AN: This is probably my favorite chapter, because it wrote itself so easily, and it's also the longest one yet. Read, review, and let me know what you think!

CHAPTER NINE

Joe stared at the black-and-white poster advertising the 1964 thriller, Ring of Spies. For some reason, the faces plastered across the glossy paper mocked him. The movie was familiar to him: it was about a traitor, someone that sold out his own friends and family in hopes of a better life, disclosing covert information from his agency. He wondered if it had been purposefully placed that day. Though he had never betrayed the CIA, his secrets were driving him close, and he was putting his loved ones on the line while he tried to clear his name.

He shook his head, and glanced back at the reflection of a sniper's scope through the window of the shop. Though Cara had said it was placed there by the Circle to watch her, it could have just as well been a lie to cover up a shooter offering her aid on the occasions that he stopped by. He promised he would meet her one month after their encounter at the cabin, but the last breakfast he had with the Morgans had him fabricating an excuse to push the time for another two weeks to mull over his options.

He still didn't have an answer.

While it was in his inherent nature to plan every miniscule detail of his missions, his mind hit a blockade when he tried to find a solution that didn't involve murder. His only option to keep his past under wraps was if he silenced the people that discovered him, and it was in his best interests to keep his hands clean of any more blood than he was already accountable for.

He knew he was being watched—not just by the sniper, but by her, too. The curtain on the second floor shifted slightly, the movement natural and barely noticeable, but he had been trained to be observant enough to take note of the smallest of things. Joe stood with his hands in his pockets, allowing the London drizzle to dampen his hair, as he stared through the window of the film shop like a curious tourist. His reflection stared back at him, and he was disappointed to see the complete and utter defeat in his eyes.

Sometimes he wondered why he ran, because surely, death would have been better than being on the run all the damn time.

As he went up the stairs, his eyes glanced at all the bugs scattered through the hallway. A listening device under the banister, a camera at the edge of a painting, sensors inside the creaking stairs. The building was infested with a spy's best playthings, and he idly wondered if this was what the little store sold in their back rooms. He rapped his fingers against the door in their usual stream of identifying knocks, and he heard locks slide as she opened the door. He was surprised to see that all of her belongings were packed into a tiny duffel bag, as if she had been planning to leave just as he was arriving.

Joe furrowed his eyebrows when he looked at her. Her hair was tied into a ponytail away from her face, revealing hollowed cheeks and emphasizing her exhausted eyes. She was dressed in a black shirt, dark blue jeans, black rain boots and a red rain coat. She had been planning to take off—she gnawed on her lip when she stared at him, as if she was surprised at his arrival, despite the curtain he had seen swaying.

He opened his mouth decidedly; after Matt's intervention, it was best that he confronted the issue directly. "I think we need to have a conversation that's severely overdue—"

Her finger went over his lips, shushing him, and her grey eyes stared at him pointedly. "I was planning on a capture-and-release of the tail you've had all over England ever since the Palace. What do you think?" she said casually, though her gaze held a very different message.

We're being watched.

And it definitely wasn't by someone she wanted.

Joe nodded slowly, following her to a corner of the room that served as a blind spot. "Sounds like a plan. Where are we doing this?"

She sat down on the bed and zipped up the duffel carefully. "We need to secure a perimeter. That way, the situation's in our control." This place isn't safe. We need to leave now.

He wondered if he should trust her words, but the panic in her eyes seemed very real. "Do you have everything we'll need?"

"I'll dead drop this bag as a decoy. We'll track him with a GPS placed inside." When he glanced inside, however, the clothing, passport, and gun told a different story.

Joe pursed his lips, and offered to take it off her hands. "Do you know his name?" he inquired, settling the strap over his shoulder.

She pushed herself off the bed and gripped his arm. "Yes. It's Al O'Briens." However, she leaned forward until her lips grazed the shell of his ear, and said a name that he did not expect, especially due to her former displays of unwavering trust.

Maxwell Edwards.

When they stepped out into the rain again, he thought she was going to hail a cab or slip into an unlocked car, something characteristic of her usual patterns. However, she took off in the opposite direction and sped into a crowd of pedestrians until they were completely blended in... other than her blaringly obvious red coat. He knew that she was an immediate target, should anyone consult aerial satellite images.

"What the hell is going on?" he muttered, the chatter of two overly confident women overshadowing his words.

She shook her head, warning him. "I don't know. Something—I think the mission's been compromised. There are bugs there that weren't there before, and when I tried to trace them, everything led back to Max."

Joe kept his lips sealed, along with the suggestion that it wouldn't be that big of a shock that Max had decided to take matters into his own hands, especially after any flags raised by Matt's intrusion. "You knew where to look. That's how you found them, isn't it?"

Cara nodded. "Four tails. Two of them are the women to our right, and those are Interpol." Her tone was disconcerted as she muttered, "I had Christmas dinner with them a few months ago."

He slowed his pace slightly and watched the two women do the same. They were cleverly using reflections on windows and phones to check if they were still behind them. He grabbed Cara's wrist slightly and let them move along a further distance away, before he quickly ducked into a retail clothing store. "They were too far ahead. I think someone else came in behind us, though."

She frowned, and watched him grab random clothing off of racks with barely a second glance. "They don't look like any agency, but then again, that could mean it's the Circle."

Joe cursed. "Where's the nearest college?" he asked. When she started towards the counters to pay, like she thought he would, he roughly grabbed her arm and shoved her into a changing room with him.

"Imperial College. Shouldn't be more than a five minute drive, but it'll take an hour to walk." Her eyes widened, taken aback, as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

He fished a leather backpack out of the pile of clothing and tossed it to her. "Take what you can from the duffel, and leave the rest. Make sure you throw out any clothes with buttons. Anything could be hidden in those."

Cara watched out of the corner of her eye as he stripped off his shirt, revealing an extremely muscular, tan—and scarred—torso. He pulled on a maroon sweatshirt with some witty saying and a baseball cap. She would've made a joke about how incredibly odd he looked in casual clothing, but his serious expression prevented her from doing so. He took over filling the bag and pointed at the white shirt, forest green jacket, and shoebox that were already sitting in the room, most likely discarded by a previous customer.

"This jacket was a gift," she said indignantly. "It doesn't have any bugs, I promise."

He stared at her, as if trying to figure out whether or not she was joking. "Who gave it to you?"

She paused, sighed, and did as he said, ripping off tags from the items. She snorted internally when she noticed him spare her a glance that lingered too long when she changed her shirt. As she shoved her feet into a pair of tan Timberland work boots, she watched him take apart her laptop, shoving the shell into a waste bin as he reached towards her and put the hard drive in her pocket. "For the love of God, Joe—"

"You've been on kill missions longer than you've been on covert operations. I won't complain when you try teaching me how to kill someone with a toothpick, deal?"

She rolled her eyes and groaned, a bit ruffled when he ordered her to put on the backpack as they swiftly exited the store. When they were a block away, she looked back to see someone walking in the opposite direction wearing her red coat and his navy button-down. They mixed buses and trains, backtracked several times. They changed lines, lost tails, and took side roads. What should have been a forty-five minute route took almost two hours, until they were amongst a flurry of college students mulling around campus.

Joe produced a black umbrella seemingly out of nowhere, and they blended right in with the busy campus scenery. Old, historic buildings towered over them, as kids sprinted past in the rain or sped by on bicycles. Eventually, they ducked into what looked like a residence hall, behind a teenager that had foolishly swept his card and held the door open for them.

"They have a basement," Cara pointed out, and peered down at the descending stairs in the emergency staircase. "Probably storage, right? It'll give us a chance to take a break and come up with a game plan."

He pursed his lips and nodded, and let her led them into the lower level. A narrow hallway gave way to a boiler room and several storage areas. She made quick work of picking the lock a room that opened up to reveal welcome banners and trolleys, most likely reserved for move-in days. For some reason, the combination of the freezing cold of the lower level and the rumbling coming from the boiler room set off a fuse inside of him.

"When are we going to stop pretending that Schmidt is the one you're hunting down?" His voice was eerily calm, and it made her blood freeze.

She should have known that Matt would have debriefed him, before letting him come back to London. "I don't—" she stammered. "Your friend made himself clear. I didn't threatened you in the slightest, so I don't know why you have a problem with a simple surveillance operation—"

"But it's not surveillance, is it?" he pressed. "You're trying to set me up for my own execution. You know that I'm not entirely free of guilt, so what was the master plan? Capture, with a side of torture, before release? Record him giving up information on me, in exchange for freedom?"

She slid off her hair tie and ran her fingers through her hair, perched against a large cardboard box. Her posture was relaxed, but she was ready; though he didn't look particularly violent at the moment, her instincts told her that things could change very quickly. She was much more transparent than she had anticipated, and Max clearly didn't care for covering her tracks like he had promised her he would. "You said it yourself, Solomon: you're not guilty, and God knows what else you're planning on."

Joe chuckled bitterly, and shook his head. "Yeah? And what else did Max say?" he spat. "Did he tell you how I can't even see my own goddaughter because I'm afraid my past will bite back at her? Did he tell you about how I haven't done a single thing for the Circle in ten years?"

"You're taking care of Catherine's son," she said lamely. She discreetly slid her weapon from the side pocket of the backpack.

"Right. Because making sure an eight year-old isn't thrown to the wolves at Blackthorne is a crime against humanity."

She scoffed incredulously. "1989, East Berlin. You took a little girl hostage and tried to ransom her for information to use against the United States." Her voice was robotic, as if she was reading the files from memory. "1993, you set fire to a house with two parents and three children because there was a suspicion that one of your precious Circle contacts was going to start talking about your plans to leave the organization. You haven't changed a bit, Joe—your tactics are the same. You're selfish and as self-preserving as the rest of them—"

He surged forward and grabbed the wrist that had been holding the gun behind her back. "If you're so sure about everything he's told you, then do it. Erase those ten years I've spent on the run, trying to right every single goddamn mistake I made."

Cara's eyes were wide, and under his wide-shouldered and towering frame, she felt her senses spike with fear. "Max doesn't have some personal vendetta against you," she said, though her own voice was unsure. She tried to pry herself away, and he persisted.

"Max has been trying to accuse me of Circle missions that took place thousands of miles away, just for the sake of a promotion and taking down the group of agents I call my friends. Did you ever think of Abby, Pierce? What about her? Did Max tell you he'd take care of her?" he said, his emerald eyes trained on her with an intense stare.

"Don't worry about Abby. Personal relationships are a liability. If she's innocent, then there isn't a problem. If she isn't... well, you'll be glad you listened to me, won't you?" Max had told her. Knowing him, he'd fabricate a piece of evidence and lock her behind bars, setting off a domino of associated agents that would be framed and arrested.

Suddenly, his promises of Hampstead didn't look as appealing and hopeful.

Cara squeezed her eyes shut. "You have blood on your hands. You don't deserve to be walking around," she said, but the lines seemed rehearsed.

His eyes were bright and he didn't argue against her statement. "I know," he said coolly. "And I've been hell-bent on taking a lifetime to fix what happened in five years. I deserve to be dead like all those people I killed, don't I?" His hand covered hers as he tightened her grip for her around the gun. He flipped off the safety of the gun and stared at her. "Do it, if you think there is nothing wrong about Edwards motives, and if you really believe that's what I deserve."

She remained silent, and a tremble raked through her body at the fierce expression he gave her. It was stripped clean of walls and formalities—filled with anger, guilt, and most of all, deep rooted pain.

He held the gun with his hand around hers much more forcefully, and lifted it to his temple, moving her finger onto the trigger. "You make your own judgements. Take the shot, Agent Pierce."

Cara's arm was trembling violently, and her chest heaved as she struggled to breath. She had one rule when it came to her job: never look in the eyes of your victim. Because those were always the windows to every inside them, all the stories and experiences she would never be able to see through a simple manila folder filled with papers.

"Stop it, Joe," she choked, her voice rough. His grip was still tight, as the barrel of the gun pressed against his head and her finger remained glued to the trigger. "I can't do it."

With those words, he released her. The weapon clattered out of both their hands and onto the concrete floor. He stepped away, giving her a look of both hatred and disgust, though the expression disappeared within seconds and was replaced with a cold mask.

The sound of a maintenance making its way downstairs caught his attention. "We'd better get out of here. There's an emergency exit down the hall. We'll split off from there," he said, his tone emotionless.

She nodded. Their mission would have to wait; he was too angry to even look at her, and he stared at the opposite wall when he spoke. Something made her doubt whether she would ever meet Joe Solomon again.

With one last look of contempt at the discarded gun, he ducked out of the door and left her standing alone, amid dusty boxes and overturned trolleys.

Most Sunday mornings started the same way:

Sweat-slicked skin and harsh breathing. Breathy moans and sharp gasps. Heavy-lidded eyes and tangled limbs. It was barely dawn when she woke up again, and the sky outside was black, other than a strip of glowing white along the horizon. She pulled the bedsheets around her and stared at the person in bed besides her. Even in sleep, he practically oozed arrogance—his hands folded behind his head, feet crossed at the ankle, a comforter bundled at his hips. His chest rose and fell steadily with his slow breathing.

Cara sighed, turned onto her side away from him and stared at the phone on her nightstand. She had seen him insert a small bug inside when she left it on the kitchen counter for barely a minute. He was growing suspicious, and as his paranoia hightened, he took extreme measures against her to ensure his own security.

She felt his rough fingers trace a pathway down her spine, sending a shiver rippling through her. His lips pressed against her shoulder and she heard the ruffling of sheets as he moved forward until his chest was against her back. He slung an arm over her waist, and spoke in a husky tone, his voice low in her ear.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, love," he said, and his voice held a hint of accusation that confused her. The uncharacteristic pet name didn't go unnoticed either.

Cara gnawed on her lip, her hand sliding over his. "I have a lot on my mind."

He hummed under his breath. "Like what?" he asked, and for once, his self-absorption seemed to crack enough for him to genuinely care.

There were a lot of things. How he put all of his counterintelligence procedures against her. How Joe Solomon was a guilty man, but also very innocent at the same time. How she was beginning to doubt his motives for pinning the man as a criminal. How every fiber of her being was starting to tell her that she was on the wrong side of the playing board.

But she said none of it, and instead remained silent.

"I can help you get your mind off of it," Max suggested, and his scruff scratched against her jaw. He moved her so that she was lying flat on the bed, and hovered over her.

Her heart was racing, but for all the wrong reasons. She gripped his shoulder and tried to wriggle away. "Not now, Edwards," she gritted. "I'm not in the mood."

He ignored her and continued his assault on her neck.

Exasperated, she slammed her palms against his chest and pushed him backwards forcefully. He jolted back, and stared at her in a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

"What the hell is your problem?" he demanded.

She launched off the bed and quickly shoved her arms and legs into clothing. She ignored him each of the three times that he repeated the question. She zipped up her jeans and threw on a coat, until he finally grabbed her arm.

"Hello? Is there something I did, Pierce? I'm standing right here and you're ignoring me like I'm some fucking piece of litter on the street," he gritted, his American accent thickening over his British one as he grew more agitated. "If this is about the Solomon mission—"

Cara shook her head, and made it a point to snatch her phone off the nightstand and throw it back at him. "What's my problem?" She laughed bitterly and her fingers clenched into fists—her words sounded irrational in her own head. "Why don't you answer that question first, love?"

She made sure to slam the door as hard as she could on her way out.