4/

Girls were never a problem for me. Whether I wanted it or not, they seemed drawn to me, like moths to a light. They would flirt with me if they could, they would stare at me if they thought they weren't seen, they would scatter if I so much as glanced in their direction.

Other than all that, they left me alone, mostly so they could giggle from a distance, and I liked it better that way; though I kept them mostly at arms' length, I thought they were troublesome. I didn't need trouble.

I'd never had a serious girlfriend before. There was an average civilian here, a beautiful scholar there, maybe an attractive sophomore at the carnival, I didn't care. I never thought too long on the fact that I was single; most of Grant's girlfriends were incessantly annoying, so I didn't bother worrying about replacing them, mostly because one never…got to me.

But Cammie's little smile was burned into the back of my mind like a brand, permanently. She hadn't said she didn't have a boyfriend… But why did she flinch?

The spy in me told me it would be in my best interest to leave Cammie Morgan, Bex Baxter, and any other girls they had in mind to their amateur little school. Ignorance is bliss, and the truth would crush Cammie's world into bits and pieces.

The boy in me, unfortunately, wanted to know more. My last, uh, girlfriend, hadn't left on a happy note. Okay, so maybe I was the one that left, in a way. I really don't know if being pushed out of a rickety cargo plane over Brazil counts as "leaving," but I guess it was sort of my fault. (Turns out I still had my undamaged parachute, so she hadn't really wanted me dead.)

But Cammie would never push me out of a plane. She would never abandon anyone, even if it was to save herself. She was different.

Somehow, I knew it wouldn't be easy at Gallagher Academy. Girls living in a group like that was a disaster waiting to happen, especially mixed with boys like…well, like me.

It was a wonder that they hadn't burned the place down yet.

"Hi, Grant," I said, glancing behind me.

Grant flashed me one of his signature grins. "You really are a downer, Zach," he told me. "You hurt my pride." He put a hand to his chest, acting wounded.

I rolled my eyes. "Please."

His mortified expression switched to cocky. "It's because I'm gorgeous, isn't it?" I chuckled, but didn't answer.

"So," he said after a minute (Grant can't stand for silence unless his life depends on it—and sometimes not even then), "how was the famous Cameron Morgan?"

I didn't question how Grant knew about her. He was nosy, the way he found things out so quickly. The guys called him Gossip Girl behind his back, but considering, I had no doubt he already knew about that. "She was interesting," I responded carefully.

Grant shot me a strange glance. "Interesting? Never heard you say that about a girl before, Goode."

"Yeah, well, this one's different."

And for once, Grant had the sense to stop talking.

The ride back was one of those rare times when the air is filled with, well, happiness. For once, fifteen Blackthorne Boys were at ease in a confined space.

Grant was back to his usual cocky, arrogant demeanor, wowing all the guys with his tale of rescuing Bex from the Air and Space Museum.

Marcel Bartolini got van-wide recognition for his telling of covertly creating a chain reaction to push a girl called Courtney into the Reflecting Pool.

Tyler Wong had Sean Miller in a laughing fit in the aftermath of his story about carrying a girl named Kim all the way to an ambulance for her ankle after watching her fall down a flight of stairs—then "insisting" on walking (tailing) her to the museum, a full two minutes late.

When Jonas questioned me about my tailee, I did what every spy's first instinct is to do. I lied.

"Nothing exciting," I shrugged. "I just stalled her." My story was accepted almost too easily. Almost.

By the time the van pulled to a stop, I realized, in mid hand-to-hand combat with Jonas, that this time the ride had lasted only forty-five minutes. That epiphany earned me a fist to the face, but it turned out to be worth it, because right as I started to tell someone, the van's door flung open.

"Hi, Zach." Joe Solomon's smile looked brittle in the fading light as he stood at the van's entrance. "Hello, boys."

Fifteen mutters of "Hello, sir," were deftly brushed aside by Joe's impatient expression. "I understand Blackthorne still does night drills?" he asked us.

"Yes, sir," Grant said, grinning. He was still boastingly proud of his drill record.

"Good. That's what you'll be doing tonight," Joe started. "Listen up. In the square across town, there's a Barbie doll sitting on the gazebo steps. First one to get a bullet through her eye wins." A glint appeared in Joe's eyes. "First one to bring me her head gets extra credit. You have three hours."

"Yes, sir," we chanted.

"What about supplies, sir?" Jonas asked suddenly, for the first time in years not raising his hand.

"Check the rooftops." Joe placed his hand on the van's doors as if to leave, then turned back suddenly. "Turn on your comms," he reminded. "Keep your eyes peeled."

A sliver of light entered the van as he cracked open the door.

"And boys, if you're seen, you're dead."

With those words of warning, Joe Solomon was gone.

We sat in silence for a second, fifteen pairs of eyes staring at the doors, then at each other. What was Joe thinking? Pitting a whole team of Blackthorne Boys against each other? Was he crazy?

My very same thoughts seemed to be running through everyone else's as our stares turned to glares. Grant was the only one who moved as he reached hesitantly fro the van's doors and pushed them open just far enough to see through.

Sean was biting his lip so hard I thought he'd draw blood. "Well?" he demanded. "What's out there?"

Grant's voice was a mix of disbelief and pleasure when he spoke. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he said.

"What?" Jonas asked.

Grant threw open the doors, and for the first time that night, I saw something I hadn't seen before. Dr. Steve's van was parked two miles off the streets of Roseville, Virginia, just outside the stone-walled, iron-gated, 200-year-old mansion bearing the plaque: Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women..

Being invisible is no easy feat. To not be seen, you have to look like everyone else. You have to be average, a real pavement artist.

But to tell the truth, it's hard to blend in when there's no one around.

The skyline of Roseville was slowly coming into view, strangely spooky against the dark, starless blue behind it. I could vaguely see a few streetlights making the roads visible, and a whisper of a shadow crossing the street.

I walked faster.

I'd only traveled a mile and a half by then, but I didn't like the sound of Tyler panting over comms, so I picked up the pace a little more.

"Mr. Wong, you have been compromised," Joe's voice spoke in my ear, followed by Tyler's curse. "Please report back to the van."

His order was met with silence.

The Roseville buildings were towering over me now, casting long dark silhouettes on the ground. I walked close to the alleys, just in case.

"Grant, no explosives," Joe warned suddenly.

The only sound after that was Grant's, "Darn." The rest was static.

I paused. From where I stood, I saw a lot of things. I noticed that the homeless man in the trashcan exactly twenty meters away was too occupied to notice me. I saw that Sean was lurking near the town square, waiting to grab Barbie's head. I knew that, if Joe was telling the truth, a sniper gun of some sort would be waiting for me on the rooftop of any building surrounding the gazebo.

I quickly checked for anyone watching, listened for footfalls, then, as fast as I could possibly move, I crouched down, picked the lock on the nearest door, and shut myself inside.

Disabling the alarm was more of a job for Jonas than me, but after a few wasted seconds and a scorched finger, I managed to turn it off.

Hacking the elevator? That was different. Why? I didn't even try. One look at the control box and I was running up the stairs.

I knew I didn't have much time left. Over my comms unit, I could hear somebody rappelling down a building, and the ding of an elevator. I had to hurry.

Well, it turned out that Joe was telling the truth. A sniper rifle was sitting on the ledge, already loaded with BB pellets, safety off, pointing to the little white gazebo sitting in Roseville town square. A pair of night-vision goggles and a single bullet cartridge, complete with casing, was placed beside it.

I understood immediately. The goggles meant watch your back. The BB pellets were for opponents. The bullets were for Barbie.

Rule number three of being a spy: check your surroundings. So my first instinct when a pellet whizzed past me was to duck down and scan the roofs. A dark shape across the street waved at me—Grant.

Once I put on the goggles, I could see him clear as day. He raised his hand and signed to me: code for Left flank.

I didn't even bother to signal back. I swiveled to the left, spotted Marcel down the barrel of his own gun, and shot him. Twice. He went down.

"Nice shot!" Dr. Steve cried in my ear.

Grant flashed a thumbs up in the corner of my vision. I returned it. We had a simple, unvoiced understanding. Whichever one of us shot Barbie first, the other would get her head.

Using sign language was a precaution we always used. Sure, comms were useful, but everyone could hear whatever was said. Morse code? Yeah, if you wanted everyone in sight to read the blinking light. We would've been shot down before we could lift a finger.

I signed with one hand, Head or dead?

He signed back, Head. Cover me. He took one more second to shoot George, "asleep" on a bench by the square, then hooked himself to a harness and began rappelling down the alley side of the building.

I didn't like how close Sean was hovering. I shot him in the foot just as Joe said, "Mr. Miller, you've been compromised, please report back to the van."

Sean threw an angry look at sky, then the finger, then started limping back. I would probably pay for that later, but it was every man for himself. I would tell him that.

Grant's signal from down below was my cue. I swiftly switched out the BB pellets for the bullets, and focused Barbie's head into my scope, but just as I was about to pull the trigger, a bullet I knew wasn't mine ripped a hole into her right cheek.

"Mr. Franklin, you missed," Joe said through my comms unit, as if Carter Franklin didn't already know. "Report back to the van."

Carter muttered a pretty filthy word in French, but I could hear him starting to walk back.

"Zach, Grant, Benny, Jonas, you're still in the game. I expect that Barbie head soon."

I didn't waste a second. I aimed for Barbie's smoking, half-melted head, and shot her straight through the eye, then switched out the cartridges, and shot Benny just in case. Then I watched through the scope as Grant and Jonas both raced for Barbie.

Normally, one would've thought that Jonas wouldn't stand a chance against Grant, who was both bigger and more aggressive, but I'd seen Jonas in Block Five (otherwise known as Execution Methods). He looked thin and weak, but I knew for a fact he was crafty and fast.

Sure enough, at the last second he slid through Grant's legs, seized Barbie, and made a beeline for the streets, only to be taken down by a BB pellet to the knee and crushed under 115 pounds of Grant.

They wrestled for Barbie for a minute or two, ripped her in half, then wrestled some more. I aimed for Jonas in any way I could, but the two of them were rolling and punching so much I didn't try, just in case I'd hit Grant.

Finally, with thirty minutes still ticking on the clock, Grant kicked Jonas away from him, who took one of my pellets in the stomach, grabbed Barbie's mangled head, and ran as fast as he could for the van.

"Zachary, grab Jonas and get to the van," Joe ordered me. "The game's almost up."

As I hooked myself to a harness, tied a rope to the nearest pole, and began to rappel down the side of the building, I paused for a second to survey what was my last time in the outside world before we were confined to Gallagher Academy.

The moon was the only source of light from above. The air was cool and sharp. There was almost no trace of anyone around, except for the couple on the park bench behind me. I would miss fresh air.

"Hey, you okay?" I whispered to Jonas as I pulled him up.

He groaned, clutching his stomach. "That was some shot, Zach. I'll have a bruise in the morning."

"Sorry," I apologized. "All's fair in love and war." He could only manage to snort weakly in response.

It was only then, half-carrying, half-dragging Jonas, to notice what Joe had said. The game's almost up. He'd called me Zachary, our Code Red trigger.

The game's almost up.

What could that mean? Was my mother on to him? Well, she always was, but was she getting too close this time? Was there a breach? Was Joe in danger? Too many questions were running through my mind to focus, so I pushed them aside.

For now.

And the last words that would haunt me that night were Joe's, "Game over."