“Yeah, well, try to avoid the first thing and definitely don’t be the second one. You and everyone else could be in trouble right along with me. I messed up, Bunk.”
“Hey, you just promised we’d be taking actual girls to see fireworks, so just focus on getting us out of this,” Bunker says. “I’ll be quiet and let you work, but maybe I’ll just stay on the line while you do.”
I concentrate on my work, glad for Bunker’s wheezy breathing on the other end, which seems to calm me, though I can’t get Katie out of my head. As much as I don’t want to believe it, looking back, there were so many red flags. I was just too into her to see them. Some signs, like the fact that she’s a genius in electrical engineering or that she blows away even the best guy in Carlisle’s judo club, don’t automatically mean someone’s a terrorist hacker. I know some guys wouldn’t expect those skills from a girl, but they’ve never met the kickass women working for the Company.
But I can’t ignore recent developments, like what the pretend-janitor said about the girl with a fake accent making an easy mark out of me. Or where the hell she went during the fire drill. Did she fall back, hide in the bathroom or something, so she could be the last one out—so she could prop open the main door with the matchbook? I want so much to run all this by Bunker, but now my paranoia has kicked in.
Maybe they’ve planted listening devices in the library, or all over the building. If Katie really is the hacker, I can’t let her know I’m onto her. And if she isn’t, Bunker is right. I can’t risk the hostiles knowing any more about what she means to me than they already do. I really hope she isn’t the hacker, that she’s in sixth-period English Lit, safe behind bolted doors. Is it crazy that I’m hoping she’s okay—even if she is the hacker?
The wheezing on the other end suddenly stops. I hear a thud, a woman’s voice, then nothing at all.
CHAPTER 13
When the phone vibrates, I’m almost afraid to answer. I’m relieved when I hear Bunk’s whisper on the other end.
“What the hell happened?” I ask.
“I got caught—” He pauses and my heart damn near stops. “By a cop. Well, not really caught. She didn’t see me on the phone. I was able to hide it before she saw. I know she’s police, but in every spy movie I’ve ever seen, the agent is wise to trust no one.”
I will never tease Bunker about his ancient movie collection again. “You did the right thing, Bunk. She isn’t the real deal.”
“She flashed a real-enough-looking badge. Ms. Larabee bought it, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, she’s one of the bad guys. What did she say?”
“Claimed she was doing a sweep of the building, looking for suspects, but I’m guessing she was looking for you if she’s not a real cop. She left when Larabee told her everyone was accounted for.”
“She even polices like a fake. A real officer would have swept the place anyway, in case Larabee had been forced to lie.”
“Exactly what I thought,” Bunker says, and I believe him. He’s about as paranoid as I am now. “So you really believe Katie is working with these people?”
“I don’t want to, but it makes sense. To me, at least. But I can’t focus on that right now. I got bigger problems.”
“Can I help?”
“Well, first I need to keep everyone safe until the real police arrive. Next, I need to take down Kat—” I stop mid-word. Calling her by name only makes the mission harder. “I have to figure out how the hacker blocked our phones so I can make contact with my boss at the CIA, because Marchuk will soon be a national security issue again—I mean, once he’s done killing me, of course. So if you can help me with any of that, please tell me your plan.”
I don’t mean to snap at Bunker. I know he’s just trying to help, and that I actually came here looking for it, but I’m beginning to freak out a little. Spelling it all out like that shows me just how impossible this whole thing is.
“Sorry Bunk, I’m just a little tense. You can help me by keeping everyone up front so I can work.”
“Roger that. Anything else I should know about the bad guys? Other fake police to watch out for?”
“Might be. At my last count, there are five, maybe six hostiles in the building. Which reminds me—you know the janitor who’s built like The Rock? Don’t trust him, either.”
“Jeez. He’s one, too?”
“Yeah, and probably that groundskeeper who’s always out back, bench-pressing that railroad tie during his breaks,” I say, hoping there are only five hostiles, maybe six. “He’s small and wiry but could probably out-lift you. And they’re both ex-military, so … no joke.”
Bunker starts to say something but gets interrupted.
“Yeah, those guys are friends. That’s probably who Red is talking to right now,” says a guy’s voice on Bunker’s end. “I think he’s lying about why the alarm went off. Let’s check it out.”
The line drops right after I hear a scream, though it may have been more like a squeal. A few seconds later, I’m face-to-face with a small search party, Bunker bringing up the rear.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I should have been paying more attention, but they snuck up on me.”
“Oh my God. I sit two rows over from him in calculus,” says a girl at the front of the group. “How did I not notice how hot he is?”
“Who could tell? I mean, how does that,” says another girl, pointing to me, “compare to this?” She holds her phone at arm’s length, presumably comparing my stalker shot to the real thing and finding reality lacking.
“No, don’t you see? Just remove the glasses, take off his shirt, and boom. Hot.”
I’m beginning to feel like a zoo animal, both on display and caged at the same time. Calc girl makes a move toward me, and I’m afraid she’s about to demonstrate her theory, when the guy who led them all back here intercedes.
“Are you crazy? He’s the reason for all of this. Stop talking about him like he stepped out of a poster on your bedroom wall.”
“Peter’s a good guy,” Bunker says, trying to defend me, but they ignore him.
“Excuse you, but I’m into real art. I’m not a freshman,” says the second girl, like it’s a crime for a senior to have a Tupac concert poster on his wall. Or a couple of them.
I try to gain some control over the conversation. “Okay, wait a minute, y’all—”
“He would make a good poster,” says the second girl. “I mean, the shirtless version. Whoever took this picture has serious skills. I wonder which filter she used, because—”
“Would you please shut up about what he looks like?” says the guy who is the worst nightmare of a spy who’s been made: jumpy and scared. “He’s probably a criminal. Because of him, we might all be killed.”
“There is no way a guy that good-looking hangs out with terrorists,” calc girl offers in my defense.
But her friend isn’t convinced. “Not true. Remember that felon who went viral because he was so gorgeous, and then got a modeling contract after he got out of jail? And he had a teardrop tattoo. This one even looks a little like him.”
They’re all working my last nerve, and I’m about ready to stop seeing them as classmates I need to protect and more like obstacles I need to knock out of my way.
“What does that tattoo mean, anyway?” asks calc girl. “I heard—”
“Focus, people. The guy is obviously bad news,” yells the self-appointed leader of the group. The three quiet ones in back nod in agreement. “Even so, we can take him. There are more of us. You two go get reinforcements. And find that cop. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
Bunker steps up beside me in a show of force. The whole thing is starting to feel way too Lord of the Flies for my comfort. As much as I don’t want to hurt a student, I’m about to shut down this Jack-runs-the-island wannabe when the PA alert sounds.
I can feel the collective tension of everyone in the library rise at the same time.
“It’s true! What Prettyboy says is true!”