Hi, I'm new to the Gallagher Girl fandom. Name's Mia Cortez, if you're one of my new readers. Normally, I'm prone to sticking to the Percy Jackson fanfictions, but I decided, after re-reading I'd Tell You I Love You But Then I'd Have To Kill You, to try writing one. It's probably safe to warn you that this is gonna be choppy, and a little out of character, but I do my best. Tell me what you think; if you want more, I'm waiting. You just review and you got it.

Oh, here's the summary:

Years after graduating from Gallagher Academy, Bex Baxter is living the high life of spyhood. Following her parents' footsteps as an MI6 agent in Britain, she's sent to America to infiltrate the FBI and maybe steal their MOST WANTED out from under them. But when, upon revealing need-to-know information to the mark, she's kicked off the case (and finds out a few old friends get assigned it instead) and comes back to crash the party, she finds out that the shady target under the FBI's all-seeing radar isn't what he seems, and maybe, just maybe, she could blow a cold, dead-in-the-ground case wide open, pulling out a few deadly secrets with it. We all know Bex can poison a senator and sleep like a baby, but can she survive the most dangerous threat of all?

The air was unusually cold.

Coming from Britain, I normally wouldn't feel a silly thing like wind. But Paris, France, though quite pretty from the surface, can be a vicious sort of city, if you catch my drift.

What was I doing in seemingly-very-lovely Paris, France, you might ask?

Now that, my dears, is a very covert, very classified bit of information. If I had it my own way, you would never have even known I existed. The only true reason I'm writing this is because my boss, a quite secretive man you may know as Peter Williams, had been asked to collect a set of memoirs from one of his best agents. Therefore, he chose yours truly. Of course, Pete Williams is not my true boss's name. But you know us (hopefully not). Giving secrets is giving souls. Stealing them? That's another matter entirely.

I bet I can guess what question just ran through your head: Who's "us"?

Oh, I believe you know. And that word? That popped into your mind right now? I hope you know not to use it lightly, to never mention it near one of us, because, odds are, you'll be out before the last part comes out of your mouth.

That's right.

Spies.

I drew my coat tighter around me as the wind picked up, blowing my hair into my face. Curse Paris.

"Fool to Duchess, come in."

The deep, male voice crackling in my ear gave me a mild fright, but of course, as trained, I showed nothing. I turned my head as if I was looking down the street, and murmured in an American accent, "Duchess to Fool, go ahead."

"The mark is down the block to the right," he told her. "Dark fedora, silver wristwatch. Take it away, Lady Brandon."

"I thought we weren't supposed to use names, Nathan," I said, wishing I could shoot him an irritated look without giving myself away.

"Don't call me that!" he snapped as I walked down the pavement. "It's Nate and you know it. Besides, I doubt Rebecca Brandon is your real name."

Of course, he was correct, but he simply had no idea just how much. So, of course, I gave the natural spy-born response: I lied. "Shut up, I'm nearing the mark," I snapped. I dipped my head as I came closer to the Parisian café, the mark rising from his seat to pay his tab. I angled my trajectory so I would hit my target without paying attention, then looked over my shoulder just as I rammed into him.

It was too easy to unwrap the watch from his wrist and hide it in my sleeve as I let myself topple backwards, landing very unfashionably on my arse.

"Hey, are you—oh, damn, um… Êtes-vousbien?" His French was rough and heavily accented, but enough to get by.

I became the very picture of grace. I smiled widely, brushing a lock of dark hair out of my eyes while I took his hand and allowed him to pull me to my feet. "Parlez-vous français?" I asked, in flawless French.

"Um, no?" The man beneath the fedora was easily very handsome, with sharp blue eyes and swept gold hair. I was unmoved, but I knew exactly how to make my eyes shine and my face lovely.

"Too bad," I said in English, with, again, an American accent. "It's a beautiful language."

I kept my smile in place, even as his eyes went over every contour of my face, my hair, the thin sliver of my dress through my beige coat. "Too bad," he repeated. "Oh, sorry, I'm Justin. Justin Reed."

I smiled wider. "Nice name." My phone—all-in-all untraceable, completely disposable—rang, exactly on cue. I threw an apologetic look at Justin, then answered. "Hello?"

"Duchess? Duchess, look, they're onto you. You have to move now." Nate's alarmed tones filled my ears, setting me on spy-edge.

"Are you sure?" I asked in a calm, slightly stressed voice. "I can't miss the meeting today." Spy code. Perfection.

"I'm not screwing around, Becca. Get out of there now or things are gonna go way south way too fast."

I made a sigh come from my lips. "Alright. I'll be there in ten." I tossed a quick smile towards Justin Reed. "Sorry. Duty calls." I hardly waited for a response when I turned around, ready to ditch my three-inch heels and run, when I heard—

"Wait! What's your name!"

I whirled back for half a second, uttering a name that leapt to mind without my searching for it: "Rachel. Rachel Morgan."

I cursed myself constantly while I walked briskly and as-fast-as-possible down the street, my highly-trained eyes flicking back and forth for any sign of danger. That name was one of the most dangerous in the spy book. Absolutely forbidden, mostly because nearly no one in the spy network knew who she was.

I could feel the paranoia of spydom taking over. Treachery was at every turn. A man in a black trench at a street corner, a lovely woman waiting for a trolley, a dashing face in a window. They all seemed to urge me along, the most dangerous sentence in the world echoing in my brain.

First rule of spyhood: NEVER get caught.

It's the rule we live by, the rule that keeps us alive. And if I didn't get back to Nate at the in five minutes, I was going to break that rule. I dove into an alley, throwing off my coat, ripping the hem of my skirt six inches up the sides. The microscopic grappling hook shooting from my diamond bangle made no sound, even when the metal made contact with the edge of the stone wall.

Pulling me up was another easy job; jumping Parisian roofs was not. Wearing a sleek silver dress while leaping over gaps of the alleys between small-town houses in France is not the best way to stay inconspicuous.

"Fool, where are you?" I demanded breathlessly, pausing for a moment on the wall separating houses.

"La Bourdonnais," he replied. "Oh, God, Duchess, they're right behind you."

I threw a glance over my shoulder, and suddenly I realized the shadows tailing me were indeed not shadows. "Don't call falsely on your god, Fool," I reminded him. "Bad luck. I'm coming from the northeast. Have the engine running and the door open."

"Okay."

"Oh, and Nathan?"

"Don't call me that, and yes?"

"Please don't be sitting in the driver seat when I show up. You'll get a boot to the face again."

Sigh. "Yes, Becca."

I threw a deadly knife-concealed-inside hairpin back at them, sending one plummeting into the alley below, then slapped a micro-bomb on the nearest rail I passed, pressing the detonator as I leapt towards the next rooftop.

"Agh!" My fingers scraped the tiles of the townhouse, sending me skidding a good few feet towards the cobblestone street below, which had never before looked quite so dangerous.

"Duchess? Duchess, come in! Becca, are you okay?" Nate's frantic voice reminded me I certainly wasn't dead.

"What?" I growled. I heaved myself over the roof tiles, breathing heavily.

"I'm tracking five more of them, heading right for you."

I cursed in the first language that came to mind, then took off running, feeling horribly unbalanced in my insane high-heeled boots. I spotted Nate's van easily; a small black one, invisible on the streets of Paris. I threw another micro-bomb over my shoulder at random, then took a running start and dived off the roof.

The air whipped past me for a short few seconds before I swung off the nearest traffic lights and flew feet-first into the driver's window of Nate's van, ignoring the thud my boot made as it hit the side door. Thank God, the engine was running, as instructed. I barely waited a few moments before stomping on the gas, screeching past a small Volkswagen and careening into Parisian traffic.

"Dammit, Becca, you made me bleed!"

Looking sideways at Nate, I realized what my heel had truly made contact with—his cheek. "I told you to get out of the way," I said calmly, ripping a piece of my dress and handing it to him.

He scowled. "Watch the road, will you?"

I smirked. "Where's Princess?"

"Here," Sara McGee's voice came through the COMM for the first time this mission, making me frown slightly. "Geez, Duchess, I've never seen you run like that."

"Yeah, well, getting a mission blown can really shake the nerves." My hands tightened on the wheel. "Princess, how the hell did MI5 find out about this?"

"No idea," Sara replied. "But get to the airport. You know the drill."

The Drill. Switch cars, split up, take separate planes back to headquarters, a.k.a. the Edgar J. Hoover FBI building in Washington D.C.

I had left Nate at the Eiffel Tower, exchanged the van for a sedan, and was on my way to the airport when my phone rang. Not the all-in-all untraceable, completely disposable one, the can't-afford-to-lose, extremely important, and immensely secret one no one knew about.

I answered cautiously. "Hello?"

"Well, hello, Rebecca. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

My grip threatened to break the wheel, which was entirely possible.

"Of course, Mrs. Morgan."

Stepping out of the limo, I could only feel the natural, yet forbidden sense: fear. Why? Because Rachel Morgan, former CIA agent and Gallagher Academy headmistress, had called me to her safehouse, a thing no good spy would do, especially if they're under the radar like my best friend's mother.

The door opened easily enough, revealing Mrs. Morgan herself, sitting calmly at a sleek silver table with two chairs and…two teacups.

A good spy notices things. A long-lost teacher, Joe Solomon (no doubt he changed his name by now), had once told us that. And I noticed that there were teacups on the table, along with two saucers, which, believe me, is a perfectly good fatal weapon if need be. Even more unsettling, Rachel Morgan was notorious for her tea. Either it calmed you, or killed you. I wasn't certain which was worse.

"Don't act so cautious, Rebecca," she quipped. "Please, sit."

"This is very unlike you," I replied.

Mrs. Morgan gave me a skeptical look. "You may drop the accent, Bex. You're among friends."

I spared a quick smile. "Fine then," I said, resuming my native British tones. "What do you want?"

Her hands paused in lifting the cup to her lips. "So like you, Miss Baxter. Straight to the point."

"A spy in interrogation is meant to be direct, Mrs. Morgan."

Her eyebrows rose. "Who said anything about interrogation?"

"Who said it needed to be said?" I countered.

The wry smile on Mrs. Morgan's lips told me she approved. "Well done, Bex. Flawless as ever." She took a sip of her tea. "Go on," she told me. "It's not like I would poison you."

I raised an eyebrow as she set down her cup, then switched them. "Spies don't take chances." I put the cup to my lips and took a careful sip; no bitterness, no burning beyond the heat, just tea.

"True." She folded her hands. "Tell me Rebecca, what in Gillian's name would posses you to use my name in a secret mission?"

"Would you like me to be honest?" I asked.

She tilted her head. "Honesty," she mused. "A two-edged blade."

I took that to mean No. "The situation called for quick thinking."

"You've always been good with quick thinking, Rebecca," she answered coolly. "With secrets." Not this time.

"Yes."

She leaned back, studying me. I didn't like where she was taking the conversation. I pulled the nastiest card I owned: "How's Cammie?"

Her dark eyes flashed to mine, deep with suspicion, and a glimmer of slight impression. I knew even she, one of the most infamous, secret spies in history, didn't anticipate that.

"Hiding in plain sight," Mrs. Morgan's eyes narrowed in suspicion, then she stood. "Rebecca Alice Baxter, you're being pulled from the under cover operatives mission."

"What?" I demanded. My hand on the table made the teacups shiver with a few clinks. "You don't have the bloody right!"

Her eyebrow rose; it was unlike me to get so upset, but very natural to get so theatrical. "I do. Your parents, though retired, still leave me as your watchman while you're in the States and it's secret services. And you revealed potential secrets to a civilian. What if he looked up my name?" She stood gracefully. "You are to return to MI6 immediately."

I scowled. "If I may ask, who will be taking over the mission?"

To this day, I don't know what the former Gallagher headmistress was thinking when she turned halfway back, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and said, "Cammie."

I could tell you the first thing I did was head back to England, to see my parents, or maybe go straight to work at MI6. But that would be lying. The truth, I was on the next flight to Paris. My only thoughts? Crash Cammie's new mission.

I don't do so well at taking orders; I never have, and I never will. Unless my life depended on it. Then, I would most likely consider it. To get thrown off a case would be the worst thing possible, especially for a model spy like me.

MI6 had sent me to America, their best spy, to infiltrate the FBI, work my way up the corporate ladder, and uncover their biggest WANTED. Why? So we could beat them to it.

Getting in, easy. Gaining trust, easy. Receiving a mission, too easy. I was perfect. And all because of one mistake, I was off to steal my best friend's mission out from under her.

In truth, I hadn't seen Cammie Morgan in years. After Gallagher Academy, I went back to England, and she stayed working to be in the CIA, just like her mother. Macey McHenry had gone back to being her family's prideful heiress, hiding in plain sight. Or in other words, on the cover of local magazines as well as ones such as Forbes and Vogue. Liz Sutton, our very own super-genius, had left and disappeared into the NSA, exchanging hardly a few words with any of us.

To sum it all up nicely, none of us had stayed in touch.

I stole a hat and a scarf as soon as I stepped foot off the plane; international cameras, you know. The face of Rebecca Baxter is not to be seen in any place other than England nowadays.

I knew exactly where to look.

"Westin Paris," I told the driver in flawless French.

Paying a doorman to run interference with the lobby clerk was, interestingly, amusing to watch. Seeing twenty employees rush to put out a burning coat rack can truly brighten someone's day, it seems. The keyboard didn't dare make a sound while I typed into the hotel's system swiftly, pulling up Cammie's room information without a hitch.

I smiled at the name she'd chosen: Rebecca Grant. I was still smirking as I knocked at her door, leaning against the doorframe just as it opened.

"Bon jour, Chameleon."

Cammie looked so different, I was almost surprised, but of course, I revealed nothing. "Bex?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

"You mean you mum didn't tell you?" I said, pushing past her into her room.

She sighed, flipping her long dark ponytail over her shoulder, before glancing both ways and closing the door. "I didn't know you were in France."

"I didn't know you were out of the CIA," I replied.

She frowned. "I'm not 'out of the CIA,'" she answered. "I'm on vacation days. Mom asked a favor. What didn't she tell me?"

I looked her over. I once heard Cammie's mother say that someday, Cammie would be just like her. Turns out, as usual, Mrs. Morgan was right. Cammie, with her long hair and large eyes, somehow managed to be lovely and completely unnoticeable at the exact same time. The Chameleon, able to blend in any environment.

I leaned against the counter.

"Sorry you had to hear it from me, Cammie, but I'm taking over your mission."