Ena Jones - Clayton Stone, At Your Service

For Jeff

And for Blake, Kevin, Ena Marie and Thomas

Copyright 2015 by Ena Jones

All Rights Reserved

HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

www.holidayhouse.com

ISBN 978-0-8234-3515-9 (ebook)w

ISBN 978-0-8234-3516-6 (ebook)r

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jones, Ena.

Clayton Stone, at your service / by Ena Jones. First edition.

pages cm

Summary: Twelve-year-old Clayton Stone gets a taste of life as a special agent when he goes undercover as a decoy in a high-stakes kidnapping operation.

ISBN 978-0-8234-3389-6 (hardcover)

[1. Undercover operationsFiction. 2. SpiesFiction. 3. KidnappingFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.1.J68Cl 2015

813.6dc23

[E]

2014038323

I am indebted to everyone involved in helping Clayton Stone, At Your Service become a book, particularly my publisher and the staff at Holiday House. I especially want to thank my editor, Sally Morgridge, who made the entire editing process a pleasure. If I lived in NYC, Id visit her every day to give her a big, grateful hug.

I have an abundance of love and gratitude for Rebecca Barnhouse, the very best writer-friend and critique partner a person could have. She is personally responsible for my ever-deteriorating home management skills and the number of times I order pizza for dinner because shes insisted I Keep going!

My agent, Ginger Knowlton, the unofficial Queen of Agenting (although she would probably prefer me to say tennis); she has made the business side of publishing a book a calm and worry-free experience. A huge thanks to her and the staff at Curtis Brown. Its a well-oiled machine there!

I must also thank Anna Webman Silverman, previous Curtis Brown agent, who read and represented the manuscript in its infancy. Without her initial comments and urging to make the story bigger, Clayton might never have made it past his own backyard.

I couldnt be more grateful to my fellow moderators, administrators and chief administrator, Verla, who together keep the SCBWI message board (Blueboard) running; Im happy to call this group, and all the members of the board, my online family. Specifically, Id like to thank Marissa Doyle, Rose Green, Evelyn Christensen, Vonna Carter and Jeff Carney, for reading and commenting on versions of the manuscript along the way.

To my very first critique group in Gainesville, Florida: Barbara Bockman, Colleen Rand, Cana Rensberger, Linda Eadie and Doug Dayyears may go by, but you each remain in my heart, always.

I also want to thank my parents-in-law, Robert F. Jones, Barbara D. Jones and Richard Ashwick, for their encouragement and support of my writing over the years.

And with all the love I have, the biggest thanks to my husband, Jeff, and our children, Blake, Kevin, Ena Marie and Thomas, always willing to read a chapter, or a manuscript, but mostly I thank them for letting me turn down the music so I can hear the voices in my head.

The gun muzzle presses against my neck. For a second I wonder what the pavement will look like if Wacko Man pulls the trigger. A lot bloodier than any Xbox scene, no doubt.

Well, shoot. No, not shoot. I mean, dang it. How the heck did I end up in this mess?

But I know how. One stupid phone call, an overheard conversation, plus an idiot kidmewho does exactly the opposite of what his grandmother wants, equals this big mess.

Thirty-six hours ago I was more boring than vanilla ice cream, doing normal seventh-grade stuff. A pretty good lacrosse player with twenty goals and half a season still ahead. Decent scores on almost every game system within a ten-mile radius. And the most average thing? I might actually pull off straight Cs this quarter at my uptight private school.

Enter Captain Thompson. Enter listening devices, disguises, GPS trackers and microphone chips. Enter me, thinking I can help save the world, or at least one mom and her daughter. Theres a new definition for sucker on Wikipedia. Its a picture of me: Clayton Patrick Stone. And Im not smiling.

First came the phone call.

Im up in my grampss office hanging with Bart, the stuffed buffalo, after a long, wet afternoon at lacrosse practice. The third floor was a better place to hang out when he was alive. Gramps, not Bart. I never knew Bart when he was alive.

Sometimes I can even forget that Barts the only one to talk to up here, but then there are other times. Like right now, when I tell him the guys are coming over tomorrow and were gonna play some video games and order burgers from Big Stones, the diner my family owns. Gramps would have gotten real excited, maybe asked if he should run out and get the latest Madden for us. Bart just stares at me with glazed, indifferent eyes.

Grampss office is in the attic of my grandparents super-old stone house, with a view over the treetops. In the winter, if you stand on your tiptoes and find the exact right angle, you can see the Potomac River.

I dont do that anymore.

Anyway, after a couple of turns at Grampss indoor putting green and a few throws at the dartboard, I slide across the wide-planked floor in my socks. I can smell Grans pot roast, and the thought of a good dinner is making my stomach gurgle. Practice today was tough, and I am hungry.

Photos and awards line the long attic walls, so thick I can barely see the whitewashed plaster underneath. When I was little, Gramps used to carry me from one end of the room to the other and point out all the important people he and Gran were photographed with. This is the secretary of state in 1982, and This is the president of France.

I dont get why so many important people wanted a picture with the Pickle King of the world. If they only knew how much Gramps hated the pickles that made him rich!

Im looking at a photo of Gran and Gramps with the first President Bush when a ringing phone startles me about two inches off the floor. Even though its an office, Ive never heard a phone up here before. Seriously, never.

My socks and I slide over to Grampss desk, and I pick up the receiver. But all I get is dial tone. The phone rings again. The sound is coming from across the room... Grans desk? If Ive never heard a phone ring up here, Ive twice as seriously never seen my grandmother sit at that desk. And Id swear on a stack of Bibles she hasnt been inside this room for the last year. She wont even come up the stairs.

I fly across the roomwell, not literallyand land in the chair so hard it rolls backward. I scoot forward and scan the top of the desk. I still dont see a telephone, and the high-pitched ringing seems to be getting louder. The sound is coming from somewhere inside. I tug at the top drawer. Its locked, and so is the next one. The third drawer opens and theres nothing. Until I look more closely.

In the back left corner gleams a small gold key. I grab itcould this be what I need? Only one way to

Ha! The key turns and the top drawer opens, and there it sits: a plugged-in cell phone flashing a red strobe light and blaring long streams of noise.

Something about the ring feels wrong. My stomach forgets about the pot roast downstairs long enough to tighten, warning me to leave the phone where it is; telling me, Dont even touch it. And for sure dont answer it.

But Im stupid that way. I bring it to my ear.

Uh, hello? I say.

I can hear somebody on the line, but they hesitate before they speak. When it finally comes, the voice is impatient. Liza? He wants to speak with you. Hold on.