Chapter 5

Cammie's POV

I didn't sleep last night. I was too busy researching the CIA. Their website is sleek, professional, straight to the point, informative. I learnt nothing.

I wake up to the sound of Lady Gaga assuring me that I was born this way, which made me groan and smack my alarm quickly. Her songs are annoyingly catchy and the last thing I need was to have that in my head all day.

"Cam? Are you up? We're leaving." Shit. Jane has to go to Dubai to report on some incident at the Burj Khalifa and so they decided to make a holiday trip out of it. John got cleared off work, Dylan is on school holiday, but I'm stuck in school. So, they get to enjoy a week in Dubai, whilst I'm alone in an empty house. What I would do to go to Dubai for a week! Suntan, beaches, cool drinks, shopping; who would miss an opportunity like that? I roll out of bed and throw on John's old university sweatshirt. The faded gold letters spell out Oxford. It was John's dream; he got there. I remember wearing that sweatshirt all the time when I was younger. Ever since Jane had told me that my own dad went to Oxford, that sweatshirt no longer belonged to John, but to me. It has its place in my drawer, in the left corner tucked away carefully lest any harm come to it. I lift up the overlong sleeves up to my face and bury my face into the soft royal blue fabric before remembering why I was up at this ungodly hour.

"Hold up, hold up, I'm coming," I shout as I run down the stairs two at a time. I jump the last four, landing on the floor in a crouch. I skit down the corridor, avoiding the bags and suitcases lined up on the side, and run into John's waiting arms.

"Oof," he gasps as I knock the air out of him. "Watch it Cookie, I'm not getting any younger here." I smile into his shirt and pull back to rub his hair.

"You're an old man already, Pookie." I turn to Jane who's carrying a sleeping Dylan on her hip. I lean over to give her a kiss on her cheek and I gently ruffle Dyl's hair.

"Don't forget. The stove only has three working hobs, and make sure you don't leave the gas on. Bang it three times hard to turn it off, the knob doesn't work. Oh, and shut the windows. If the toilet stops working, try flushing a lot, that sometimes works. And…"

I point at myself. "Seventeen girl, mature enough to live by herself for a week." I point at Jane. "Mother of two troublesome children, desperately in need of a break. Go."

John gently tugs on Jane's arm, "come on love, you've been as good as dismissed. Let's go." I laugh gently, and gently push them out of the door.

"Go, go, go, enjoy the sun, take pity on me, go," I drone on, all the while cajoling them into leaving the house. John smiles at me in thanks and picks up the suitcases walking out of the door towards the waiting taxi.

"I love you sweetie," Jane whispers as she kisses my cheek. I smile softly in return and wave them away. Those three words always take me by surprise. I have no doubt that those words apply to me, but I always get this stirring in me, down in the pits of my stomach. After years of feeling it, after years of being told I was loved, I finally placed it when I was eleven years old, and it has stuck with me ever since. Doubt. And it's horrible. But it can never go away, and I don't know why. So I take it as it comes. I stand at the door and wave at the retreating taxi until I can no longer see the exhaust fumes. I turn back around, close the door behind me and proceed to walk to the kitchen. A batch of chocolate chip pancakes will do me good. Of course, they won't be as good as Jane's, but it will still be pancake batter and chocolate.

"Right Cams, let's do this." I pet-talk myself, rubbing my hands together in anticipation and open the drawer to find the frying pan. I pull out the small red one, and smile at it. "Challenge numero uno, find frying pan, check!" I do the tick sign in the air as I close the drawer with a little bump from my hip. The doorbell rings, interrupting my little celebration and I frown in confusion. No one calls at 6:56 on a Wednesday morning. Jane must have forgotten something.

"Please don't tell me you forgot the passports…" I trail off as I open the door.

"Good morning Miss."

"Oh hell. You haven't forgotten your passports," I breathe out as I appraise the three men standing at my front door. The first one has the emotional capacity to look a little bit confused. A flare of anxiety starts in my lower abdomen, like butterflies that are running rampant. With claws.

"Miss, you have to come with us." I raise an eyebrow at the front man, the one who seems to be in charge.

Leaning against the wall, I sigh, "and what do you think is gonna make me come with you?" I retort, rotating my left wrist to swing the frying pan around in an attempt to bring light to the potentially dangerous blunt weapon in my hand. Goon number 1 brought his hand back to his left hip to pull the suit jacket back slightly. My eyes are drawn to Beretta 92 stuffed into a holster attached to his belt. Damn. My poor frying pan wouldn't be able to cope against that semi-automatic pistol. I drop the pan with a clang and raise my hands in the universal surrender sign. "But hey boys, can I please just get something upstairs before we leave for the Pentagon?"

"Who says we're going to the Pentagon," snaps Goon number 3.

I snort, "three men in black suits, definitely DOD, FBI or CIA. Couple that information with the fact that the CIA redacted every single file on my friends, and myself and by the fact that you are carrying a Beretta, which isn't used by the FBI, I think I can safely say that you are CIA. Now, my sources say that the CIA, being the cocky little twats you are, are trying to stake your own little headquarters at the Pentagon. So, Pentagon it is." I give myself an imaginary congratulatory clap to myself, I was correct in my observations judging by the bemused expression on the men. Cammie 1, CIA goons 0.

"Right, well, I'll be right down. One second boys." I turn around to walk up the stairs, unsurprised by the sounds of three heavy sets of footsteps following me. Walking into my room, I grab my school backpack and unceremoniously dump all my books and files on the floor with a thud beside the goons' feet. I give a snarky smile as I walk over to my dresser where I pick up my most prized possession. The only thing I have of my parents. My hand instinctively reaches out to stroke the glossy photograph of them. The top of my finger trails along the side of my mother's cheek as my thumb plays with the lower right hand corner. I feel the familiar moisture creep into my eyes as I study their happy faces. It was taken a week before they died. Mum cradles me tenderly in her arms, her twinkling eyes staring right out of the photo to meet mine. Her hands are wrapped around my baby form, her touch soft and warm. Dad stares in wonder at mum, as if he is lucky to love her. His adoration and pure love is so obvious it's almost intimate in its intensity. It hits me every time. My lips lift up in a half-smile as I hear the man behind me clearing his throat in impatience. An arm is placed on my wrist, with enough pressure to not be threatening, but enough to convey the message to hurry up. I tug my arm out of his grasp whilst placing the photograph deep in my pockets. Picking the backpack off of the floor, I chuck random articles of clothing in the bag, as well as some toiletries and chargers. I don't pack shower supplies, I assume the Pentagon has those, if not, I'm incredibly disappointed and in will be in a bit of a predicament. I'll take my chances.

"Lead the way boys," I say once I had finished packing up. I turn round over my shoulder to take one long last look at my room, fully aware that I might not be able to return for a few days. I don't believe in God, but whoever is up there, wherever 'there' is, thanks a bunch for taking everyone away on holiday. Great timing. I follow the men down the stairs and out of the front door where I am greeted with the sight of a sleek black town car.

"So stereotypical," I mutter to myself, earning a glare from Goon number 1. I smile sweetly back at him in retort. One of the men pushes me into the car and sits down next to me. The interior is black. What a surprise. The leather smells new and there isn't a mark on the black upholstery. There is an opaque screen that blocks the view of the front two seats, and the windows are as black as night. The only light in the car is from the single white bulb in the centre of the ceiling, which illuminates the side of the man's face. I hear the deep rumble of the engine starting, the power of its acceleration vibrating through the seats. Definitely a V5 litre engine. I sit back against one of the windows, and pull my hands up to the back of head, stretching out my legs in the spacious back seat, careful not to stretch too much otherwise my feet would end up in the man's lap.

"So," I drawl, attempting to make conversation. It's at least an hours drive from here to the Pentagon, might as well spend it well. "What's your name?" I ask digging my foot into the man's thigh to get his attention. I hear his small, barely audible sigh. But his mouth doesn't open.

"Okay," I respond to the silence. "So how did you get roped into the CIA huh? You can't be more than twenty five!" I lean forward tucking my legs underneath me so I am mere centimetres from his face. Glancing down for just a second, I see a small slit of white protruding from out of his jacket pocket. I grin: jackpot. I lean forward even more. Keeping my eyes glued onto his side profile, my fingers slowly inch down until I feel the hard plastic against the pads of my fingertips. "You must either have an IQ of above 175, which is unlikely. I mean, come on," I gesture to him, "look at you. All muscle and sinew," I remark poking him in the chest to prove my point. And damn, I was right. At my touch, I notice him stiffen and tighten his jaw, making his face more angular and even more robotic like. Gently I slide out the card against the soft fabric of the suit, careful not to apply too much pressure so not to alert him of my little deed. Once I have the card safely in the grip of my hand I slip on my legs so my back is once again against the window. With an exaggerated sigh of discontent, I tut and shake my head at the man sitting stoically in front of me. "Agent John Ward, you are atrocious. How the hell did you become an agent?" I see him visibly flinch and scowl at the mention of his name and I smile in victory.

"How do you know my name." It wasn't phrased as a question but more of a statement. His jaw is clenched so hard I'm surprised I haven't heard bone gnashing against bone.

"Ah, it speaks! That must have really hurt," I retort whilst waving about the plastic card in his face, "you look so much uglier in person than you do in your I.D. Strange that, it's usually the other way round." I slip the I.D card back into his pocket, patting the black fabric back in place. I wait for his response, glad that I have gotten a reaction out of him. It's nice to know that they are not invincible and faultless. I watch as Ward tilts his head in annoyance and sharply knocks on the screen separating us from the front seats. With a small whirring sound, the screen rises slowly and a hand clad in a black glove reaches out and places something into Ward's waiting one. The screen closes back down and Ward leans back in his seat. He turns his head to the side and I see the corner of his smile twitch upwards momentarily. Its one of relief mixed in with evil. I don't like it. I scoot back so that my back is flush against the edge of the car and retrieve my legs so that they are no longer in his vicinity. I keep my face dead straight, but my eyes travel to my right, wary of the man sitting next to me with his hand clenched around something.

"Cameron Ann Morgan." I turn around at the sound my name in his melodious voice. I feel it before I see it. The sharp prick and the feeling of something jammed into your skin, infiltrating you.

"Fuck." I mutter, but words come out slurred as I regard the two-inch long needle sticking out of my forearm, the green vial of liquid slowly disappearing into my bloodstream. I hate needles.


Zach's POV

"Remind me why I am here again instead of at school learning the importance of organic chemistry?" I ask sarcastically as I lean back on the chair, pushing my feet up on the oak table and balancing on two chair legs. The phone rang earlier this morning requesting our urgent presence at the Pentagon today. I can't say I wasn't surprised considering we are meant to be on leave, but I was a little bit annoyed because I'm missing football practice. I'm desperate to get onto the football team so I wanted to go to practice to get in Coach's good books. At least, that is what I told everyone else when asked why I was kicking up a fuss earlier. But let's be real, of course I'm going to be on the team, who wouldn't pick me over some lousy young quarterback who's idea of a workout is five minutes on the bench.

"New recruits came in today, we need to start their training." Jonas replies with a sigh. "I hope one of them has an IQ higher than 100, it would really be refreshing to be around someone who has some intelligence." Preston scoffs and claps Jonas on the back, evidently too hard as the genius starts spluttering.

'The Director will see you now.'

A woman's voice filters through the speaker overhead. Her name is Shelley. You know how in Iron Man, Tony Stark has a computerised system called Jarvis? Well Shelley is our version of him, except she is decked out with more intellectual technology that is far from my comfort zone. Jonas can explain it well. He tried to make me understand once. And failed. I roll back the seat and jump up, walking over to Grant who has fallen asleep in the chair, his limbs compressed together so that he is rolled up in a ball that fits snugly in his chair. Don't ask me how the hell he fits all his body in there. I clap my hands in his face quickly to wake him up before walking past him, out of the door into the steel coloured corridor filled with bright ultraviolet lights. Thirty steps down; I turn to face an iron door with no handle. Beside it to the right is a keypad with a screen above it. The rest of the boys catch up behind me, Grant further behind than the rest, still half-asleep. He takes long to wake up; we think he was dropped on his head when he was a baby. I touch the 9 squares that are raised on the keypads with the numbers etched in black on them. My fingers punch in the 24-digit code that is tattooed to every heart of a CIA agent. There are different ones for different floors of the Pentagon. Since we occupy the fourth floor, I have used this code so many times in my life that it is basically like me reciting my date of birth. I lean my head forward so that my eyes are now level with the screen above the keypad. I stare directly into the CIA emblem that occupies the middle of the screen. It's a retina scanner, because anyone can learn a 24-digit code, but not everyone can have the same retina as me. Yay science. The green line scans across my face and blinks twice confirming that I actually am Zachary Goode.

"Welcome Agent Goode."

The metal block in front of me swings open mechanically to reveal a darkened room where two figures stand ominously together.

"Thanks Shell," I reply and walk through the door and into the bleak darkness.

"Goode, Newman, Anderson, Winters, took your sweet little time didn't you?" Dr Steve steps out of the darkness like a super villain in a Marvel movie. He's got that role hands down.

I hold my hands up in mock surrender and say, "Shelley, only told us to come in just now. Blame the computer." I collapse down into the waiting armchair and stare at one of the walls which is covered in glass. On the other side of the glass is four figures slumped in chairs with black cotton bags over their heads and their hands handcuffed behind them to the chair – they are obviously the newbies. The black bags and handcuffs are useless. The glass separating us is bulletproof and the walls and doors are made of a resistant concrete and iron mixture. You would have needed several sticks of dynamite to get out, and guards have already made sure that the recruits have nothing on them. So it really all is pointless, but the CIA have always been ones for dramatics.

"Four new recruits?" Preston asks sceptically. To be honest, it is quite surprising to have four come in at the same time. They usually are recruited in drips and drabs, the only major group recruitment was us four, and we have been the best so far.

"So," I drawl, "what are we dealing with here? Men, women, ages, backgrounds, I'm gonna need everything if you want me to help you train these useless morons." I turn around and grin at the boys, who all reciprocate it. We know we are the best, no new group of recruits is gonna beat us. That's why they call us the Alpha unit, or A-team for short. I hear Dr Steve scoff behind me but ignore him. He tried putting a team together that would surpass us. He always had a vendetta against Joe ever since he became Director, and he spent a lot of time and money trying to train those brain-dead zombies to try and create a unit. Let's just say that they became the Echo-unit, and leave it at that.

"Careful Zach." I hear Joe say as he comes to stand beside me. "They are far from useless these four."

I turn to him with my eyebrows raised in surprise, "oh yeah?" I challenge. His eyes bore into mine – frankly, when he does that it is incredibly unnerving.

"I'm banking on it," he breathes out. A mechanical thud echoes around the room as four guards in black emerge through the door with machine rifle guns. The door swings shut behind them with a resounding echo as they march across the room, one guard standing behind each one of the figures in the chair. Joe's words have got my interest piqued about these new ones. I stand up and walk over to the edge of the room so that my face is millimetres away from the glass. The guards stare back at the glass unflinchingly as though they can see us. They can't, it's one-way, but its still unsettling as their black eyes glower straight ahead. There's movement to my right and I look over to see Dr Steve lean down into a small microphone. He presses the red button.

"Uncover them." His voice is like a snake: rough and sharp but silky at the same time. The guards respond immediately and take a step forward simultaneously, so that they are standing at the side of each of the recruits. I'm excited. I don't know why, I have trained many recruits, but this lot has Joe's praise, which is something hard earned. With a flourish, the guards whip off the bags and the unconscious faces of four people are unveiled. My eyes dart over the faces of every recruit from right to left, plugging them into memory. They are all girls, roughly eighteen years old I would presume. They look weak. Grant stands up suddenly and presses his hands against the glass with pressure. He breathes out and fogs up the glass in front of him.

"Well, fuck me."

I frown and follow his gaze to the blonde girl the furthest left. Recognition floods my senses as her face lies there impassively. Anger, agitation, annoyance.

Well double fuck me.


A/N: Hope you enjoy! Reviews and PM's are appreciated! Come chat :)