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.
Chapter Three
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.