Perfect Cover by Jennifer Lynn Barnes Read Free Book Online Page A

another emblem—this one containing a shield embossed with a sixteen-point compass star and an eagle—and that this circular emblem, five feet wide to the other’s twelve, was rising slowly off the ground.
    “Squad version of an elevator?” I guessed.
    The ceiling’s panels spread apart, allowing our Squad-evator to deposit us in one of the locker-room showers. A shower which happened to be turned on, full blast. Tara jumped quickly out of the way, but I got the “refreshing” benefits of the spray, straight in the face. Within seconds, the shower turned off, and I stood there, fully clothed and sopping wet.
    “Tara?” I said calmly.
    “Yes?” She bit back a smile, which I met with a glare.
    “I think I know what the towel is for.”

CHAPTER 8
    Code Word: Boo
    Trapdoors. Underground lairs, high-tech headquarters, and references to “the Big Guys Upstairs.” Bobby sock handcuffs and lethal orange thongs.
    I tried to take it all in stride. Really I did. I pride myself on being the type of person who doesn’t get caught off guard, but the thing was, I’d been so soaking wet that the twins had somehow coaxed me into pulling the shower curtain closed, stripping, and giving them my clothes. I figured that the Squad had to have some kind of intense drying technology, but I’d been standing in the shower in nothing but my underwear and my combat boots for ten minutes, and Brittany and Tiffany still hadn’t returned so much as a single additional article of clothing. First period was about to start, and, quite frankly, even a bulletproof push-up bra was starting to sound good.
    “Here.” A manicured hand thrust something over the top of the shower stall. It was pink and sparkly. Like I would be caught dead in pink.
    “What’s this?”
    “Your shirt.”
    “No.” I dragged the word out, trying to be patient. “My shirt is much bigger. And black.”
    “I suppose that’s one word for it.”
    “Brittany!” I spat out one of the twins’ names, figuring I had a fifty-fifty chance.
    “Tiffany,” the twin in question corrected.
    “Tiffany,” I said, my voice dangerously pleasant, “I want my clothes back, and I want them back now.”
    There was a long silence.
    “Tiffany!”
    Then finally, she began speaking again. “You know how sometimes in spy movies, they’ll send someone a note and it will be all ‘this message will self-destruct in ten seconds’? Well, your shirt…”
    “Self-destructed?” I asked through clenched teeth.
    “It was more like assisted suicide.”
    I wrapped the towel tighter around my body, threw the curtain back, and leapt at Tiffany.
    She held her hands out in front of her body. “Stage Six!” she shrieked. “We’ve been authorized for a Stage Six makeover!”
    I was about to show her six stages of pain, but when Brittany came sauntering over with something that looked suspiciously like lingerie and a teeny-tiny jean skirt, I realized I had bigger problems than pink sparkles.
    “I don’t do skirts.”
    Brittany was less than intimidated at the threat of impending violence in my voice. “You’re the hacker. We do fashion.” She held up the jean skirt. “Today, the entire school finds out you made the squad, and unless you want to blow your cover the first day on the job, you have got to get a sense of style.” She leaned forward. “Stat.”
    I’m not proud to admit this, but five minutes later, I was sitting in first period wearing a pink sparkly shirt, a skirt so mini it might not have qualified as such, and my combat boots, which I’d managed to get back from the twins before they had them incinerated. I had come to the conclusion that Brittany needed to die. The verdict was still out on Tiffany.
    “That’s her?”
    I heard the whispered question, but didn’t tune in. Instead, I adjusted my highly uncomfortable strapless bra and played around with the idea of stuffing one of those “special” socks into Britt’s over-glossed mouth.
    “That’s her. I