AGENT 23 BLACKOUT (Agent 23 Book 1)

CHAPTER 1

My head pounds as I follow the crowd along the sidewalk. The episodes are growing worse, leaving me dizzy and unbalanced, but I tell myself it's nothing more than tension and stress. If my mom were alive, she'd make me go to the doctor, but she died three years ago, and my dad disappeared before she passed away. That leaves my grandparents, and I don't tell them much about what's going on in my life, because I don't want to trouble them in their old age.

A wave of nausea accompanies the stabbing flashes between my temples as it rolls over my skull and releases. Thankfully, the headaches come and go. I exhale a sigh of relief as the pain fades to a dull throb. I hope caffeine will wash it away until it's gone for good. If a caramel mocha doesn't do the trick, I'll resort to ibuprofen and a pillow over my head until this episode wanes into nothing.

With the sky darkening, I reach my destination.

Lattes is my favorite hangout after school. The coffee shop sits on the corner of First and Main, across from the city hall, the courthouse, and a cluster of other high-rise buildings that give me a crick in my neck if I look up at them too long.

Before entering, I glance through the large picture window to survey the scene. The feel of the cafe eases my nerves. The tones are warm and cozy. Sconces radiate dim light on the interior brick walls while long-necked fixtures hang over tall bistro tables. People chat in the corners. Some type away on laptops, while others use the internet on tablets and phones. As I walk through the double glass doors—my headache dulling enough to interact socially—my toe catches on the threshold and I skip a step. My cheeks flush warm as I scan the establishment and confirm what I suspected before I entered. There's a reason I missed a step, and a reason I had my grandpa drop me off further down the road.

I just got my driver's license, but I don't have a car yet. It's a little embarrassing, something I don't want to broadcast. My biggest problem isn't the lack of a car, or unpredictable headaches, or the anticipation of hot coffee. The real reason I missed a step was because I was searching the seating area for a particular someone as I pushed through the door. And her name is Kayla Sims.

Every day since I first laid eyes on her—this semester in natural history class—I've contemplated what I might say. How I might approach her and ask her out? But I can never find the words. Who am I kidding? She's probably already in a relationship.

Now, I look like a klutz. Nice going, Aiden Quick. Never takes me long to make a fool of myself.

I fall in line to place my order and allow myself a look in Kayla's direction, a casual glance, nothing more. Her facial features are smooth, and her eyes are soft. She wears jeans and a sweater and a leather jacket hangs on the back of her chair. My gaze lingers a moment too long, and she looks my way.

She smiles and adjusts her glasses a notch higher on the slender bridge of her nose.

I can't believe what just happened. My eyes dart about. My face feels hot and I'm certain my cheeks are as red as the cup in Kayla's hand.

The line moves and I'm next. I distract myself with the glare of the café lights reflecting off the glossy maroon surface of the counter where the girl takes the orders. Then it's my turn. I tell the girl, a caramel mocha, of course. After paying with a swipe of my debit card, I stand to the side and wait several feet away from Kayla.

A clip keeps her blonde locks swept back behind her ears and pulled away from her forehead. I seem to have an eye for detail and a knack for embarrassing myself.

"Caramel mocha," the girl says from behind the counter. "Aiden." She holds the cup in the air. She knows me because I'm a regular at Lattes. Her name is Clara, and she's a student at North Coastal High.

I grab my cup and turn, facing Kayla.

I swallow. Feel a dryness in the back of my throat.

That's when Kayla says, "Hi."

I stop and stare. Did she talk to me?

Did Kayla Sims open her mouth and speak to me?

"Your name is Aiden? Right?"

I nod. I'm not sure whether to reply, take a drink from my latte or run for the exit. So, instead, I say, "Yes, that's... who... I am. I'm Aiden. Aiden Quick. I go to North Coastal High. That's me."

"It's a small world," she replies. Her voice rings eloquently in my ears.

I don't know what's happening. Or how it's happening. A tremble sweeps through me as I stand like a stiff street post next to her table.

"We're in the same class. Anyway." She glances at the tablet in front of her. "I'm studying for the exam on Monday. How about you? How do you feel about it?"

"The test?"

"Yeah, natural history has never been my strong suit. Now, if we're talking about national or world history, I'm in, and I'm good, but start talking about mammoths and saber-tooth tigers and I'm clueless." Kayla chuckles.

"Funny you should mention natural history, since I work at the city museum." I know I'm saving money for a car. "I work part time in the evenings and on weekends. I'm on my way there now. Stopped by for a coffee first." I grin sheepishly. "As you can see."

"Maybe we could study together sometime? Here, over coffee?"

If life had a rewind button, I'd hit it so I could hear her offer to be my study partner, in clear and unbroken English. It's a proposition that's too good to be true. I realize she's only talking to me because she wants my help to pass the history class. There's no way she's interested in me.

For real, a wave of insecurity cripples me, makes me want to hide, move on, leave this place.

"What do you think?" she asks.

I swallow the dryness in my throat, my untouched latte clutched in my hand. I blink. Nod. I want to speak but can't. I need a distraction. Anything. Something.

My phone chirps. Yes, thankfully. Right on time. Maybe I can focus again and give Kayla a calm and confident answer?

Uneasy and unsteady, I peek at the message on the screen. The words are unexpected and disturbing.

My headache returns with a vengeance, and I teeter on my feet as Kayla looks on, her chin sagging, eyes questioning. I don't have a clue who sent the message, and I don't know what it means. But there's a certainty behind the words that's undeniable.

The text reads: Agent 23. You have been activated.

When the pounding in my head clears, my nerves disappear and a smooth operator smile forms at the corners of my mouth, and I say, "I think we'd make great study partners. How about tomorrow night? Or better yet, I have a few minutes before I have to be at the museum. Anything I can help you with now?"