Free Spy to the Rescue by Jonathan Bernstein Page B

Red.
    â€œReally?” I say, in a tone that suggests I’m talking to a small child. “You like the bright shiny color? You don’t think that might be the prototype and I’ve got access to a more advanced model?”
    â€œUm . . .” is all he can manage. The truth is, I like Red’s bright shiny color; I like the way he—I’ve decided he’s a he—nestles in my palm. I feel an emotional attachment to the little fellow. Maybe I’m not a cat person after all. (Sorry, Boots.) I’m not giving Red to Sam Gunnery. I’ll give him a different marble from the metal box. I’m pretty sure it’ll bounce up his nose and then come rolling back to me.
    The elevator passes the high twenties. Sam starts sniffing the air close to my face. I back away from him.
    â€œDon’t get weird around me, Gunnery,” I warn. “Or no marble for you.”
    â€œJust thought I picked up a familiar scent,” he says, smirk in place. “The smell of looming disappointment. I know how this is going to turn out. You’re stalking your favorite boy band member. Or some guy you’ve been following on Instagram. That’s where this is going.”
    I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to goad me into telling him why I’m in an elevator in New York with abox full of nanomarbles. Information is power for guys like him. The thing is, I want to tell him. We’re both liars, we both lead double lives. Why not share?
    â€œWhat did Joanna tell you about me?” I ask.
    He has to think about it. “Your sister’s really popular.” He nibbles on his lower lip. “You play the clarinet?”
    â€œThat’s it?” I squeak. “And it’s the flute. I play the flute.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re very talented,” he says, amused by my outrage.
    â€œNot as a flautist,” I say. “But I do have other skills.”
    He says nothing. I opened this door. Am I reckless enough to charge through it? I gesture to him to move closer to me. He inches forward. I lower my voice, letting him know what I’m about to tell him is classified information.
    â€œMy dad—my biological one, not the one who’s raised me—is a spy. Was a spy.”
    This isn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped. Do I stop now or keep stumbling along? I opt to stumble.
    â€œThe people he worked for trained me to be a secret agent, except it was a setup so they could smoke my father out of hiding. But I turned it around on them and I cut a Mercedes in half with a laser-powered lip balm and put them out of business. But now he—my biologicaldad—has been kidnapped. Someone put him in a crate and shipped him here to New York. I don’t know exactly where but I think he’s in this building and I have to find him before something bad happens to him. So. When’s that squirrel of yours going to find those camera feeds?”
    Wow. My face got really red during that recap of my interesting life. Sam Gunnery’s expression is impossible to read. He doesn’t look amused or dubious or horrified. He retains his cocky, cool, calculating veneer.
    â€œAt least you have some idea where your dad is,” he says, and just for a second, I get a glimpse of a Sam Gunnery who isn’t an eager-to-please mother’s boy or a cocky, cool calculator.
    Then the elevator reaches the thirty-ninth floor. The doors hiss open to reveal Carter Strike.
    â€œSmall world,” he says.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Strike Back
    A wave of shock crashes over me. Then a wave of relief. Then a wave of affection. Then a wave of anger. That’s a lot of waves. I run out of the elevator and throw my arms around Strike. I pull away and punch him on the arm.
    â€œOw!” he says.
    â€œI was scared to death. You send me those texts and then you vanish. You could have been dead!”
    He gestures to himself. “Not dead,” he says. I