AN: I couldn't help but dish out a bit of fun time between the squad in the first bit. Things get a little more serious in the second.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Joe, sweetheart..." Abby trailed, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "Do you need a reminder of what we used to do, less than three years ago?"
He bristled and shot her a glower, just as Matt and Rachel's heads snapped to attention. "That has nothing to do with—" he forced out of his gritted teeth. He shook his head, and huffed. "I thought we were talking about your Geneva op!"
"Hold on a second—what did you do three years ago?" Rachel demanded. If there was one thing she hated, it was being kept out of the loop. Her workplace was a constant struggle of respecting the 'need-to-know' boundaries, and she'd rather get alcohol poisoning in Peru than be teased with secrets by her little sister.
Abby sent Joe a wicked grin. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know."
"She really wouldn't," he assured the woman, who was on the verge of clawing her way to their inside jokes.
Matt was glancing between them slowly, assessing him in that silent way of his. His bottle of beer dangled from his fingers, his other arm around the back of the loveseat behind Rachel. Sensing Joe's growing agitation, he attempted to breeze past the current topic. "So, about Geneva..."
"Switzerland has great mountains for skiing," Joe added earnestly and a bit too eagerly.
Abby's hand somehow landed on his thigh as she leaned forward to pick her drink off the coffee table. "Sure is. But the real attractions are the spas. God, I'd kill to peel off my clothes and have a good soak—"
"Abby," Joe interjected.
"Yes, Joey?"
He politely removed her hand and scooted an inch away. "Please shut up."
Matt snorted at that, and watched the fire ignite in the woman's eyes. "Rachel, I think he just told your little sister to shut up."
His wife was seated with her arms crossed over her chest and a sour glint in her green irises. "She can hold her own, seeing as I'm not important enough to know all these inside stories."
"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Abby said childishly. "But if you're really eager to know, Joe is fantastic when it comes to—"
Joe covered her mouth with his hand, ignoring the bite on his palm and the devious look she gave him. "Classified information. Abby has a big mouth," he said.
She shoved his arm away. "I really do. I'm glad you remember that much."
For some reason, Rachel was having an awfully difficult time reading into their conversation; her mind was defaulted to never suspect her best friend and sister of ever being more than friends, and she remained forever oblivious to their antics. Matt practically imploded when he understood, his jaw dropping considerably.
"Holy shit—"
All it took was a small creak on the stairs for Joe to nearly jump out of his skin and leap off the couch. He had disappeared when the little girl came lumbering down the steps halfway and peeked her head into the living room through the banister. Her brown eyes feigned innocence as she peered through the wooden beams, her rumpled brown hair resembling a rat's nest.
"Cameron Ann Morgan, what are you doing awake?" Rachel admonished, giving her daughter her best 'mom' look.
The little girl's rosy pink bottom lip jutted out in a pout. "I'm not sleepy," she whined, guilty at being caught trying to sneak down.
Her father winked at her from besides her mother and patted his lap. With a thrilled glee, she sprinted down, sliding on the glossy floors in her purple socks. She reared back, however, when she saw the third person in the room.
"Aunt Abby!" She burst into a shrill squeal and threw her arms around the woman's neck.
Abby laughed, squeezing her tight. "Nice to see you, too, Squirt. Guess what I brought you from Switzerland?"
Cammie tapped her chin as she thought. "Swiss cheese?" she giggled.
Her aunt snorted, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "Even better. Chocolate. Don't tell your mommy, though—I tucked it under your lock pick set."
Rachel sent her sister a disdainful frown, as the eight year-old climbed onto her father's lap. He chuckled when she immediately disclosed to him the news of the chocolates she was going to share with him. She leaned her head against his shoulder and made herself completely comfortable, and gave her mother a smug little grin, revealing a gap where her front two teeth should have been.
"Matt, don't encourage her," Rachel sighed in exasperation.
He simply mirrored his daughter's smile, and cradled her close to his chest.
"Daddy?" she said, lifting herself slightly to look him in the eye. Though she was young, he knew it was her way of checking if he was telling the truth. "I heard another person talking. Did someone leave?"
It took all his energy not to stiffen and he felt the Cameron sisters' eyes trained on him as he answered. "Yes, there was," he admitted, but the rest of his words were purely lies. How could he explain to his little girl how it was because she was loved so much that Joe had to stay away? "He left just before you came down because of how late it is."
She simply harrumphed and spent the next few minutes alternating between yawns and the occasional question to her aunt as she spoke about her mission. Soon, her drooping eyelids closed all the way and she was drooling on her father's favorite t-shirt, her mouth half open.
He sighed. "I'm going to go tuck her in. Maybe even sneak a bite of that candy."
Matt padded up the stairs as quietly as he could, her head lolling on his shoulder. When he reached her room, he gently sent her down on her pillow and settled the blankets around her, shushing her whine as she reached for him again.
"Shhh," he soothed, smoothing a hand over her soft brown locks. "I'm right here, sweetheart."
As he stared down at her and watched the way the crease between her eyebrows disappeared at his touch, he couldn't help but grin. She was truly a Daddy's girl, and he would forever bask in the fact that he was the favorite parent ever since she weaned off of Rachel's chest and onto the high chair, where he thoroughly enjoyed scooping up the green goop she spit all over him.
With a gently kiss to her forehead, he tiptoed out of her room and softly closed the door. He finally came downstairs, just as Joe emerged from the bathroom. Matt rolled his eyes and Rachel voiced exactly what he was thinking.
"Where the hell did you run off to?"
"Bathroom," he said smoothly, opening another bottle of beer and slouching down on the couch.
Matt returned to the loveseat. "For half an hour? Rachel's lasagna must have done something awful to your stomach."
She smacked her husband upside the head. "Don't insult my lasagna!" she huffed.
"Oh, God. I'd better take my leave, before the bickering couple starts making out on the couch like teenagers," Abby said, slinging her crossbody over her shoulder.
Joe downed his beer in two long gulps, as if he were back in the days where he and Matt lived like two broke college kids. "Me too. I have a long week ahead of me that I haven't prepared for at all."
Rachel sighed at their sudden departure. "Matt, did you tell him about that trip yet?"
He perked up at the reminder. "Right. I'm going up to Nebraska to visit my parents. Mom wants you and Abby to tag along, since Rachel has to drag Cammie around to some programs meant for the children of spies." He knew that his friend would consider the offer, especially if Cammie was staying behind—it was always a cause for a struggle for his parents to meet Joe, unknowing that the cause for conflicts in schedule was due to their granddaughter.
"When is it?" Joe inquired, pursing his lips.
"After the fourth of July, since I know you're booked for that weekend."
He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded slowly. "Yeah, sure. Tell your parents that I'm excited for another trip."
Matt grinned and gave his friend an immature punch on the arm. "Great. I'll let them know."
Joe and Abby trekked out of the Morgan's innocent looking suburban home. For all intents and purposes, it was owned by the very boring and very ordinary Jones family. He always snorted when he thought of Matt's choice in surname—he was a diehard Indiana Jones fan at heart, and practically a fanboy when it came to the comic festivals they attended in their much more daring and foolish years as twenty year-olds.
"So, I forgot that Matt picked me up from the airport this morning. My car's at home and I sort of need a ride..." Abby twirled a lock of hair around her finger and stared up at him impishly.
Joe was slowly starting to lose control and scowled dejectedly. "Get in the car, Abigail."
His list of bad decisions was getting very long.
"Will you please remind me why we decided to stop doing this three years ago?" Abby inquired an hour later, her chest heaving.
Joe rubbed a hand over his face and squinted at the time on the digital clock on her nightstand. "Because you decided I was an interesting person outside of bed?"
She snorted. "Maybe it was how you were scared shitless that Rachel would find out that you were using me for sex."
He turned to her with an indignant frown. "I think it was the other way around, Abby."
One corner of her mouth tugged upwards. "I think you might be right." Despite his words, she rolled right on top of him. "I promise I won't tell Rachel. No jokes like tonight?"
He narrowed his eyes, dubious. "You have a big mouth."
She made a motion over her chest with her finger and grinned when his gaze followed it. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said earnestly.
His was fiddling with her hair the same way he used to a handful of years ago. He sighed reluctantly, as if his male hormones weren't telling a very different story.
And he tacked on yet another thing to his list of very bad decisions.
"This is not going well," Cara said in a singsong voice under her breath. "How mad do you think the CIA will be if I shoot the wrong guy?"
Joe snorted at the words crackling through his comms unit. "I think the real question is, how mad will Edwards be?"
She followed his movements through the scope of her weapon and laughed. "You'd better check your five o'clock, Bond. A guard is sniffing around the drivers, and by the looks of it, asking for identification." She heard him sigh as he evaded confrontation by busying himself with his phone, as a bulky man walked past the vehicle without a second glance. "When the hell is he going to get out of that car?"
He glanced through his rearview mirror as someone ducked out of the hotel with a black umbrella low over his head. He noticed two things: one, it wasn't raining and two, the motel was slowly darkening as lights were flicked off.
"Unless the meeting is the car," he grumbled. "No one is getting in and out of that vehicle. Forget about this mission. The only obtainable thing here is that bodyguard off to the left. He's the one that's been tailing me, but I doubt we'll be able to nab him."
Her eyes landed on a group of men glancing at the shiny vehicles surreptitiously from around the corner of the building. She couldn't see much in the dark, not even with her scope, but she was almost positive that they had weapons.
"Quick," she hissed. "Roll down your windows and get mugged."
Joe look up at the building she was perched on as if she was out of his mind, and he told her precisely that. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he hissed, but unlocked the cars and rolled down his window anyway, practically advertising his fancy watch.
His head cracked against the pavement a moment later.
He felt someone kick his abdomen and roughly peel the watch off his wrist, then snag his wallet and the keys to the car. A man with a hocket mask concealing his face punched him in the jaw for good measure. He was perfectly capable of taking all of them down at once, yet took heed of one of the biggest rules: know when not to fight back. Just as anticipated, the guards surged forward to mediate the tussle—which was also when the doors to the meeting car opened and Haber peeked his head out.
A crack echoed through the air and Mr. Haber was nothing but a limp body on the pavement, lying in his own blood. That first shot sent off a flurry of several more as fire was exchanged betweened seasoned bodyguards and unruly streetfighters. Ducked low against the pavement, he practically crawled to the second car. The driver was absolutely petrified and scrambled out after just a glower from Joe—with blood running into his eyes, bruises on his chin, and the fierceness his emerald eyes expressed, he was sure that he looked terrifying. He locked the Plexiglas window separating him from Schmidt in the back, rolled over tall men in black suits unabashedly, and peeled out of the crime scene.
The car squealed to a stop for someone to climb into the back with David, which is when he realized that he wasn't being transported by his own men.
First he tried to be gracious. "Thank you so very much for saving me from that nasty situation back there. You know how it is in these types of neighborhoods." When he recieved no answer from the woman across him, he moved to pull the phone out of his pocket. "I'm going to notify my people that—"
Cara picked up a satchel off the ground and drummed her fingers against the sniper gun inside. His eyes fell on the ajar zipper and he paled, sweat beginning to dampen his blond hair.
"I assure you, you have the wrong person. I was just here for dinner. If you need me to wire you money, then I'll give you all the funds—"
There were only two seats in the car, a spacious area, an ottoman with slots to hold bottles, and a little machine for drinks. Cara kicked her feet onto the ottoman. "We don't need your money, but I appreciate the thought nonetheless."
David's mind whirled and he snarled. "Which one? CIA, FBI, Interpol..." he prattled.
Joe snorted. "Did he finally catch on, Duchess?"
The man's head whipped to attention at the familiar voice. "I think he has, Bond," Cara replied.
"Do you know who the man you're working with really is?" he gritted, his wild gaze landing on the opened window through which Joe sent a glance. "You are extremely disillusioned if you think this bastard will remain loyal."
They stopped in front of a warehouse and Cara smiled in satisfaction when she accomplished her task. He had been so busy, trying to bribe his way out, that he neglected to keep track of the direction the car was moving in. Judging by the dread on his face, he realized, too.
"Out," she said, pointing at the door.
It was a combination of self-preservation and anger over the fact that a woman was giving him orders that led to David swiftly dropping the façade of fear. He lunged forward and grabbed the rifle before Cara could beat him to it, slammed her backwards and held the weapon at her neck in a chokehold. Her face reddened and she tried to use her legs to propel him backwards—but at the end of the day, he was still the son of a Blackthorne alum and a member of the Circle, and to him, there was no shame to playing outside the rulebooks.
Cara's face was quickly transitioning from red to purple, her lips tinting blue as she gasped for hair and kicked him. However, he had cleverly pinned her against one of the passenger doors and she was trapped. She felt blood drip onto her temple when he cracked her head against the window.
Suddenly, a hand reached forward and grabbed his collar, yanking him backwards. In a swift motion, Joe grasped the gun and reversed their positions, until David was finally weakened enough to give hin the leverage to knock him out cold with a firm punch.
The woman was on all fours, palms against the carpeted floor of the vehicle as her chest heaved in an attempt to catch her breath. The black dots that had been dancing at the edges of her vision slowly ebbed away. Joe roughly dragged their target onto the pavement, stepped over him and ducked into the back to offer her a hand.
She offered a smile that came out more like a grimace and took it with a surprisingly firm grip. "About damn time, Solomon," she said, her voice raspy.
He raised an eyebrow, incredulous that she had the willpower to crack a joke. "You need to stop leaving your guns lying around like that." With a crooked grin, he added, "You might also want to brush up on hand-to-hand combat. The Circle has it's own twisted versions of martial arts."
Cara stared down at the man, and shamelessly stepped on his head as she moved to punch in a code onto the keypad of the warehouse. "Well, then, it looks like you're the best person to ask for lessons."
There was a brief pause, in which she wondered if her remark was ill-placed, but Joe finally broke the tense air with a chuckle.
"Convienent, that the CIA has an interrogation room in the heart of New York," he remarked, looking around the familar room that he had used several times before. A mission with Matt from their early years popped into mind, and he had to suppress a grin at the memory of the man refusing their superiors and flipping the table of tools in a brave—and incredibly stupid—display of dissent.
Matthew Morgan was too pure for the world. Which was probably why they were placed on probation and assigned the agency's dirty work as punishment.
Once David Schmidt had been chained with an adequete amount of ropes and handcuffs, Cara watched him with her hands on her hips. "I didn't mean to kill Haber, you know. The Circle and the CIA are going to be pretty damn pissed."
Joe snorted. "Not to mention Edwards. I'm sure they'll come up with something dramatic," he mused. "Famous billionaire art vendor caught in the crosshairs of a gang brawl in the middle of Bronx. How does that sound?"
"Sounds like my pay getting docked a couple grand."
"And your face getting pinned to the corkboard of Circle targets. Welcome to the club, Pierce."
She shook her head. "One year ago, I was getting a call in Slovenia about some big case to frame a hot-shot in the CIA. Now, I'm standing with him and exchanging jokes."
He nodded solemnly. "That sounds accurate. Don't forget the part about stripping down in the same changing room in London."
Cara stared at him and blinked, not believing that Joe Solomon of all people had the capacity to make light of the serious and angry situation they had been in only a few months ago. She almost felt guilty for being bribed into promises of a new and reformed career after catching him in a honeypot.
Almost.
Regardless, it was her resentment for Edwards' roboticness that had her discreetly dropping the recording device behind her back and crushing it with the heel of her boot.
"Should we wake him up?" Joe suggested, already reaching for a shock device. With her affirming nod, he jabbed it into the man's side.
He shot awake, a wild look in his eyes as he looked around, confused, until realization dawned on him and he glowered at the two spies with deep-rooted resentment. "You can't break me," he insisted, head tilted high in arrogance, though his gaze flickered to the object in Joe's hands with apprehension. "You're forgetting who I have been trained by."
There was the loud sound of latex gloves slapping onto skin as Cara pulled them on. She exchanged a glance with Joe, her fingers dancing over metal knives.
And so it began.