Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(82)

“Cool.” Matt holds the little pill between his thumb and forefinger, examining it.

“That’s brill, Helen. Great work.” Coop grabs my furry shoulder and pulls me aside. “Just to warn you,” he whispers in my ear. “If you see Leyna and Hunter in there, don’t freak. I asked them to mingle at the back of the party.”

I nearly drop a load in my monkey suit. “Are you f*cking kidding me?”

“Don’t make a scene,” Coop hushes. “It’s chill. I’ll have Evelyn hang at the front of the room and once the rumpus begins, Leyna and Hunter will be the first ones out. We need to get them on tape for this scene. It’s too big a part of the movie.”

“It’s like you want to get caught or something.”

“It’s all good. You’ll see.”

I start to turn and go, but he pulls me back. “One more thing. Now that you’ve got the blood, if you get a chance, try and grab someone in the party and pretend to bite their neck. It’ll be totally epic.”

“Right,” I say, wanting to scream. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Matt, Nick, and me take off like three raggedy-ass Bigfeet, crouching and skulking toward the peeling brown service-entrance door.

“This is gonna be fun,” Nick says. “I feel like a SEAL again. Sneaking up on the unwitting. I can’t wait to see the expressions on people’s faces.”

Christ, is that what he looked forward to as a SEAL?

I just want this to be over already. My heart’s fluttering like a spooked parakeet in a too-small cage. And I’m still not feeling so good in the stomach department.

I grab the door and hold it open. As Nick and Matt jostle inside I press on my diaphragm, pushing up a little burp to help ease the seasickness in my belly. I get that thick orangey-acid taste at the back of my throat, but it makes me feel quite a bit better.

Just as I’m about to duck into the country club, I see Coop, Val, and Evelyn jogging toward the front of the building. Coop looks my way and gives me a raised solidarity fist.

Fucker. I can’t believe he asked Leyna and Hunter to come. If Evelyn or Nick sees them . . . I’m one dead chimpanzee.

I take another full breath and then slip inside.

“Which way?” Matt whispers, his chimp-head on a swivel.

We seem to be in some sort of vestibule or foyer or something. There are three tinted glass doors: one leading to the left, one directly in front of us, and a third to the right. I cock my head and listen for some sort of audible clue — music, talking, laughing — but there’s nothing.

“Let’s go straight,” I say, pointing to the door directly in front of us.

“Decisive. I like it.” Nick grabs the handle with his mangy paw and pulls it open.

We step through the doorway and tiptoe down a long fluorescent-lit deserted hallway. There’s a musty brussels-sprout smell back here, and it’s hard to get air deep into my lungs. The world starts to swirl and I have to brace myself, reaching out for the wall with my right hand.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“Yeah.” I’m trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m just . . . Lunch isn’t sitting so well.”

“It’s the gas,” Nick explains, launching a little squeaker for emphasis. “Let it breathe.”

“You want to go back?” Matt says to me, his voice hopeful.

It’s tempting, for sure. More than tempting. But then I remember why I’m here. The baby. The sister. The room. The snoring.

And Leyna, of course.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I say, pushing myself away from the wall.

We continue on, passing a large storage room and a few empty offices, until finally we come upon the bustling kitchen. The three of us duck into a doorway, out of sight, and wait as trolleys of food are wheeled from the kitchen and down another hall.

“What do we do now?” Matt whispers.

“We wait,” Nick instructs. “Until they’re done bringing the carts out.”

“Coop said to head straight for the party,” I say desperately. The longer we wait here, the more time Evelyn has to notice Leyna. “So that’s what we should do. Just act like you belong.”

I suck in as much air as I can and lead my fellow monkeys ahead.

We’re just about to follow the latest food cart down the hall when I see another waiter balancing a tray of appetizers push through the double kitchen doors.

“Nein!” A buff dude in a formfitting tux bursts through the doors and grabs the waiter’s arm. “Where do you think you are going?” His German accent is right out of Call of Duty, his spiked bleached-blond hair and black nail polish straight from Dragon Ball Z.

“T-To serve the a-appetizers?” the waiter stammers.

I wave Nick and Matt back, and we make ourselves thin in the doorway.

“Appetizers are over, dummkopf!” The spiky-haired guy slaps the tray out of the waiter’s hand, sending little puff pastry squares flying into the air and the silver platter clanking to the floor. “If you cannot cut the mustache, then you should get out of the kitchen.”

“Oh, shit,” Matt whispers. “That’s Ulf.”

“Who the hell’s Ulf?” Nick asks, keeping his voice low. “A Nazi?”