"Baxter! A voice called from the catwalk above us. "You have the girl, then?"
Bex's father placed his arm around my shoulder. "She's here. She's fine."
The man gestured to a metal door at the end of the catwalk. "Then come this way," he told me, but Bex stepped closer.
We'll be happy to wait in there," she said.
The agent looked at Mrs. Baxter, whose face was just as determined as her daughter's.
"I'm going with her," Mrs. Baxter said. "Cammie is our responsibility."
"Then you should have thought about that before you took her bloody ice skating," the agent snapped.
I wanted to say something in protest - to remind them that it wasn't the Baxters' fault -
whatever "it" was. But Mrs. Baxter's hand was on my shoulder, gently pushing me forward, telling me that the path I was on now was one I had to walk alone.
Chapter Five
PROS AND CONS OF SPENDING THE NIGHT IN A TOP SECRET ROOM OF A TOP SECRET FACILITY, BUT NO ONE WILL TELL YOU WHY
(A list by Cameron Morgan)
PRO: Turns out, top secret underground government facilities are an excellent place to warm up after ice skating.
CON: The warming-up process includes no friends, no family, and absolutely no answers.
PRO: Sometimes it's nice having a moment alone to compose yourself after fairly traumatic (and totally confusing) experiences.
CON: The "moment" stops being nice when it goes on for almost two hours.
PRO: Three words - Extra. Credit. Essay.
CON: Two words - No. Bathroom.
PRO: Knowing there are fifty operatives and at least two hundred cameras between you and the people trying to get you.
CON: Realizing, you know even less about those people then you thought you did. A lot less.
Every good operative knows there are several reasons to keep someone waiting before questioning them. Sometimes you want to make them nervous; sometimes you want to let them think; sometimes you need to gather the facts; and sometimes talking to them isn't that important. But there was only one reason that occurred to me when I heard the door creak open and pulled my head and arms off of the cold steel table.
"Is my mother here?"
"No."
The door slammed, and I turned to watch a man I'd never seen before walk to the other side of the room. He was tall with black wavy hair and deep blue eyes, and as he spoke in his rich British accent, both the spy in me and the girl in me became instantly aware of the fact that I was drooling.
"How are you, Cammie?" he asked, but barely waited to hear my "Fine."
"Is there anything you need? Water? Something to -"
"What happened on the bridge?"
The man chuckled softly. "Well, that's what I was hoping you could tell me." He dropped a file onto the table between us and moved to the chair opposite me, but there was something about the gesture - the sound of his laugh - that felt strange to me. Nothing seemed that funny anymore.
"He didn't hurt you?" the man asked.
"Mr. Solomon is my teacher. He would never hurt me."