"They should be back by …" I began, but just then Mr. Solomon picked up a remote control and punched a button, and the room went dark except for a long sliver of light that shone from a projector beside him. I was standing in the center of its path, silhouetted against the image glowing on a screen.
In the picture, Bex was sitting on the wall in front of the Roseville library. Then I heard a click and the image changed. I saw Liz peeking around a tree, which is really bad form, but Mr. Solomon didn't comment. His silence seemed totally worse. Another click. Bex was looking over her shoulder, crossing a street. Click. Liz was next to a funnel-cake stand.
"Ask the question, Ms. Morgan," he said, his voice carrying ominously through the dark room. "Don't you want to know where they are?"
I did want to know, but I was almost afraid to hear the answer. More images flashed on the screen, surveillance photos taken by a well-trained, well-placed team. Bex and Liz hadn't known they were there—I hadn't known they were there—and yet someone had stalked our every step. I felt like prey.
"Ask me why they're not here," Mr. Solomon demanded. I saw his dim outline. His arms were crossed. "You want to be a spy, don't you, Chameleon?" My code name was nothing more than a mockery on his lips. "Now tell me what happens to spies who get made."
No, I thought.
Another click.
Is that Bex? Of course it wasn't—she was with Mr. Smith; she was safe, but I couldn't help but stare at the dark, gritty image on the screen—the bloody, swollen face that stared back at me—and tremble for my friend.
"They won't start with Bex, you know," he went on. "They'll start with Liz."
Another click and then I was looking at a pair of thin arms bound behind a chair and a cascade of bloody blond hair. "These people are very good at what they do. They know Bex can take the punches; what hurts Bex most is listening to her friend scream."
The projector's light was warm as it danced across my skin. He was moving closer. I saw his shadow join mine on the screen.
"And she is screaming—she will be for about six hours, until she becomes so dehydrated she can't form sounds." My gaze was going blurry; my knees were weak. Terror was pounding in my ears so loudly that I barely heard him when he whispered, "And then they start on Bex." Another click. "They have special things in mind for her."
I'm going to be sick, I thought, unable to look him in the eye.
"This is what you're signing up for." He forced me to face the image. "Look at what is happening to your friends!"
"Stop it!" I yelled. "Stop it." And then I dropped the bottle. The neck snapped, shattering, sending shards of glass across the floor.
"You lost two-thirds of your team. Your friends are gone."
"No," I said again. "Stop."
"No, Ms. Morgan, once this starts—it doesn't stop." My face was hot and my eyes were swollen. "It never stops."
And it doesn't. He was right and I knew it all too well.
I sensed, rather than saw, Mr. Solomon turn to the class and ask, "Who wants to be a spy now?"
No one raised a hand. No one spoke. We weren't supposed to.
"Next semester, ladies, Covert Operations will be an optional field of study, but this semester, it's mandatory. No one gets to back out now because they're scared. But you won't ever be as scared as you are right now—not this semester. On that you have my word."
The overhead lights came on, and twelve girls squinted against the sudden glare. Mr. Solomon moved toward the door, but stopped. "And ladies, if you aren't scared right now, we don't want you anyway."
He slid aside a glass partition, revealing Bex and Liz, who sat behind it, unharmed. Then he walked away.
We sat in silence for a long time, listening to his footsteps fade.
Up in our room, we were greeted by a pile of clothes and accessories that had seemed so important at the start of our night—but seemed so insignificant now.
Macey was asleep—or pretending to be—I didn't care. She had a pair of those really expensive Bose sound-eliminating headphones (probably so she wouldn't be kept awake by the sound of air whizzing past her nose ring), so Bex and Liz and I could have talked or screamed. But we didn't.
Even Bex had lost her swagger, and that was maybe the scariest thing of all. I wanted her to crack a joke. I wanted her to reenact everything Smith had said on their long walk home. I wanted Bex to call out for the spotlight so that our room wouldn't be so dark. But instead, we sat in silence until I couldn't take it anymore.
"Guys, I—" I started, needing to say I was sorry, but Bex stopped me.
"You did what I would have done," she said, then looked at Liz.