A Spy Like Me Read Online Free Page A

He’d gone missing and could very well be dead. And I had no
idea why or what he was mixed up in.
    Aimee nodded as if to say, yeah right. Then
she tapped her watch. “You might not get fired from this job
because your dad is the boss, but I can.”
    She stood and slung her backpack over her
shoulder. The whole ride on the Metro, I tried not to think about
Malcolm. We got off at our stop after throwing out all sorts of
conspiracy theories like my dad being overprotective and sending
his goons to shadow us or Malcolm working for the Mafia. But I had
bigger things to worry about.
    Like what the hell happened to Malcolm.

 
     
     
Five
    Aimee and I arrived outside the dirty white
warehouse known as Spy Headquarters seconds to nine. Weeds spilled
out of the cracked pavement and black and red spray paint dripped
down the walls. Overall, it was kind of creepy—exactly what Dad
wanted. I gripped the metal handle, and the door opened with a
familiar screech. Once the door closed behind me, I felt safe from
any random, unexplained bullets.
    In one of the office-turned-dressing-rooms,
we rushed to change our clothes, put on our gear, and then get in
position for our grand entrance. When Aimee wasn’t looking, I
ditched my armor, but it wouldn’t be for long. Every noise that
sounded close to a ping or ricochet sent fear coursing through my
veins. A serving tray could possibly save my life. Maybe.
    Aimee climbed the steps on the side of the
warehouse, and I followed. Newly spun webs clung to my face and
neck. I brushed them off with one swipe. At the top, Aimee and I
helped each other hook the zip line cables onto our belts and
tighten the safety straps. Then step-by-step, keeping my eyes
focused on the back of Aimee’s head and not the fifty-foot drop, I
sidestepped a rafter to our position. My fingers dug into the
support beam.
    “You can do it!” Aimee whispered.
    As we inched closer to our take-off spot, I
watched my coworkers perched like pigeons, waiting patiently. Gray
Chalston, Dad’s right hand man, always coordinated the staff and
made sure the games ran smoothly. Frankie Newtz, the eccentric guy
in his twenties who still wasn’t sure what to do with his life,
played a great psychopath, miscreant, hostage, murderer, whatever
the games called for. His wild red hair and acne scars just added
to it. Nancy Jergen, a housewife from upstate New York who loved to
wield a gun, (thank God they were never loaded), played the double
agent. And then there was Aimee and me, the lowly informants.
    They all nodded hello. Dad had strict
orders—no talking in the rafters. My palms grew sweaty, like last
time. This was our second round with the “grand entrance,” and the
drop scared the crap out of me.
    The spies trickled in, timid at first at the
large empty space and the cold cement floor. No chairs or tables or
water coolers were in sight. Or free, tasteless coffee.
    “Look at them,” I whispered.
    A group of balding men walked in wearing
trench coats. True wannabes. They wore sunglasses and carried
backpacks probably filled with spy gadgets they’d bought off eBay.
I couldn’t look down for long because my stomach felt queasy and
vertigo hit me like a sugar high. Aimee had no problem standing on
the roof rafter; after all, she was the one who wanted to climb
mountains. Not me. I rubbed my arms. It was damp and the chill
started in my toes and coiled around my body until I was shivering
like a naked spy on a rooftop in January.
    And then this macho man breezed through the
entrance, full of swagger, wearing leather pants and sunglasses. He
posed in the middle of the room, ready, willing, and waiting for
danger.
    The ultimate spy.
    I made a mental note to stay away from him.
His stomach pouched over the edge of his pants as if he’d eaten one
too many donuts, and when it came to hair gel, he was my dad’s
twin.
    The beam beneath my feet creaked. I swayed
and clenched my teeth to hold my breakfast back. The smell of