Siege of Shadows (Effigies #2)(25)

I straightened. Mission? The mission that was supposed to remain a secret from the public? Belle kept her gaze dead ahead, but I could see her jaw tighten.

“Sir, when you mention the Sect’s ongoing security issues,” said one male reporter in the front, “are you referring to the Sect’s failure to capture the international terrorist Saul?”

“Among other things.” His finger ran along his square jawline as he thought. “Luckily, I have good news to report. After successfully tracing Saul’s whereabouts, I’ve just been informed that we have been able to find and extract the target.”

What the hell was he talking about? I stared at him in disbelief, but he wasn’t finished.

“I can now confirm, given my sources, that he is presently within Sect custody at the Marrakesh Sect headquarters, thanks in large part to the efforts of these four.”

“It doesn’t look like this particular Effigy agrees,” said one suspicious reporter.

And they were looking at me. That was when I realized my mistake: my face.

You have to think of the camera as the ultimate frenemy, Lake had told me weeks ago in our dorm room. One of the many PR lessons I’d been given by the master. Like, if you love it, it’ll love you, sure. But it’s always waiting in the wings, ready to take you down the moment you show even the slightest hint of weakness. The camera’s a snake trying to tear you apart every second. That’s why, like I said, you always have to keep calm. Mind your reactions. Control the narrative.

Mind your reactions. Control the narrative. Two good tips. And once I realized that my face had been contorted in confusion and panic, I knew I’d blown each one.

Relaxing my face and snapping my mouth closed, I stared back at the journalists, whose eyes were now trained squarely on me.

“Is there something we’re missing here?”

“Are you telling the truth?” another asked. “Is the terrorist in custody?”

The floodgates opened, and it wasn’t just the reporters. The fans were still outside, yelling over one another as they pressed up against the gates.

What did I do?

I could feel the sweat begin to bead my hairline. This had to be some sort of trap. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Blackwell’s last press conference ended with the world knowing that a number of agents, including his own former right-hand man, had helped Saul escape in the first place. But as he stared at the four of us, the congratulatory smile streaking his pale face disappeared. He looked at us with as much confusion as we looked at him.

“Haven’t you captured him, girls?” He asked it quietly, but I still prayed to every deity in existence that his words hadn’t been picked up by any of the journalists’ recording devices.

This was a mess. So many people already distrusted us even before Saul’s escape. Who would give Blackwell this false information? Who even let him call a press conference?

The gates opened, and a parade of Sect vans drove through so suddenly, the reporters scattered. Sibyl Langley could barely wait for her car to come to a complete halt before she kicked opened the passenger door and stalked up the paved path toward us. Her milky pantsuit highlighted her dark skin and the standard black suits of the agents flanking her.

“Director Langley!”

“Director, can you comment on—”

The reporters’ questions fell on deaf ears as she made for Blackwell, her hawklike gaze ready as daggers. She didn’t stop until their bodies were inches from each other.

For a fleeting moment, the two were locked in a battle of wills, neither able to yield to the other. Sibyl was much shorter than the large man, but in the end, her intimidating gaze made up the difference. Defeat settled into his features, his shoulders relaxing, his jaw setting. Just as he turned his head, Sibyl whipped around, her short black hair catching the wind as she pivoted on her feet.

“Thank you for coming. This conference is over. The guards will show you out,” she said to the stunned reporters. Then to us: “Girls. Can you follow me, please?”

None of us were stupid enough to think that she’d asked a question. We followed her, leaving Blackwell behind.

? ? ?

“A press conference.”

“Sir . . . ,” Sibyl started, but the red-faced man on the jumbo screen made it all too clear he wasn’t finished when he lifted up a hand to silence her.

“A press conference on a secret mission that ended in failure.”

No one in the vast conference room dared speak as he barely held in his rage. Instead, we stared at Blackwell, who, of course, had taken the head of the table for himself.

“The amount of foolishness . . .” The man shook his head. “The utter incompetence.”

But Blackwell leaned back into his seat. “The only incompetence I’ve witnessed is in whatever broken system of communication that led to Sect personnel giving me false information about their recent operations. That reflects a general incompetence within the operational structure of the Sect, does it not? Which in turn reflects a general incompetence in leadership.” Blackwell tilted his head just slightly, letting his black ringlets slide down his broad shoulder. “Should you really lay that incompetence at my feet, Arthur? The role of the Council’s representative is very different from that of you directors.”

Arthur Prince, the director of the North American Division. I didn’t know much about him, but given how comfortably he berated Sibyl, it was clear he saw himself as above her although they both had the same job. I could gather as much from that domineering sense of importance. If it weren’t for his inscrutable composure or the intimidating broadness of his frame, he might have looked like a tax accountant instead, with his short dirty-blond hair, his gray suit, and his pin-striped tie.