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for spies, and we'd all thought that was a crazy rumor
until last semester when a delegation from the Blackthorne Institute had moved
into the East Wing, just a few feet from where we now sat.
    So
I looked around the empty dusty space and said, "Not always."
    Last
spring, finding out who those boys were and whether or not they could be
trusted had seemed like the most important mission of our lives. Charts of
surveillance summaries and patterns of behaviors still lined the walls of our
former operation headquarters, but the tape was starting to lose its hold. The
wires still ran to the East Wing, a reminder of the days when boys from the
Blackthorne Institute had seemed like a mission—back when missions had been
about getting us ready for the real world; before the real world cornered us on
a rooftop in Massachusetts.
    Liz
must have followed my gaze and read my mind, because I heard her say,
"Have you heard from…you know…Zach?"
    I
thought back to the swirling images that had filled my mind before I'd blacked
out, and almost asked, "Do hallucinations after a head injury count?"
But I didn't because A) I may very well have been going crazy. And B) for a
Gallagher Girl, "Boy crazy" might be the most dangerous kind of crazy
there is.
    So
instead I turned to look out the window and watched the long line of limousines
winding down Highway 10, carrying my classmates back to the safety of our
walls.
    It
was the same scene I'd witnessed for years—the same cars, the same girls. But
in the next instant the scene totally changed. Vans—dozens of them—sped down
the highway, skidding into ditches on the side of the road. People bolted out
and started adjusting satellite dishes and equipment. Helicopters swarmed
around the school.
    "Oh.
My. Gosh," I mumbled, still staring, feeling Bex and Liz crowd around the
window on either side of me. I looked at my best friends as sirens began
screeching through the still, quiet air: "CODE RED CODE RED CODE
RED."
    "What
does it mean?" Liz screamed. Bex and I just smiled.
    "Macey's coming home."
     
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    It
doesn't take a genius to know that the whole world can change in an instant,
and as soon as I hurried out of the secret passageway and into the second-floor
corridor I could see and hear and feel the difference. For days the halls had
felt like a tomb. But now, instead of stone silence, the whole school was on
fire (without actually burning, of course).
    Red
lights flashed and blurred. To my right, a poster advertising the chance to
spend a semester in Paris slid down over a display of secret writing techniques
used through the ages (which wasn't entirely necessary since, this month, it
was featuring invisible ink).
    As
we ran past the Encryption and Encoding department, I saw the plaque on the
door flipping over to read Ivy League Liaison Office.
    Our
school was going undercover, pulling on its disguises as deftly as any
seasoned operative can do, and as Bex, Liz, and I ran against a current of
eighth graders on their way to stand guard outside the Protection and
Enforcement barn, I couldn't help but smile. After all, it had been three hundred
and sixty-four days since Macey had come to us during a Code Red. It seemed
only fitting that she would come back to us in one.
    But
as we ran through the Hall of History, I watched Gillian Gallagher's sword
disappear into the case that holds our deepest treasure, and something hit me:
we wouldn't have a Code Red for Macey,
    We
were having a Code Red for Macey and whoever was coming with her.
    The
door to my mother's office eased open. Inside, I saw our headmistress, wearing
her best suit and a grim expression. "I guess we're ready for our
close-ups?" she was saying.
     
     
    As soon as we stepped into the
office I heard more voices.
    "Now
America waits for its first glimpse of Macey McHenry, the brave young woman who
has so recently been thrust into the spotlight—and into danger."
    (Evidently,
one of the Code Red precautions