Disclaimer: The characters of the Gallagher Girls (and potentially Embassy Row and Heist Society) belong to Ally Carter. All original contents, ideas, and intellectual property of this story are owned by fridaylights. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission. This disclaimer applies to the entirety of this fanfiction.
AN: Here it is. While I know the fandom hasn't been active as of late, the epilogues have given me a burst of inspiration I can't ignore. Favorite, follow, and most important of all—comment!
AN #2: Remember, Rachel and Joe's wedding is endgame, and all roads lead there. This is my take on how Joe Solomon ended where he did.
BOOK 1
CHAPTER ONE
Joseph Solomon loved his job. He really did. His life had revolved around covert operations for the past decade of his life, swapping covers faster than a stage actor and spending more time on the field than relaxing. However, it was times like these, dressed in an uncomfortable tuxedo and a communication unit, that he wished that he was anywhere but Buckingham Palace.
It wasn't very often that the President of the United States was commissioned for a visit to England to meet the Queen herself. Presidential trips usually called for an entire crew of security details and emergency protocols; more often than not, the leader of the country was protected at every angle by the Secret Service. To say that Joe was surprised would be an understatement, when he received a notice from Langley that he would be needed abroad. While he had a ridiculously high level of clearance, it still wasn't enough to figure out why even the Baxters were called in from MI6 to assist with the royals' safety.
The mission would have been interesting if he knew why some of the world's best were gathered in one place to protect a handful of individuals that rarely required such extreme measures. But he didn't, and Joe had learned to stop asking questions when he was sixteen years old and was entangled in a deadly organization, where speaking his mind would simply pave a one-way road to his grave.
Regardless, surveillance ops were boring, and he despised any sort of assignment that dulled his senses and forced him to travel through rotations for hours on end. He was stationed near one of the Southern entrances into the large ballroom, watching wealth and power converse with one another. His sharp gaze tracked every movement, memorizing faces and following gestures. He passed the palace guards with a wry smile on his face, and eyed their uniforms of red tunics and bearskin hats.
The British had a knack for subtlety. It would explain why they required so many different task forces at their parties.
He was hastily checking the reflection of the door behind him through a waiter's silver platter of snacks when a woman with a flute of champagne came to stand besides him. He raised an eyebrow, absorbing her appearance in a single glance the only way a trained operative would. Her navy dress hugged her figure, fabric clinging to her toned body. Her hair was curled to frame her face, though just enough to reveal the diamond earrings dangling from her ears. There was absolutely nothing interesting about another female searching men to flock around. He scoffed; it was likely that she was the Prince's escort for the evening. While the male in him appreciated her, his priorities overtook those small desires.
"You know, you remind me of a younger version of one of our English actors," she said, her voice carrying the accent of a British native. She hit a palm against her forehead, light bouncing off of a diamond ring around her forefinger. "That handsome man, in those spy movies..." she trailed.
He raised an eyebrow and kept his gaze trained on the flurry of activity ahead, mildly annoyed that someone had chosen to interrupt him. He preferred to observe in silence. "Daniel Craig?" he offered helpfully—he had a sore spot for spy films, as ridiculous as it sounded, considering his profession.
"You're not British," she said in surprise. When he didn't reply, clearly not in the mood for the casual conversation she had been aiming for, she tapped his hip rather intrusively. "That's a nice gun you've got there."
He grabbed her wrist, surprised; an escort definitely wouldn't have noticed his gun. "MI6?" he inquired, releasing her and folding his hands in front of him.
"Interpol," she added. Her accent dropped with her next words and she smiled mischievously, adjusting her hair—more so to show him the comms unit nestled in her ear, hidden strategically by her dark locks. "I also have an affinity for the American agencies."
He narrowed his eyes. "CIA? You must be a visiting agent," he concluded, murmuring as guests swept past them. "I never knew we were conducting a cross-branch exchange."
She simply shrugged, offering no answer in return.
Their comms units, which had been buzzing in the background with the usual chatter, crackled when a loud, booming voice took over. "The subjects will be leaving the premises at precisely T-minus nine. Bond and Duchess are posted at the Southern entrance and will jumpstart the extraction process..." Their executive droned on, but the woman turned to him and laughed incredulously.
"James Bond? Really?"
He bristled. "We both know that we're not the ones to pick our names. Besides, Duchess is just as bad."
"Oh, mine isn't half as bad." She patted a small indentation near her hip, indicating where one of many weapons were stashed. "Better get moving. Catch you later, Bond."
"Same goes for you, Duchess."
She swept out of the room, her heels clicking on the tiled floors as one of the assisting members of the palace—most likely an undercover agent—accompanied her outside. Joe watched her retreating form curiously, and then regarded his new companion.
"Abraham," he nodded.
The man allowed for a small smile of acknowledgement. "Did I hear something about a cross-branch exchange?" he inquired, tilting his head towards the exit.
Joe chuckled. "Apparently so. I'm assuming you know her?" He weighed his friend's concerned expression and pursed his lips. "Is it something to be concerned about?"
"That was an employed assassin, Solomon," Abraham Baxter said gruffly. He fiddled with his cufflinks, most likely rewiring his comms unit. "We haven't commissioned one of those for events like these ever since Blackthorne was asked to stage an overthrow of a Zimbabwean dictator."
He pressed his lips together in a firm line. "Murphy is here, all the way from Taiwan, and he runs in the same business. This doesn't sound good."
"It doesn't," the British man agreed. He glanced at the departing queen and bid him farewell with an inclination of his head. "Whatever you do, Solomon—keep yourself out of the eye of the storm."
Matthew Morgan folded and unfolded the napkin in front of him repeatedly, his fingers busy in the nervous habit. Across from him, his best friend raised his eyebrows in question. His friend of over ten years was possibly the most collected human he knew, calm and right-minded, able to tackle any sort of situation with ease. He was the balance that Joe needed in his life to be able to stop his fumbling and finally leave the Circle.
When the while piece of cloth was unfolded for the thirty-fourth time in the last five minutes, Joe snatched it away from his hands.
"What's on your mind?"
With a sigh, Matt rubbed the unshaved shadow on his face. "Someone tried to grab Cammie when we were in Rome last week." He pursed his lips and averted his gaze, hazel eyes focusing out the window instead. "I think we both know who was behind that."
A heavy weight of guilt settled in Joe's stomach and he frowned. "Is she okay? Did you find who it was?"
Matt shook his head. "Thank God, she had the sense to disappear on the streets, but Rachel and I couldn't find her for hours. We thought she was dead, especially after they left their little calling card in my pocket."
"Pavement artist," he said quietly. "She has Morgan in her blood, after all."
His friend chuckled. "Of course, an eight year-old is a bit too small to be able to knock a man out, so we were left without a trail. I hope she grows up to remember that in some circumstances, flight is much more useful than fight." At his younger friend's silence, Matt frowned and studied his troubled expression. "This isn't your fault, Solomon. If anything, they're on my tail for the hunt I'm on—not because of you."
"They know my technique better than anyone else. They're the ones that trained me." Joe glanced away and replaced his guilt with an unreadable mask. "I'm the one that brought this mess to you. All they have to do is track me the same way they have for the past fifteen years, and they'll have Cammie."
Matt was moments away from responding, when a slim woman slid into the booth besides her husband. The smile disappeared off of her face when she noted the grim expressions the two men wore. She furrowed her eyebrows, running her fingers through her chocolate colored hair.
"You're talking about Rome again, aren't you?" Her gaze flickered between them, clearly disapproving. "That wasn't anyone's fault, except for mine. I should have kept her in my sight." Before Matthew could protest, she lifted a hand to silence him. "What we're doing—trying to bring them down—is going to put us on their list of targets. People are going to die, maybe even one of us." The acceptance in her tone was chilling and she moistened her dry lips. "The best you two can do is move the hell on and work to make sure they don't take any other innocents and convert them into mass murderers."
She paused when a waitress came to set food before them. She exhaled at the sudden silence, and fixed Joe with a stern gaze. "Are you sure you don't want to meet her?"
He shook his head adamantly, though his emerald eyes were bright with pain. It had been nearly seven years since the last time he'd met the Morgan's daughter, when she was merely a few months old. As much as it hurt him to deny his friends' constant requests to meet their only child, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Cameron Morgan was the daughter of some of the most talented spies he knew—and some of the only people that he allowed himself to care for. The minute he let his guard down, the Circle would find yet another tool to tear through his heart and bring into the crosshairs of their fight.
After all, relationships were liabilities, and the mistakes he made in his youth would haunt him forever. There were some luxuries that he would never have, a fact that he accepted early in his career.
"I will give my life to your daughter in a heartbeat, but it's best she doesn't know who I am. She's safe in Nebraska, isn't she?"
"Yes, but—" Matt interjected.
Joe clenched his jaw. "No," he insisted, his voice booming, and caught the attention of an adjacent table. He cleared his throat with an apologetic frown and lowered his tone. He rose from his seat, despite Rachel's protests, and dropped bills onto the table next to his untouched sandwich. "I have a tail," he muttered under his breath, realizing that the guests only a few seats away had stares that lingered too long.
Before he departed, he fixed his gaze to the floor, too ashamed to meet the eyes of the people that had thrown themselves into the face of danger to keep him alive. He already knew that the first time he would meet Cameron Morgan would be in dire circumstances, and inadvertently hoped that day would never come.
"All I'm going to bring to your family is destruction," he said. His refusal to listen to any consolations dared them to argue. "You should have found a different godfather."