Read Online The Doublecross by Jackson Pearce - Free Book Online

earlier this year, and there I was, totally bombing at it in the field.
    â€œWant to see my machine?” Ben asked brightly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy machine. I call it the RiverBENd,” Ben said, motioning to the deliberately ordered collection of gym things. “It pours me a glass of water.”
    I looked at the row of things—there was a broken trampoline and a janitor’s water bucket among the chaos—and frowned. With a grin, Ben dashed over to one end, wherea yoga mat lay curled up atop a rolling cart. He slowly, carefully placed a finger on the mat, then nudged the mat forward.
    The mat unfurled. When it flipped down, the edge caught the end of the bicycle tube. The tube snapped forward, sending three hand weights rolling down a ramp made of towels stretched tautly. The final weight flipped off the end, triggering a seesaw that bounced a yoga ball up into the air. The ball, in turn, slapped the end of a jump rope, which swung forward then back, spiraling itself around a mop. The mop tilted to the front of its cleaning bucket, upsetting a broom. To my amazement—shock, wonder, delight, even—the broom handle fell forward, striking the button on the water fountain.
    The fountain turned on and an arc of water shot up into the sky, missing the drain by a mile. It cascaded beautifully down toward a plastic cup on the ground. I held my breath as . . .
    It missed. By an inch, give or take. We all exhaled in disappointment.
    â€œOh, come on!” Ben yelled in frustration, turning around and kicking a basketball so hard, it bounced back off the wall and whizzed by my head.
    â€œI told you,” Beatrix said. “I told you the pressure was wrong. You tested it when you were pushing down on the water fountain thing, but the broom doesn’t push as hard as you.”
    To prove her point, she turned the cell phone contraption around so that we could see the screen. On it was a fancy drawing of the arc of the water fountain, an X where the cup should have been placed.
    â€œTrust the Right Hand,” she finished sagely.
    â€œThe what?” I asked, worrying this was a code name for a weapon.
    â€œThe
Right Hand
. My phone? ’Cause it’s always in my hand? Get it? It’s a joke.”
    I tried to laugh, but it came out as sort of a weird
huckhuck
noise.
    â€œOkay, hang on. I can fix it,” Ben muttered, and walked to the water fountain. He repositioned the cup, and then began to meticulously backtrack through the machine, putting all the parts in their original positions. Beatrix helped him rebalance the weights.
    â€œSo . . . um . . . anyway,” I said. “So, my dad works in prisoner transport, and I was supposed to check in with him after I gave away the rest of those cookies . . .” I glanced at the floor.
Lie, Hale, remember how to lie.
“I can’t think of where it is, though.”
    â€œWe don’t have anything like that,” Ben said, shrugging. “I think we used to? Maybe? Maybe we could ask the receptionist?”
    â€œOh, I don’t want to bother him,” I said. “Maybe you call it something different, something I’m not used to. Holding?”
    Beatrix shrugged, and Ben just returned to lining up the yoga balls.
    They knew. They
had
to know, and the fact that they weren’t telling me made me more convinced than ever that they were agents undercover. It also convinced me more and more that they were stalling. We were in a race of wits, and I needed to stay ahead. The only way to do that would be by beating them to a confession.
    I firmed my jaw, stood up straight, and tried to make my eyes all coal-like, same as on Dad’s “getting answers” face. I reached down and tugged at my shirt, stretching the neck down far enough that my uniform—and the SRS logo on it—was revealed. Telling the truth was definitely
not
something I learned in training, but desperate times called for desperate