Friday, May 25

  Hyatt Hotel or Somethin’

  Mission: Intel Dump

  12:11

  “Mike, Malachi, Connor, and Jackson—Room 355.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. 355 wasn’t as high up as I’d imagined, but then again, if an entire football team is staying in your hotel, it’s probably best to keep them closer to the bottom floor—easier to evacuate if things go nuclear.

  With our carry-ons and duffel bags, the four of us headed into one of the elevators and hit the button for the fifth floor. (The first and second floors were reserved for “entirely different matters,” which sounded like something I didn’t want to be part of.)

  As soon as we got into the room, Mike rushed straight for the bathroom, while the rest of us stepped inside and took everything in.

  “Whooo—this smells good,” Malachi said, stepping forward like he owned the place.

  The room was big enough for a family of four, maybe five if somebody didn’t mind being furniture. The “living room”—sort of—had a gray couch facing a TV mounted on the wall. A desk sat under it with a basket of pens like someone thought homework might break out.

  The carpet was brown with circles of random colors scattered all over it like a confused cereal pattern. Closest to the door was the little kitchen area—stove, fridge, and a row of wooden cabinets. The microwave was tucked into an open cabinet slot above the counter, which felt like a fire hazard, but okay.

  To the left of the entrance was the bedroom: one big bed, a monitor mounted from the ceiling in the corner, and a bathroom attached. Thick drapes hung beside the window, pulled open to let the light in. The view wasn’t terrible—you could see the roads and a hint of the city beyond—but it wasn’t exactly postcard material.

  “I’m certain Danne’s not gonna make it,” Jackson said, tossing his bag by the couch. “Not just because he’s a menace to society, but he didn’t really show much athleticism.”

  “And you did?” Malachi asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’d think so. If you can—I certainly can,” Jackson said.

  Malachi shook his head with a smirk. “That’s not a great comparison. You’re assuming you’re better than me.”

  “No one… ever said that…”

  Malachi chuckled, rubbing his hands together as he fixed a steady stare in Mike’s direction, like he was planning something.

  “I’m more worried about Connor than anything,” Jackson added, dropping onto the couch. “Where’s the list of channels—”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, brows furrowing. “Not that you haven’t shown athleticism, but rumors say you’re a menace to society.”

  “This guy?” Malachi laughed. “I can vouch for him—if a bee was chasing him, he’d jump out that window right there.”

  Kind of rude.

  Kind of accurate.

  Still hate it.

  “Well, isn’t he a possible mole?” Jackson asked. “Makes me wonder why he’s even here—not in disrespect.”

  “Disrespect taken,” I snapped.

  Jackson sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Look, I’m nervous, alright? Let me at least feel good about my chances.”

  Malachi walked over, bent down, and clamped a hand firmly on Jackson’s shoulder. “If you want to get accepted onto the team, play the best football you’ve ever played in your life. How about that?”

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  “You act like I can just guarantee that,” Jackson said.

  “Try your best to,” Malachi replied. “Now where’s the list of channels—”

  “Wait,” Jackson cut in. “Which beds are we choosing?”

  Everyone froze.

  We all looked at each other. Malachi looked at me. Jackson looked at me. The silence grew more uncomfortable by the second.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said.

  “Ahhh, thank God,” Malachi and Jackson said in unison.

  “Gotta be careful, y’know?” Jackson added.

  Malachi just shrugged in agreement.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I sighed.

  They dragged their luggage into the bedroom, leaving me alone in the living area. I dropped onto the couch, laid my head back on the armrest, and stared at the ceiling.

  “Sorry, man,” Agent D7’s voice came through the earbud.

  “Don’t do that, bro,” I hissed. “You and Renner’s big boys are practically doing the same thing they are.”

  “How?” D7 asked.

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. I didn’t actually know how to explain it. His comment from earlier—the one about how this might give me some respect—had messed with my head.

  It felt less like they were trying to cage me and more like they were… depending on me. Not that I wasn’t a scapegoat—they’d absolutely throw me under the bus to save face if things went wrong—but still. It made the whole thing feel a tiny bit less suffocating.

  “Never mind,” I muttered. “Look, have you seen any signs of anyone near the stadium or anything like that?”

  “We’ve been on the lookout,” Agent D7 said. “We have operatives around the stadium and around your hotel.”

  “Oh. I didn’t notice that.”

  “That’s the point,” he said. “We haven’t seen any movement or suspicious activity yet.”

  “Well, Jamal and Maddie, and Elf—David—were planning to do something to the game. I don’t know how exactly.”

  “And what were they doing it for?” D7 asked.

  “They didn’t tell you?” I asked. “They’re trying to frame me. Remove suspicion from themselves. I’m on the Mageball team—it’d be easy to pin it on me. They just don’t know you guys already know.”

  Silence.

  My stomach twisted.

  There was some muffled talking on his end—D7 and another voice, a girl’s, indistinguishable but urgent—before he came back.

  “You thought it was Jamal, Maddie, and Elf, right?” he asked.

  “Still do,” I said.

  “Well, have you ever thought about how they’re going to pull this off?” he asked.

  I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “No.”

  “To pull off any large-scale disruption—especially with security at this level—there would almost certainly need to be someone working from the inside,” D7 said. “Someone on the team. A mole working for the mole.”

  My eyes widened.

  Multiple moles.

  Layers of moles.

  A mole within a mole.

  “So we just have to find whoever’s sharing intel with them,” I murmured. “At least that gives us more options. But who exactly…?”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I stood slowly, walked to the door, checked the peephole, and relaxed a little. It was just Mike, waving politely at a married couple walking past.

  I unlocked the door and stepped aside.

  “Bathroom, right?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Sorry I took so long. Buses don’t have bathrooms,” he said, resting his hand on the desk as he walked in.

  He seemed casual, but my stare must’ve been intense enough to make him falter.

  “Buses never… had bathrooms…” Mike mumbled, half to himself. He sat on the couch and grabbed the remote. “Now, where’s the list for the—”

  “Do you know about the CAMEO Stadium attack?” I interrupted.

  Mike nodded immediately. “Yeah.”

  “How did the TSA pull it off?” I asked.

  “The obvious way,” he said. “There was an informant inside CAMEO who fed intel to TSA. Layouts, guard rotations, who’d be there, who wasn’t, who was playing. They had everything.”

  “Wow,” I muttered. “Efficient. Horrifying, but efficient.”

  “After the attack, EMO launched an investigation immediately. Desperate to save their reputation, their jobs, their funding—everything,” Mike continued. “They eventually caught the guy. Agent 202: Kenneth Quinn.”

  My brows lowered. “Never heard of him.”

  “Junior agent. Seventeen, I think,” Mike said. “But he fed enough intel to orchestrate a devastating attack. His cover?” Mike glanced at me. “Another mageball player.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “I’m sorry, what’s the difference between Mageball and Mage Football?” I asked.

  “Who calls it Mage Football?” Mike demanded, disgusted.

  “I don’t know, maybe the pamphlet and every billboard and screen advertising the games?” I shot back.

  “That’s just so regular people know what Mageball is,” Mike said. “Nobody actually calls it Mage Football. Freakin’ weirdo.”

  “Not the point,” I said. “They were going to kill Kenneth, right? After they caught him?”

  Mike’s grin turned sharp. “No. They were going to use him.”

  “Use him?”

  “Yeah. Turn him into an asset. He had intel on the TSA. They figured they could flip him, make him a double agent. That’s EMO for you,” Mike said. “Didn’t work, though.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “He escaped,” Mike said. “They were moving him in a convoy. Convoy got attacked. Blown up. Compromised. Everyone died—except him. No one’s seen him since. No body. No arrest. Just… gone.” He stood and moved to the desk. “Oh—here’s the list.”

  “Wait—wait,” I said. “So what did EMO do after that? To prevent it from happening again?”

  “Advanced checks. Deeper screenings. That’s probably why they were so hard on you at one point,” Mike said. “If anyone’s trying that move again, they’re either incredibly stupid or incredibly confident. How come you never learned any of this?”

  “I'm first year,” I replied.

  “Oh,” Mike said simply.