(min my character's talent, being a mind-jacker, is sort of a super power. Is that acceptable or should I change it ? And can we start now if that's ok?)

I re-read the letter for the fourth time, gobsmacked as I sit on my narrow mattress and eye the slip of paper as if it's a ticking time-bomb. Just a trick, I tell myself. After all, who would hire a skinny thirteen-year-old like me to protect a country? I should ignore it. I should discard it in the overflowing waste-bin. But I don't. Why?

Thousands of lives are counting on you...

The words chill my very soul. I wrap my cardigan round my bare shoulders as if a real draught had swept in here and encased me in coldness. It can't be real. Impossible. It's just that there's something about that letter which makes me believe... Logic is supposed to be my thing, but at the moment I seem to be totally devoid of it. Because I'm thinking, maybe I'll go. The venue the letter-senders supplied me with is - what, two miles away? Not hard in means of transport. Sure, the owner of the children's Home- a large, beefy, formidable woman by the name of Peg - will throw a fit.

I pull the sleeves of my cardi down so they just about cover my hands. What to do, what to do. Reason says it cannot be true, but my heart claims otherwise. If it is real, how am I - who can barely fend off domineering bullies - bust a bunch of hardened criminals at least twice my size and twice my age? Surely it's a prank.

Surely.

But I know that I'm lying to myself. 

I look up at the cheesy run-down restaurant, dithering yet again. What if, what id, what if. The two words persistently roll around my head, bringing with them tons of possibilities - some very, very frightening - and it's tearing me up. I close my hand around the handle and push before I lose the courage, but the door's closed.

Of course. They wouldn't want just anyone crashing in would they? I skirt the perimeter of the building, looking for a hidden way in. My meticulous gaze doesn't miss a square inch as it lasers around. I soon find a slight shift in the rough, mismatched brick patchwork at the rear, near the base of the building.

I put my fingers there and pull, hoping that it is a concealed entrance. It moves about a centimetre. I keep pulling, my grip able to get better as I get more space to put my fingers. In about five minutes, it gives way and a camouflaged flap about a metre in both length and width falls to the grass. I look over my shoulder, making sure no-one is watching before returning my attention back to the trapdoor.

All I can see is pitch blackness. I don't want to risk a long, painful drop, so I scavenge around until I find a decent stone. I drop it down the black void. I hear it clatter very soon, so I know that I'm not going to fall far. Taking a deep breath, I lower my body down the small shaft, and then let go.

I land roughly but I receive no injuries. I look around. It's still dark, but a thin light bulb casts dim shadows around. I chew my lip and start feeling my way around, wondering, certainly not for the first and probably not the last time if this is all a trap.

Wondering if I'm gonna be stuck here a while.

I take a step backwards, eyeing the two people in front of me warily. One is a very menacing-looking male of about twenty and the other a short bloke with bright blue eyes, pushing forty. And those eyes are stunning blue, such blue, like the Johnson's baby all grown up.

 Both taller, older, smarter. I feel so small. "Um . . ." I dare to say. The younger one appraises me with untrusting, dark eyes. "Er . . ." I try again but the words seem to be running away from me.

"Ah, the youngest recruit," says the former Johnson's baby with an amiable smile. I don't let my guard down ; only give a small nod.

"I don't really understand . . ." I mutter hesitantly.

"We just need to wait until the others arrive," he replies. "And then we'll explain in further detail. But you are free to ask any questions."

Before I have a chance to say anything the scary one launches in. "This kid is, like, fourteen. How is she going to cope with this crime-solving we're supposed to do?"
"She's thirteen. And a young female would be handy for undercover work," he answers, unfazed. He addresses me. "You were very brave to show up. Most kids would treat it as a joke."

A fleeting smile crosses my face just before two pairs of shoes dig into my scalp. I hear a voice from above telling me to get out the way but I don't need to be told. Disgusted, I extract a dried piece of mud from my hair, scowling at the newcomer, a boy of about seventeen. I can't help noticing his good looks - that chiselled jaw, the tanned bronze skin, the stunning sea-green eyes. He's not too tall ; about five feet nine inches . . .

I stop assessing his distracting handsomeness and scowl at him. He shrugs, murmurs an apology with a both surprised and flirtatious smile, and glances at our other companions. Blue eyes greets the head-kicker.

 "You are Marcus, I trust?"

"Yeah. So - what's all this about protecting the country?" Marcus asks.

"I was thinking the same myself," the other man says dryly.

"Well, kids-"

The unfriendly male bristles. "I ain't no kid."

Blue eyes raises his hand in a placatory manner. "No offence intended."

Mr I-ain't-no-kid contents himself with glaring sullenly and snapping, "Well, then tell us what's going on."

I lean against the wall, waiting to be told.