A Spy Like Me (6 page)

The past few times, I’d arrived early and
Frankie and I’d played card games. I’ve beaten him at War like five
times. I entered the bookstore and navigated the narrow aisles with
books towering on either side of me. They let us use a small
storage room in the back.

Frankie nodded when I entered, his red frizz
just long enough to flop in and out of his eyes with every nod.
Freckles dotted his arms and face. He already had the cards set up
on an overturned crate. First, I strapped on my belt and gunned the
electric screwdriver, which is great for prying secrets out of
scared hostages.

“Oo, scary.” Frankie mocked.

“That’s right,” I said in my most threatening
tone. “Don’t ever think about crossing me.”

My cell phone vibrated. “
Bonjour
,” I
said, happy to be in torture mode and forgetting everything else.
Hopefully, the caller was Aimee telling me one of the groups was on
their way.

“You in position, Savvy?” Dad asked.

I gulped. Cliff Peyton had called my dad. A
client had never called my dad on me. I flashed back to the crazy
look in Peyton’s eye and the anger rolling off of him over what was
a minor offense. So I screwed up. I admitted it. But something was
totally off with him. Dad really needed to do background checks or
something.

“Just strapping on my belt,” I said.

“Have any of the groups made it there
yet?”

Maybe he was going to let the whole Cliff
thing drop. “Not yet.”

“Mr. Peyton called me twice. He was extremely
volatile.”

Crap.
“And?”

“Are you okay?”

The hint of concern in his voice caused mine
to shake. “I’m fine. Just getting ready to torture Frankie. Why?”
And did you know I saw Mom?

“Stay there. I’m stuck in traffic. Maybe you
should—”

“Dad?” No answer except the empty silence of
a lost connection. Great. I sensed a huge lecture in my near
future.

I shut the phone and jammed it into my bag.
I’d tried. I’d given them the best spy experience I possibly could,
but there was no way I could’ve foreseen the complications that
came with someone like Cliff Peyton. If Malcolm hadn’t shown up to
harass me at the Louvre, none of this would’ve happened. Malcolm
again. It seemed to always come back to him.

Frankie and I squeezed in a few games of War.
I lost. Twice. It was hard to focus even on a game that required no
strategy. In the middle of our third game, Frankie jerked straight
and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”

I tapped the crate. “You can’t fool me. Don’t
try and get out of losing. I’m about to kick your butt. I can feel
it.”

We played a few more cards.

Frankie stopped again, poised to listen. “I’m
serious. Something’s going on up front.”

“Fine.” I kicked my stool back and pressed my
ear against the wooden door that opened into the shop.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Peyton.
And he wasn’t singing show tunes either. He’d probably wheedled
info out of my dad so his group could get here first.

“Told ya,” Frankie said.

“Get in the chair,” I answered.

In a flash, I whipped out the rope and tied
him up with one of my famous knots. I’d barely put on Frankie’s
blindfold and stuffed the gag in his mouth when the door burst open
and slammed against the wall with a bang. Peyton towered in the
doorway, but no group. Not a good sign that he split from his team.
His once-slick hair stuck up in several directions. Where was
Aimee? She was supposed to be following him.

“You can’t stop me now!” I ran the electric
screwdriver and faced Frankie, but I really needed a chainsaw
because the tiny buzz didn’t do anything to hide my shaky
voice.

“Little late to start playing the game, don’t
you think?” Peyton sneered.

With slow, in-control movements, I placed the
screwdriver on the crate. Frankie struggled against his ropes. He
must’ve sensed the tension. Facing Peyton, I drew in a deep breath.
“You’re supposed to stay with your group. I’m sure they need your
help.”

He puffed out breaths while cracking his
knuckles. “They probably do, especially since you screwed up
everything for us.”

My hands wouldn’t stay still and kept
clasping and unclasping. Desperate to send him on his way, I
practically begged him. “You still have time to follow the clues
and make it back here in first place. I’m sure of it.”

Peyton snorted. “Right.”

I didn’t need an inner spy sense to tell me I
was in trouble. Behind me, Frankie mumbled something but I couldn’t
focus. I wished like hell I didn’t know how to tie such a good
knot. I’d have loved it if my hostage could slip out of his binds
and save me right now.

I kept my voice low and calm. “I’m sorry
about the Louvre. I’m sorry about the Eiffel. I wish I could change
what happened.”

Peyton’s eyes darted around the room, taking
in the crates of old books, the cobwebs, and the hostage. “I
could’ve won this game.” A vein pulsed in his neck. “Thanks to you
and your friend I won’t even finish. With a little convincing, she
told me where to find the hostage.”

Aimee? She’d better be okay. I choked down a
nervous laugh.

“You think this is a joke?” He stepped
closer, his chest rising up and down as if he’d run a marathon.

“No. I think in the Spy Games handbook it
says—”

He shot back, “I know what the handbook says.
I read it.”

“Oh,” I said meekly and then moved behind
Frankie.

Frankie muttered through his gag, “Untie
me.”

I fumbled at the knots, but Peyton took two
steps, grabbed my arm and yanked me away. “Don’t even think about
it.”

“Look. I’m sorry.” I decided on a personal
approach. “I know life can be hard sometimes.”

He shoved me up against the wall. The rough
wood jabbed into my back but I refused to show any pain to this
bully.

“I don’t need you to tell me about my life,”
he snarled. “Got it?”

“Yep,” I squeaked.

“Don’t you touch her!” Frankie threatened,
struggling against the ropes.

Peyton ignored him and focused on me. “How
are you going to make up for your big mistake?”

This guy might as well have been a wild
grizzly bear holding a red-hot poker and threatening to skewer me
for dinner. I had no idea what to say to him. If I were a real spy
with any good instincts, words would have slipped out and cooled
him off. I would’ve known what to say to reflect his accusation and
get out of this.

The door to the storage room slammed
shut.

Malcolm. His hair was mussed and his cheeks
were flushed like he’d run here. For what? To save me? Ha. More
like to take his revenge.

“Leave her alone!” Malcolm rushed across the
room and punched Peyton in the gut. The big man doubled over then
two seconds later he rammed into Malcolm. I grabbed the screwdriver
and jabbed Peyton in the arm. He backhanded me. Pain shot through
my head, radiating out from my cheek. Two seconds later, Malcolm
punched him in the face with a solid right hook.

Frankie shouted through his gag, “Untie me!
What’s going on?”

Peyton regained his footing and gasped at my
reddening cheekbone. Horror filled his eyes but they hardened when
he saw the screwdriver in my fist. “You should’ve stayed out of
this.”

Malcolm gripped the back of Peyton’s neck and
squeezed. Peyton dropped to the floor, writhing in agony.

“What’s going on in here?” Dad kicked the
crate out of his way and approached Peyton. Cards fluttered only to
settle on the wooden floorboards. Awe for my dad grew. Yeah, he was
tall and a bit of a spy geek, but right then the gel in his hair
made him look tough, like a member of street gang.

Malcolm stepped back, and I sneaked a peek at
him, trying to figure out why he came to my rescue after all that
happened.

“Peyton?” My dad repeated.

As soon as the sorrow appeared in Peyton’s
eyes, it disappeared, replaced by a steely determination. “You
don’t understand. She ruined everything.”

Not taking his eyes off Peyton, my dad
grabbed him by the arm. “Leave. Now. We’ll talk later about
refunds.”

Go, Dad!

Nancy and Gray both arrived, breathless and
with flushed faces. Immediately, Gray strode over to Frankie and
removed his gag and blindfold.

After a moment of tense silence, Peyton said,
“Fine. You’ll be hearing from me.” With a grunt, he strode from the
room.

Dad smoothed my ruffled shirt with a gentle
touch and traced my cheek with the back of his fingers. “Are you
okay?”

I nodded, all words trapped in my throat. Is
this what it took for Dad to act like he cared? Muscles in his jaw
twitched. Blood rushed to my face, and the room felt about a
hundred degrees hotter. He cared but he was still mad.

Gray, Nancy, and Frankie tried not to look at
me, shuffling their feet, fixing their hair. Malcolm picked up the
cards scattered on the floor.

“Savvy,” Dad said in a clear but firm voice,
“why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off. Get some ice on
your cheek. I’ll see you at home.”

His face turned into a mask, but the lines on
his forehead seemed deeper. His shoulders slouched, and I could
tell he blamed me. I grabbed my backpack, hiding the tears, and ran
from the room. I didn’t stop running until I got to
Les
Pouffant’s
.

“Where were you when I needed you,” I
whispered to the stone angels with curved wings that stood at the
side of the doorway. Waiters dressed in black and white moved in
and out of the café like they were in a choreographed dance. I
loved this place.

Inside, I ordered a latte. The counter and
the pastries behind the glass case became a blur. Maybe Dad would
ship me off to boarding school. I highly doubted he’d believe today
was my best effort. And if I was honest? It wasn’t. When I had the
latte in my hand and took the first sip, my mind cleared a bit.
Aimee must have forgotten to meet me here. Time to go home. And
open the package Mom told me to burn.

I trudged up to our door, and the back of my
neck prickled. Something was off. The front door moved in the
breeze. As the director of Spy Games, Dad was the guru of safety
precautions. He locked the doors, changed the bulb for the porch
light, and left a light on when we were gone. He would never leave
the door unlocked, much less open!

I crept up the steps and nudged the door open
with my foot. If I were a real spy, my heart wouldn’t be knocking
against my ribcage and sweat wouldn’t be breaking out on my
forehead. I’d burst into the room, pull out my gun, and the
intruder would run for his life. A weapon! That was what I needed.
I grabbed Dad’s umbrella by the door and tiptoed across the
room.

The couch pillows were on the floor, and
Dad’s papers on the kitchen table looked mussed. But I saw no
overturned tables or fallen lamps like on television. Still, I
couldn’t breathe easy until I checked the rest of the apartment.
For a few seconds, I stood with my arm above my head, umbrella
poised, listening.

A noise came from the down the hall in my
bedroom. Peyton’s angry face flashed in my mind and my legs shook.
What if he knew where we lived? With light steps, I headed down the
narrow hallway. My bedroom door was open. A draft ruffled the ends
of my hair.

I heard it again. A clicking sound.

Enough. I wasn’t going to tiptoe around my
own home. I eased open the umbrella and charged into the room with
a war cry. I spun around to confuse any intruder. I stopped and
swayed, a bit dizzy. The clicking noise was my open window. The
shade moved back and forth in the breeze, hitting the windowsill
and making a slight click each time. I let out a breath and closed
the umbrella. The person was gone, but someone had definitely been
here. I slumped onto my bed. What would someone want from us? My
fuzzy socks? My measly piggy bank? Or maybe a package! I sprinted
back to the front door.

There it was, the package I’d tripped over
and then kicked behind the bush earlier today. I brought it inside.
Mom had a strict rule. No one was allowed to touch her mail or go
through her things. Again, at the Eiffel, she’d told me to burn
this. But Mom wasn’t here, was she? I ripped it open.

Inside, I found a clunky camera, like an old
Polaroid, wrapped in tissue paper. But more importantly I found a
note, typed, with no signature.

Sign up for the Pouffant Pastry
Extravaganza.

Take a picture of Jolie Pouffant.

That was it. I mean, that was it? That didn’t
tell me anything about my mom, where she’d disappeared to, or why
the only time she’d talked to me she wore a disguise. And it didn’t
tell me anything about who sent it, like where he or she lived or
why the hell they needed a picture of Pouffant.

But then I saw the tips of green sticking out
so I dug under the layers of tissue paper protecting the camera. My
fingers brushed against the clean feel of printed bills, lots of
them. I started pulling them out, more and more, until green
covered the table. More money than I’d ever need in my life, or
maybe a year. Now that told me something.

Mom was into something big. Like maybe she
worked as a secret photographer for an entertainment magazine doing
an article on pastry chefs. Or maybe this Pouffant fellow wasn’t
just a pastry chef. Whatever it was, Mom didn’t want me to
know.

But in a situation like this, I had to follow
the old rule: Follow the money. And if it wasn’t a rule, I just
made it one. And in order to follow the money, I’d need to sign up
for the pastry thing. A.S.A.P. Good thing I knew where to find
Pouffant.

The front door rattled, and I froze. Voices
floated in from outside. Dad chuckled and talked, and I heard
Frankie and Nancy and Gray. The whole Spy Games staff was outside
my front door, and I had thousands of dollars spread out on the
table.