We pulled in to the executive airport, and my dad parked the car in the lot. He got our overnight bags out of the car (even spies like to brush their teeth before bed), and I went to work on the license plates, unscrewing them and handing them to my mom as I took them off the car.
“Plane’s waiting,” my dad said.
“New York’s not going anywhere,” my mom replied, but she grinned and followed him into the airport and through the concierge area. She took my hand and squeezed it as we walked, and I let her. My parents always get weirdly over-protective whenever we leave a town. It’s best just to let them get it out of their system.
The Collective started using private planes after 9/11, but to be honest, I really miss commercial airports. I hear that airport security is the biggest nightmare in the world, but an airport is a spy’s best friend. Disposable cell phones at every kiosk, coffee every ten feet, and international newspapers. (You can use your phone to read the Washington Post or Le Monde, I know, but sometimes you have to go offline, and a spy without access to information is a cranky spy.) You can even get a delicious soft pretzel. Okay, that last one may be important just for me. I love pretzels.
I grabbed some juice from the concierge area and followed my parents onto the tarmac. The rain was picking up now, a little bit cooler than it had been all summer. Autumn was definitely on its way, and I suddenly felt tired. The adrenaline was leaving now, and when it goes, it’s hard to find something else to take its place.
There was one flight attendant and a pilot. We rarely talk to them, but I’m pretty sure they work for the Collective, too. Our whole thing is secrecy, so what are we going to say? “We just got paperwork to bring down an evildoer! Booyah!” That definitely wouldn’t be keeping in line with the “stay beige” rule.
My mom handed the license plates and the manila folder to the flight attendant. “Thanks, Zelda,” she said. They must have worked together before. I wondered where. All I really know about my parents is that they were both orphaned young and met in Paris. Maybe Zelda was with them in Paris, too. Maybe Angelo was, as well. I wondered who my friends were going to be when I got older. Judging from my summer with Cute Boy, they would probably be imaginary.
Great.
Still, I knew I was expected to eventually go out on my own once I turned twenty-one. I hoped that I would meet awesome people, people who wanted to drive Maseratis instead of Toyotas, people who knew how to change the world, like me.
And I also hoped that they were terrible safecrackers. A girl has a reputation to uphold, after all.
I curled up in a seat near the window and stretched out across from my parents, who were sitting at the table. They probably wouldn’t sleep, but I was exhausted. “It’s late,” my mom said. “Get some rest, okay? Busy day tomorrow. Another life ahead.”
“Our family is weird,” I replied as I took the blanket from Zelda, the mysterious flight attendant. “I’m the only spy in the world who has someone telling them to go to bed.”
“We all start somewhere,” my dad said. “Catch some winks.”
The plane’s engines started to rev as the doors closed.
The lights overhead were soft and muted, probably for my benefit, and I pulled the blanket up to my chin and kicked off my shoes. I hoped I had cute shoes waiting for me in New York. I was tired of wearing flip-flops from Old Navy. It had been almost five years since I had last been in New York, but I knew you could get away with a lot, clothes-wise, in Manhattan. I mean, I’m a spy, but even spies watch Gossip Girl once in a while. I hoped for boots. I hoped the assignment was good. I was ready for a major change.
The plane started to pick up speed, its force pushing me back into my makeshift bed before lifting us up into the sky. I almost peeked out the window to see Iceland disappear below us, but I didn’t.
Because that’s the third rule of being a spy:
Never look back.
Chapter 2
If Iceland was flatlining, then New York looked like it was having a heart attack.
We landed at JFK somewhere around three thirty in the morning, and I didn’t remember the car ride to our new place. We were living downtown this time, deposited in a Soho loft five stories above Prince Street. I was so tired that I barely saw it on my way to what I guessed was my bedroom. I even fell asleep in my new bed with my shoes on, which explained all the scuff marks on the clean white sheets.
Occupational hazard, I guess.
It took me a few seconds to remember where I was when I woke up the next morning. My new bedroom was smaller than the one in Reykjavík, but this one had a wall of exposed brick and a window that faced west. If I stood on my bed, I could probably see the Hudson River. The white curtains were nice, as was the brass bedframe, but I already knew not to get too attached to things like bedroom furniture. When I was five, I had to leave a princess-style canopy bed behind in Sydney, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that it was tragic. I think I’m still grieving for that bed.
My parents were already at the kitchen table when I stumbled out to join them around eleven, bagels and coffee spread out over the wide butcher-block table. It was a pretty nice kitchen, lots of shiny stainless-steel things that did stuff, and I knew immediately that Angelo had picked out our place for us. He told me once that he had always wanted to be a chef, even though I’ve never seen him cook a thing.
The microwave looked all fancy. It would be great for heating up takeout, at least.
“What’s the story, morning glory?” I said to my dad, who pushed a cup of coffee at me.