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CHAPTER THIRTEEN Cannon Fodder
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THE WATERS BELOW FROTHED AND CHURNED, spitting up spray that occasionally pounded against the window. From this height, it was nearly cerulean, even though everyone knew the Hudson River—which fed into the Upper Bay—was really a pool of sludge. Its pollution levels probably rivalled West River's, and the latter had been chock-full of leakage from the factory. Plus, with the bodies that washed up nearly every week—like the teenage girl with no eyes that had appeared only last month—it wasn't exactly the prime place for a swim.
From up here, though, it was beautiful. Cecelia supposed everything was about perspective.
She leaned her head against the window, feeling it rumble against her touch. She sat alone, with her bag—nothing but her Phantom costume tucked inside—on the seat next to her. Despite the number of people who were on today's ferry ride, she'd managed to snag the area for herself. It was only two rows away from Schultz, who was sitting with his back to Toomes. Schultz's lips moved carefully, trying not to try suspicion. Cecelia wouldn't have noticed it if she wasn't on the lookout.
He stood up, and Cecelia swivelled her head, watching him move. He locked eyes with her for a moment, then looked pointedly down at her lap, where her phone was. Don't be suspicious.
Cecelia picked it up. She'd get a text when the deal began, anyway.
Like a true tourist, she took a photo of the New York skyline. She tapped her feet on the floor to the tune of The Walker by Fitz and The Tantrums. She played a game of Sudoku on her phone, her quick mind spotting the patterns with ease.
Finally, her phone buzzed with a text from Uncle. He wasn't here, but Toomes must have shot him a message. The deal's starting.
She stood up casually, cracking out her back. It popped, and she rolled her shoulders. Then, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, she headed upstairs to where the vehicles were parked. Just an hour ago, when Uncle had picked her up, he'd told her everything would be in a white pickup truck near the middle of the bunch. It was just in the right place to not be suspicious.
Once she'd mounted the stairs, Cecelia found a deserted corridor to wriggle into her costume. The biggest problem with having an alter-ego was always this part. She was paranoid enough changing in gym class—she'd been majorly self-conscious about her body even before it'd become littered with scars—so this was always a nightmare. Still, at least she had a mask to disguise her identity.
The jumpsuit fitted over her day clothes, so she just kept them on. She pulled her hood up, jumped into her boots, and tested that they were fully charged. In minutes, Cecelia Olivier had become Phantom, and she was ready to go.
