Soar by Tracy Edward Wymer

It’s a mess.
    I press the walkie button. “Ruby, I’m heading toward the backyard. Over.”
    â€œ Boa sorte , Eagle,” Gabriela says. “That means ‘good luck.’ Over.”
    From behind the oak tree Gabriela gives me a thumbs-up. “One more thing, Eddie. I mean, Eagle. Leave no stone unturned. Chapter seven. Over.”
    I stuff the walkie into my cross pouch. Then I creep stealthily around the side of the house toward the backyard.
    The backyard is bigger than the front but still small enough for me to see with my mini flashlight. I point the flashlight through the chain-link fence, scanning one section of the yard at a time.
    There’s a ton of stuff back there. Most of it looks like circus junk. There’san old tire. A garden gnome. Two pogo sticks. A statue of cupid shooting an arrow. And a bicycle with a huge front wheel and a tiny back wheel. But there’s no sign of my bike.
    I pull out the walkie and whisper into it. “Ruby, how’s it look out there? Over.”
    No response.
    â€œRuby? Are you there? Over.”
    Still no response.
    I shine the light close to the back of the house.
    There it is.
    My bike.
    â€œRuby. Target in sight. I found it.” I try to keep my voice low, but it’s hard, knowing that my bike is actually safe. Part of me wasn’t sure. Part of me thought it might’ve been destroyed, strewn over the yard in pieces, or worse—sold—gone forever.
    I shine the light onto my bike again to make sure it’s not an illusion. Then I pull myself together. Spies can’t let their emotions get in their way, even if they have strong feelings for the target.
    Gabriela’s voice crackles through the walkie. “I’m here, Eagle. Sorry, I could not hold it anymore. I had to use the bathroom. Over.”
    â€œRuby!” I whisper. “You can’t leave your post. What ifsomeone leaves or comes home? I’m the recon specialist. You’re the lookout. It’s your job to inform me if anything changes. Don’t leave your post again. Over.”
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    I hold out the mini flashlight, shining it on my bike. “Let’s try this again. Any changes to report from the front yard? Over.”
    â€œNo. All clear, Eagle.”
    â€œThen I’m going in.”
    â€œOkay, Eddie. I mean, Eagle. Operation Ninja Bird is a go. Over.”
    â€œSigning off until target is secure. Over and out.”

The Rescue Mission
    I unzip the cross pouch and stash the walkie, adjusting the pouch so it’s not in my way. I stream the flashlight over my bike. From where I’m crouched it’s hard to tell if there’s any damage. After seeing the torn-up couch on the front porch, I’m prepared for the worst.
    A light from inside the house turns on and comes flooding into the yard. There are no curtains or blinds on the windows, so I have to be cautious. Knocking over the garden gnome or tripping over a pogo stick could lead to failure, and Operation Ninja Bird can not end in failure.
    I climb the chainlink fence, sticking my shoes inside the gaps and pulling myself up. I plant one foot on the top bar and leap over the fence. I land quietly in the grass.
    Stepping around a pogo stick, I slide around the cupid statue, which is bigger than it looked from the side yard.
    I run the flashlight along my bike to check its condition. Nicks and scratches cover the frame. The seat stem is loose, and the seat cover is coming off. The handlebars are wobbly, the grips are torn, and the tires—oh, the tires—they’re completely flat.
    The bedroom light is still on. I wonder if it’s Mouton’s bedroom or his parents’ room. I’m better off not finding out.
    I pick up my bike with both hands and walk toward the fence. After three seconds I set it down and catch my breath. Then I use all my strength to lift it over the fence.
    Suddenly the back porch light turns on, lighting