We crept farther down the aisle, carefully listening, sensing our surroundings (after all, if Mr. Solomon had called in favors from the maintenance department, then he was taking this finals thing seriously.)
"Beta team, how's it going?" I asked, but was met with static-y silence. Bex and I shared a worried glance. This is not good. "Charlie team?" Nothing from that end either.
I felt like a rat stuck in a maze, looking for a block of cheese. Every corner was dangerous. Every step could be a trap. So Bex and I looked at each other, recognition dawned, and we did what great spies always do: we looked up.
After climbing twenty feet to the top of the shelves, we could see men patrolling the paths beneath us as Bex and I moved stealthily above, drawing closer to the small office in the center of the building.
The office had interior walls that were probably twenty feet tall, far shorter than the warehouse roof that loomed, dark and cold, above us. We stopped and Bex held a pair of binocuglasses to her eyes, then handed them to me. "One guess who's sitting on the package?"
I peered into the small room and said, "Solomon."
Bex put her hand to her ear and said, "Beta team and Charlie team. We are in position. I repeat, Alpha team is—"
But before Bex could finish, I felt something grab my foot. I kicked, trying to free myself I turned to Bex, but she was gone. There was scuffling on the ground. I turned, saw the beefy hand that held my ankle, heard boxes falling to the floor below.
I couldn't jerk free, and soon I was falling past the heavy metal shelves, so I reached out and grabbed one, and hung there for a moment, trying to turn my momentum and pull myself back up. But it was too late.
Something pulled again, and this time I hit the floor, felt the cold, dusty concrete beneath my hands, and saw a pair of size fourteen work boots staring me in my face.
This is not good.
I tried to roll, to kick, to flip up and catch my opponent in the chin with my feet, but before I could budge, I realized my arms had stopped working.
"Come on, Cam," Bubblegum Guard said. "It's over, girl. I got you." He righted me and steered me around the corner, where Bex was being held by two maintenance guys (both of whom were bleeding).
"Nice going, though," Bubblegum Guard whispered as he dragged me toward the office door. Somehow, I don't think real international bad guys will be that nice. But I can hope.
I reeled through my options: damsel in distress, twisted ankle, fake seizure, head-butt to the nose? Something told me Bubblegum Guard wasn't going to be taken down by any of them. He had at least fifty pounds and fifteen years on me, but, as my mother says, I've always been a squirmer.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Morgan," Mr. Solomon said, strolling out of the office toward me. "But it's over. You don't have the disk. You have failed to meet your mission—"
It looked like it was over. He sounded like it was over. But, on cue, Liz cut the power and the lights.
Dark silhouettes flew from out of nowhere. It almost seemed to be raining Gallagher Girls. I wish I could include a blow-by-blow account, but everything happened too fast. Fists flew. Kicks struck home. I heard heavy bodies fall to the floor as Napotine patches made contact with skin.
The building must have been equipped with emergency lights, because, after a minute in the dark, an eerie yellow glow grew within the enormous space, and everything seemed to go still as the lights came on. I saw Bex level one of the guards and then bolt for the office, but just as she reached the threshold she must have tripped a motion detector, because an alarm sounded, and the room turned from office to prison as bars shot up from the floor, building a cage around the very thing we needed.
Bex banged against the bars, as behind her, Joe Solomon said, "Sorry, ladies, but I'm afraid this is the end of your mission." He shook his head. Instead of looking triumphant, he seemed sad, almost heartbroken. "I tried to tell you how important this is. I tried to get you ready, and now look at you." We were bloody and sore, but we were still standing, yet Mr. Solomon sounded guilty and disappointed. "How were you going to get out of here? What was your extraction plan? Were you really willing to sacrifice three quarters of your team for nothing?" He shook his head again and pulled away from us. "I don't want to see any of you next semester. I don't want that on my conscience."
"Excuse me, sir," I said. "But does that apply even if we have the disk?"
He laughed a quick, tired, barely audible laugh, reminding us all what our sisters have known for centuries— that men will always underestimate girls. Even Gallagher Girls.
"That disk," I said, pointing behind him to the cage that completely surrounded the small office except for the thin gaps where the floor opened up to allow the bars to shoot through. The space was far too small for a grown man to fit through. No, for that it would take a girl—preferably one the size of Anna Fetterman.
Dumbstruck, Mr. Solomon and the rest of his team stared as little Anna waved then slithered back through the gaps in the floor and out of sight. Some of the men bolted after her, but Joe Solomon stared on.
"Well," he said, "I guess—"
But before he could finish, a loud crashing sound filled the air. The room seemed full of dust and smoke and the sound of splintering lumber. Bubblegum Guard threw me against the wall, putting his body between me and harm as steel bent and shelves toppled, one right after another, falling like dominoes stacked in row.
It seemed like it took forever for Bubblegum Guard to let go of me. I think he was dazed—I know I definitely was. After all, it's not every day you A) break up with your secret boyfriend, B) get kidnapped by (sort of) former government operatives, and C) have the aforementioned secret boyfriend attempt to rescue you by driving a forklift through a wall.