Hello my lovelies! For one, I am so sorry I vanished for so long. This chapter was so hard for me to write - not because of anything particularly dramatic in content. In fact, it was quite the opposite. This chapter was a slower one, and I seem to be worse at those when it comes to writing multi chapters. I was stuck with quite the writer's block, so I took a little break and came back with a fresher outlook. I'm still not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I had to come to terms with the fact that this was just one of those chapters where every draft was going to be slightly iffy to me. This was the one I was least upset about. On the bright side, it's one difficult jump I made before being able to smooth out the next chapter.
So, I decided to make up for my absence with a longer chapter! Almost 9k words - it's a miracle.
Also, in the mean time, I've started working on some one shots for Gallagher Girls and Heist Society. Given that I'm so particular about my headcanons, unless they're AU oneshots, they'll be set in the same universe as Fool Me Once, Fool Me Twice and Fool's Gold. Some will be set in the past - you could consider them as flashbacks to these series. Some in the future. Some Heist Society ones that run on a parallel timeline. And some entirely AU. Either way, I'd love to know what you think about them.
For now, I've only posted one, set in the same universe as this one, on the night of their graduation. It's called Hypnotic, so go check it out and drop a review!
Your love and reviews help me a lot, so let me know what you think! I want to hear more from you guys; hearing what you guys anticipate, like/dislike, want, etc. really helps with the creativity. Trust me.
So, let me know! As for now, I leave you to read. And, as always, sorry for any overlooked grammatical errors.
Chapter Rating: M (implied sexual content)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Ally Carter. I don't own copyrights to canon Gallagher Girls material, and only own creative and intellectual property.
Fool's Gold
Chapter Three
Anxiety couldn't even begin to describe the mood I was in. Right from the moment the adrenaline had worn off, until we landed in America, I had to actively avoid my body from shaking with nerves. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, which was a real first for me. I'd tried my level best, but the images from the news kept rolling through my head. The most I'd been able to do was swipe a few copies of newspapers, hoping that they would be enough for me to piece together a premise, at the very least. But, as most journalism goes, the details were muddled up – owing to the fact that it was an ongoing investigation surrounding the First family. Some reports said that forty people had died; some said thirty. Some said that casualty numbers were still rising. But one thing stood common – there had been an attempted attack at an event that the President was meant to be attending. The entire country was going to be in a state of panic. An assassination of the President, though not exactly unheard of in American history, was extremely worrying.
I couldn't stop myself from replaying Macey's worried voice over and over again. For obvious reasons, she hadn't been able to disclose details about the attack while she was on the phone with me. But it had been a long time since I'd heard her this worried. It wasn't often that Macey McHenry was rattled – especially over the last few years, as she worked closely with the First family for the Secret Service. These kinds of things were something you were always prepared for. But something inside Macey had been shaken by the entire thing; as if she'd been propelled back to another day when another politician's family had been attacked.
Maybe it was my own thoughts being reflected onto her, but I still worried. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew she'd be on strict lock down. Getting through to her would be impossible - at least for a little while. I had to be patient. Patience wasn't exactly my strongest suit. I was rushing around, even as I entered Langley's headquarters. Zach was hot on my heels.
"Agents!" came Townsend's slightly frantic voice as we both walked into the corridor. We'd headed to Langley as soon as we'd stepped onto American soil, and the moment we'd entered the floor we usually worked on, Townsend had found us. He looked a little disheveled, and I couldn't blame him for it. Everyone was on high alert - and I'd just been made on the first stage of a very important mission. It didn't set good precedent for the rest of the work that lay in front of us. That was, if Townsend deemed it fitting to let me go back to the field, for this case.
That was another thing that couldn't stop haunting my mind. The fact that I'd been made so easily. I hadn't let it bother me before, but the past few hours that I'd had to my own thoughts hadn't exactly helped in the downward shame spiral.
"What's happening?" Zach asked, walking ahead of me. "We heard about the attack – "
"The mission," Townsend interrupted, looking at me. "Agent Kanzari informed me that you managed to get your hands on some information. An Operation Lithium, and a phone – "
"No trackers. I checked before swiping it," Zach said, pulling out the evidence bag from his coat pocket and handing it over. "But what's going on here? National security is being compromised."
"Agent Goode," Townsend said. "Are you forgetting what comes under our jurisdiction?"
Townsend had a point, although I was sure it was one Zach knew well. Technically, national security was not at all our area of interest. Sure, it was what prompted us to carry out half our missions, but working on securing the country was hardly what we did. That was the FBI's job. But I wouldn't be surprised if more of our agents were being sent on missions to see if there was helpful chatter happening on foreign grounds about this attack.
"No," Zach replied, raising an eyebrow. "But, what's happening? Is the FBI collaborating?"
"Yes, they are. And you guys are the first ones they want to talk to. We need to process this evidence before that happens. I don't want the FBI meddling around here and messing up this entire operation. Freshen up and meet me in Board Room 145, in twenty minutes."
Zach and I shared startled looks.
The FBI wanted to talk to us? Why? That made very little sense, since we barely even had any idea of what was going on. What reason did the FBI have to talk to us? Did they suspect somebody we'd previously been assigned to? Did they want us to do something for them? We'd only just made it back home – and even though I'd known from the start that this was just the beginning of something big, it seemed like a very large leap for the FBI to come straight to the both of us.
Bewildered, I turned around. While Townsend headed straight for the elevators, Zach and I went to the locker rooms, where we always had a locker assigned to each of us, with extra utilities. I was glad for it. I was starting to feel like I'd never stop smelling like hell.
I was pink by the time I came out of the shower. The ten minutes I'd spent in there had felt like a lifetime, while I watched dirt, and grime, and flecks of hidden, dried blood wash away from my body. The more time I spent scrubbing my skin, the more vigorous my actions became, as if I could step out of this chameleon skin that had betrayed me. One simple glint of a reflection, and I'd been made. I was someone who'd done far more dangerous missions, and gotten away with them because I was Cammie Morgan - Cammie, the Chameleon. For some reason, in St. Petersburg, that had betrayed me.
Being made wasn't something that happened to me - at least, not so early on in a mission. If I hadn't gotten away on time, the entire mission would've blown before it even started. How I'd managed to mess up in the recon stage was something that continued to elude me. So, I scrubbed, and I scrubbed, until I couldn't anymore. When I'd had enough, I stepped out with a frown crowning my eyes.
"Now, I'm really confused," I said, sitting on one of the benches in gym shorts and a sports bra. I had a tablet in my hand, my finger furiously swiping from one screen to the other as more and more reports came in. There was, at least, a confirmed number of casualties – thirty-seven people. Ten police officers (of which three were there to receive an award), five journalists, nine family members of police officers, and two members of the Secret Service. Being back at HQ definitely made it easier to piece this stuff together.
"Confused about what? Our Operation, the FBI, or the attack?" Zach asked, running a towel through his hair and pulling on a plain, grey t-shirt with the CIA crest on it.
"All of the above?" I said, although it sounded a lot more like a question. I turned back to the screen and wiped away some of the water droplets that had dripped from my hair. Zach gently tugged away the tablet and the next thing I knew, I was sputtering as he put a towel over my head and started drying it. I let him work my hair over while I closed my eyes and took a moment to collect myself. A lot had happened over the past few hours, and I was beginning to think that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Everything was starting to become complicated, and this attack at the same time as a mission in Russia seemed far too coincidental. I knew, logically, a lot of things happened at the same time, all over the world. The planet, and its population, was far too big for things to take place sequentially. Yet, it seemed that way.
"I can feel your head whirring towards anxiety," Zach said, pushing the towel off my head and planting a kiss on the damp strands.
"Quite the talent," I replied, raising my eyebrows and tilting my chin up. He smirked and leaned down, gently kissing my lips, straying away from the healing cut on them. I ignored the cut and simply put my hand on his jaw to give him a proper kiss.
"It's probably just basic questioning," Zach pondered, still planting gentle kisses. "They must know that we're associates, and friends, of Macey."
"Basic questioning," I nodded, even though it sounded like a lie. Shaking my head and dropping the towel on the bench, I stood up to throw on my own CIA t-shirt. I used to find them so embarrassing, a bit like the gym shirts I'd seen in Lizzie and Macey's school pictures. But now I found them convenient, and surprisingly comfortable.
"We're going to be fine," I said, my standard motto before we both jumped headfirst into trouble.
"See you on the other side," he replied, with his standard motto.
"Well, you guys certainly look better," Khadija announced, getting up from her seat to give each of us a hug. I smiled and hugged her back tightly. She allowed me to, knowing that this was my own way of showing gratitude for everything she did from here, for Zach and me. I squeezed her once more before pulling back and going into business mode.
"Was the phone helpful?" Zach asked, dropping into an empty seat. I sat down across from him.
"Definitely," Khadija said, pulling up files on her laptop. Zach and I turned to see what was being projected on the screen. "You did a good job keeping it remote, but I still ran multiple scrambles on it before accessing any data. Just in case."
"What did you find?" I asked, leaning forward and squinting at the multiple lines of code that ran across the screen.
"Just two contact numbers, frequently called over the past one week. I'm guessing this is some kind of backup phone, or one of many Lehman has been using, since it seems unlikely that he'd only have two contacts. If he keeps different phones for different business deals, then these contact numbers are closely linked to each other," Khadija responded.
"Can you trace – " Townsend started, stepping into the room as if he'd been here for the entire conversation.
"Already done it," she said, pulling up two distinct maps. One was of St. Petersburg – I recognized some of the streets I'd been on over the past few days. The other had German writing on it. It took me a few seconds to recognize the street layouts and names.
"Is that Frankfurt?" I asked, squinting.
"Yep," Khadija nodded. "I keep refreshing the trace every few minutes, so this location is live. And I dipped into satellite and street camera imaging. The person in St. Petersburg is the same guard you bugged – Drozdov's guard. I'm guessing he's the one maintaining contact between Lehman and the Drozdovs."
"Who's in Frankfurt?" Townsend asked.
"That would be Maude Lehman," Khadija said, pulling up files on Milo Lehman's equally – if not more – notorious twin sister. The two were known to cause havoc together, but as far as individual talents went, Milo was known for debauchery, while Maude was known for skinning people alive. Quite the sibling duo those two made.
"So, he's contacting his sister," Zach said, a disappointed tone in his voice. Of course, it made perfect sense for both the Lehmans to be in on such a big deal, whatever the deal was. Having Milo contacting her was an obvious conclusion to be drawn – something we would've known even without the phone. I reached forward to lightly brush Zach's fingertips with my own.
"Ah. But that's not the shocking part," Khadija said, pulling up more street camera images. "What is shocking is the person she appears to be with. Ever heard of Luther Hofmann?"
"Vaguely. German arms dealer. Runs something of a radical group, right?" Zach asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Radical is one way of putting it," said a different voice from the doorway. We all turned to watch the man enter the room, the cool way in which he took off his shades and jacket to reveal glittering green eyes and toned arms (respectively, obviously).
"Joe!" Zach and I exclaimed at the same time, standing up to greet him in the most excited way that boardroom decorum allowed. He had his usual knowing grin on his face, even as I gaped at him. Last I'd heard, he was taking the week off and spending it at home - a townhouse in Richmond, Virginia, only a short drive from Gallagher. Seeing him here was as unexpected as everything else that was going on, even if I'd learned to never not expect Joe to do something.
"Agent Solomon," Townsend nodded, turning back to the screen. "Care to share some information about Hofmann?"
"Ah, Luther Hofmann," Joe said, taking a seat beside Zach. He looked thoughtfully at the images, and then turned to look at us. "I tailed him in the 90s, back when he was just starting out as an arms dealer. It was some pretty basic intel, given that he was dealing to some fishy clients who happened to be on our questionable lists. Over the years he's amassed quite the band of workers, spread all over Germany and Austria."
"Just from arms dealing?" Khadija asked, frowning and typing furiously at her laptop. I assumed she was trying to dig up more information on this Hofmann character.
"Yes, but not just for crime syndicates and drug lords," Joe shook his head. "Hofmann fancies himself as a resource person for neo-Nazi groups in that region of Europe."
Zach let out a hiss of breath through his teeth, his face contorted with disgust.
"You're kidding," I breathed.
"I wish, kid," Joe said, using the nickname he'd picked up ever since he'd married Mom. "But he doesn't exactly have a moral compass that points due north. He's got a sick little game show running in these regions, and if the Lehmans – or Drozdovs – are involved then we've got some serious worrying to do. Neo-Nazis working with Russian mobsters can never be a good sign."
"That's why they were using the term Lithium," Khadija announced, pulling up the same files on Operation Lithium she'd skimmed over earlier. "I'm assuming they're somewhat reclaiming the term, since they probably didn't want Hitler to get killed – god, these people sound gross. They're suspected of providing weapons to groups that incite violence and hate crimes in civilian pockets of Germany and Austria. It's sickening."
"He calls his group Schwarzes Blut," Joe added, wrinkling his nose.
"Black Blood," I translated easily. "Well he's got that right. What a rotten group."
Rotten seemed like a playground word to use for this kind of activity, but I couldn't muster a word bad enough to label them. You'd think that working with the CIA meant that we'd get used to all kinds of bends and twists that the human morality could take us, but it always surprised me more and more as to how low people could drop. Neo-Nazi groups. It was sick.
Zach helped me out by supplying a bad enough word for both of us. Or two, or three. For once, Townsend didn't reprimand him for language.
Everyone remained silent for a few minutes, before Joe shook his head, repeating what he'd said earlier.
"If Hofmann is working with the Drozdovs then you guys need to be very careful. He's not exactly the forgiving type, and he'd do anything before letting his plans get sabotaged. Especially if they're grand enough to involve the Russians."
"So, what next?" Zach asked. "We were made in Russia. We can't go back so soon. We need to lay low for a little while."
I cringed at the reminder, waiting for someone to throw me a reprimanding look - as if this had been my fault entirely. I couldn't even bring myself to look away from the scratch on the table I'd been staring at. But when I finally mustered the strength to accept the responsibility, nobody had even glanced at me.
"And you will," Townsend continued, oblivious to my internal dilemma. "There is still a lot we can do from here. We have some associates of Hofmann under our custody. We start by questioning them. We gather intel on these two game players before we jump back into action."
We nodded and stood up, and Townsend promised to relay us the next plan of action within twenty-four hours. Until then, we knew we were free to go back to wherever we wanted. We could just return to New York. But I wanted to see Macey as soon as she was freed up. And, to be honest, I didn't feel like being far from Langley when there was a good chance that anything new might come up at any given moment.
"Hey," I suddenly asked, turning to Townsend. "Why did the FBI want to talk to us?"
Townsend sighed.
"I shooed them away. They think the attack on the award ceremony may have been linked to someone named Russell – some criminal in Los Angeles. They know you've run into him before. They had some pretty standard questions, but I sent them packing. There was nothing in there that they couldn't find from somewhere else."
I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if he was hiding something from me. But, like his son, Townsend had a ridiculously talented poker face. His expression gave way for nothing other than cool, business-like politeness. I nodded once before walking out the door. The moment it shut behind us, Joe turned to us and smiled.
"Now, how about a real hug and proper welcome?"
"I can't believe you're here," I said for the hundredth time as I grinned at Joe, as soon as we were outside HQ. It made my jaw hurt just a little, but I got over it. It was hardly the worst injury I'd ever received. I was usually more sore from sparring in the gym. He gave me a sheepish grin in return.
"Such a big operation and you think I wouldn't want in on it?" he asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow. I blinked at the expression. It reminded me of that old picture of him and my dad at Blackthorne. It reminded me of the badass teacher we'd got at Gallagher. There was something ridiculously young and reckless about it. Immediately, I narrowed my eyes at him.
"And my Mom approved of this?"
My expression must've looked highly skeptical, because his grin wavered. Joe and Rachel Solomon were a pair that did very little ground work these days, mostly sticking to low-key missions that had small danger margins. It's not that they'd gotten old or anything. My mom and Joe were definitely still just as dedicated and talented agents – they didn't look even a little bit their age. But, I guess Mom and Joe learned their lesson from me. The girl who went a little crazy after her father died. They didn't want their daughter going through the same.
Oh, right – I did mention that, didn't I?
Didn't I?
Quick recap, then.
About three years, or so, after their marriage, Joe and Rachel Solomon called one Cammie Morgan (that's me) in the middle of the night. When I'd first picked up the phone, bleary eyed and irritated at being woken, I'd immediately panicked at the tone of their voice. It sounded breathless, and scared, and immensely worried. Imagine my surprise when my Mom finally managed to blurt out that she was pregnant. Before I could've even summoned an appropriate reaction to this confirmation that my Mom and step-dad had a sex life (ew!), they'd insisted that it hadn't been planned – which confirmed that they had casual, impromptu sex (double ew!).
I'm not going to lie; I could see why they were so nervous. For starters, if I hadn't been a twenty-one year-old when I heard about it, I would've raged and acted jealous. What my mom and I had was something special, something cultivated from a unique bond shared between mothers and only children. I hardly wanted to share something like that with a brand new half-sibling. Secondly, even if I did approve (which I did, completely, totally did), Joe was panicking for entirely different reasons. He'd never been a father. His role in my life had been that of a somewhat cool uncle-slash-stepfather. Even a non-spy would've been scared of that. But what I suspected had been the real cause of his worry was the idea that he might've crossed some invisible boundary by conceiving a child with my mother. Both of them being drawn together by a common loss, and falling in love, was something that seemed not entirely out of this world. But the one thing that my dad still had was that he'd been the father of my mother's child – he'd been the one to have a family with her. Joe had clearly felt like he was invading a space he shouldn't have.
Of course, that pretty much vanished after the first sonogram – blah, blah, I won't bore you with those details. What matters is that, nine months later, I was the proud elder sister (well, more like an aunt, given our age difference) of one loud grenade called Adelaide Solomon. Adelaide Morgan Solomon – a middle name Joe and Mom had decided to give in honor of Matthew.
Four years it had been since then, and it was hard to imagine that either of them had been worried about anything other than handling her on a sugar rush.
"I have my ways of convincing Rachel," Joe responded to my earlier question. "But I promised her I wouldn't go on active duty, so she's not too worried."
"And how's Addy?" I asked.
"Refusing to go to kindergarten, even though it's ages away," Joe shook his head. "She is excited about next weekend though. You'll be there, right?"
His green eyes turned hopeful. Next weekend – Joe's birthday party. Once a year, depending on who was free, we celebrated at least one person's birthday as an entire family. Addy's first birthday had been an occasion. Then Zach's. Last year, it had been Aunt Abby's. This year, it was Joe's turn. We'd all planned it in advance, since none of us had been given any work for the weekend. But all these new developments with the Drozdovs and Blut had me wondering if something bad was going to crop up soon – especially since Macey was laying low.
"You know we'll be there if Townsend doesn't ship us off," Zach said, slapping Joe on the back. The older man nodded, then tilted his head in the direction of the parking lot.
"I've got to head back soon. I promised I'd be back home by breakfast tomorrow morning. I should hit the road," he said, waving goodbye and breaking into a slight jog. Despite the brief surprise visit, I already felt a little lighter, a lot like a weight had been lifted off.
"What do you want to do?" Zach asked, turning to me.
"Race you to the gym?" I smirked, breaking into a run of my own.
Sparring felt a lot nicer than most people would think it would. The training room here was nothing like the P&E barns, to begin with. The cool, mattress lined floors and state of the art equipment – and a thermostat – made things a lot easier. The wide open space with an Olympic sized pool, an array of weights and gym machines, as well as an arsenal of weapons, was a lot better. The promise of a shower without having to walk across a school yard and back to an old, crowded mansion was another good thing. I'm not complaining. I really did miss the ease of those P&E classes sometimes. But this was Disney World (Orlando, not L.A) in comparison to Gallagher's Mickey Mouse House.
I grunted as Zach tackled me to the floor, and I used the opportunity to hook my leg around his shoulders and turn us over. Wrapping my legs around his neck, I squeezed tight. If this had been the field, I would've squeezed tighter until my opponent passed out – or, if they were too dangerous, until I'd snapped their neck. Unfortunately, this was Zach. And while I had flexibility, he had muscle. Reaching behind to clutch at my shirt, he lifted us off and slammed us back into the ground. My grip immediately loosened enough for him to crawl out from the thigh-vice.
I already had my hands up in defense before I was even aware that he was charging at me. This was a little dance routine we often did, using our strengths to their fullest – Zach, quick to offend; me, quick to defend. He feinted towards the right, and I blocked the kick he threw towards the left, grabbing his ankle in a deadly grip. He flipped backwards, the locked foot twisting my grip painfully, and I stumbled onto him. He flipped us over, and I pressed the heels of my palms into his collarbones, elbows snapping straight to hold his weight off of me. In a flash, his right hand swiped to something at his ankle, and I removed my palms from his chest to grab his forearms just as they raced towards me.
The hidden blade stopped a hairsbreadth from my neck. I choked from the effort to push it back little by little, as both of us put our full strength into our upper body and arms. My eyes flickered away from the shiny blade to Zach's face. Although it was screwed up, jaw clenched as he strained against my grip, I saw his dark eyes glint with an emotion: pride. He was ridiculously happy (I could tell) that I'd had the forethought to expect everyone to play dirty, even him.
"I think," he gasped, pushing the blade closer to me. "That we can call this a draw."
"We can't call a draw on a tie breaking match!" I gasped in return.
"Cam, I love you, but I think we're both too egotistical to let the other one win. This would go on forever. And where would that leave us?" he teased, slackening his grip on the dagger. I disarmed him and tossed it aside. Sitting up, he tugged on my arms to pull me up, as well. We took a few moments to stretch our backs and limbs, testing to see if either of us had inflicted any severe damage on the other. His neck was a little stiff, and my shoulder throbbed, but it was still not the worst we'd dealt.
Needless to say, we didn't go easy on each other. That was one of the beautiful things about training with Zach. We were on the field together so often that we knew each other's exact problem areas. God knows how many hours he spent helping me improve my offense (I had trouble dealing with the aftermath of readily hurting someone, without instigation), while I had to help him with his defense (he had trouble sitting idly, waiting for someone to attack). That's just the way we were. Each other's biggest fans, and harshest critics, all rolled into one.
Stretching his back for the last time, he walked towards the long rows of cabinets on the west wall and pulled out some tape. I held my hands out while he bandaged them sturdily, and when both of us were satisfied with his work, we walked towards the punching bags. I barely waited for him to stand behind it and steady it before I landed the first punch.
Thwack!
The sound echoed a little, the slight clench of Zach's jaw being the only indication of how hard I'd landed the hit. It was a punch that was waiting to happen, one I hadn't unleashed even when we were fighting each other. Mainly because if I had thrown it, he'd have driven me in circles until I finally confessed what was bothering me. I wasn't in a confessing mood. Taking a deep breath, I simply moved into a second hit.
With every punch, my moves got aggressive, my entire torso throwing itself forward with frustration. The silence was pressing down on my skull, my mind very aware of Zach's silent scrutiny. He wanted me to say the first words. But I didn't want to give him that. So, I hit harder. And harder. I could feel my knuckles going raw under the tape, but I didn't care. There was nobody here to make me. There were no disguises - the one thing I'd trusted, as my partner, in my entire life - to betray me. My eyes flickered up to Zach's and he was giving me a knowing look. I gritted my teeth, and punched again. A cry of frustration left my mouth before I could stop it. He opened his mouth to say something, but I interrupted.
"I really hope we can make it to Joe's birthday," I huffed, after the fifteenth punch I'd thrown. Zach stopped what he was about to say, watching me closely while he held the swinging bag in place.
"Yeah, well, you know how Townsend can get. If he gets any new information, he has to be on it right away," Zach grumbled. I sensed that he secretly agreed with this approach. Technically, so did I. But this was Joe's birthday. Selfishly, I wished that we could stay back for it.
"Abby might not let him send us," I pointed out, hopefully, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "That, and it would be stupid to send us back in right after we got made. Even I know that."
"Unfortunately for your theory," he smirked, "this entire web is so far spun out that we can easily find another point of access."
"I just want to meet everyone," I said, wiping away a bead of sweat that had run down my temple. "Especially, Addy. Did you see the new pictures Mom sent? She's growing up too fast. She's already four! Wasn't she born, like, yesterday?"
Zach laughed at that, shaking his head. I didn't know what he was so smug about. He could pretend all he wanted but he adored the little girl just as much as I did. I remembered the first time we babysat her for Mom and Joe. Addy had only been ten months old, and he'd nearly run us all crazy with his frantically thorough attempts at making sure she didn't die on our watch. If it hadn't been frustrating, it could've been endearing. That, and the fact that she adored Zach. Sure, she loved me a lot, but that kid had a one track mind only one time – when Zach was around. I suspected she was a little obsessed with him since he snuck her cookies and took her out for long drives.
Strangely enough, I remembered that night after Zach had found out Townsend was his father – how he'd vowed to never become a parent. I'd rarely thought of that comment over the years, even though I'd initially fretted over what it meant for us. It was weird how I'd wondered so obsessively over it when I was eighteen, but after moving in with him, I rarely thought about it. Our lives were too chaotic for me to linger on the possibilities of that.
But ever since Addy had been born, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it more and more. I was still too young to have a crisis over it – twenty-six was too young to have a crisis over it, right? It wasn't something I had to truly worry about for, at least, another five to six years.
Suddenly, we seemed so grown up. Liz and Jonas were fighting because they had to choose between their relationship or their careers. Grant and Bex were engaged. Where were Zach and I? It's not like I desperately needed him to drop down to one knee and proclaim his need to make a million babies with me. No, thank you. I loved my career too much for that. However, the idea of us taking the next big commitment was something I gingerly toyed with, from time to time. And, sometimes, very rarely, I entertained ideas of a picket fence dream with pillow fights between Zach, me, and a blond haired, dark eyed kid.
"Hey," Zach snapped his fingers in front of my face. Apparently, my reverie had pulled me into a state of slowed down punches. "Earth to Cammie."
"I'm just exhausted," I lied. He frowned a little, immediately picking up on the shift in voice. Hesitating, he seemed unsure whether he should ask me what was wrong or not. When I gave up on punching and starting removing the tape, he decided to step in.
"Something on your mind? Something we haven't already sweat out over?" he asked, dropping down on one of the sparring mats. I dropped down next to him, stretching out my legs and rolling my ankles so they wouldn't become sore later on. He lay down and gestured towards his own feet. Thankful that I wouldn't have to look into his face, I crawled over to his ankles and sat on the joints. While I unlaced my shoes, I felt his movements as he did sit ups.
"Should I be worried?" he asked between deep breaths.
I should tell him. But it seemed like such a silly idea, so out of place in the middle of all this chaos. The last thing either of us needed to think about was where our relationship was going. We were fine where we were, for now. Scrubbing my face harshly before I would fret over these silly ideas, I turned to him and sent him a small grin.
"Only about being caught off guard," I warned, for a second, before hopping off his feet and throwing my weight on top of him. He grunted with surprise, his hands thrown back to support his body weight while I sat on top of him, knees tucked on either side of his torso. Laughing, his expression lightened up and he lay back down. His hands rested on my waist.
"You got me. Even if I can see what you're trying to do," Zach grinned back, pulling me forward until I lay on his chest. My lips found his quickly enough, a slight salty taste between us from all the sweating – I couldn't tell if it was him or me. While one hand remained on my waist, his other hand went up to my braid that was coming loose, twirling strands of hair that had fallen out.
"And what am I trying to do?" I breathed against his lips.
"You're trying to distract me so I don't get you to tell me what's been bothering you since we got on the plane," he said in a matter of fact way before laying back down and raising an eyebrow at me. I frowned.
"Way to kill the mood," I grumbled, hovering over him. "I'm trying to initiate some fun."
"You're trying to find an easy stress reliever," he corrected. "I'm not exactly complaining. But I want to know what I'm being used - blatantly, I might add - to relieve."
"It's nothing," I said, leaning forward to kiss him again. He let me, before rolling me onto my back. His mouth moved to my jaw, then to my chin, and then that soft spot where my pulse throbbed. I hummed with desire while his mouth moved back up to my ear, and then pressed a firm kiss to my temple.
"I don't believe you."
"Zach - " I started to whine, but he cut me off with a look.
"It's not your fault. I know you're blaming yourself, but it's not your fault."
He could've been addressing any number of things, even the ones he didn't know were on my mind.
It's not your fault we got made.
It's not your fault to want to hang out with the family.
It's not your fault to want a future for us.
It's not your fault for wondering.
"You don't know that," I finally mumbled. "And I don't want to talk about it. So, just shut up, and kiss me."
I didn't give him a moment to respond before I reached up and kissed him hard. He responded, automatically, and I used the opportunity to deepen the kiss. My legs bent and wrapped around him, tugging him close. My fingers scrambled for purchase across the sweaty fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back for air, I gave him barely a moment before I kissed him again. I heard him groan my name.
"You," he mumbled, pulling away to breath, "are far too attractive for someone who has been sweating and sparring."
"Oh, really?" I chuckled, playfully biting his lower lip, and enjoying the second groan that followed. "I'm going to remind you that the next time you insist I shower before coming to bed."
"Don't be gross," he wrinkled his nose. "The gym is for sweating. Beds are for a different kind of sweating, I'll admit. But it gets so gross, and stuffy, and it feels unhygienic – "
"Hush, you," I quieted him with another kiss. I could feel his smile, and my heart and stupid thoughts dialed down. This was good. This felt ridiculously good. I'd let a weird, implausible idea squirm its way into my brain and momentarily rattle it. Sparring and kissing on gym mats was what Zach and I were made for. Not picking curtains to match the couch, or packing school lunches. This was our world. This was our place – fighting side by side.
Pushing down the slight longing making its way into my chest, I let my body warm up comfortably. It was already in a state of hyper awareness, and his mouth trailing down my chin wasn't helping. Despite warning bells in my head that this was a public space, I was all too aware that we were alone this afternoon, and that my fingers were finding the sweat dampened ridges of his shirt too enticing. I slipped my hand under the t-shirt he wore, and he made a noise of protest under his breath.
"Not here," he whispered, sitting up without fully breaking the embrace. "If this is how you want to play it, then we're going to do it right. Let's find someplace else. What new corner of this HQ can we christen?"
The new corner turned out to be some ignored utility closet on the fourth floor. We'd initially made a beeline for the locker rooms, but we'd fooled around there more times than I could remember. We'd even hit all the utility closets on our floor – and the medical center when it had been empty – at least once in the past eight years, since joining the CIA. It was time to explore new floors. When I pointed out the unfamiliar closet on the next floor, he promptly shut the door behind us and sent us scrambling over an old box, and into a back shelf.
"Ow," I had mumbled, although I hadn't been complaining when his fingers had grazed under my shirt to frantically undo the sports bra. Still, the exclamation hadn't gone unnoticed, and he'd pivoted us until my back was pressed against the wall. While his fingers had undone my shorts, mine had attacked the elastic of his sweat pants. Closet quickies didn't exactly leave time for slow foreplay or build up.
"What turns you on about this entire situation?" he'd nibbled across my jaw, less than careful about bordering between pain and pleasure. "The race against getting caught, or the sneakiness of the entire situation?"
"Don't be a tease," I'd whined, hoisting myself up at the same time that his hands grabbed my waist and slammed us against the wall again, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist.
"Or," he continued, pushing up my shirt a little, his mouth moving down to the collar bone peeking through the loose neck hole. "Do you just like fooling around in dark corridors?"
"Zach!" I'd snapped, digging my nails into his chest. "Stop talking. Now."
"Oh right, you don't want to talk," he growled in my ear, and I could hear that the deep roughness in his voice was mirroring the desire and frustration that was coursing through me. I needed him as stress relief - and he wanted my stress to be relieved. Even if it was momentary. I clawed at him while his fingers dug deep into my hips, his moving against mine. I was sure I'd made a noise between a whimper and a moan.
"Zach - " I'd said, unsure if I was moaning, or pleading, or scolding.
"Tell me what you want. Or, better yet, show me what you want."
He'd given me a mischievous smirk. I wasn't too bummed out.
Twenty minutes later, we were gasping for air while drowning in each other. I wasn't exactly sure how we managed the mechanics of it, but we did, and that's all that mattered, when my head stopped spinning and the pleasure stopped messing with my head. I swear to God, there were stars in my vision, and my back (which was already sore from sparring) was going to be a bother tomorrow morning. I could not care less. My throat felt dry, probably from having my mouth open and panting for quite some time, but that wasn't something a little water couldn't fix.
"Oh, god," I groaned, for what felt like the millionth time, squeezing my eyes shut and resting my head back against the wall. Zach echoed the sentiment, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his hot breaths sharp against my skin. He let his weight trap me for a few moments, arms tightening around me, as much as they could after being spent. But he managed well enough, even holding me upright while my wobbly legs unwound from around him.
"Now we need to shower again," I chuckled, righting my clothes and kissing the corner of his mouth.
"God, Gallagher Girl," he said, a mocking look of horror on his face. "How badly do you want me? At least give me ten minutes to recuperate before we go at it in the showers."
I whacked his arm, hunting for where he'd kicked aside my shorts. Finding them precariously close to a dust bunny, I quickly grabbed them and shook them out before putting them on. Pressing my ear against the door, making sure that the coast was clear, I unlatched the door and slipped out. A few minutes later, he slipped out, too. In the industrial light of the hallway, our skins looked sweaty and very flushed – I was glad we'd come straight from the gym, or it would look far too suspicious. Sharing a look of conspiracy, we grinned and started walking back towards where our locker rooms were.
"That's another room you can check mark," he said, nudging my side playfully. We were lazily ambling, too tired from all the different kinds of workouts we'd practiced over the past few hours. I pretended to stumble, and shoved him back.
We were still playfully shoving each other back and forth when we turned into the next hallway and froze. The sign above the Research and Development wing glowed bright. Below it stood Liz, her face pale, and her eyes red and splotchy.
"Oh, Cammie. I was hoping I'd find you here."
She threw herself at me, sobbing into my shoulder. I was stunned, but muscle memory had me wrapping my arms tightly around her. Liz's body caved into mine as if she'd been lugging something heavy – no easy task for her – and I had little difficulty in dragging her to a small bench in the corridor. She hiccuped as she sat down, and I put an arm around her. Confused eyes found Zach's, and he looked as worried and bewildered as I felt.
"Liz, what happened?" I asked, rubbing her back. "What are you doing here?"
"We – we – broke up," she said, her voice sounding like a moan of despair.
All the dizzy, momentary euphoria from before evaporated into thin air. I sighed deeply. A part of me had expected as much, and another part of me was relieved that Liz wasn't in any danger, or harmed in any way. But the larger part of me was, both, wounded and angry on behalf of my best friend. And, still, so confused.
"He – he refused to compromise. He said – he said I had to choose. America, or him," Liz sniffled. Her wide, bloodshot eyes turned to me, innocence and confusion shining in them. "Why would he say that, Cammie? Why would he ask me something so difficult?"
I shrugged, a little helplessly, and we both turned to Zach. He seemed to have expected this because he winced and sat down on Liz's other side, hesitating before answering. I hoped my eyes warned him enough to soften the blow. But as gifted a liar as he was, he was also far too honest.
"Jonas has a tendency to say rash things when he's hurt and angry," he said, shaking his head. "And, I'm sure you know, he can be extremely stubborn even when he's wrong."
Liz sniffled louder, as if she didn't want to be reminded of how well she knew Jonas. My heart broke at the sight of her looking so sad. Elizabeth Sutton was not one made for heartbreak. I wanted to tell her something helpful, something to distract her, like she and the girls had done for me when Josh and I had broken up. But that was so long ago, the heartbreak of a fifteen-year-old. It seemed to pale in comparison. I wanted to invite her to stay with us, but we weren't in New York – we would be staying in HQ guest housing ourselves, until nothing immediate came up.
"Where are you staying, Liz? Do you want to come stay with us?" I offered anyway.
Liz shook her head, wiping her nose on a tissue she'd had crumpled in her fist.
"I – I have a room here. They assigned me one until I can find a place for myself."
"So, you're back for good?" Zach asked, face cringing with hesitance.
"It seems like it," Liz said, and her face crumpled again. I pulled her head to my chest. Ignoring the way she was wetting my shirt, I helped her stand up - and she didn't seem to care that I was sweaty.
"Come on," I whispered. "Let's get you to your room, get some hot chocolate, and we can talk about this, okay? For as long as you want."
Liz perked up, just a bit, at the mention of hot chocolate. Guiding us towards the HQ housing, Zach and I actively avoided mentioning Jonas, or Moscow. We only asked her questions about her transfer, so soon after she'd visited us in New York. Apparently, the CIA was more than happy to transfer her back to their Research and Development Department. Although the transfer was still being processed down to its last details, the main paperwork had been run through the right clearance channels. She could start working as soon as she could, and knowing how she loved to distract herself with work, she'd probably start tomorrow.
"And there's another new R&D recruit, so I won't be entirely the new one," she said, in a hoarse voice, as she looped closer to her room. It was in a separate section from ours, active agents being kept in separate quarters than home base ones.
"I'm sure you'll get your bearings in no time," Zach said in a reassuring voice.
"Of course, I will," Liz sniffed. "I'm Elizabeth Sutton."
"Have you met the new recruit?" I asked. "Maybe you guys can bond over being the new ones here?"
"I guess," she said, a little uncertain. Being social hadn't always been her strongest point. "I don't know much about him. Only that he was top of his class in chemical engineering. Got a full scholarship to do his PhD from MIT. Clearly, an asset to the R&D track."
"Sounds about as nerdy as you," Zach said, and I grinned hopefully. Liz managed to crack a small smile. We had just stopped in front of her door when the door behind us opened. I was still fiddling with the key that Liz had handed me, so when she turned to greet the person, I only caught the name.
"Oh, speak of the devil. We were just talking about you, Agent Sommers."
"Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie," I heard the familiar, taunting tone. "What have I told you about talking to me so formally?"
The keys slipped from my hand. I looked up in horror. Zach's expression had turned to stone, and we both slowly turned in our spots.
The man in front of us was someone neither of us had seen in six years. He looked leaner, but fitter. He'd acquired glasses at some point, but it matched the slight stubble he was sporting. His hair was a little messy, and the CIA issue jumper he was wearing had a dorky HELLO! MY NAME IS sticker on it, with his name stamped in a sloppy handwriting.
The man's eyes widened with surprise, flitting quickly from myself to Zach, and then back to me again. He shook off some of the shock, mustering an uneasy and curious smile.
"Lauren?"
"Lauren?" Liz repeated, a confused look on her face. Then her expression cleared, eyes widening as she remembered that this man's stellar grades in chemical engineering had been won at Georgetown University. I managed a feeble smile.
"Hi, Craig."