AN: To those that asked, next chapter will be a little (VERY long) Zammie vignette. The format of this fic will most likely be three or four chapters from the past, and one from the future, and most—if not all—the future ones will feature our favorite OTP. Anyone that's logged in and reviews will get a little sneak peak, so make sure your PMs are open!
CHAPTER FOUR
"You never told me you were on a mission with Cara." Abby tried to keep her tone casual, but there was a distinct hint of accusation.
Joe shrugged, much to her vexation. "It never came up," he said simply.
"I guess it never came up either, that she was the assassin tailing you," Rachel remarked callously.
He could feel her building anger and he sighed. They were gathered in his lake-side safehouse, and the last thing he wanted to do on a rare day off was argue.
"Rachel, calm down," Matt muttered to his wife. "Let's step back from this situation and look at it subjectively. What do we know about her?"
"Well, for one, we've been friends for over twelve years," Abby interjected bitterly, unhinged by the thought of her childhood friend targeting a man that was practically family.
Her sister rolled her eyes. "People can change in twelve years," she pointed out. "She's been commissioned on a private investigation by Max Edwards. We don't even know if it has been certified by any agency, and what her specific operation requirements are." Her gaze slid to Joe. "Don't think that some sort of friendship will put you on her good side. She's under contract, and hell breaks loose when an assassin violates their terms."
Joe decided not to disclose the fact that she had given him a copy of her operation details. The files he had were definitely censored copies, specific pieces of information omitted. For all he knew, he could have been given a fake report. But the mission against David seemed justified, and for a moment, he wondered if he was wrong to lower his suspicions so easily. It had always been difficult for him to open himself to others—after all, relationships truly were liabilities, and the less he had, the more protected he was.
The unofficial collaboration with Cara was purely professional, and it was in his interests to join her to suppress certain evidences from reaching the covert world. If it came down to it, he was prepared to take whatever drastic means necessary for self-preservation. It was selfish for him to think—especially with Abby sitting only a few feet away—but he would inadvertently protect the three of them as well. The CIA had a habit of branching out when in search of a suspect, and he could not watch passively as his friends were dragged into the crosshairs of a conflict with the Circle.
From across the room, Matt was staring at him carefully. His expression was clear. We need to talk. Joe knew that lying to the man would be counterproductive. On the occasion his past was exposed, Matt would be the first one evicted, despite the fact that he was the Circle's prime target due to his aggressive effort to bring them down.
"Solomon. A word?"
He nodded reluctantly and followed his best friend to an adjacent room. The two sisters were most definitely listening, and Matt kept his voice hushed.
"Doesn't the timing of this strike you as odd?" Matt inquired, leaned back against the kitchen counters and crossed his arms.
Joe furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Unless you forgot to tell me something, the timing of these seems just as annoyingly inconvienent as everything else in my life."
His friend glared at the hardwood floors, and rubbed his eyes. After a pause, he said, "I found the big-shots."
Joe's eyes shot upwards in surprise. "The Inner Circle?" his tone disbelieving.
"I have a growing list of those bastards. All we have to do is track down their descendants," Matt confirmed. "This is why Edwards' sudden activity has me on edge. He knows I'm up to something, and considering that the CIA doesn't think that the Circle is a big enough threat, he'll want to steal the crown and come out hero."
He pursed his lips. "And you think Cara is using this Schmitz mission as an excuse to pin me down and help Max's crusade."
"I'm not denying the legitimacy of her mission," Matt continued, eyes flickering to the doorway—the Cameron sisters were unusually silent. "It's her second set of motives that I'm worried about."
Joe's phone rang in a shrill tone, slicing through their solemn mood, just as Rachel stepped into the kitchen behind them. Her gaze slid to the name flashing on his screen and she snorted.
"Speak of the devil," she muttered under her breath. Her husband shot her a reprimanding glance and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, excuse me. She-devil."
"Put it on speaker," Abby interjected. At Joe's exasperated eye-roll, she held up her hands defensively. "What? You boys really need to learn how to whisper."
Joe answered the call and set the cellphone on the counter. "Solomon. What—"
"Am I on speaker?"
He mouthed an 'I told you so' to Abby. "Yes, but I'm home and the rooms are secure." He expected her to argue further, but her tone was firm and professional.
"I've had a few developments on this case. And a very slight problem by the name of Catherine Goode."
Matt came to attention immediately, and tilted his head to urge the man to ask further.
"What kind of problem are we talking about? Tail, hostage, murder...?" he trailed. "Is she in collusion with Schmitz?"
"To an extent, yes, but there's more." A short, humorless laugh. "Try eight year-old child, Solomon. I need you in Iceland, ASAP."
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and glanced up and the dumbfounded faces around him. "I'll be there tomorrow morning."
"Oh, and Joe?" When he made a small noise to indicate that he was still listening, she continued. "Get ready to pay your alma mater a visit afterwards."
The line disconnected and his gaze slid to Matt, who expressed the exact sentiment Joe was thinking.
"Shit."
Joe was not surprised in the slightest when an air hostess slipped an envelope under his bowl of soup. Her pale skin blanched a few shades further, and her pink lips offered a hesitant smile. She adjusted her hat and straightened herself, ducking out of the first-class booth aboard the airplane.
"If you need anything else, sir, please let me know," she nodded, smoothing the ruffled on her blouse. "Once we land in an hour, a secure cab will take you to your hotel."
Joe nodded, attention trained on the television screen in front of him. His green eyes were glazed, though he was hyper-aware of his surroundings.
The unnaturally thin woman leaned a bit further, her hand clenching the sliding door tightly. "The vehicle we have arranged for you has been used by the Duchess herself. We assure maximum privacy and a safe drive." She lurked at the edge of his seat, waiting for a response.
He met her petrified gaze with a small smile, reassuring her. He idly wondered how much she had been paid. "Thank you."
Exactly ninety four minutes and a fake passport later, he slid into the back of a large SUV, windows tinted nearly black. Immediately, he was handed a gun and a disposable cellphone.
"How was your flight?"
"Dull. The hostess, however, provided better amusement than those built-in televisions."
Cara snorted, shaking her head. "Was she pretty?"
"Whiter than a sheet of paper." He reached down to the backpack he had dropped to the floor of the vehicle, and pulled out a napkin with several numbers scribbled onto it. "Transferring the funds, I assume?"
She plucked the note out of his hands with her index finger and thumb, and tucked it into her pocket. "Dead drop. Anything with a trail is risky, and our favorite redhead has been getting creative with her son."
He shook his head grimly. He wasn't surprised that Catherine would use her own prodigy—barely elementary-school age—to con her way to the top of the Circle. His eyes flickered to the driver apprehensively.
"Don't worry about Bobby," she said offhandedly. The man met Joe's gaze through the rearview mirror with amused, pale blue eyes. "He's practically family, and he wouldn't dare say a word."
The driver—Bobby—laughed gruffly. "You have my ass hanging on the line, that's why," he chuckled.
Joe peered at the back of his head, as realization dawned on him. "What does Abby think of you squatting on her primary target?"
She smiled, watching the expansive, rolling hills outside her window. "Abby is on a need-know basis. Or, at least, that's what she pretends to be when she debriefs me."
Joe chuckled. "That sounds just like her."
"You know what else sounds like Agent Cameron? Putting a bullet in my ass!"
Cara snickered at the bewildered expression of her companion. "That's a story for another time. Until we get to the safehouse, I want you to take a look at these prints." She slid a folder tucked in a pocket behind the driver's seat and produced several grainy images. "Taken outside one of the only banks in Bolungarvík. Simple fishing village by the coastline, low populations and chilly temperatures. Twenty minutes away from the airport."
He squinted at the black and white image of a small figure—no more than a few feet tall—filling a backpack with wads of cash. When he flipped to the next image, he saw Catherine sitting at a desk with a phone pressed to her ear, her eyes staring directly into the camera.
"She wants us to find her," he muttered. "But what does a criminal alumni of Gallagher have to do with your target?" He awaited her response with bated breath, almost anticipating a mention of the Circle.
"Edwards has a reason to believe that she's wiring the money to David. It's been a hard process to track exactly where that cash flow is headed." She clucked her tongue. "That man is paranoid, and has hundreds of rerouted transactions."
Bobby inserted himself into the conversation. "He's so paranoid that he has the most inconspicuous food van tailing us for the past fifteen minutes." He considered the time on the dashboard. "I can loop around and put him off, but he'll have a good idea of where you're staying. We're only five minutes away from your checkpoint."
Joe gauged the distance of the van and checked for other vehicles on the road. Empty, and by the looks of it, they were in the outskirts of Bolungarvík, a distance away from civilization. His lips set in a firm line and he told the con artist at the wheel to slow the SUV.
"How far is the hike to the safe-house from here?"
Cara pursed her lips, already following his train of thought and reaching for the weapon tucked into her boots. "Only half an hour or so." She redirected her attention to Bobby. "Get the car to a steady speed of five, and get the hell out of here once we roll out."
"Yes, ma'am," he said mockingly. "Please don't put any bullet holes in this. It's a rental."
Joe chuckled, ushering the woman out before him. "Bullets will alert the locals, so you're in luck."
He ducked and tumbled out of the moving vehicle and onto the softer, frozen grass besides the two-lane highway. He heard a loud screech as the van halted besides them, and he heard Cara's warning pierce the air before he could see anything.
"Three to one. You're going to need that gun, Solomon!"
His weapon was loaded and poised to shoot within seconds. Their opponents had the advantage of the vehicle as a cover, and he retreated into the foilage for a shield. Cara was pressed against a tree a few feet away and she groaned in frustration.
"Two behind the engine. One is still in the car at the wheel, and I have no idea where the other three are."
He peeked around a tree trunk, jerking back when a singular gunshot broke the otherwise serene landscape. "Some idiot is hiding under the car. One is setting up a rifle on top of the van, and the other is not to far behind him. You take right, and I'll pick the rest off."
She nodded in assent. "Sure thing, Sergeant."
He fired a round, effectively pinning the man under the van with a head wound, and snorted. "Sergeant?"
"Abby must be rubbing off on me," she chuckled. "Besides, you sound like a drill officer rather than a field agent."
He grimaced, watching as the member with a rifle toppled off the top of the van, his companion hitting the ground as well. "You have no idea," he mumbled under his breath.
Their competition had been evened to two perpetrators, and as expected, in an act of complete and utter self-preservation, the Circle member at the wheel peeled off. His companion stumbled backwards in the smog the vehicle released and gathered his bearings instantly. Though he was yards away, Joe could see the malice and bloodlust in his eyes as he stripped his deceased companions of their weapons and charged forward.
"For the love of God," she hissed, hitting her empty weapon against an open palm. He heard her mutter a string of curses, and they exchanged a glance. "Flight or fight?"
He held out his gun, took her knife and slung his backpack over his shoulder. "You're picking flight." He expected her to argue, yet she tilted her head in agreement. "Lure him away. I'll come up behind and take care of the fighting."
Joe had defeated men with far more than a knife, so when he positioned himself to shirk from his attacks, he was surprised to see the grinning man striding towards him leisurely. Wary, he stepped backwards, and kept his feet planted firmly in the moist ground, peppered with melting frost.
"Good to see you again, Solomon," the man said, opening his arms in welcome.
Dread filled the pit of his stomach. He remembered the man too well; they had been comrades once, standing arm in arm as they upheld the Circle's horrific purpose.
"You're a stranger to me, Tom. Leave, before I have to do something we'll both regret." The hand that loosely held his weapon was now in a tight-knuckled grip. His eyes scanned the foliage, and he prayed that Agent Pierce was out of earshot.
Tom chuckled. "Funny how you throw me under the rug and treat me like garbage. You were just as bad as me once," he sneered. "The murder, kidnappings, torture, blackmail, bloodshed—remember that little girl, Joe? She was the age of Morgan's daughter, wasn't she?"
"Stop," he said, voice rough. Images of a bloodied and battered child flickered past his eyes, a memory that he had suppressed. There were hundreds of moments that he awoke to regret each day, and the flashbacks associated with looking into the innocent eyes of the Morgan's newborn daughter were one of the reasons he had vowed to stay away ever since her birth.
The man clucked his tongue. "We're going to be at the top of the world one day, Joseph, and you're going to be the first one I kill when you come running back."
Joe snorted, shaking his head. "I really doubt that, Tom," he said slowly, dropping his bag and launching forward at the same time the man pulled his gun.
Realizing they were much too close to use his weapon, Tom gripped the butt of his gun and brought it down against Joe's head—hard. The man hissed in pain and urged the sudden blurriness away and switched away from the Circle's dirty methods of combat to the brutal parries of Krav Maga. He gritted his teeth and used an agent's biggest weapon: circumstance.
Taking advantage of the uneven ground, he targeted the back of his opponent's knees and brought them both to the forest bed. He grunted, narrowly avoiding Tom's blow to his ribs. His green eyes brightened in alarm when he caught sight of the loaded gun—discarded and tossed to the grass during their struggle—back in the combatant's left hand, ready to shoot.
Joe's knife was in the man's chest before he could even register the fact that he had been tackled to the ground.
"You're an asshole, Solomon," Tom wheezed, gasping for breath. His fingers grazed his chest, and he stared at the warm blood that coated them. "Just watch, you're going to betray your new friends at the CIA, too. It's what you do best—it's in your nature—"
Joe's eyes were hard and unfeeling when he pulled the trigger. "No, I won't," he whispered, as if to assure himself, and shook his head firmly.
He could only hope that it would remain the truth.