AN: Fourteeth chapter's the charm, isn't it?
Apologies for the late update. I have NOT abandoned this fic, nor will I ever. Life is busy, and it'll take me a little longer to crank out chapters. Enjoy, and please leave a review.
smileyanne: Most of this fic is in third person, but there will definitely be scenes from Rachel's perspective. Since she's still married to Matt, there won't be any romance with Joe, but once her husband dies, it will set off a reaction and the dominoes will start falling faster for the big Rachel/Joe wedding!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cara emerged from the Headmistress' office after almost an hour of discussion, stunned. When she had walked into the woman's meeting room, she had fully expected to engage in a roundabout conversation, aiming to create an alibi for the occasion that Maxwell decided to investigate. Instead, she was given the news that Rose Williams was retiring within the next four years, and was looking for a successor.
By some miracle of God, one of her topmost candidates was her.
There was no way that Cara would take the responsibility of molding hundreds of girls and dozens of generations into the young women of the future. There was too much at stake, and she had too much blood on her hands to be accountable for the lives of so many others. Though she knew her immediate answer, she humored the woman, in constant fear that one wrong word or slip of the tongue would make it back to the people watching her so carefully.
Besides, in case her situation with Maxwell Edwards went severely downhill, she needed a backup plan. Becoming headmistress of a covert, prestigious institution was the best way to ensure her own security.
With a black coat slung over her shoulders, she took a step outside of the school for a breath of air. She was suffocating, burdened by too many secrets, expectations, and drowning under pressures that were a matter of life or death. She could not afford to slip up. She closed her eyes and breathed in the crisp scent of Roseville autumn, savoring the sound of rustling leaves and swirling wind. In that moment, with her feet firmly planted on the brick entrance of the institution, she felt the building's strength flow into her bones.
She was a Gallagher Girl. She was an assassin. There was blood on her hands, endless nightmares in her head, and lies on her tongue, but she would not go down without a fight.
Limousines came through the gates of the academy, several recruiting agents and returning students sliding out. Gallagher took extreme precautions when it came to keeping its building secure, and didn't allow privately owned vehicles inside. She barely paid them mind as they passed her, her eyes fixated on the large iron gates, lost in thought.
She recognized the man that stopped next to her. He tried to follow her line of vision and pinpoint what she was staring at.
"I never knew the lawn was so interesting," he commented, his emerald green eyes glimmering mischievously. "This is oddly therapeutic."
Cara ripped her gaze away from the fence and turned to him. "I have your coat, Bond," she said amusedly.
"I can see that, Duchess," Joe said, his gaze running over her body. She was clad in black heels, fitted pair of leather pants, and a navy blouse with a low neckline. "It looks good on you."
Her lips tilted upwards at the compliment. "You're a lot more dressed up than last time," she commented, glancing at his button-down and slacks.
He snorted, sliding his hands into his pockets. "That's because Abby didn't have to con me into coming this time. I was caught off guard last year."
Cara nodded slowly. "You probably want your coat back."
"You look cold. You should keep it."
"I'm wearing a blazer underneath."
Joe grinned. "You always have an answer, don't you?" he chuckled. "Let's go inside, give it to the doorman, and then decide who takes it home."
She rolled her eyes and followed him. She scanned the expanse of professionals gathering to set up for the career fair, preparing to recruit the next generation. She focused on the Interpol group, yet none of the people that appeared on their behalf were Maxwell.
For a second, she let herself breathe. There was no one there, watching her every move. She was free, in the middle of hundreds of operatives in training and agency persons, even if it were just for a night—until she caught sight of Matthew Morgan. She groaned internally.
"Joe," he said, greeting his friend with a grin. His gaze slid to her, and his pleasure at seeing his Joe seemed to fade. "Agent Pierce."
She bit the inside of her cheek and stiffened. She could feel the man's wife staring at her, and she stood up a little taller, straightening her blazer. She counted her blessings, glad that she had abandoned the coat a few moments earlier.
"Cara," she corrected, sticking her hand out for him to shake.
He considered it for a moment, and looked back at her with an apprehensive expression. "Well," he said, glancing at his glaring friend. "Matt. But you already knew that."
They settled into an awkward silence, unsure how to proceed after their unusual attempt at starting fresh with less hostile introductions. The minute Abigail Cameron was spotted, calling their names and walking forward with two glasses of champagne in her hands, the three of them breathed identical sighs of relief.
"Cara!" She pecked her friend on the cheek, handing her a glass, and narrowed her eyes at the man next to her. "Joe. I thought you were too good to hang with Gallagher Girls."
He shrugged, and held himself with a hint of cocky arrogance. "I had a free night, and I was bored. You're my entertainment."
"I guess you still haven't gotten that stick out of your ass." Abby scoffed, and grabbed his hand to deposit the champagne glass into. "Get drunk, mingle with the children, transfer agencies. The alumni dinner is in an hour. These girls are going to knock your socks off, Solomon."
Joe snorted. "It takes a lot to impress me, Abby—"
"Abigail!" A tall man with dark features interrupted their conversation, glowering down at the woman in question. "Whatever happened to getting me some wine? We were in the middle of a conversation and I'm not done—"
She rolled her eyes and towed him away, shooting Cara an impish grin that told her everything she needed to know. "Townsend, dear," Cara heard her say sweetly. "I'm not your maid, jackass."
Matt blinked at his sister-in-law's retreating form. "Is that—"
"Her man of the week? Probably," Cara sighed, and surprisingly, they shared a laugh over the younger Cameron sister's antics. "Your wife is staring you down, Morgan. You might want to stop talking to me."
Matt chuckled, stepping away. "I'll tell her you send your regards."
Joe caught her inspecting the liquid in her glass with a wrinkled nose. He shot her a questioning frown and she smiled wryly.
"People seem to love putting things in my drinks lately," she said. She knew his mind went to the Iceland mission; instead, she was focused on the truth serum that had been poured into her Earl Grey.
Suddenly, she felt someone push past her, jostling her arm despite the fact that there was plenty of room to pass by her in the entrance. Her fingers slipped from the stem of her wine glass and it crashed against the marble floors, effectively catching the attention of every single agent in the foyer and Grand Hall. Joe grabbed her elbow and yanked her away from a different woman that had come forward to take the blame, replacing the culprit like clockwork, apologizing for the mess.
"Oh, I'll take care of that, darling. You go clean up anything that spilled on you—" Madame Dabney came forth, handling the small disruption with grace.
Joe was still gripping her arm. "Give me your blazer," he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cara stared at him in confusion and stepped away from the mess as Madame Dabney fetched someone to clean the glassware. "What?" she said, confused.
"It was a pass. There's a bug. Give me your blazer and go to the bathroom," he muttered. "It's the agent from Imperial."
She pressed her lips together tightly and slid off the clothing item, handing it to him wordlessly. Her eyes were unreadable and she walked across the foyer, her neck flushing pink as everyone watched her. Angrily, she shut the door of the restroom behind her. She made sure it was empty before locking the door.
Even at the one place where she felt safe, a sanctuary from her teenage years, Edwards had made sure he infiltrated it and kept her under watch. Had it not been for the fact that it was extremely difficult for anything to slip by Joe Solomon, she would have been recorded the entire night, every word sent to her tail in England. She gripped the edge of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. She felt pathetic; her eyes began to flood with moisture and she blinked away the red tinge. A lump was developing in her throat from a mixture of sheer frustration and exhaustion.
She heard a knock at the door and her knuckles turned white. Rage rushed through her veins. If it was Maxwell's lackey, she knew she wouldn't control herself.
However, the voice that came through belonged to the last person she expected.
"Katherine," Rachel Morgan called. "Open the door."
Cara rubbed a hand over her face, taking three deep breaths. It was all she would give herself, to prevent from breaking down in anger. She rubbed a hand over her face, settled an aloof mask over her features, and flicked the lock.
Rachel was staring at her with a conflicted expression, a mixture of spite and pity. She had her gray blazer in her hands and handed it back. "We have a rotation set," she said simply.
Cara took it and slid it back on, her eyebrows furrowed. "A rotation?"
The woman nodded, tucking a strand of chocolate hair behind her ear. She almost seemed exasperated, as if talking to her was a chore. "Yes. Matt has eyes on everyone from Interpol right now."
Cara was astounded, and couldn't prevent herself from gaping. "You are running interference," she realized. "What—"
"I'm next, and then Abby takes over. This doesn't make us friends, Pierce," Rachel said firmly. Cara had to control the urge to roll her eyes. "But I get it. No one surveils a Gallagher Girl in these walls." Her lips quirked upwards. "Even if she's an assassin with a severely damaged moral compass."
Cara snorted as the woman turned around and departed. She would never understand Rachel Morgan, but she knew that Joe Solomon's group of friends had an unbreakable bond of loyalty. Somehow, her association to the man had inducted her into their circle of protection. As much as she hated to accept favors and the feeling of indebtedness that followed, her heart felt lighter.
Joe fell in step with her as she walked into the Grand Hall. "You must have really pissed your boyfriend off."
She cringed at his choice of words to describe Edwards. "He isn't my boyfriend," she said bitterly.
His eyebrows rose, though his gaze remained fixed on the young women mulling from booth to booth. "Congratulations, Pierce," he said, the corner of his mouth tilting in a smirk. "You're a free woman."
She rolled her eyes. "You know it doesn't work like that," she told him.
"You still need to tell me what's going on. That includes why I received a mission at Matt's parents' house."
Her lips barely moved as she spoke and she watched Rachel cleverly intercept an Interpol agent's path by putting an overly ambitious student in the crossfires. "I needed an excuse to get out, and a fake mission was the only way I could do it," she muttered, reluctant to expose her entire situation to a man that was a former target. "He put a serum in my tea. There were microscopic cameras and microphones in my clothes. Every moment with him was spent being overanalyzed and everything I said was part of some big ploy. My electronics were bugged and someone was following me everywhere."
"You needed an out," he said, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were understanding and kind. "That man is a psychopath."
Cara snorted. "Understatement of the century."
He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled besides her. Though his entire posture was leisurely, she knew he was watching the way every girl moved, whether they remained on guard, and how they handled themselves. And, in the same way, the entire academy of females was watching him.
"Why isn't he here?" he inquired.
"I told him there was an important meeting I had to attend, and that having my boss as my date would compromise things," she said vaguely.
He had the sense not to press her further about her 'meeting', and nodded slowly. His pager made a short beep and he slipped it out of his pocket, squinting at it for a moment. His nostrils flared as he stared at something over her shoulder.
"You need to leave," he muttered. She turned slightly and caught Matthew Morgan conversing with an elderly man in a suit, distracting him and occasionally sending Joe short glances when the man wasn't looking.
Cara recognized the sixty year-old businessman from files Maxwell had given her. "He's from the Circle," she said, understanding. "No one here knows he's from the Circle except you two, right?"
He didn't answer. "Go to a classroom. Go anywhere. You cannot be seen with me, and I'm sure they know by now that you were the one that captured one of their top funders."
When he looked back at her, she had disappeared.
The first underground level of Gallagher was larger than a football field. It felt incredibly cold, with its frosted glass and metal doors. The area was shockingly modern in contrast to the rest of the institution, which was mostly composed of historic architecture and nineteenth-century structure. Joe strolled through the well-lit hallway, coming to a halt in the threshold of an open classroom.
Cara was running her fingers over the library of films, most likely videos of operations, used to instruct the CoveOps students. A faint smile played at her lips as she looked at the titles, and glanced up when he entered the room.
"I thought I was going to have to camp here tonight," she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest.
He chuckled, mirroring her posture and leaning against the door. "The son of a bitch was looking for me. He left once he realized there was no one of interest here."
She exhaled, and he couldn't tell whether it was relief or humor. "Did you know he's a friend of the headmistress and a school donor?"
Joe nodded grimly and ran his fingers through his dark hair, effectively mussing it. "They know how to work their way in some of the most secure places."
Cara turned away and paused, almost as if she was uncomfortable. He knew exactly what she was thinking—he had done the same as a member of the Circle and became a triple agent, bouncing between the organization, Blackthorne, and the CIA. "Even Fort Knox?" she joked.
His eye crinkled in amusement. "You never know," he mused. When she didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. "The alumni dinner is starting soon. But I have to say... the Sublevels? That's the best you came up with?"
She grinned, her heels clicking against the blindingly white floors as she walked towards the door. "They were my favorite. Especially the third—I lived for those books and guns."
"Of course. The guns," he chuckled.
Cara pressed a palm against a table, leaned against it, and bit her lip as she contemplated her next question. "Do you ever get tired of it?" she asked.
He furrowed his eyebrows. "Of what?"
She shifted her weight, uncomfortable. "Of running. I hate running, but it seems like it's all I've been doing lately. My solution tends to be a lot more simple and a lot quicker."
Joe pushed off the threshold and walked closer so that he could look her in the eye. "You can't kill the entire Circle in a year, Pierce," he chuckled. "It's not running. It's... It's saving the fight for later, when you know you'll win and you're confident you'll take them down." He paused, and rubbed the back of his neck. "And honestly, it's a lot of waiting for the right moment, when you're a hundred percent sure that everyone you love won't get caught in the crosshairs."
She mulled over his words. "I really don't care if Edwards gets caught in the middle," she said, and she caught a hint of laughter flash by Joe's eyes. "Stop it—don't you dare make fun of me, Bond."
"You could have picked anyone in the world, and you chose Maxwell-fucking-Edwards—"
"Like you haven't made a few mistakes—"
"None of them resulted in my girlfriend setting up a large-scale surveillance operation!" he grinned, and she grew silent, slumping her shoulders in defeat.
She ran her fingers through her hair and gave an exaggerated sigh. "I can't believe I got myself into this. My life used to be so much more straightforward."
"Well," he said, trying to make light of her grief. "At least you got a nice coat out of it."
Cara made an incredulous sound in the back of her throat and shoved at his chest. To her surprise, he caught her hand and pulled her into him. His eyes searched hers for a brief moment, and when she didn't make a single indication of protest, his head dipped down and his mouth pressed against hers.
His lips moved with hers hungrily, and he hesitated for a brief moment, putting a teasing millimeter of distance between their mouths. Her hand went behind his neck and she pulled him forward. His gripped her lower back, sending an electrifying shiver through her body. She felt herself being pushed to take a step towards the door, took a brief gasp of air, tilting her head as his mouth trailed scalding kisses along her jawline and down her neck.
Suddenly, the cold frosted glass was against her back, his mouth was on hers again, and their bodies were flush together, the hard ridges of his chest crushed against hers. His hands were under her shirt, burning her skin, and she unbuttoned his in near desperation. The elevator beeped loudly and despite the fact that someone was coming, neither of them moved.
"You two have this scary tendency to disappear all the fucking time. I swear to God, it's almost as bad as Matt," Abby ranted, her voice echoing down the hall. Both of them knew that the minute she stepped through the door and they separated, it would call for a conversation that neither of them wanted to have. "The dinner is starting and I thought that maybe we could all go to the bar and—oh."
Joe was in no rush and he pulled away slowly, his harsh breathing mingled with her sharp inhales. Both of their mouths were bruised a deep red, clothes creased beyond repair.
"Holy shit, people. What the hell are you doing? I thought the teenagers here were bad!" Abby burst, her eyes comically wide. She turned on them, one by one, and said, "You. Button that thing back up. And you. Fix your hair and close that blazer so no one sees those wrinkles. For the love of God, please catch your breaths."
Abby's expression was a mix of mischief and exasperation, and under her mothering exterior, she seemed painfully amused. She waited until they obeyed her commands and turned on her heel, her glossy black hair flipping over her shoulder. "Two minutes, people! You have one hundred and twenty seconds before someone gets suspicious!"
Joe stared at her; his emerald green eyes were intense and bore holes, lighting her on fire. He adjusted his collar and she could see him swallow hard. "Not now," he said, almost uncertainly, waiting for her verdict.
Cara ripped her gaze away and nodded, smoothing down her clothing and sliding towards the door. She nodded in agreement.
"Definitely not now."