“Hit to the head. As in my head and the ground? Or my head and flying debris? Because the car…” I trailed off.
“Oh, God, the car.”
“You’re okay,” Tara said, her voice low and smooth.
“You’re going to be fine.”
I sat up, slowly, and Tara leaned toward me. She took my head in her hands, and peered carefully at my eyes.
“Your pupils aren’t dilated,” she said. “Can you track my finger?”
I followed her French-manicured index finger as it zipped back and forth.
“Headache?” she questioned.
I gave her a look that I hoped conveyed a properly large amount of “duh.”
Tara was not the least bit deterred by my response. “Nausea?”
“No.”
“You probably don’t have a concussion,” Tara told me, “but procedure says we have to get you checked out, just to be sure.”
“Better safe than sorry?” I asked, a single note of sarcasm creeping into my voice. I’d known logically that spying was a dangerous gig, but the fact that there were procedures for stuff like this kind of hit that message home.
“More or less,” Tara replied.
“Makes sense,” I said. “I mean, I’m guessing the government likes to cover all their bases when their top-secret underage teenage agents almost get blown to freaking pieces!”
“Drama queen.”
I never thought I’d live to see the day when a cheerleader would call me a drama queen.
“I could have been killed!”
Stupid Big Guys. Stupid bomber. Stupid Jack’s uncle.
This time, Tara just mouthed the words. “Drama. Queen.”
“Exploding car,” I countered. About that time, it occurred to me to ask the question that my subconscious was deliberately skirting. “Jacob Kann?”
Tara shook her head.
“Our mark is dead.” I said the words out loud, but they still didn’t feel real. “Somebody killed him.”
“We’ll find out who,” Tara said. “And why.”
I was in shock, and her words were strangely comforting. Jacob Kann hadn’t exactly been one of the good guys. In fact, there was a very good chance that he was one of the bad guys, but I felt oddly compelled to avenge his death, to find the person who planted that bomb and to make sure they couldn’t ever do it again.
“The Big Guys are sending in a special team,” Tara told me. “Half to run interference with the local law enforcement, and half to speed up the forensics end of the investigation. We should know more about the explosives used by tomorrow.”
I rubbed the side of my head and was immediately rewarded with a sharp, throbbing pain.
“Don’t touch it,” Tara said. “I stopped the bleeding, but it’s going to be a heck of a bruise.”
“Stopped the bleeding?” That sounded serious. “How long was I out for?”
“Five minutes,” Tara said. “I got you to the car and left ASAP, drove a couple miles away, and once we’d cleared the scene and I’d called in the situation, I pulled over to try to wake you up.” She paused and handed me a bottle of something that looked like body splash. I smelled it and my eyes immediately began tearing.
“It’s good for bringing people back,” she said. “Don’t ask what’s in it.”
I accepted her advice.
“You going to be okay to ride the rest of the way to the emergency room?”
I stared at Tara. “Emergency room?”
“Protocol.”
“Yeah, we already covered that, but I just figured…I mean, don’t we have our own doctor? Or some kind of top-secret medical base or something?”
“Absolutely,” Tara said, arching an eyebrow at me. “It’s under a volcano and run by a mad scientist.”
I gave her a look. “We have a helipad,” I told her. “I don’t think a med center is that much more ridiculous.”
She shrugged, conceding the point. “We have somewhere we can go if things are serious. If not, we hit up the ER.”
My super spy senses told me that I wasn’t going to get any more information out of her about the top-secret place we could go for “serious” injuries, and I didn’t really feel compelled to dwell on the fact that my current injuries could have easily been more severe.
“So,” I said. “About that emergency room.”
Ten minutes later, we arrived at the Bayport Hospital ER.
The woman at the front desk asked me the nature of my injury. Tara responded before I had the chance. “We dropped her.”
The woman clucked her tongue. “You girls,” she said. “I swear, you’re in here more than the football players.”
It took every ounce of subtlety I had to refrain from gawking at Tara’s audacity. She was trying to pass off my near-concussion as the result of a cheer injury?
“Well, cheerleading is the second most dangerous sport in America,” Tara said.
The woman smiled. “Right after polo,” she said. Clearly, she’d somehow heard this spiel often enough that she’d come to believe it was true. I sincerely hoped that my health was not in any way in her hands.
“You girls sit down,” the woman said. “I’ll sneak you in just as soon as a room opens up.”
“Thanks, Nora,” Tara said. Then she hooked her arm through mine and prodded me toward the waiting room.
“Second most dangerous sport in America?” I asked under my breath, my tone incredulous. “Where do you guys get this stuff?”
“Oh,” Tara said as we sat down. “That’s actually true.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously,” Tara said. “Cheerleaders sustain more debilitating injuries than almost any other kind of athlete.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again, completely unsure how to respond to Tara’s claim.
“Really, Toby. Everyone on the Squad has gotten to know Nora really well, and it’s not because of our extracurricular activities. It’s because cheerleading is hard on your body. People get dropped. Ankles get twisted. Teeth get knocked out. It happens.”
“And when something ‘happens’—” I made liberal use of air quotes.
“We come here,” Tara finished for me.