Chapter 1
It hurt.
The pain: that's the first thing that hits me as I fall backwards.
The sounds: the familiar rattle tattle of machine gunfire reverberating through the earth.
Red: bright and warm seeping through my clothes, staining my skin.
The light: the harsh white of flashlights illuminating the night sky.
The pain: the bullet that has ruptured my skin, punching a hole in my body.
My brain clouds over with a sweet white fog as I desperately cling onto consciousness. The pain was overwhelming; it was so hard to bear.
"Zach!"
A male voice shouts to the left, twisting a familiar pang of desperation in my heart. I turn my head to the side, my hands fisting in the earth beneath me in pain as I strain my neck to look at the man. Figures swim in my vision, but I can make him out, running to me wildly. His helmet was off, his Kevlar was bullet ridden and ripped; yet he was still running at me amid the gunfire. I can see his bright blue eyes through the darkness of the night. They were locked onto me. He stoops down to me, grabbing my hand in his warm one, clenching through his teeth as pulls back my clothes to reveal the wound. The warmth from him radiates through me bringing slight relief to my cold body.
"Stay with me, please Zach, stay with me," he says agonisingly, he looks so sad and angry, his eyes welling up with tears. I look at him fondly, of all the years I known him for, Grant Morgan never cried once. I try to speak to him, to tell him everything will be all right, but the pain is too much, and my body isn't obeying my brain anymore. The need and want for sleep washes over me, my eyes drooping with every breath I take. Maybe all this pain would go away if I just close my eyes, just for a while. I just want to sleep, for this all to end. The shouts from Grant fade into the distance and the darkness beckons to me, welcoming me with open arms. Maybe this is what it feels like to die.
My name is Zach Goode. I am a CIA agent, 17 years old, living in Arlington, Virginia. Last week, I was shot in the stomach on a successful mission in Cuba and now I am recovering at home with my parents. We aren't a normal family, far from it. My parents are famous CIA agents, who have saved the country on many numerous occasions: Joe and Catherine Goode. I have three siblings, an older brother and sister, and a younger brother, all who are either agents for the CIA or who are training to be. Since I was born, I have been subjected to the spy life, surrounded by the promise of protection and the importance of secrecy. I adore it. So, at the age of 10, I was recruited into the training system and started my dream life. I love the thrill of the adventure, the feeling of adrenaline pumping through your veins at 100mph, the triumph at outsmarting the enemy, and the satisfaction of saving lives. But this, this was the worst part of being a spy: the recovery part. I hate the waiting, the sitting around doing nothing, the loneliness and the unbearable want to do something. I have been off duty for a total of two weeks now, and it is killing me to know that I still have another week to go.
A beer can flies in from my right, my trained reflexes allowing me to catch it easily. "Thanks," I mutter, looking up to Callum, my older brother. He had just come home from a mission in North Korea and is on leave for a week.
"Ugh, you are so depressing to be around now Zach," he grumbles, sitting now on the kitchen barstool next to me, popping open a can of beer next to me, "you have free time! You can be a normal teenager for three weeks and yet you just sit around doing nothing all day, its pathetic."
I throw my hands up in the air exasperatedly and gesture to my bare chest, my finger pointing to my gauze covered side. "Cal, I have just been shot! I can do nothing, I can barely put a top on and you expect me to be all happy smiles and laughing! I am a spy, it is in my nature to keep busy, not to sit around all day, watch TV and drink beer like you!"
Callum just looks at me angrily, his green eyes glinting accusingly in the light. I sigh, dropping my head into my hands. I know he has had his fair share of injuries and recovery time, and right now I know am just being selfish, but this whole thing just pisses me off so much. "I'm sorry," my voice sounds muffled. I look back up at him, and smile slightly, "I just hate doing nothing." Cal's expression turns from angry to one of understanding. I watch as he stands up and ruffles my hair, making it now look more like a bird's nest.
"Don't worry little bro, you'll be back in the field in no time." He walks out of the kitchen, beer in hand humming away to some random song I haven't heard before. I sigh loudly, and start to open my beer, "yeah, I hope so."
The pain in my side has now subsided into a dull ache, but the dressings still need to be changed daily. I slowly pull the gauze away from my body, revealing inch by inch the red skin underneath. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and assess the wound tilting my head to the side in thought. It looks like a large cigarette burn on my skin, the area around it still red and angry looking. I have had my fair share of gun wounds, but most of them have been mainly flesh wounds, nothing as severe as this. The doctors said that if the bullet entry wound was 5mm lower, it would have ruptured my vital organs and caused all sorts of problems probably resulting in either death or a life filled with rehabilitation and therapy. Either scenario would have left me unable to be a spy, which is just a depressing thought. My skin looks pasty yet slightly tan from my time in Cuba. My eyes look bloodshot and I have purple bags under my eyes. I look a sight.
"Yo Z!" Cal's voice enters from the doorway. I turn around and suddenly a Nerf bullet hits me straight in the chest, falling to the ground. I groan in annoyance, but also in anticipation for revenge as I look at Cal whose face is twisted into an evil, smug smirk. I take a menacing step forward, the promise of a Nerf gun war sending the welcome adrenaline thrumming through my veins.
He waves the large plastic gun in the air temptingly, "so," he drawls, "you up for it bro? Little Nerf gun battle to spice up your life? I promise I will go easy on you, considering you got shot by a real bullet… " Cal rambles on in an attempt to distract me as I see him subtly reload the gun. I stop advancing and I throw my hands up in mock exasperation a smirk on my face, "will you shut up already?"
As soon as I finish talking, I lunge forward, tackling Cal to the ground, wrestling the gun away from his hands. My side is aching in protest, but I cannot deny the exhilarating feeling of sparring with Cal. Although he is taller and bigger, I manage to pin him down with the force of the tackle, pushing the air out of him as we roll about on the floor. He tries to avoid my side by pushing my chest and shoulders as I desperately cling onto the plastic gun. I can't stop laughing, I haven't had this much fun in a long time, and just messing around with Cal is shooting up my mood, even though I know he is holding out on me. I prise one of my hands away from his grip and move it to his hair, pulling mercilessly on it as Cal emits a groan of pain. "You sly little…" he hisses, but I suddenly feel a hail of Nerf bullets hit my back and I can see that some hit Cal as well. My face twists in confusion, the gun is in Cal's hand, no way could he have shot me in the back and himself.
Wafts of perfume hits my nose and I sigh defeated as I watch Cal's face fall with shame, looking a bit sheepish.
"Boys." I turn my head around to see mum holding a mega Nerf machine gun in her hand, her finger pressed dangerously close to the trigger. "Stop." I roll off Cal so that I lie on the ground; he lets out sigh of relief as I move off him. But that soon stops as another hail of bullets hit him in the chest and legs.
"Ah mum! Hold on, we stopped!" shouts Cal, his hands raised up in surrender as he lifts himself up off the ground. I smile at mum who is trying really hard not to laugh; she is a world-class spy yet she still cannot control her emotions when it comes to dealing with us. Her stormy grey eyes flicker over to me and my smile falters as an evil grin crosses her face. I know what is coming next; it's my turn to get an ass whooping.
"Woah mum, don't get too trigger happy!" I jump up off the floor raising my hands up like Cal in surrender. We grin at each other, mimicking each other's pose whilst mum points a Nerf gun at us like a firing squad; the irony and humour was not lost on me.
"Cal," Mum adopts a stern tone as she stares us down, "Ali is waiting downstairs for you; if you don't move your lazy butt off the landing, I doubt she will stay here any longer." At the mention of Ali, Cal's face lit up. Ali is a number of things depending on whom you ask. According to Cal, she is his best friend, no more. To mum, she is an angel. To dad, she is a saint. To me and the rest of the world, she is Cal's unofficial girlfriend. In my opinion, Cal is just too uptight and proud to have a girlfriend, even though he cares deeply about Ali. He says its because he isn't ready for the commitment, in other words, he doesn't want to drop his playboy ways.
"Score!" Cal grins at me before running down the stairs. "You can deal with mum!" he shouts, right before mum shoots him dead centre on his left butt cheek. He turns around accusingly and to which mum shrugs, "finger slipped, sorry baby." Cal throws his hands up in exasperation as he continues to walk down the stairs muttering to himself under his breath.
"Hi mum," I say cheerfully, hoping not to get shot. "How was the paperwork today?" I ask with a grin, I know how much of a pain post-mission paperwork is from experience. Mum hates it with a passion, as shown in the evil glare she gives me at the mention of it.
"Terrible, horrific, excruciating, I could go on for days explaining the pain. But speaking of the office, the Director wants to see you." My face falls with surprise. The Director? Mum must have noticed my expression, "I know, it surprised me also. I don't know what he wants with you. Are you sure Cuba went to plan and everything was shut down?"
I nod my head, running my memories back to the mission. "Yeah… Yeah definitely, apart from the end fight when everyone got beaten black and blue but everything ran smoothly. We didn't bust our covers until necessary and the extraction worked perfectly." I groan when I face the realization that I need to actually get dressed to go to the Pentagon and make myself presentable. Too much effort needed. "This is bull."
The Pentagon. It's technically the headquarters of the United States Department of Defense, but the CIA like to stake their own claim at the five-sided building. The DoD do kick up a fuss because technically we do not fall under the DoD and we have our own headquarters in Langley, but who wouldn't want a piece of the Pentagon to themselves? We are the only independent US intelligence agency and we kick more ass than the whole of DoD combined. As you can imagine, there is a whole lot of bad blood between us. As I walk through the blinding white corridors I catch the accusing stares of men and women in black suits. They would all make wonderful slender men with their blank poker faces, the identical black aviators, the black suit and tie, I kind of feel out of place here in my black ripped jeans and white tee. When I said earlier that I needed to make myself presentable, jeans and a t-shirt is somewhat presentable in the CIA. We aren't as uptight as these men in black. The Pentagon is an architectural beauty. I mean seriously, the building is humongous, but it is designed so that it always takes less than five minutes to walk from any one point to another. I walk through the maze of indistinguishable corridors, ignoring the questioning and disapproving looks I receive. My eyes dart to the left, to another corridor, and lock onto a certain hot brunette, leaning almost seductively over a water fountain, her deep blue eyes flickering over to me, smiling enticingly. Her pinstripe suit hugs her curves deliciously, her perfect white teeth gleaming in her million-dollar smile.
"You have the subtlety of a hand grenade." I whip my head around to find Grant approaching, and grin at him guiltily. "You have the look about you like a boy who has had his hand caught in the cookie jar."
I shrug my shoulders, "man, look at her! She's a beauty. Are you telling me you wouldn't even try?"
Let me introduce you to Grant Morgan, my 'brother from another mother', my wingman, my backup, my best friend. I have known Grant for as long as I can remember. I was born exactly three and a half minutes after Grant and we have been tight ever since. His parents are also highly recognised agents in the CIA, Matthew and Rachael Morgan and he's the only kid, which makes me his brother in a way. Grant Morgan is a huge player, he's a bang and dash kinda guy oozing with self-confidence and assurance. And what can I say, I learnt from the best. "I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot barge pole." I stop walking in shock. Never have I ever seen Grant his nose up at a girl looking like this. Grant turns around and grins knowingly, "mate, she is FBI." I groan in frustration. No way is CIA allowed to mix with FBI, its an unspoken rule, no matter how hot the fish in the other pond are.
"How good is your source?" I ask hopefully.
"Impeccable."
"Damn."
"Yep."
"Do you not have any means of telling the time or are you both just downright stupid?" Preston Winters everyone. And the laughing skinny black haired guy to the left of him is Jonas Anderson, probably the cleverest teenager to ever grace these halls. Imagine a typical nerd; add a splash of dork and a brain that could rival Einstein and you will get Jonas. Preston Winters is the complete opposite. He is the son of the American ambassador in England, which gives him his funny accent and his mammoth bank account that comes in handy sometimes when on the run from people trying to kill you. He is what girls would say, 'ruggedly beautiful'. I don't know what the hell that means, but even my sister calls him that and it doesn't help his oversized ego one bit.
"We aren't that late, I'm sure Joe won't even notice," Grant says whilst clapping Jonas on the shoulder.
"Oh, he knows," says a familiar feminine voice. Enter Abby Cameron, the co-director of the CIA alongside Joe Solomon. "And can I just say boys, what a treat he has in store for you!" At the hint of her sarcastic tone my smile falls off my face.
"Aunt Abby, what did we do this time?" implores Grant and even from here I can tell he is worried about Solomon's so called treat. Joe when he is happy with you, can be the best man on the earth, but if you disappoint him or anger him, you are put in the dog house for weeks on end, your days filled with punishment laps, paperwork, coffee making, newbie trainings, the list of pointless jobs continues forever. I swear he has a book filled with these punishments just so he can make them different each time by picking them out by random. It honestly wouldn't surprise me.
"You did nothing wrong Scout don't worry. Just go in, have fun, don't piss him off and you might still have all ten fingers by the end of it." And with that closing statement, Abby Cameron, the famous CIA agent threw us a cheeky wave and ambled down the corridor away from us leaving us dreading what lay behind the mahogany double doors.
In the past sixty years or so, the Director's office hadn't changed at all, and the current sees no reason to break the tradition. A large oak table sits in the middle of the spacious room and in the large chair behind it sits Joe Solomon's imposing person. Though his face presents a hard façade, I could see his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His fingers are steepled as his gaze wanders across us. We stand in a row, Preston, Grant myself then Jonas, our backs straight and our eyes never making contact with his. Although Joe Solomon is like a father figure to us, no way are we dumb enough to look into his eyes when he is angry. That's just asking for a death sentence politely.
"It has come to my attention that you are coming towards the age of 18. And it has also come to my attention that none of you have really experienced a normal life." I almost snort at the words normal. Of course none of us are normal, we started training to become spies since we were 10. Of course, Jonas and Preston have experienced some semblance of normality coming from a non-spy family, but how can you be classed as normal if you have an iQ larger than Stephan Hawking and if you can count to hundred in seven different languages whilst diffusing a bomb with a pair of tweezers.
"Sir, what do you class as normal?" asks Jonas, the question on everyone's minds.
"Well, you know. You boys haven't experienced the pleasures of high school, the worries of normal teenagers. The biggest worry of a spy is whether or not they will live to see the next day. Whereas, a normal seventeen year old boy would worry about what to wear that day, or whether they will win their football match." To be honest, I prefer my worries. I don't want to deal with high school crap. I've seen it in movies, that's enough exposure to the living nightmare that is school for me.
"Sir, where are you going with this," I ask worriedly, somehow I get the feeling that this is the treat Abby was talking about.
"The CIA is giving you the opportunity to live a normal life. You boys are going to high school."
AN: Welcome! Hi there and thanks for reading. I should be updating weekly, but maybe not for the first few chapters, just so I can get into the swing of things. For my regular readers, don't worry, I will be continuing with New Beginnings. But hey, give this one a chance and I would love to hear about what you guys think of it. So review and follow, just press those buttons below and I'll see you the next chapter! x