Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (3 page)

"This
is Charlie, by the way," Preston said, gesturing to the man who seemed to
take up more than his fair share of the small space. "Charlie's been with
me since…when was it? Missouri, I think?"

The
door slid closed. Charlie didn't say a word. And beneath his breath, I heard
Preston fill the awkward silence with a whisper, "Good times."

The
ride to the top seemed slightly longer this time. I should have wondered why,
but I didn't—not until I heard the ding and saw the doors slide open onto a
space that I was certain I had never seen before.

We
might as well have been in a different country— much less a different
building—as we stepped into the fluorescent glare of a room that had no red
carpets, no rushing interns or patient guards. A room-service cart that was
missing two wheels sat along one wall. There were laundry carts and old
headboards. Massive machines churned, filling the space with loud noise and an
almost unbearable heat.

"Did
you hit the wrong button?" I asked, looking at Macey.

"It
says 12:05: film promotional video. Service elevator. Level R." She
pointed to the big R that had been painted on the wall in front of us.

I
glanced at Charlie, who hadn't said a word since we left the convention center
floor, but he didn't hesitate to hold up his sleeve and say, "Control, I'm
with Peacock and Mad Dog—"

Beside
me, Preston raised his eyebrows and whispered, "I picked that
myself."

But
Charlie carried on. "We're on Level R. Are they filming the video here, or
has that been changed?" He looked at me. "They're checking."

The
air was hot and stale, the room way too small to be an entire floor. A door
with a small window was at the far end, so I wasn't surprised to hear Macey
say, "I bet we're supposed to be out here," and see her push out into
the light.

There
are many things a Gallagher Girl has to be: adventurous, daring, and totally
unafraid of heights, to name a few. And all of those came in handy as Macey,
Preston, and I stepped out onto the hotel's roof.

A
strong wind blew off the harbor, banging the metal door shut behind us. As we stepped
toward the roof's edge and peered out across the city, we saw historic church
steeples and towering skyscrapers. Some buildings looked as if Paul Revere
himself were going to step outside; others seemed straight out of the future.
Sixty stories below, news vans and tour busses stood on the gridlocked
highways, but on the hotel's roof the chaos of the convention seemed to be far,
far away. And that, I guess, was the problem.

There
were no camera crews, no public relations specialists. I glanced at Macey, who
said what I was thinking. "This isn't right." Then she turned to
Preston. "Where were we supposed to be, exactly?" Macey looked from
Preston to her well-worn agenda, and then she finally held out her hand.
"Let me see
your
itinerary."

"Okay,
yeah…see that's not so easy to…" Preston stumbled for words and then
admitted, "My mom has it."

I
looked behind us, searching for Charlie, but the man was nowhere to be seen,
and in that moment, everything seemed to change.

Maybe
it was my four full years of training, or my sixteen- and-a-half years of being
Rachel Morgan's daughter, but somehow, some way, I knew that rooftop was a very
bad place to be.

"Hey,
you're"—Preston started as I ran toward the heavy metal door—"a
really fast runner."

But
I barely heard him as I pulled with all my might against the door, trying the
handle in vain, banging against the gray metal. It was locked—or jammed—and
there was no leaving the way we'd come.

"This
isn't right," Macey said behind me, double- checking her itinerary, still
so entrenched in the part of herself that was a politician's daughter that she
was ignoring the other part—the spy part—the girl she thought she wouldn't get
to be during her summer vacation.

"Something's
just not…" but then she trailed off. Macey's blue eyes stared into mine. I
saw in them a realization—a fear—as she looked down at the paper in her hands
and then back at me…

And
then toward the helicopter that was flying too low, too fast, and heading right
for us.

Here's
the thing about covert operations: the really bad things always happen when you
least expect them. The bad guys don't give you a heads-up when you're going to
be attacked. They don't let you wait thirty minutes after eating. And they
never, ever let you stop to put on comfortable shoes.

So
training for that kind of life means one thing: spy school is never really out
of session.

I
thought about the piece of paper in Macey's hands and told myself that it could
have been an innocent mistake, a change of plans. It didn't mean that our
teachers had intentionally drawn Macey—and by extension, me—onto a roof with
some kind of terrible test in mind. It didn't mean we had a fight coming. It
didn't mean my heart had reason to race.

But
still I looked at my roommate and asked, "Are you thinking what I'm
thinking?"

Macey
shrugged. "Our teachers wouldn't do anything in front of him." She
gestured to Preston, who was leaning over the railing, staring down at the
chaos on the street below, completely oblivious to the dark spot that was on
the horizon and moving in fast.

I
thought about Preston's missing itinerary. "Maybe he wasn't supposed to be
here?"

And
with that, Macey let her piece of paper fall; I saw it flit and float in the
air, and swirl around us as the chopper hovered lower. It was as if Macey had
let her cover fall as well. The hotel was full of people who would only see the
candidate's daughter, but right then—right there—there was no doubt who Macey
McHenry had to be.

"Hey,
you guys, look at—" Preston said, finally noticing the helicopter above
us. He stopped suddenly as a rope fell from the chopper and dangled between sky
and roof.

I
heard a click, a metallic creak as the door to the roof opened. But instead of
Charlie, two masked figures stepped into the glaring sun. And then I couldn't
help myself; I screamed, "I'm on summer vacation!"

I
felt Macey at my back, saw Preston staring at a dark figure rappelling from the
helicopter as if he'd somehow stumbled into a video game—or a nightmare.
"They don't look like undecided voters," he said, as if sarcasm were
a weapon he'd relied on his entire life and he really didn't want it to fail
him then.

The
masked figures didn't rush toward us. They weren't sloppy. They were
deliberate. They were good, moving with purpose, keeping an even spacing as
Macey and I stood

back-to-back, bracing ourselves
in the center of the roof.

"Preston!" I yelled.
"Get down!"

I
wanted him to hide. I wanted him to be unconscious or blind. I wanted him
anywhere but there. I already knew too well how having a civilian boy in the
middle of a CoveOps exercise can turn out. It was a chapter I didn't need to
read again.

"This
isn't"—I said with a grunt as I parried the attacker's first blow—"a
very"—I took a half-step to my right and landed a kick at one of the masked
men's knees—"good time for me!"

A
masked man stood in front of me. Blazing white teeth shone behind his dark
mask. For a split second I thought it was the smile of Mr. Solomon. The first
attacker who had come from the chopper had the unmistakable curves of a
beautiful woman, and a part of me wondered if it was my mom.

But
then from nowhere I felt a punch in my side, a perfect blow, and as I fell onto
the sticky tar-covered roof, I saw news choppers beginning to swoop and swarm
around us—and I knew.

I
knew no one at the Gallagher Academy would be this careless.

I
knew my mother and Mr. Solomon would rather die than risk exposure of our
school on this kind of stage.

I
knew there was something more behind the punch— not in the attacker's fist, but
in his eyes.

And
then, more than ever, I knew I had to get Macey and Preston off the roof.

I
don't know how to explain what happened next, but in that instant, all the
P&E lessons I'd ever had came back to me. In that moment, I knew surviving
wasn't just about punches and kicks; it's about geometry and it's about timing;
it's about having your reflexes speed up while your mind slows down.

Maybe
it lasted a minute; maybe it lasted a month. All I really know for sure is that
one of the men moved toward me. I ducked as his fist flew, narrowly missing my
head, and yet my focus was already somewhere else—my eyes were scanning the
roof, looking for a weapon, a way out, or both. And that's when I saw it—a
narrow window washer's plank dangling off the side of the roof. It had rails on
both sides and was attached to a pulley system.

My
heart pounded. The wind roared in my ears as I grabbed Preston's hand and
screamed, "Come on!"

There
were footsteps behind me—a hand on my arm. I spun around, but before I could
land a blow, Preston pulled back his free hand and punched the man in the
throat. It was a perfect lucky shot, but I was willing to take any help I could
get as I pulled the potential first son out of harm's way and onto the narrow
plank.

"I
hit a guy," Preston said, staring at his fist as if
that
were the
most shocking thing of all.

"I
know. Good job," I said, reaching for the controls; but then for the first
time Preston seemed to notice that I had guided him onto something that was
dangling off the side of a sixty-story-building.

"Wait!" he shouted.

"You'll be fine," I
told him.

"But
shouldn't I…" he muttered in the manner of a boy who knows he should be
chivalrous but doesn't quite know how.

Behind
me, I heard Macey cry out in pain, but I kept my focus and hit the green
button, knowing somehow that getting Preston off that roof was my mission at
that moment.

"Hang
on!" I yelled, and in the next instant gravity took over and Preston
dropped twenty stories to safety.

I
might have savored that fact, but the attackers seemed to refocus, and I
watched the woman raise her hand and point to where Macey was taking her place
by my side.

"Get
her," the woman ordered. I stole a sideways glance at my friend, the
daughter of a United States senator and one of the wealthiest women in the
world. My friend, who had been featured on every newsstand in America. My
friend, who would be any kidnapper's dream.

Macey
and I were retreating slowly, coming closer and closer to the wall behind us,
and I knew we were cornered.

"No,"
I cried, as if that was all it would take for them to stop.

And
then I saw it—a rusty vent ten feet to the right of the door I'd given up any
hope of opening. I dropped to the ground, kicked the vent as hard as I could,
and felt it give slightly. I kicked again while, behind me, the men lunged for
Macey. I heard a sickening snap. I turned and saw my roommate clutch her arm
and fall to the ground, howling out in pain, so I kicked harder, and this time
the old vent buckled under the pressure. It popped free, and I hurled it toward
the head of one of the men who was reaching for Macey. I heard the crash of
metal against skull, but I didn't stop to survey the damage—I was too busy
grabbing Macey and pushing her toward the hole in the wall that the vent had
left.

I
started to follow, but someone grasped my shoulders with a steel grip holding
me to the spot. I clawed against her; but as I tried to pry myself free, my
hand brushed against a gold ring engraved with an emblem that I could have
sworn I'd seen before. For a split second my mind went still as I tried to
place it, but then I heard a frail voice say "Cam," and I remembered
my friend—my mission.

I
clawed harder, leaning forward, praying that my momentum would take me through
the gap in the wall to a safer place. Suddenly, I remembered the Winters
McHenry campaign button on my blouse. I heard my shirt rip as I pulled the
button free and jabbed the pin into the hand on my left shoulder.

The
woman behind me howled in pain as I pushed Macey all the way through the vent
and followed after her.

"Run, Macey!" I
screamed. "Go!"

I
wasn't thinking. No strategies came to mind. No flash cards. No vocabulary
words. It was the age-old case of fight versus flight. I looked at Macey, whose
arm hung at a strange angle; I felt my side and knew my ribs were bruised at
best and maybe broken, and I knew that fight wouldn't be an option much
longer—that we had to get out of there and soon.

"Go,"
I told her. Behind us, I heard the metal door open again. A flash of light
sliced across the cement floor, illuminating a pair of long legs bent at an odd
angle, protruding from behind one of the room's massive machines.