A Spy Like Me (26 page)

They couldn’t drag me away, not with Dad to
protect me. He eyed the line-up of men in tuxedos and leaned closer
to me.

“What is this all about?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” My voice sounded like
Alvin the Chipmunk.

“This.” He pointed to the mountain of
pastries on my tray.

“Oh, that. I, um, entered the pastry
contest.”

He would be proud if he knew the truth. I had
finally become everything he wanted me to be. I was sneaky. I lied
to him about not feeling well, and I’d rubbed shoulders with a bad
guy.

He pointed to the crowd of Spy Games clients
all grasping at the paper clues.

“Please tell me you don’t have anything to do
with this.”

“I don’t. They all arrived at the same time.
Promise.”

The line of Jolie’s men stepped closer, their
top hats blocking out the sun. Dad eyed them while pulling me a few
steps away.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
he asked.

Time for the truth. If I could face down bad
men and save a prisoner, I could face my dad.

“I’m sorry.” I searched his eyes, looking for
some hint of understanding or compassion. “When you wouldn’t
believe Aimee had been kidnapped, I stole into your office to find
out where Peyton lived.”

Dad’s mouth formed an
O
, and he
surveyed the scene with a knowing look.

“While I was looking at your files, you came
back, and I overheard you talking about money troubles so I entered
the Extravanganza. I won first place and advanced to the finals.
There’s prize money, and if I win, you can have it all.”

The words seemed useless and my voice dropped
to a whisper. “That’s why I lied earlier about not feeling
well.”

The crowd screamed. Dad and I turned and
watched. The moment of reckoning had arrived. The group of clients
had jumped at the remaining clues on top of Jolie’s mountain of
elegantly displayed fruit tarts in the shape of a dove or a
pelican. Some kind of bird.

“
Mon Dieu
!” Jolie dove at the crowd
with his arms spread, pushing the crowds away from his
masterpiece.

Okay. I felt a tiny bit bad. As the
spies-in-training struggled over the clues, they gave no regard to
the tarts. In a matter of seconds, they were covered in an
assortment of colors. Strawberry juice dripped off their hands like
blood. It could’ve been a rated R violent movie scene. Dad gripped
me in a hug. I tensed, ready for the lecture.

“I’m proud of you, Savvy.”

I pulled away. “Say that again?” He had to be
kidding.

“I’m not saying you did everything right. But
you took risks. And that man has been the most stubborn mule to
work with. He deserves it.”

I smiled. Dad didn’t know the half of it.
Jolie gave up on his tarts. He stood with his back to us, his
shoulders heaving. His body trembled. I tried to step back, but the
wall of minions blocked my way. Inch by inch, Jolie turned around.
He searched the crowds, back and forth, until his eyes landed on
me. He shoved the reporters and his fans to the side and stormed
over to me, his eyes flashing.

And that was when I fully grasped the old
cliché of, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

French expletives burst from Jolie’s mouth
and burned through the air and into the minds of the crowds. A
mish-mash of red, green, and blue frosting stuck to the front of
Jolie’s belly like encrusted jewels. And his fingers were curled
into fists. I had to warn him. His life was in danger.

“Savvy. What did you do?” Dad asked in a low
voice.

I spoke out the corner of my mouth as Jolie
advanced through the crowds, the cameras and press following him.
“Nothing really.”
Just stole his pastries. And freed his
hostage.

“Um, Savvy?”

“Not now, Dad. Evil is nigh.”

“Your tray.”

Zut alors
! The whole middle section
slid forward. Reaching around with a forceful shove, I pushed the
whole masterpiece back into place.

“You!” With one word, Jolie commanded my
attention.

I slowly faced him while the tray balanced
precariously on my arm. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Jolie narrowed his eyes. “It is too late for
that.”

A man with curly hair pushed through the wall
of people. He gripped a digital tape recorder and a pencil stuck
out from behind his ear. A reporter. Jolie moved his killer glare
to the reporter. I swallowed what little spit was in my mouth and
tried to find the courage to tell Jolie he was in a lot of trouble.
Like someone might try to plant a bullet in his chest.

Jolie spoke in rapid French and the reporter
backed away, cowering. To my right at the perimeter of the contest,
Malcolm moved closer to us, slipping in and out of the crowd like a
stealthy predator. I scanned the mass of people until I found the
mime to my left. I didn’t know what he had to do with Malcolm yet,
but he was connected. That I knew. He did his mime thing, and with
every exaggerated motion, he moved in. Possibly for the kill. I had
to get close enough to talk to Jolie without anyone else
hearing.

I goaded him. “Mr. Pouffant, I understand
we’ve had our differences, but really, if you were to be honest,
you’d see that I was not the aggressor in this unfortunate
situation.”

Jolie chuckled and faced his fans. They
echoed a forced chuckle. “Silly girl.” He made a cuckoo sign, like
a fourth grade boy would to a girl who teased him. “You do not know
what you are talking about.”

“Yes, I do.” I stepped closer to him and
lowered my voice. “Your life is in danger.”

As Jolie laughed hysterically, Malcolm and
the mime closed in. My limbs trembled and blood pumped through my
heart so fast it scared me.

“Um, Savvy?” Dad whispered. “The cakes!”

I didn’t take my eyes off Jolie, while
keeping the pastries balanced. It seemed rather silly that I
gripped the pastries as if they could protect me.
Use the
revolver,
a tiny voice inside my head commanded. The cold metal
of the barrel pressed against my lower back, hidden away.

Dad stepped forward. “Now, now, Mr. Pouffant.
I’m sure we can work things out here like reasonable people.”

Jolie’s eyes flashed. “Reasonable? You
Americans are not rational. Your daughter attacked me earlier with
her zapper. How is that for rational?”

Dad hooked is arm through mine and pulled
close to me. “Is this true?”

“Yes.” I was done lying. “But only so I could
search his shop.”

Jolie eyed the pastry cakes on my tray. “And
she is stealing cakes for an entry.”

My face burned. “Only because you destroyed
my entry before I even got here. Don’t you dare try to deny
it.”

“Like you had a chance of winning? That is a
joke.”

Why did I want to save this man?

Dad puffed out his chest. “My daughter can
bake a mean birthday cake. Watch it.”

My throat tightened. He’d stuck up for me.
That rarely happened. Ever. During Spy Games, I always
disappointed, always made the wrong choice, always caused a scowl
to cross his face.

“Way to go, Dad,” I whispered.

“Oh, how touching.” Jolie smirked. “I do not
have time for this petty back and forth.” He signaled to his
guards. “These people are disrupting the Extravaganza. Escort them
to the exit.”

The power-hungry pastry chef, beloved by his
country, running illegal scams of some kind behind his wall of
scones and croissants, turned his back to me. But I had to make him
believe me. Jolie’s goons ripped Dad away from me.

“Savvy!” Dad cried out.

He fought against the men holding his arms.
When the crowds started murmuring and even more attention swung
onto Jolie, he motioned to the men to stop dragging my dad
away.

The tray weighed on my arm and on my mind. I
grabbed a hunk of cake. Blue, green, and white squeezed between my
fingers. It felt squishy.

“Hey, Jolie!”

Right as he turned, I threw it. It was a
silly, two-year-old thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. The man
infuriated me. And I had to warn him.

The cake landed in Jolie’s beard and dripped
onto the front of his shirt. He reached his hand up only to smear
the colors into his beard. Slowly, his hand went from his beard, to
the frosting on his shirt, and down to the sides of his pants. His
fingers twitched. He shifted back and forth between his feet as if
ready to run or attack. A low growl sounded in his throat and rose
to a loud pitch. He rushed at me, arms outstretched, aiming for my
neck.

I waited until the last second and then
slammed the tray into his face.

Cake splattered the ground. A tart smeared
into Jolie’s hair. Veins in his neck bulged. Sweat dripped down his
face and mixed with the frosting stuck in every crevice. With one
swoop, he grabbed a hunk of cake from the ground. Two seconds
later, warm cake hit my eye. I gasped and wiped it off. Huffing and
puffing, he took a step toward me but slipped in the confectionary
delight. With a flutter of his arms, he fought gravity and lost,
landing on his rump.

I hated the guy and the evil part of me
surged forward and wanted to let him get killed. Aimee’s smile
flashed in my eyes. And her laugh. I caught sight of dark hair.
Malcolm.
Use the revolver
, the tiny voice commanded again.
With my hand shaking, I reached toward my back and curled my
fingers around the part sticking out. I couldn’t think about right
or wrong.

Jolie spluttered and gasped, wiping frosting
from his eyes. Three of the men in tuxedos pushed me aside and
rushed to their boss. Two dragged my dad away toward the exit. I’d
lost sight of Malcolm and the mime. But they were there. Possibly
taking aim.

Shoot the revolver. Cause a distraction.

I pulled out the gun and aimed at Jolie.
Maybe just shoot him in the knee. But what if I missed? Or hit
someone else? My hands shook. Frosting made my fingers slippery.
With a small sob, I let go. The revolver clattered to the stones
and I kicked it under a table. But I still had to save him.

I grabbed an apple tart, somehow untouched in
the chaos. With a battle cry, I leaped at Jolie and landed right on
top of him. My knees landed on his stomach. I smashed the tart
smack dab in the middle of his face. As I bent down to whisper in
his ear, a shot rang out.

Everyone screamed and dropped to the ground.
The bodies blurred around me, piling up like it was a mass murder.
I couldn’t tell if I was screaming or not. My throat hurt. Frosting
and tears stung my eyes. A sob poured out of me.
It wasn’t
me.
I didn’t shoot it. Jolie shoved me off of him, and I landed
on the cobblestones. My leg throbbed as if a thousand pastry knives
were jabbing into it over and over again.

I crawled away from the scene, dragging my
leg behind me because it refused to cooperate. I dug my elbow into
the grit and pulled forward, my knees scraping the stones. I needed
to get away, find my dad. That was it. He’d whisk me back to
Pennsylvania and put me back together. By the warm fire, he’d take
care of my cuts and bruises, and then we’d play Chess. Or talk
about how we’d work together to get Mom to come back.

“Dad!” I sobbed.

He had to be here. Not too far away. Just up
ahead. The crowd ignored me. They focused on their beloved idol and
their own safety. Most people made a mass exit toward the main
streets. They hurdled over me and on me. Feet trampled, landing on
my back, my head, my arms. My nose smashed into the ground. No one
stopped to help. No one bothered. No one cared.

I struggled to get to my feet. Someone
brushed into me. I collapsed to the ground and crept forward,
painful inch by painful inch. The spots returned and my breath came
out in gasps at the fire shooting through my leg. I shivered even
as the sun beat down on me. I shouldn’t be here. I never should
have been. I should have stayed in Pennsylvania.

I stopped moving and rested my cheek to the
warm stone. I smelled dirt. I remembered gardening with Dad as he
pointed out which leaves were weeds and which were the herbs. A
raspy noise gurgled from my throat. I didn’t recognize it. My
shoulders shook. Arms hooked under my shoulder and rolled me over.
The face was fuzzy but I saw Dad’s dark hair. His face was
blurred.

“Dad!”

He didn’t say anything but wiped the frosting
from my face and ran his fingers down my hair in a loving
gesture.

I sobbed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you
everything.”

My leg burned. I jerked away. But he held me
tight and wrapped something around my leg.

“I’m sorry but this is going to hurt.” He put
his arms underneath me and scooped me off the ground. Away from the
crowds and the jabbing feet.

Dizziness and nausea rushed over me, and I
cried.

“Shh. You’ll be fine.”

Through the pain, my mind locked in on his
voice and fear spiraled through me. I kicked and tried to
scream.

Malcolm.

Adrenaline shot through my body. “Why?” I
groaned. I wanted answers. Why did he pick me up when he could have
left me to die? Why did he smile at me so tenderly at times when I
was just an assignment? This was not how I planned on spending my
last minutes on earth. I figured on old age, still living in the
‘burbs, watching TV reruns. No one in the town would have pegged me
for death by assassin. While holding me, Malcolm talked into his
earpiece, telling someone to meet him. Probably calling in the big
guns to get rid of me.

Dad. I’d never get a chance to explain
everything. I’d never get the chance to yell at Mom and hear her
say she was sorry. I tried to lift my head but it felt like a dead
weight pulling me down. I struggled to get out of Malcolm’s
clutches and mumbled out empty threats.