shouldn’t he? He’s never going to wake up.”

“Of course he is.”

“This is never going to be over.”

“Of course it is.”

“This is—”

“Cammie, listen to me. Don’t talk—listen.” There was fear his eyes. “This isn’t going to stop on its own. It’s not going away. We can’t stay here—we can’t
hide
forever.”

“She’s your mother?” I asked the question that had been burning inside of me for weeks.

“I’m sorry, Cam. I—”

“You could have told me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t lose the one person who didn’t see
her
when they looked at me. I couldn’t lose that.”

“Is my father alive, Zach?”

“I don’t know.”

“She said he is.”

Zach studied me. “She lies.”

“We should be dead,” I said after what felt like forever.

“I know.”

He stood beside me, inches away. And yet we didn’t touch. A charge coursed between us like a wire, a spark. We had already seen our share of fire.

“Mr. Solomon isn’t waking up,” I said.

“We don’t know that.”

“Why does everyone get hurt but me?”

“And me,” he said. He tried to laugh but faltered.

“I can’t go to Nebraska this summer. It’s not safe for Grandma and Grandpa to be near me.” I ran my hand against the cold stone of the ledge. It crept dangerously close to his, and I whispered, “I’m not safe.”

“Where will you go?” He eased closer.

“I don’t know.”

“What will you do?”

I shook my head, found that his shoulder was so close I wanted to rest there, but I didn’t dare. “I don’t know.”

And then his arms were around me. When he kissed me it was hungrier somehow, as if this moment was all we had, and we had to taste it, drink it, savor it, and not waste a single drop.

“Run away with me.” Zach’s breath was heavy and warm against my face. I didn’t hear the words, I only knew that the kiss was real—the kiss was safe.

I kissed him again.

“Gallagher Girl,” he said, pulling back, holding my face in both of his hands, “we can go. We can run. We can get off the grid and stay off the grid until it’s safe. For everyone.” His eyes were inches from mine as he whispered, “We can keep each other safe.”

“What are you saying, Zach?” I tried to push him away.

“We’re the only two people in the world the Circle
will
think twice about killing.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” He held me closer. “You’re right—no one’s safe with us around. Listen to me, Cammie, we could do this. We’ve been training our whole lives to do this.”

“I can’t.” I shook off the thought before it could take root somewhere inside of me. “No. No. My mother—”

“Would understand,” Zach snapped. “I’m surprised she hasn’t had the same idea.” His hands found mine again. “If no one knows where we are, then no one can find us.”

Tactically speaking, Zach was right. And yet I couldn’t stop looking at him like he was crazy as he said, “We. Can. Do. This.”

I felt his hands and knew they were still warm, blood was still flowing through him, he was still breathing—we both were.

We should have been dead.

Remember what I said about hope? About lies? If Zach had been talking crazy, it would have been easy to discount it, to turn and walk away.

But the truth . . . the truth—even when it comes in tiny kernels—isn’t so easy to discard, so I stood with him, staring out at the morning light, trying to decide what pieces I should try to carry.

“I can’t leave with you, Zach.” I kissed him lightly.

He pulled me gently toward him, held me close and said, “I know.”