So I know that this idea isn't exactly original, but I decided to do it anyway. Ally Carter has left us hanging on the last page of OGSY (sadly) and no one knows what really happened behind the scenes. Why is the COC really after Cammie? Is Zach even a Blackthorne Boy anymore? Will Mr. Solomon ever take down the Circle? What happened to Matt Morgan?

Fortunately for all you Gallagher-depraved readers, I've taken it upon myself to answer those questions, like a few others. I'm sorry if this isn't that great, I'm pretty new to the world of Gallagher FanFiction (I'm a Percy Jackson writer), so any advice or constructive criticism will be appreciated.

Thanks!

Disclaimer: The rights of this series belong to none other than Ally Carter.

1/

I know most teenagers have problems.

Normal teenagers get into fights with their parents. They cry over a tough breakup. They struggle with school and tests, bullying and friends.

Normal teenagers definitely don't rely on reflexes and luck alone to avoid getting sliced in half in P.E. They don't pour one liquid into another in Chemistry and hope to God the professor didn't forget to leave out the nuclear matter again.

The list could go on and on, but, being at my status, I know I can't say too much. The point is…

Normal teenagers don't go to my school.

I blew on my hands, trying to warm them, but it didn't help. I stuffed them in my pockets instead. They were numb anyway.

Leaves crunched under my feet and cold air bit at my face, but it wasn't anything I wasn't used to. Every rock, crack, and stick around me I'd seen more than a thousand times. And memorized, just to be safe.

So there wasn't anything really exciting about walking down that empty road. Or somewhat empty road.

Every fifteen minutes or so, a car would zoom past me, usually so fast I only caught half a glimpse of the people inside; of the strange looks that came over their tired faces as they spotted me.

Because a sixteen-year-old kid in a puke-yellow jumpsuit and army boots alone at five in the morning is such a strange sight here.

Why had I chosen to walk, you might ask?

Yeah, I had a car. My family had more than its fair share of cars. I had people—a person, more like—to drive me if I wanted. (I could drive me if I wanted, but that's a secret.) Going on foot was purely my choice.

Besides, I'd rather walk for two days than spend an hour in a confined space with her.

Most people would think it harsh to talk that way about a person's own mother, but…well, those people have never met my mother.

Not that she's a cruel woman or anything (okay, maybe a little). She let me do my own thing, like, for example, sneaking out of boarding school every night to visit my dad when she isn't around, or listening in on her closeted conversations when she doesn't know I'm there.

But my mother has that incredibly dangerous ability to seem perfectly normal and sweet on the outside, but easily manipulate you into doing whatever she wants in an instant. And she never hesitates to use that power.

It'd taken years of my childhood before I'd managed to immune myself from her tricks. Still, sometimes—just sometimes—I find myself doing one thing, thinking I'm outsmarting her, but then realizing I'm doing exactly what she wanted all along.

A criminal mastermind, that woman is. No joke.

Thankfully, it was my decision and not hers to begin this covert operations report. Hopefully, she won't even know. Because as one of my kind, it's always a good idea to write down whatever's going on in my hellish life.

So that way, if anything happens, at least one person knows. Someone always knows.

Something moving caught my eye suddenly, but I didn't stop, just in case. A tail can never know you see them. It twirled in front of me. I tensed, but… It was a leaf.

It danced on the breeze like some crazy ballerina showing off, doing flips and dips that wouldn't normally be possible before flying off into the direction I was walking in, leading my gaze to…

I'd been walking for oh, an hour before the flat grayish buildings appeared in my vision, steadily growing larger and larger until I could see the cars zooming past the thin gray fence, and the sign that hung there.

BLACKTHORNE INSTITUTE FOR BOYS, PRIVATE DETENTION FACILITY. DANGER. NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.

I wanted to snort. Who would trespass into a prison?

Yes, I was an inmate at Blackthorne Institute for Boys, a not-so-well-known "detention facility." What had I done to land myself there? Absolutely nothing. Except pass an IQ test made for someone at Einstein's level. And be able to impale a fly with a nail gun twenty feet away from the target.

I had no doubt that the Institute knew about my nightly escapes; I had no doubt they didn't care. As long as I was there in the morning for their ridiculously dangerous courses, they were fine with me.

They would rather I didn't exist anyway.

I sighed. My breath lingered in the air like a ghost for a second, but I was already walking through it.

Hands in my pockets, I snuck past the gate calmly, like any student delinquent. Like there weren't steel walls waiting to bounce up under that fence, or incredibly explosive mines embedded in the ground ready to make any intruders a smear on the floor.

I went like I didn't know that most of the boys inside probably didn't have families at all, nor that the director awaiting me was in fact not a director. Nor that the Blackthorne Institute for Boys wasn't a "detention facility" at all.

I walked like I didn't know the most important secret of all.

That's a good technique to master, if you're one of mine. Learn to act like you're an ignorant fool. Learn to pretend you don't know most of what you do. Learn to be who you're not.

In my business, it's the thing that could safe your life. It's the thing that could end your life, if you're not careful.

Once past all the security preventing "normal" people from entering, I found the foot-thick doors locked, except for the little scanner pad inviting my finger to it. I pressed my thumb against the surface, and felt it heat up under my skin.

"Welcome back, Zachary," the machine said, as if I'd been gone only a second. The doors hissed as pressurized Blackthorne air escaped through, then swung open, gloomily beckoning me inside.

Right. Welcome back. I sighed.

Another year, another lifetime.

"Welcome to Blackthorne Institute for spies," I muttered to myself.

After the usual body-scan, x-ray machine, and retina scanner that followed the doors, I walked into the main building, where I found it way too routine to merge with the long, organized line to the mess hall, where "Selected Language: Italian" was scrawled in thick black marker on a ratty white board outside the steel doors.

The mess hall wasn't much different than the rest of Blackthorne.

Sixteen barred windows were placed seven feet off the ground. One set of guarded doors were locked. Over a hundred potential weapons were within easy reach.

The plastic utensils looked a little worn, but otherwise clean and, for the moment, untouched. The tables had many questionable dark stains, but no one dared to comment on them. Flies buzzed lazily around the flickering lights for a few seconds before getting vaporized by built-in lasers.

I grimaced to myself. I doubted any of it was because of budget cuts.

The head table was a little nicer, what with the lack of bullet holes and all, but it definitely looked better than the teachers. Dr. Steve, with his sickeningly enthusiastic face, Mr. Emmons, with his bulldog-like wrinkles, Major Moore, with his missing nose. All things I'd gotten used to seeing, but sort of wished I wouldn't ever see again.

What a stupid wish.

The slamming doors didn't even make our heads turn. The clicking boots didn't make anyone flinch. The booming voice didn't make us falter.

"Where do you stand?" The Operative, only known to us as such, swept the room with cold eyes as he demanded the question.

"With Blackthorne, sir!" The mechanical answer was a chant in unison.

"Where do you fight?"

"With Blackthorne, sir!" The words felt empty coming out of my mouth. Without looking around I knew that nothing moved but mouths, eyes were trained on the Operative as if glued there, and, though it had been warm just a few seconds before, I was cold.

"Who do you die for?"

"For Blackthorne, sir!" I repeated the words I'd been saying for two years, the words they made us pledge every semester. I made the same gesture I'd been mimicking for what seemed like a lifetime—fist over heart, strength over emotion, until I heard "At ease!" and we all sat.

The normal murmur of conversation overtook the silence at the sight of the Operative's disinterested wave of the hand. The familiar clicks of plastic on metal resounded in my ears.

"Hey, Zach," Grant muttered out of the corner of his mouth, in English, despite the Italian order.

Grant is my best friend, just about the strongest guy I've ever met, maybe one of the smartest, though if you didn't know him you wouldn't think so. His mom's "watchers" combined with his test scores had a whole crew of black suits appearing at their door a few years back, and less than a month later Grant was an official Blackthorne Boy, to his mother's dismay.

According to him, she was once CIA, his dad FBI—and they definitely weren't supposed to be together. Baby Grant was maybe the biggest breach the agencies ever had (and a link they definitely didn't want), and, whether they admit it or not, his parents took the heat.

His dad was blown to pieces on an FBI-ordered mission in Peru. It was his second day there. His mom kept herself out of the CIA's blast-zone by going into deep cover for three years, taking Grant with her. She brought back triply-classified information that pushed the CIA to promote her instead of taking everything, or worse.

Grant was brought up to hate both agencies, and swore he would never join either of them. That made most question what he was doing at Blackthorne in the first place, if not to become a top spy for a top agency.

Only the seniors and I had any clue about what business Grant might end up in. Something that Blackthorne's "curriculum" no longer contained, not since the seniors' seniors' eighth grade year, but wouldn't stop him. Something he had never mentioned, never leaned toward in public. But I knew.

Grant would become an assassin.

"Hey," I responded quieter, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Which was a stupid thing to do, really. Someone's always listening.

"How's your family?"

Too easy to catch the real question behind that. "Up to no good, probably," I grumbled. "How's your mom?" I only got a snort for a response.

"So, Zach," Jonas said in fluent Italian, "what d'you think the Operative's planning this year?"

Immediately the chatter died down a bit as the whole table leaned forward to listen.

Sean Miller grinned. "I heard we're going to infiltrate the KGB," he whispered in English, earning him a glare from Jonas (major rule-follower).

Grant followed Sean's example. "I heard we're kidnapping a senator." A glint appeared in his eyes that made everyone recoil half an inch.

"What you hear and what you know are two different things, boys."

Every single back straightened like a steel pole at the sound of the voice. "Hello, Mr. Solomon," I said.

I felt a hand pat my back. "Hello, Zachary." I heard the smile in his voice.

"You know what we're doing, don't you, sir?" Grant confronted abruptly.

"I work there, Grant," was Joe Solomon's dry reply before he walked off.

All eyes turned to me. "Where does he work?" Jonas questioned earnestly.

It'd become a knee-jerk reaction. It was a fact that I did know exactly where Joe Solomon worked, but wasn't supposed to. That I knew what he was up to, but wasn't allowed to. Truthfully, I wasn't allowed to know anything.

In the last few years at Blackthorne, Joe had become my closest ally—and lately, one of my closest friends. He was the only one who understood, the only one who knew exactly what kind of recruitment went on inside the stone walls of Blackthorne. He was the only one that could help me keep other people from getting sucked into it.

You're probably wondering what "it" is. Funny thing, it's the very thing I'm sucked into, and not by choice. My mother, Amanda Turner Goode, is high up on the pyramid of said "it." And she very well expects me to join her cause.

And Joe? He's already in it. Way in it. So much, using me to keep himself afloat. So deep, he's almost flailing.

I turned around to frown at his back. "I don't know," I lied.

The others didn't lose interest so easily, but they left me alone when they realized that I wasn't going to tell them anything. I kept watching Mr. Solomon as he patrolled around the tables, nodding to random students, until he circled his way to the head table, and fist-over-hearted with the Operative.

Are we all set with the academy? I read on the Operative's lips.

Yes, Joe answered. He chuckled at a joke no one else knew. She wasn't very happy.

I couldn't hear his voice, but I would've bet anything that the Operative's words were as cold as a corpse when he spoke. Rachel Morgan's happiness isn't our priority, Solomon. Have you chosen your boys?

Yes, Joe said again, but his face was hard this time. I'll have them gone by noon.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one lip-reading Joe and the Operative's conversation, because when we were leaving the cafeteria Grant nudged me and whispered, "What was Solomon talking about?"

"I don't know," I told him. This time, I didn't know if he bought it.

"Zach!"

I turned to find Joe himself waiting for me outside the cafeteria, hands in his pockets, leaning against the rough wall. I nodded to Grant to leave without me, which he shrugged and did, but not before throwing me a look that ordered me to find out what everyone else wanted to know.

"Hi, Joe," I said.

He chuckled. "I take it you know all about your assignment this year?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Do I?"

He shook his head. "What do you think? Dangerous?"

"Very," I answered. "Maybe even more dangerous than last year's."

He let a pause roll between us. "They've never had anything like you before," he told me finally. "You'll be watched, every second of the day if they can manage it."

"I didn't know they'd be that interested in me," I said wryly.

He laughed. "Oh, you have no idea."

"What are you doing here?" My abrupt interrogation seemed to catch him off guard; I immediately noticed his back went straighter.

He eyed me as if he were sizing me up, but didn't answer the question. "I think you'll do nicely. I have a special assignment for you, Zach."

"What kind of special assignment?"

He smiled. "When they give you your missions today, the others can have their pick. Yours is already chosen." He slipped me a thin file. "This one is yours, and yours alone."

"Why?" I asked, suspicious.

To this day, I don't know what Joe Solomon was thinking when he winked at me and said, "Just…tell me what you think of her."

I snorted, then turned to leave, when his voice called me back.

"Out of curiosity, where do you think we're going?"

I looked over my shoulder, grinning. "Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women," I said. "Our sister school."

I heard a, "Very good, Zach," as I left, but I didn't give it another thought. It was too easy. Rachel Morgan was easily one of the most dangerous spies in the world—and I'd only heard her name once or twice before, but I already knew what she was. She was headmistress of Gallagher Academy, spy school for girls.

I grimaced to myself as I realized that Grant wouldn't rest—torture not excluded—until I told him what Mr. Solomon was planning. Then I laughed, because Mr. Solomon hadn't said I couldn't tell anyone.

I sprinted for my first…um, class, I guess you'd call it. Us? We simply call is Block One, otherwise dubbed "Artillery and Missile Studies" by inmates.

Our "instructor," Major Moore, wouldn't appreciate tardiness. But when I got there, the whole division was already suited up and ready to go.

Except I didn't know that until I walked through the door.

The first burst of heavy machinery bullets had me ducking, rolling, diving, flipping, and dodging instinctively, until I finally smashed into Major Moore's desk. He frowned down at me, his mustache twitching.

"You're late, Mr. Goode," he grumbled.

I jumped to my feet and gave him the Blackthorne gesture. "Sorry, sir," I said stiffly. "Mr. Solomon held me back."

"Excuses, excuses," he snapped. "To Station 22!"

"Yes, sir."

Station 22. Most said that it'd been the same place where more than one Blackthorne inmate had died before, mostly because of its less-than-effective blast shield, lack of goggles or other protective gear, and oh yeah, probably faulty equipment.

I examined the piece left for me. Sure enough, the stock was shot. Literally. I ripped it off. It would burn my cheek, no doubt, but that wasn't something that Major Moore had sympathy for, neither something I couldn't take.

I had my sniper rifle assembled and loaded in less than thirty seconds. I was just putting the scope to my eye when Sean Miller yelled, "So why're you late?" over the sound of his machine gun.

"Solomon wanted to talk to me!" I shouted back. I took a breath, then crouched down again and fired. The metal against my face seared, making me grit my teeth, but I fired repeatedly at the small red target over 200 yards away from me, just to keep up appearances, then quickly crouched down.

My cheek burned, but I ignored it. Someone would treat it for me later. After checking to see where Moore was, I stared at the file Joe Solomon had given me.

"What's that?" Sean had the good sense to lower his voice when he asked the question.

"Data," I assured. "Cover for me, yeah?"

Sean nodded, but judging from his expression, he didn't really believe me. But he blocked me from the Major's view and masked the sound of paper with his gun anyway. What are friends for?

I looked back at the file. It was simple, Evapopaper-made, with only two sheets inside. I frowned.

I read the heading.

Cameron "Cammie" Ann Morgan

Status: Gallagher Girl