Bex handed me a piece of gear, but before I took it, I turned to face him one last time. "Oh," I said, "and I don't have a cat."

I turned to hide my tears and stared into the deep expanse of night that lay before me. I didn't stop to think about all that lay behind. Free of my secrets, free of my lies, I told myself I was doing what I was put on this earth to do. I ran. I jumped. I stretched out my arms, and for ten blissful seconds, I could fly.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Okay, so it wasn't flying so much as skirting between two buildings on a zip line, but still, it felt good to be weightless.

Josh was behind me. I zoomed toward what lay ahead, and at that height and that speed, I didn't have a chance to look back. I touched down, and it felt natural to hear Eva tell Tina, "We're heading for the breaker boxes."

It was only right that Courtney should say, "Copy that," and drag Mick toward the fire escape on the west side.

We were Gallagher Girls on a mission—doing what we do best. So I didn't think about what had just happened, not even when Bex asked, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I told her, and in that adrenaline-filled moment, it was true.

We ran to the south side, and Bex used a small tube that looks like a lipstick but really is a super-intense acidic cream. I totally don't recommend getting them mixed up, by the way, because, just as soon as Bex drew a big circle in the roof, the acid starting eating away, and thirty seconds later I was rappeling down into the warehouse below.

The building was a maze of tall metal shelves stacked with pallets. I imagined the beeping of forklifts as Bex and I crept through the south side of the building, trusting that our classmates were simultaneously creeping through the north.

"He's taller than I expected," Bex whispered as she waited for me to silently clear a corner.

"Yeah, whatev—"

But just then, a guy I recognized from the maintenance department jumped from a high shelf. He'd descended through the air like a big, black crow, but Bex and I had sensed him, felt his shadow. I stepped aside, and he landed with a thud against one of the shelves. He didn't even hesitate before spinning around to kick, but Bex was ready and slapped a Napotine patch right in the middle of his forehead. (I am really glad Dr. Fibs quit smoking, by the way, because, besides the obvious health benefits, the idea of putting tranquilizers on stickers is awesome.)

Bex and I were moving again through the dark maze when she said, "You're gonna find someone else. Someone even hotter. With even better hair!" Lie. But a nice one.

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.

"Cammie!" I heard Josh cry through the dust, but I couldn't answer him—not then. Mr. Solomon was on the floor. He had planned for every contingency but one—the persistence of a regular boy who has the misfortune of loving an exceptional girl.

"Cammie!" Josh said through the dust that was swarming around the forklift as he climbed down to stand atop the pile of rubble. "We. Need. To. Talk."

"Yes," said a voice behind me. I turned to see my mother standing there. My strong, beautiful, brilliant mother. "We do."

Mr. Solomon was stirring. Bubblegum Guard was fanning the dust out of the air, and Bex was grinning like this was the most fun she'd ever had in her entire life. It was over—the test, the lies, everything. It was over, so I did the only thing I could.

"Josh," I said, "I'd like you to meet my mom."

Chapter Twenty-nine

After I had learned the truth about my parents, and before I came to the Gallagher Academy, the only time I wasn't worried was when they were both within my sight. I think that's when I started being The Chameleon. I'd creep into their bedroom and watch them sleep. I'd lie silently behind the sofa, listening to the sounds of the TV as they relaxed in the evening. But even for me, the night of the CoveOps final was a long one.

23:00 hours: Operatives return to headquarters and are instructed to go upstairs and go to bed.

23:40 hours: Tina Walters reports that Headmistress Morgan has locked herself in her office with The Subject.

01:19 hours: The Operative succeeds in getting all the sawdust and gunk out of her hair.

02:30 hours: Majority of sophomores stop studying for COW final and go to bed.

04:00 hours: The Operative still can't fall asleep. The Operative realizes that the best-case scenario would involve a glass of "memory modification" tea and The Subject waking up in his own bed in a few hours without a single memory of what happened the night before. The Operative doesn't let herself think about the worst-case scenario.

At seven o'clock the next morning, I'd had enough of waiting, so I knocked on my mother's office door. I thought I was prepared for anything—that after the day I'd had before, nothing could knock me off guard ever again.

I was wrong.

"Hi," Josh said.

"What… Huh … How …" I could tell by the look on his face that he was seriously beginning to doubt my newly revealed genius status, but I couldn't help it—he should have been gone before then. I wasn't supposed to have to face him. We weren't supposed to have that awkward moment of standing crowded together in the doorway of my mother's office. The two halves of my life weren't supposed to collide.

"Were you here all night?" I asked when I finally regained my ability for coherent thought.

His eyes were red and heavy, but he didn't look like someone who was eager to go to sleep. In fact, he looked like someone who was never going to sleep again.