Free The Doublecross by Jackson Pearce

PAMELA OLEANDER: DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS.
    The League’s director—its version of SRS’s Dr. Fishburn.
    So, double terrifying.
    Oleander sat behind her desk, where Clatterbuck had just set three boxes of pizza. Oleander opened up the nearest box, and steam rose from it. She lifted a slice and took a bite, dodging a few drops of grease just before they hit her pantsuit. Clatterbuck took the seat beside me and reachedforward to steal a slice for himself. He mangled it into a lump of cheese and dough as he tried to open a can of soda without putting the pizza down.
    Oleander chewed for a few moments before speaking. “Have a slice, Mr. . . .” She waited for me to fill in my name.
    â€œJordan. Hale Jordan,” I said. The League
had
to know about my parents—I mean, everyone in the spy game had heard of Katie and Joseph Jordan. Maybe learning that
I
was a Jordan too would strike a little fear into their hearts.
    Unfortunately, Oleander didn’t react to the name. She just nodded and pushed the pizza box closer to me. I tensed the muscles in my stomach to keep it from growling. My vending machine breakfast had been ages ago, but no way was I taking any food The League offered me—it almost definitely had a sleeper drug in it.
    Oleander shrugged when it became clear I wasn’t taking a slice. “Mr. Jordan—let’s be clear. I’m not offering you pizza after you flooded my building just to be nice. I’m doing it because I want your help.”
    I scoffed, but Oleander ignored it. She put her pizza down and leaned over the desk a little, keeping her eyes hard on mine. “I’ve heard of Project Groundcover. But I don’t know what it entails. I want you to tell me.”
    I worked hard to look blank—I’d done well in Advanced Interrogation techniques and Body Language Analysis, so I knew Oleander was already making mental notes, working out what would make me crack. Best to give her as littleinformation as possible. “You think I’ll trade you information for some pizza? Not a chance. You have two of our agents,” I said coolly. “Give them back, and we’ll discuss Groundcover.”
    â€œI don’t have them,” Oleander said.
    â€œI don’t believe you,” I answered.
    Oleander sighed and put her piece of pizza down. “Mr. Jordan, even if I
wanted
to kidnap SRS agents, how would I go about it? Look around. Does this look like an elite spy agency to you? There’s not a single field agent in this place, much less someone with the skill to take out two SRS agents. The government cut back our funding ages ago when we couldn’t stop SRS.”
    I frowned. The League had government funding? That didn’t make sense—
SRS
was the government organization. The League was the criminal agency. Why would criminals have government funding?
    Oleander saw my hesitation and stopped on her way to grabbing another slice of pizza. She gave me a sort of pitying look. “Wait—that surprises you, doesn’t it? I bet everything I’m saying surprises you. You’ve always been told that SRS are the good guys. That The League are the bad guys. Right? Of course you have.”
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œAnd you’ve probably been told we’re huge and powerful and out to get you.”
    I still didn’t answer, but I guess I didn’t need to. Oleander rose. “Come with me,” she said.
    With Clatterbuck on my heels, Oleander walked me down the hall, past people mopping out their offices, and to the stairwell. She fumbled with a massive ring of keys that clinked together like an instrument as we walked up a flight of stairs to the very door I’d tried to open earlier. Oleander gave me a quick look and inserted a thick brass key into the lock, turning it.
    The smell of age swept over me, old paper and blankets and stale bread. The floor was completely dark. Oleander stepped in first, the