Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed

Chapter One

Jillian

A chill spring wind whooshes through the air and rustles the stiff leaves of the boxwood shrubbery at the edge of the parking lot, shivering through our hiding place. The night sky is a sheet of pewter, overcast with clouds that blanket the stars. Of course it is. It’s Seattle.

“Beagle 1, this is Black Cat 3. Do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? Over.” The low, urgent voice crackles in my earpiece.

I turn down the volume on the headset and shoot a dirty look at my housemate and partner in crime, Ari. “I told you not to get her those radios,” I murmur in annoyance.

“But it was her birthday! And you know how Bronwyn loves spy stuff!” Ari protests. Ari is “Rabbit 2”. Yes, his girlfriend chose as code names the animals we liberated from the testing lab six months ago and now keep as pets.

I reach up and press the talk button on my headset. “Black cat 3, you know I’m here. Why did you say repeat? I mean give me a chance to answer before you say repeat. In other words, chill.” I let go of the talk button.

Ari elbows me. I press the talk button again. “Over,” I add reluctantly.

“Beagle 1, please use proper radio protocol. Acknowledge. Over.” Bronwyn puts a little bit of bite into the word “over”.

I heave up a sigh from the very depths of my soul. “Fine. Black Cat 3, I copy. You nerd. Is the coast clear? Over.”

“Affirmative, Beagle 1. The mission is a go. Over and out.”

I roll my eyes. All I want to do is get in, vandalize the billboard of the best looking, most vile man in Seattle, and get out. Without getting arrested this time, hopefully.

I tip my head back and glare up at the billboard that looms large over Union Street. Mr. Jerko McDickington is standing between his mother, Fayette, and his father, Stewart, with a grim, forced smile on his chiseled face. The Bradford Family. Fifth-generation owners of Bradford Family Amusement Parks and Resorts. The gorgeous faces of pure evil.

I mean, it’s amazing how good looking Elliott Bradford is, considering that pretty package is wrapped around a mouth full of lies. And what a mouth. His upper lip has a perfect Cupid’s bow. Hair the color of wheat. And those cheekbones… His black-framed glasses give him a sexy-nerd look, which is totally my thing and therefore unfair and deliberately planned to undermine me.

“Are you ogling the enemy?” Ari demands indignantly.

“Absolutely not!” I splutter. “I’m studying the enemy. Developing my plan of attack.”

“You’re going to climb the scaffolding and spray paint our message and then get back down. What more do you need to plan?”

“Fine, fine.” I sigh. “Here goes nothing.” Grimacing, I trot over to the scaffolding and start climbing.

Ugh.I do not love heights. Not even a little bit.

Ari offered to do it, but he gets vertigo and dizzy spells. And Bronwyn offered to do it. But if she gets caught and convicted of trespassing and destruction of property, she risks getting kicked out of veterinary school. So the two of them are serving as my lookouts, kitted out with night-vision binoculars, radio headsets, and Bronwyn’s wild enthusiasm.

As for me, if I get in trouble, I know how to spin my way out of it.

Because I’ve done it before. And the Bradford family, who represent the face of family fun in the Northwest with their chain of amusement parks, are a bunch of lying lie-mouths.

Six months ago, when my friends and I raided the Green Hills Testing Facility, we rescued a bunch of horribly abused dogs and rabbits, videotaped what we’d seen inside the facility, and shared it on social media. And the Bradford family pretended to be utterly appalled when they found out that the shampoo, conditioner and soap they used in their hotels and sold online and in their resorts’ stores was not cruelty-free after all. My one-eyed beagle Blinky could testify to that.

There were several other companies who had been using Green Hills’ services, and all of them said the same thing. They didn’t know! They were shocked, simply shocked!

I publicly took the blame and refused to name my co-conspirators. I got probation and community service, which I chose to serve at the Death Row Doggies rescue. But I also got massive amounts of public support.

The Bradford family immediately severed ties with Green Hills, which shut down shortly afterwards. They threw wads of money at animal shelters. Their PR department went into overdrive, making it look like the Bradford family was every bit as much a victim as the beagles and rabbits and cats.

As if.

And then, as soon as the public uproar died down, they started drafting plans to build a big-game-hunting facility in Wyoming where they’d import and also breed exotic game.

So yeah, I might possibly get caught and arrested again. And I’m not thrilled with how it will affect my family. God knows I’ve embarrassed them enough already. But once everyone hears why I did it, I don’t think I’ll be in a lot of trouble. And if I’m going down, I’m taking the Bradfords with me.

For some reason, that thought summons up an image of me tackling Elliott Bradford and the two of us falling to the ground and rolling over and over. Would he be big and solid? He looks big and solid.

No. Gross. What is wrong with me?

I force myself to remember Blinky on the night I rushed him from the facility as he trembled in my arms, and I mentally blast the image of Elliott into smithereens.

Focus, Jillian!

I quickly pull on the climbing gloves I purchased yesterday. Then I leap up onto the scaffolding and start climbing.

In no time at all, Bronwyn’s on the radio again. “Beagle 1, the coast remains clear. Over.”

Does she think I can answer? I’m already thirty feet in the air. I kind of need both hands right now.

I scramble up the metal bars, my backpack snugly fastened. A dozen black spray-paint cans rattle around inside. I’m going to scrawl “Say no to killing cubs!” right across Elliott’s gorgeously evil face. Well, across all of their faces. Then, tomorrow, as soon as it hits the news, I will anonymously post the plans for the new safari park online. The police will probably come talk to me. I’ll keep my lips zipped. I won’t lie, I just won’t answer them, and they’ll have nothing.

The radio crackles again.

Seriously? It’s been sixty seconds!“Bronwyn, I love you, but someone else will be in charge of the radios next time,” I mutter.

“Beagle 1, multiple bogies on your six.”

A small explosion of terror detonates in my stomach. My six? What part of my body is a six? What are bogies? That sounds bad, in a possibly supernatural sort of way.

“There’s a whole mob of security guards running towards the billboard!” If she’s so panicked that she’s abandoned proper radio protocol, we’re all hosed.

My heart leaps in my chest.

I free one hand and press the talk button. “Get the hell out of here. I’ll be fine. Over.”

And then I begin scrambling back down.