"Cammie . . ."
"Spot the surveillance," I told her.
"What?"
I thought back to the way her parents had led us all around London - the game we hadn't played in weeks. "Spot the surveillance."
"Man selling balloons by the bumper cars," she said, not even blinking.
"The woman with the cotton candy," I added, pointing at just one of the guards that surrounded me at every turn.
It was her turn, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the game was over. We'd stopped keeping score on a bridge overlooking the Thames.
"By my count, there are thirteen operatives tailing me right now. And those are just the ones I've made. There are cameras every hundred yards, and if I'm not mistaken, a Blackhawk helicopter just did a flyby."
"Two Blackhawks," Bex corrected. "In a rotation."
"See? I'm fine," I said, and for the first time in a long time I meant it. I really did. It was as if the walls of my school had been picked up and transported here. It was like my school, but with cotton candy. No wonder I couldn't hold back a smile as I asked, "Do you think my mom would let Townsend bring me here if this place wasn't the Fort Knox of family fun?" Bex opened her mouth to speak, but I didn't give her the chance.
"Go," I said.
For a moment she just stood there, watching. Waiting. The my best friend turned away without another word.
For the next twenty minutes I walked alone in the busy park - past lines of people waiting to ride the Ferris wheel and buy cotton candy, through the crowd that had gathered around Eva Elvarez as she shot ninety-seven little mechanical ducks in a row. Roller coasters roared overhead with their screaming masses and screeching tracks. Wheels spun, fountains splashed, and the smell of people and junk food and heat wafted all around me until I wondered if I might be sick, overdosed on freedom.
So when the man with the clipboard walked off the main thoroughfare, I didn't mind.
Even though a girl in a private school uniform should probably stand out in a busy, public place, I was still the Chameleon, and I followed at the same easy pace and comfortable distance that had been bred into my DNA (a fact that Liz had once tried to verify in the lab, which led to the "no more blood samples this semester" rule of sophomore year).
When I wanted to stop to watch the jugglers, I watched. When I wanted to make faces at myself in the funhouse mirror, I did. When I wanted to try something called a Waffle Burger, I cursed myself for not keeping an emergency twenty in my sock, like Grandpa Morgan always taught me, and just kept walking. The man in the jumpsuit remained a constant figure in the corner of my eye.
I should probably point out that in all that time, the man never turned around. Not once did he check his tail. I was starting to think that this was the easiest covert operations lesson ever, when he slipped through a small gate in the fence that ran behind the merry-go-round, but I didn't hesitate. I didn't wait. I just did what I was born to do: I followed, knowing that whatever guards were following me would be quick to do the same.
It was quieter there, behind the barricades. A large manmade lake stretched out beside me. The smells of corn dogs and popcorn were lost beneath the scent of oil and grease.
The bright lights and spinning wheels of the park were gone, replaced by a maze of carefully placed trees and perfectly engineered scaffolding that stretched high into the sky, blocking out the sun.
I thought of all the things I might say if someone saw me: I was there to meet my boyfriend. My classmates had sent me on a dare. I'd seen a stray animal come this way and it had appeared to be hurt.
So I wants afraid when the man stopped and opened the door of a long building that sat hidden in the midst of the park. I waited ten seconds, then followed, praying the door's hinges wouldn't speak as I pulled it slowly open and stepped inside.
Christmas decorations lined one wall, and Fourth of July sparklers and banners covered the other. There were broken, faded bumper cars and log ride relics, and a statue of a clown. It was like a graveyard - where amusement came to die.
And that was the thought that filled my mind as I eased down the center aisle - soaking in the sights and smells and sounds that filled the air around me. Every fiber in my training and my gut wound together to tell me that the workman was gone - lost, out of sight.
But then I heard the faint scruff of heavy shoes on concrete and knew I was anything but alone.
"You really shouldn't be here."
Chapter Twenty-Six
The first time any of us had seen Joe Solomon, we'd thought he was a highly trained operative, a seasoned CoveOps veteran and . . . well . . . hot. But a year and a half later I barely recognized my teacher in the man who stood behind me. His face was drawn and pale. His hair was longer, his clothes grungier, but it was his eyes that had changed the most as he stepped toward me and demanded, "Cammie you have to come with me. You have to come right now!"
As he reached for me, I jerked away. I didn't know whether to hug him of hit him (a feeling that frequently associate with Blackthorne Boys, to tell you the truth), so I just shook my head. "No."
"Cammie, if I heard you were going to be here, then they'll know you're here. I have to get you out of here. Now!"
"It's true, isn't it?"