The Doublecross by Jackson Pearce

Jordan.
Mom’s file popped up, the borders of the window bright red to indicate the security clearance needed to access it. I heard something in the hall—maybe just the AC kicking on, maybe footsteps, but I didn’t have time to pause and dwell on it. The computer slowed as the system struggled to pull up the hundreds of missions she’d participated in, Project Groundcover included. Meanwhile Dad’s face appeared slightly smaller beneath hers, under the heading “Current Partner.” Finally the computer caught up, and I scrolled down frantically. Status, status, I just needed to see her status. If SRS was telling the truth, she’d be listed as “missing in the field.”
    I froze, staring at the screen. Blinking, angry letters smashed through my eyes all the way to my brain, rummaged around, and tore up everything I thought was real.
    Status: In the Weeds
    Mom and Dad were marked to be eliminated on sight. By SRS.

Chapter Twelve
    You know that feeling when you’re in the car, and you go over some little dip in the road, and your stomach goes up for just a second? At the moment you’re a little scared because you feel all off balance, but once it’s over, you realize it was pretty fun, and want to go over it again. But then the supervising agent driving you to the dentist is like,
No, we don’t have time to go over bumps just for fun, Hale, now be quiet
?
    Maybe that last part is just me.
    But anyway, that feeling—like the world was dropping out from under you suddenly—that was what reading about my parents being In the Weeds felt like. The world fell away, and I kept waiting for that moment, the moment where someone revealed that this was all just a joke or a training mission or some sort of twisted test. I’d be embarrassedthat I’d fallen for it, and my parents would come out and remind me that I should have kept my cool, and hug me, and then we’d go home and I’d complain about my uniform and we’d talk about blast-door-wiring schematics over dinner, like normal.
    That didn’t happen.
    I printed the screen about my parents and kept the paper folded up in my pocket. Each time I took it out, I hoped it would read differently. Each time, I was more sure about what I had to do next: I had to
trust
The League. They’d told me the truth about my parents, so there was no reason to think they were lying about everything else. They were the heroes.
    I had to go back. I had to become a hero too—for my parents’ sakes.
    For the next week I very, very carefully rebuilt my reputation—which is to say, I went back to being Fail Hale. There was too much attention on me, and I’d never be able to sneak away so long as that was the case. So, I went to class. I lost the race at the end. I avoided Walter and the Foreheads—who, given that I’d revealed their favorite kitchen escape route, were now especially Walter-y. I ignored Kennedy’s concerned looks and Ms. Elma’s attempts to convince us that she’d actually cooked dinner, even when we recognized the food from the cafeteria’s lunch menu.
    It paid off—the following Friday, Otter handed me his dry cleaning ticket and waved me off while Walter and theother junior agents headed to the firing range to practice defensive archery. I breezed past the receptionist, as per usual, but then instead of heading to the dry cleaner’s, I boarded the first train to Fairview.
    â€œMr. Jordan! Dr. Oleander told me you might be back!” the guy at the reception desk said when I walked into League headquarters, and his voice was all flat—like he hadn’t been
told
, but rather,
warned
. He kept an eye on me as he lifted his phone and pressed a few buttons, then spoke quickly into the receiver. A few moments later Oleander appeared at the end of the hallway, walking toward me quickly, pantsuit crisp and rustling.
    â€œMr. Jordan,” Oleander said