A Spy Like Me Page 8

  Eight

  Peyton’s eyes burned into me like they were lasers and I was a metal wall he was trying to blast through. He pointed to his right. “This woman from my group managed to say the right words and you completely ignored her.”

  “I...I’m sorry.” How would Peyton understand that I’d seen my mom and then received a strange message from her? He wouldn’t. I gave him my mean, terrible, you-should-be-scared-of-me look.

  “As staff, you are supposed to do everything possible to fulfill our spy experience. Not only did you both screw up at the Louvre, but—”

  My eyes widened.

  “Oh, yes. I know all about that. Not only did you fail there but you did here too.” He put his face inches from mine. Spit hit me as he spoke. “Your friend here was not allowed access to the museum, so we couldn’t get our clue.” He whipped his head toward her. “And then she refused to give it to me. I had to call Mr. Bent.”

  Aimee half-sobbed, her fingernails jabbed into my arm. “I am sorry. I was not sure what to do. I wanted you to have the full spy experience. I thought Mr. Bent might have an alternate plan for you. And then the guards led me away.”

  I cringed. Not good at all. Completely by accident, we’d sent this man over the edge, although he must have been pretty close anyway.

  Cliff Peyton kept his face inches from mine. His breath made me gag. He would never understand about my mom. And what could I say? The Louvre was my fault. And Malcolm’s.

  Aimee’s grip loosened on my arm, and she moved between Peyton and me. After clearing her throat, she said in a loud, shaky voice, “You need to leave, Sir.”

  He jabbed a finger into her chest, pushing her into me. “You were both probably in on it. Is that what you do for fun? Pick one guy in the room and screw up his day?”

  I slipped my hand into hers, squeezing. “You need to find your group.”

  With one last grunt and glare at Aimee, he strode away. Clearly the guy had more problems than just us. He acted more like a teenager than we did. At the door to the elevator, he turned and pointed at us. “This isn’t over!”

  As soon as he was gone, Aimee turned and hugged me. “Oo, I am so sorry. I made things worse. I should have given him the clue.”

  I placed my hands on her shoulders. “This was not your fault. I started it when I brought candy into the Louvre.”

  Aimee shook her head. “You made a mistake. That is no reason for him to lose it.”

  I tucked her hair behind her ears. “I have to head on over to the hostage site so I don’t screw up that too. Why don’t you go home and soak in the tub and eat your grandmother’s cookies. I’ll explain everything to my dad.”

  “That would be nice, but no.” Aimee set her jaw and the fear left her eyes. “I am going to follow him.”

  I pulled her off to the side. “But why? He’s totally psycho. No telling what he’ll do.”

  “I will be fine. I want to make sure he treats the rest of his spy group okay. If not, then I will have proof against him if he causes problems for us later.”

  She didn’t need to say it. She wanted proof so my dad wouldn’t fire her. I knew better than to say anything.

  “Good luck and stay safe,” I said, and after a quick hug, she left.

  I waited while the few tourists we’d attracted got bored with staring. I needed to shrug this off. I had a hostage to torture in a couple of hours, but I couldn’t forget about the package. It wasn’t like Mom was asking me to kill someone, but it was contact. Still, I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept it with no explanations.

  After handing out the coded messages at the Eiffel, I shifted my armor back into place and headed to the hostage site—a small room in the back of the Galagnani bookstore along the Jardin des Tuileries. The spy teams would arrive after a couple hours of breaking codes and finding clues hidden among famous churches, gardens, and historical hot spots. The first team to free the hostage would win the game. Unfortunately, all we could offer were cheap trophies as prizes.

  The past few times, I’d arrived early and Frankie and I’d played card games. I’ve beaten him at War like five times. I entered the bookstore and navigated the narrow aisles with books towering on either side of me. They let us use a small storage room in the back.

  Frankie nodded when I entered, his red frizz just long enough to flop in and out of his eyes with every nod. Freckles dotted his arms and face. He already had the cards set up on an overturned crate. First, I strapped on my belt and gunned the electric screwdriver, which is great for prying secrets out of scared hostages.

  “Oo, scary.” Frankie mocked.

  “That’s right,” I said in my most threatening tone. “Don’t ever think about crossing me.”

  My cell phone vibrated. “Bonjour,” I said, happy to be in torture mode and forgetting everything else. Hopefully, the caller was Aimee telling me one of the groups was on their way.

  “You in position, Savvy?” Dad asked.

  I gulped. Cliff Peyton had called my dad. A client had never called my dad on me. I flashed back to the crazy look in Peyton’s eye and the anger rolling off of him over what was a minor offense. So I screwed up. I admitted it. But something was totally off with him. Dad really needed to do background checks or something.

  “Just strapping on my belt,” I said.

  “Have any of the groups made it there yet?”

  Maybe he was going to let the whole Cliff thing drop. “Not yet.”

  “Mr. Peyton called me twice. He was extremely volatile.”

  Crap. “And?”

  “Are you okay?”

  The hint of concern in his voice caused mine to shake. “I’m fine. Just getting ready to torture Frankie. Why?” And did you know I saw Mom?

  “Stay there. I’m stuck in traffic. Maybe you should—”

  “Dad?” No answer except the empty silence of a lost connection. Great. I sensed a huge lecture in my near future.

  I shut the phone and jammed it into my bag. I’d tried. I’d given them the best spy experience I possibly could, but there was no way I could’ve foreseen the complications that came with someone like Cliff Peyton. If Malcolm hadn’t shown up to harass me at the Louvre, none of this would’ve happened. Malcolm again. It seemed to always come back to him.

  Frankie and I squeezed in a few games of War. I lost. Twice. It was hard to focus even on a game that required no strategy. In the middle of our third game, Frankie jerked straight and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”

  I tapped the crate. “You can’t fool me. Don’t try and get out of losing. I’m about to kick your butt. I can feel it.”

  We played a few more cards.

  Frankie stopped again, poised to listen. “I’m serious. Something’s going on up front.”

  “Fine.” I kicked my stool back and pressed my ear against the wooden door that opened into the shop.

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Peyton. And he wasn’t singing show tunes either. He’d probably wheedled info out of my dad so his group could get here first.

  “Told ya,” Frankie said.

  “Get in the chair,” I answered.

  In a flash, I whipped out the rope and tied him up with one of my famous knots. I’d barely put on Frankie’s blindfold and stuffed the gag in his mouth when the door burst open and slammed against the wall with a bang. Peyton towered in the doorway, but no group. Not a good sign that he split from his team. His once-slick hair stuck up in several directions. Where was Aimee? She was supposed to be following him.

  “You can’t stop me now!” I ran the electric screwdriver and faced Frankie, but I really needed a chainsaw because the tiny buzz didn’t do anything to hide my shaky voice.

  “Little late to start playing the game, don’t you think?” Peyton sneered.

  With slow, in-control movements, I placed the screwdriver on the crate. Frankie struggled against his ropes. He must’ve sensed the tension. Facing Peyton, I drew in a deep breath. “You’re supposed to stay
with your group. I’m sure they need your help.”

  He puffed out breaths while cracking his knuckles. “They probably do, especially since you screwed up everything for us.”

  My hands wouldn’t stay still and kept clasping and unclasping. Desperate to send him on his way, I practically begged him. “You still have time to follow the clues and make it back here in first place. I’m sure of it.”

  Peyton snorted. “Right.”

  I didn’t need an inner spy sense to tell me I was in trouble. Behind me, Frankie mumbled something but I couldn’t focus. I wished like hell I didn’t know how to tie such a good knot. I’d have loved it if my hostage could slip out of his binds and save me right now.

  I kept my voice low and calm. “I’m sorry about the Louvre. I’m sorry about the Eiffel. I wish I could change what happened.”

  Peyton’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the crates of old books, the cobwebs, and the hostage. “I could’ve won this game.” A vein pulsed in his neck. “Thanks to you and your friend I won’t even finish. With a little convincing, she told me where to find the hostage.”

  Aimee? She’d better be okay. I choked down a nervous laugh.

  “You think this is a joke?” He stepped closer, his chest rising up and down as if he’d run a marathon.

  “No. I think in the Spy Games handbook it says—”

  He shot back, “I know what the handbook says. I read it.”

  “Oh,” I said meekly and then moved behind Frankie.

  Frankie muttered through his gag, “Untie me.”

  I fumbled at the knots, but Peyton took two steps, grabbed my arm and yanked me away. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Look. I’m sorry.” I decided on a personal approach. “I know life can be hard sometimes.”

  He shoved me up against the wall. The rough wood jabbed into my back but I refused to show any pain to this bully.

  “I don’t need you to tell me about my life,” he snarled. “Got it?”

  “Yep,” I squeaked.

  “Don’t you touch her!” Frankie threatened, struggling against the ropes.

  Peyton ignored him and focused on me. “How are you going to make up for your big mistake?”

  This guy might as well have been a wild grizzly bear holding a red-hot poker and threatening to skewer me for dinner. I had no idea what to say to him. If I were a real spy with any good instincts, words would have slipped out and cooled him off. I would’ve known what to say to reflect his accusation and get out of this.

  The door to the storage room slammed shut.