Prettyboy Must Die Page 7

  I run like hell for the office and arrive forty-five seconds later, nearly out of breath.

  When I switch on the PA system, I’m so relieved to find it’s still working. Hopefully, people won’t think I’m some panting, raving lunatic, if they even know who I am at all. About ten people in all of Carlisle have a clue who Peter Smith is, thanks to my skills at flying under the radar. No, I need to assume another persona if I want people to hear me.

  “Listen up, Carlisle. This is Prettyboy. Abort the assembly. Repeat: Abort the assembly. Follow Red-Level procedures—now! Dodson, those two people with you are not real cops. There are no bank robbers on the loose, just the two hit men with you and two others holding sixth-period chem hostage. They’re here to kill me. Don’t believe anything they—”

  The audio suddenly cuts out. I’m only talking to myself.

  CHAPTER 10

  About ten seconds after the PA system dies, I receive confirmation that my plan worked. I guess it took that long for people to grasp what I said or wonder whether I was crazy, but they must have decided to believe the shit has hit the fan, because suddenly I hear screaming and shouting coming in muffled waves through the corridor, which remains empty. I hope that’s because the teachers are following my direction and have gone to Red-Level protocol, locking down their classrooms so they can only be opened from the inside. My other hope is that the hacker knows it would be unwise to override the locks the way he took out the PA system, and realizes keeping confused and frantic kids in the classrooms would be in the hostiles’ favor.

  I have a moment of woulda-shoulda-coulda when I think of the hacker, who is clearly still in league with Marchuk’s terror cell: if I’d been a more experienced operative, a better hacker, had not been sidetracked by Katie, this would not be happening. I’d have caught the target by now and we’d both be long gone from Carlisle, me at Langley and him in prison. My schoolmates would be trying not to sleep through sixth period like any other Monday.

  But I only wallow in that for a minute before I get my ass in gear. I don’t know how the hostiles are reacting to my announcement, but I’m going to assume the two in my chem class are still there. No doubt one of the other two, Andrews or Marchuk, is on their way back to the office for me since I broadcast my exact location. Probably not the smartest move, but it served its purpose. Most of the school should be safe inside their classrooms for now, Dodson has confirmation that her doubts about the “police” and their lockdown plan are legit, and hopefully I’ve shot the hostiles’ Plan B to hell.

  Unless they came ready with a Plan C, they’ll be winging it, just like me.

  I start my escape from the office a little too fast because I run smack into Jonesy’s desk and jostle everything on it, knocking over his pencil cup and water bottle. Reflexively, I stand both back upright, and that’s when I hear it—a dial tone coming from the phone receiver. So the phreak didn’t kill the landlines in the office. Maybe he thought taking out the office lines too soon would raise suspicion in Dodson or her staff. Now that they know I’m onto them, these lines are probably next to go.

  I dial 9-1-1. A few seconds later, a voice connects on the other end.

  “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

  I hear a jangling sound in the hallway, growing closer.

  “Hello? What is your—”

  Much as I hate to do it, I hang up on the 9-1-1 dispatcher and dive under Jonesy’s desk. Without knowing whether they’re hostile or friendly, I can’t give away my location. The jangling grows closer. I hold my breath, waiting for the sound to grow fainter as it continues down the hall, but it doesn’t. It stops right outside the service window.

  Please don’t let it be a hostile. And if it is, please let them think that after my stunt on the PA system, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to hang around waiting for them to find me here, even if I actually was. At least I straightened everything on the desk above my head. Hopefully whoever it is won’t notice the water that spilled onto the touchscreen of Jonesy’s sign-in tablet.

  “What are you doing here?” asks a man’s voice from outside the window.

  I’m looking around the office for anything I could use as a weapon when I hear another voice, this time female and young. Probably a freshman; sophomore, max. A giggly one.

  “Looking for Prettyboy. He’s sooo cute, don’t you think?”

  I used to think that was an asset until that stalker girl made me an assassin’s target.

  “I wouldn’t know. But didn’t you hear what he just said over the PA?”

  “Trust me, he is,” the girl explains, gushing, and I’m a little embarrassed. “I was just coming from my locker when I heard his announcement. I was hoping for a picture with him.”

  “If what he said is true, do you really think he’d still be hanging around waiting for the bad guys to come for him?”

  Yeah, good question.

  “So he isn’t here, then?” the girl asks, her voice giving away no fear of the school’s status that I just risked my life announcing, or of the man questioning her, which gives me hope that he’s a friendly.

  “Do you see anyone in there? Why aren’t you in your classroom? You should get back there before your teacher goes batshit because you’re missing.”

  So he’s clearly not a Carlisle teacher. Even under these conditions, the teacher handbook expressly prohibits use of words like batshit with students. Maybe he’s part of non-teaching staff.

  “Not a problem,” the girl says brightly, making me think she doesn’t understand what hit man means. “See? I have a hall pass. And besides, my teacher—”

  “Go!” the man barks, clearly reaching his breaking point with my latest fan.

  I hear her footsteps moving quickly down the hall, but the man is still standing there. I hear him breathing.

  To calm my nerves, I focus on the fact that my call to 9-1-1 went through. The dispatcher asked for my emergency twice. Even though I didn’t respond, she has to send an officer anyway. That’s protocol for all dropped 9-1-1 calls. And since I used a landline, they’ll know my exact location. Help is coming. I just have to stay alive long enough for it to get here.

  I wait for what seems like forever, but whoever it is must not have noticed anything amiss on the desk, must have assumed I got out of here the minute the PA system went dead, because instead of coming into the office to check it out, he and his keychain move down the hall, the jangling sound growing fainter.

  I stay under the desk, waiting, keeping an eye on the clock on the opposite wall. Boulder is big enough to have a decent-sized police department but small enough that zone coverage is excellent and response times are short, especially on a hang-up call from a school. Three minutes have already passed, which means a unit should be here in another couple. I hold myself together by thinking out what I know so far so I can relay it quickly to the responding officer.

  Four hostiles, most likely armed, though I’ve yet to see a weapon. But I must assume they are, and only keeping weapons under wraps to avoid scaring everyone. Of course, Andrews-the-Fake is probably carrying a sidearm because not having one would scare people who think she’s really a cop. The bank robbers’ alleged motive: hiding out in a hostage-rich environment. True motive: Ukrainian arms dealer, here to kill me as revenge for his father’s death.

  The clock says we’re just past the four-minute mark. The responding officer should be close now. When he arrives, he’ll see the metal doors over the main entrance, in the middle of the school day, and know something is wrong. He’ll call for backup.

  Okay, what else do I know about this incursion? Oh yeah. The hacker.

  He’s somehow blocking cell signals all over the building. Taking out the landlines is easy—just get to the building’s network interface device and cut the phone service wire. But unless he disabled the cell tower up the road—and I know he didn’t do that because the cell carrier would know immediately and that isn’t the kind of attention the hostiles want—he has to be doing it fro
m inside the school.

  The clock says we’re at the five-minute mark.

  Wait. What if the phreak is not just blocking GPS signals but radio frequencies, too? The responding officer won’t be able to call for backup. He’ll have to leave to get help. That could take another eight minutes round-trip. Six if he’s running hot with lights and siren. Even once he gets back here with half the department, with the hacker in control of Carlisle’s security system, how long will it take for them to get inside? They’ll need to bring in some heavy battering equipment or the best hacker in town.

  Maybe I can’t risk hiding here and waiting for help. The best hacker in town is already here.

  If I can get to a computer, I may be able to figure out exactly how the phreak’s blocking the signal and stop it so the police can get inside fast. If I’m quick, I might even be able to get comms up before the responding officer has to drive all the way back into town to request help. Turning off the PA system means the hacker is probably still somewhere in the school, online. After my announcement, he’s probably taking down the school’s entire network, in case people actually believed me. I have to get to the library’s computer bank before he completes his task.

  I run to the end of the hall and make a right, heading for stairs that lead to the back of the library, but as I do, I hear the familiar jangling of a ring heavy with keys coming from the janitor’s supply room. So that was a friendly outside the office—the janitor/undercover security guard. And unless there’s another person with him, he somehow has a phone that works, because he’s talking to someone. But at Langley they taught me to trust pretty much no one, so I stand outside the door and listen before I approach.

  The first thing I hear tells me that was a good idea: it’s the sound of leather against skin. My guess is he’s slapping a blackjack—a steel paddle wrapped in cowhide—against the palm of his hand. Okay, I’m pretty sure this guy didn’t find that in the supply closet.

  “He left the office before I could get there, but the idiot kid just announced he’s in the building. No one’s getting out, so it’s just a matter of finding him. It’s a big building for only five hundred students, but not so big I won’t find him pretty quickly.”

  Oh, dayuum. I recognize the voice—it is the janitor, but he isn’t a friendly. Add one more to the hostile head count.

  Silence on his end while someone on the other end talks, and then, “I realize he’s a trained operative, but he’s just a kid, so he’ll be easy to take down—”

  He must be talking to Marchuk.

  More silence, before he says, “Yes, of course. I won’t underestimate … right. But if he proves elusive, the girl will help us find him.”

  Um, what girl?

  The guy laughs. “He may be an operative, but he’s also a seventeen-year-old kid—all hormones. She can mess with his head. She already threw him off his game.”

  He’s quiet, then more laughter.

  “Oh yeah. He’s an easy mark. The kid is just like the rest of us when it comes to foreign chicks.”

  I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest by the janitor’s blackjack. Twice. Katie is working for the other side.

  CHAPTER 11

  As I run for the stairwell, the only thing that keeps my feet moving is self-preservation. Once there, I have to lean against the wall to steady myself. I can’t believe I was wrong about Katie. I had her checked out and everything, but I guess the people she’s working for created one helluva cover for her. And if I missed the mark on Katie, what else have I gotten wrong? Well, there’s the janitor. I was so busy looking at students new to Carlisle, I didn’t even consider new employees. The janitor and groundskeeper were both hired at the beginning of the school year. If one is a bad guy, then I’ll have to assume both of them are. That takes the hostiles’ count to a definite five, and a probable six. And those last two are both former military.

  Maybe that should have been a red flag, but I’d read it as a plus—they’d fought the good fight, and now they were bringing all that skill and knowledge to protect Carlisle. I never thought they’d use it against me. Now that I think of it, I never confirmed their service with Langley. It was so obvious—to me, anyway—through their mannerisms that they were ex-military, I never thought to check it out. I’m sure I’m right about their service, but I have no idea whether it was to this country. For that matter, mercenaries turn against their own countries all the time. If they didn’t, a whole section of the CIA would be out of a job.

  As jacked as my assessment of Katie has been, there is one person in Carlisle I’m certain I can trust. Luckily, it’s his study hall period and I know he happens to be in the library, along with a bunch of computers, working on a paper due tomorrow. Or he was until all this happened. There probably isn’t a single kid in the building worried about it being midterms week right now.

  I begin putting together a plan as I head up the stairs leading to the back of the library. Trying to get in through the front entrance won’t work. Carlisle’s library is smaller than the smallest city branch in town, so there’s a better chance of a hostile seeing me. And because the entire front wall of the library is made of glass, any kids I see in there will see me too, and my arrival will be sure to cause chaos. Since there’s no way I’m getting inside the library without causing a little disruption, I go for the smallest amount possible.

  I knock on the door that leads from the stairwell into the back of the library—three quick knocks, pause, two more knocks, pause, and then one final knock. It’s a code Bunker came up with to signify “need cover,” something he planned for us to use on the wall between our bedrooms to help each other sneak out of the Morrisons’ house before spending the night away with a girl. So far, there’s been no need for either of us to use the code, so I have to hope Bunker remembers it.

  Just as I expected—the moment Bunker opens the door, a piercing alarm sounds until I pull it shut.

  “Quick, run back up to the desk and make up a reason for the alarm going off and come back,” I tell Bunk, who thankfully doesn’t ask any questions before racing through the stacks.

  The alarm starts up a chorus of screams from the front of the library. Fortunately, the building has great insulation, because if the janitor heard the noise it would be a pretty good lead on where I’m hiding out. I just hope he’s still downstairs in one of the other corridors. Soon the screams end. I hear a murmur of voices, mostly an indecipherable hum, though a few words come through loud and clear: Loser. Idiot.

  Poor Bunker.

  A minute later he returns, a little out of breath.

  “I told them I was back here studying and accidentally fell against the door handle.”

  “And they believed that?” Seriously, lying really isn’t Bunker’s strong suit.

  “They were happy to believe any explanation that didn’t involve hit men invading the library. But I don’t have much time. Ms. Larabee asked everyone to sit at the front. I told her I just needed to come get my stuff.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Bunker begins packing up his stuff but stops, a huge grin spreading across his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Can I just say—I KNEW IT!”

  “Shhh. You’re going to give away my position.”

  “I knew it,” Bunker says again, this time in a loud whisper. “I knew you weren’t just mild-mannered Peter Smith. And after I heard your announcement, I knew you’d come to that door to find me. I mean, if you made it. I was really hoping no one would kill you first.”

  “Yeah, glad I could oblige. But I’m not home free yet, and the bad guys have me outnumbered at least five to one.”

  “Now it’s five to two. Well, more like five to one and a half, since my fighting skills are limited to the Xbox variety, but I got your back.”

  As scared as I am, and as little faith as I have right now in Bunker’s ability to fight off a cold, much less trained operatives, I have never been so glad to have his help. When you’re an out
numbered spy without a team, communications, or weapons, the situation is pretty bleak. But a real friend who has got your six can go a long way toward giving you hope.

  “So what’s the plan? What do you need from me?”

  “I can’t go into details now, not enough time, but you were pretty dead on about me—mostly.”

  Bunker looks incredulous, as though maybe he hadn’t really believed his own theory this whole time. Then he starts grinning again, and I know I have to stop him before he starts asking me a million questions.

  “I need a computer, but they’re all along the front wall of the library.”

  “There’s one back here, but it only takes you to the catalog system.”

  “Not if you’re me.” Finally, something I can do better than Marchuk and his team, including his black hat. “Go up front, let Larabee see you so she won’t stress out, then see if you can sneak back here again in a few minutes.”

  “Won’t have to. I have these,” Bunker says, pulling two ancient flip phones from his backpack. They probably weigh a pound each.

  “You know they’ve blocked cell reception, right?” I ask, but I’m not so certain they’d work even if we had reception. They look like something out of one of those old movies Bunker watched a thousand times in his father’s fallout shelter.

  “That’s what convinced everyone you were probably telling the truth. They all pulled out their phones and no one could get a signal,” Bunker says. “These may look like phones, but don’t really work like phones. More like walkie-talkies. Two-way radios. My dad invented them.”

  I take one from him and look it over, skeptical. They don’t look much like phones to me. “And they actually work?”

  “Hellz yeah, they work,” Bunker says, sounding like the same place these phones must have come from—the 1990s. “And on an ultra-high frequency band so we can communicate from anywhere in the building, even through steel walls. No Wi-Fi means they’re unhackable. We just have to hope the bad guys aren’t also using two-way radios and we inadvertently use the same channel. Seems highly unlikely, though.”