No one said anything for a moment. We were all too wet, too sore, and we'd come entirely too far to turn back.
Then Macey stared right into Zach's eyes. "We're leaving her with you," she warned.
"I'll be fine, Macey," I said, but it was as if she hadn't heard a word.
"We're leaving her with you," she said again. "And if you make us regret that . . ."
" I won't," Zach said, and somehow I believed him.
The Operative was led through a series of gates, doors, and really muddy ditches. The Operative did not, however complain about ruining her favorite pair of jeans. (Even though she really, really wanted to.)
On the other side of the chain-link fence, I guess I thought the world would change. And it did. Just not in the ways I was expecting.
I have seen the Gallagher Academy on the coldest of nights and the hottest days. I have crawled through its deepest passageways and stared out of the highest windows. I have walked across it in deep snow and heavy rain.
I know what a spy school looks like!
Or, at least, I thought I did. Until them.
Zach and I lay on our stomachs at the top of a low ridge, staring down at the Blackthorne Institute for Boys through the glare of a searchlight that swept across the grounds from the school's tallest tower. Most of the buildings were low and square with metal roofs and heavy grates on every window.
Despite the hour, a group of twenty boys was running across the open field that lay between the tree-covered hill and the big square buildings. They wore yellow jumpsuits and ran in perfect unison, marching, really, their chanting cries echoing through the valley in the dark.
"Night drills," Zach whispered, but drills for what, I didn't dare to ask.
A pair of headlights appeared at the gates, shining past the guard station and onto the gravel lane.
"Mom," I whispered.
"Right on time," Zach said.
When my mother began the drive toward the main building, I lifted my binoculars and carefully studied the sign that hung on the gate that swung open. BLACKTHORNE
INSTITUTE FOR BOYS, PRIVATE DETENTION FACILITY. DANGER. NO
TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.
The last year flooded back in bits and pieces - the perfectly made beds in the boys'
temporary quarters in the East Wing; the way the boys had twitched and squirmed as if they'd never worn a suit jacket or tie in their lives; and, most of all, the look is Zach's eyes as he'd warned me that I wouldn't like life at his school - wouldn't like it at all.
"You've got your cover, Gallagher Girl," Zach said quietly. "We've got ours."
Upon gaining access to the Blackthorne Institute for Boys, The Operatives were able to ascertain the following:
· The Blackthorne Institute's firewalls, according to Operative Sutton, were good.
But not quite good enough.
· As a part of their cover, the residents of the Blackthorne Institute were forced to wear jumpsuits in a shade of yellow that, according to Operative McHenry, doesn't look good on ANYONE.
· The guards at the Blackthorne Institute utilized a fairly aggressive form of perimeter patrol that was very effective except when an intruder knows the Bazinsky Method (which Operative Baxter did).
Zach had been right, of course. His school wasn't like my school. Blackthorne tried to look like a place for thugs, and the Gallagher Academy appeared to be a palace for princesses. My school was a half mile from Highway 10. Zach's school was hidden in the mountains, shielded from the outside world.
They had barbed wire, and we had stone walls.
Their school looked like a prison made to keep people in, and my school appeared to be a mansion built to keep people out.