“Well, Rachel Morgan,” he said, looking at my mother as if she hadn’t been standing right in front of him for a full minute, “welcome back! And this must be little . . .” The man squinted, trying to read the badge in his hand.
“This is my daughter, Cameron.”
“Of course she is! She looks just like you.” Which just proved that whatever terrible nose incident he’d experienced had no doubt affected his eyes, too, because while Rachel Morgan has frequently been described as beautiful, I am usually described as nondescript. “Strap this on, young lady,” the guard said, handing me the ID badge. “And don’t lose it—it’s loaded with a tracking chip and a half milligram of C-4. If you try to remove it or enter an unauthorized area, it’ll detonate.” He stared at me. “And then you’ll die.”
I swallowed hard, then suddenly understood why take-your-daughter-to-work day was never really an option in the Morgan family.
“Okay,” I muttered, taking the badge gingerly. Then the man slapped the counter, and—spy training or not—I jumped.
“Ha!” The guard let out a sharp laugh and leaned closer to my mother. “The Gallagher Academy is growing them more gullible than it did in my day, Rachel,” he teased, then winked at me. “Spy humor.”
