Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

And apparently Black X agents are no exception.

After Ari leaves, I’m taken down a hidden elevator in the garage to a large secret room made of concrete and corrugated pipe. The floor is a gorgeous terra cotta tile, and the pipe is painted a soft creamy color. It looks like a cross between a wine cellar and a bomb shelter.

I’m introduced to Terrance. He’s young and cute, if not slightly nerdy. He also looks jet lagged.

“You look tired,” I say.

“I wasn’t exactly prepared for this trip. Someone else was assigned to you, but he got sick.”

“With what?”

“Death.”

“He’s dead? What happened?”

“Massive heart attack, I guess. All I know is that I was personally called in by the director of the CIA and given this mission.”

I wonder why he doesn’t mention Black X. Either Terrance and Ari don’t know about it, or they aren’t supposed to talk about it. Maybe I’m not supposed to talk about it either. Terrance takes off his glasses, wipes the lenses with a cloth, and studies me. “You’re very young.”

“I’m almost twenty-two.”

“And you trained at The Farm?”

“No. Blackwood Academy,” I admit.

“Never heard of it. So are you any good?” He shakes his head, talking to himself. “Of course you are. And this must be a very important mission. I was taken directly from the Director’s office, put on a private plane, and told to do everything I can to help you. I understand you will be attending numerous social events, so I’m going to fix you up. Let’s start with your watch. I’ll update it,” he says, unclasping it from my wrist.

“Update it?”

“Unless someone already has. I’ve seen old models like that in our vault.” He takes out a small tool and pops open the back. “See, the liquid in these darts has turned blue. Blue means it’s not as effective. It should be purple.”

I want to ask him why the hell my father’s watch has darts in it. It takes all my will power to clamp my mouth shut and not let out a big WTF. Was my father a spy?

I nod, playing it cool.

I take a deep breath and assimilate this new information.

My dad was a spy, not the international businessman I thought he was? So why didn’t anyone tell me that? Why during my eight years at Blackwood didn’t anyone mention this fun fact?

Memories of my mom and dad rushing off on business—sometimes separate, sometimes together, and sometimes with me—cloud my vision. I remember simple rules they taught me. Always sit with your back to the wall. Be aware of your surroundings. Immerse yourself in the region’s language and culture. Blend in.

Our lifestyle and our travel—were mom and I his cover? A man on vacation with his family?

I think about the man who killed my mother. Although I’ve dreamed about it for years, I’ve never broken it down. Never used my current knowledge to assess the former situation. Obviously, the man was an assassin.

Could my mother have been a spy, too?

Terrance interrupts my line of thought. “Okay, here’s the watch back. Three o’clock is stun. Six o’clock will knock someone out. Nine o’clock gives them a dose of truth serum. Midnight is lethal. Do you know how to fire it?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know the watch did all that.”

“That’s okay. It’s easy.” He holds my arm out, shows me how to set the time, how to aim, and how to fire.

“So you’re a spy, and your dad is a spy. That’s really cool. My dad is a mathematician.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“How did you get this job?”

“How does anyone get this kind of job? They recruited me. I graduated MIT with a Masters in mathematics and a Doctorate in quantum physics. But they noticed me because I created a bomb the size of a band-aid.”

“Do I get one of those?”

He pulls a box of pore cleansing strips out of his bag. “Don’t use these on your face,” he says with a laugh, taking one out of the box and putting it on a sample of cement in the basement. “Peel the back off, stick it to what you want, then you have five seconds to get out of the way.”

We move back as the cement explodes and disintegrates.

“That’s pretty slick.”

He pulls a syringe out of a container next. “Give me your arm.”

“For what?”

“I’m supposed to inject you with a tracking device. It’s for your own safety.”

“I’m not cool with that,” I tell him. “Is it optional?”

“I was told you were to have one, if that’s what you’re asking. I need to follow my orders.”

“Do you have one?”

“No freaking way. That stuff can be hacked into . . .” He stops talking. “Shit.”

“I’d like to decline.”

“I’ll say I forgot. That your beauty got me all flustered.” He blushes. “Give me your phone.”

I do, and he adds a couple apps to it. One that allows me to eavesdrop on nearby conversations and another that picks up GPS signals from the trackers he’s going to show me later.