For the record, none of this would've happened if Josh Abrams hadn't cheated on DeeDee Finch.
Because if he hadn't decided to slut it up with Tina Walters in a bathroom at Dillon Henderson's party, DeeDee wouldn't have ran to my house crying, where I had been avoiding all social interaction with the denizens of my school. If I hadn't attempted to be a good friend to a girl I could barely tolerate, I wouldn't have ran to the store at midnight to go buy her some Ben and Jerry's to calm her down. If they hadn't been out of ice cream, I wouldn't have ran another block to another shop.
If I hadn't gone in that direction, I wouldn't have heard the gun shot. If I hadn't heard the deafening noise, I wouldn't have rushed to see what was going on.
But most of all, if Josh Abrams hadn't cheated on DeeDee Finch, I wouldn't have been there to witness another gunshot, with the bullet blasting through an extremely well dressed man's chest. I wouldn't have caught the eye of the killer, staring me down with a steely blue gaze, seemingly memorizing every detail of my face— the only person to see him commit murder. I wouldn't have had to sprint as fast as I could home. I wouldn't have had to scream in utter terror while locking the doors and frantically calling the police while a confused DeeDee watched in confusion.
And it all whirled out of control from there.
So, here's to you, Josh Abrams. Thanks for ruining my life.
The Lexington-Brayburn Building
1:29 PM.
---
"We've arrived, Miss." The Witness Protection Program works in mysterious ways. For example, approximately three hours after I called the police the night of the shooting (Friday Night Fiasco, if you want to be charming), the cops handed me an a pristine envelope from the WPP— containing one plane ticket to New York City and the address '15th Floor, Lexington-Brayburn Building" and the ominous message to not tell anyone where I was going.
It turns out that certain people don't like sixteen-almost-seventeen year old girls to watch them commit murder.
"Thanks, Walter," I answered the driver with a yawn. The old man had kindly escorted me from my airplane terminal to an inconspicuous 2006 Mercedes Benz—stylish enough to look like we belonged in Manhattan, but not flashy enough to garner any attention. If that didn't do the trick, I have a feeling that the gun I spotted under his lumpy old man sweater would. Like Officer Jimenez warned me in Roseville before I left, the people of New York City were never as they seemed.
He parked the car in front of the building, and I caught my very first glimpse of the new life waiting for me. The Lexington-Brayburn was, like the other establishments on the glitzy street, was very old and imposing. It was something between a Tudor and a skyscraper, with huge windows showing a very tiny glance into the lives of the very rich and fabulous. I'm not the best at math, but even I could figure out that you would need to be nothing less than a multimillionaire to even consider staying here.
And yet, here I was.
Walter opened the door for me and helped me out. "Your parents called," he said in a hushed voice, adjusting his Coke bottle glasses, "they've arrived safely in London. Some of our agents there are escorting them to Edinburgh as we speak." But what he really meant was they're fine, relax.
I managed a smile, as well as somebody could who had their life threatened less than seventy two hours ago and still is threatened. "That's good to know." But what I really meant was relaxation is a luxury I can't afford and you can bet your Mr. Rogers sweater that I'd rather be with them right now.
My response seemed to calm him. As I pulled my suitcase out of the trunk of the car (that's singular, the WPP advised me to pack lightly), I realized why I was sent here. The second I tried to walk on the side walk, it seemed like hordes of people surrounded me. Some going left, some going right. Everybody was so wrapped up in their own little worlds that they didn't notice the girl standing awkwardly with a suitcase, somebody who, in any other circumstance, would have stuck out like a sore thumb.
They sent me here because in a city of about eight million people in a very small space, it was going to be pretty damn hard to find one person.
"Are you coming, Miss?" Walter appeared at my side again, holding the door to the building open, the door to my new life.
I took one more look at the city behind me, with it's stampede of people rushing past. With a slight sigh, I grabbed my bag and walked up to the Lexington-Brayburn. Now or never. "Yes, Walter," I said with a tiny tinge of determination, "I'm coming."
15th Floor Penthouse, Lexington-Brayburn Building
1:45 PM
---
Like the rest of the Lexington-Brayburn, the elevators were at the height of extravagance.
With it's polished gold hued floors, smooth jazz humming from the speakers, and Frida Kahlo painting hanging on the wall, this was undoubtedly the best elevator I had ever ridden on. But, unfortunately, it was also the slowest.
In an attempt to make conversation with the only person in there with me, Walter, I mused, "This is a nice place, isn't it?"
The old man nodded with enthusiasm. "The best," he assured me firmly, "you can't find a better building than the Lexington. It has everything you could ever want. Exquisite rooms, state of the art facilities, wonderful hospitality—"
He was beginning to sound like a pamphlet. "So that's why we're here?" I interjected. "It's the safest building in Manhattan? Nobody can get me—"
"All in due time," Walter answered slowly, much to my frustration. "You'll find out everything soon enough." The impatience in me was coming out. The cops back in Roseville kept saying "yes, you're going to be in the dark" and "yes, somethings you're better off not knowing" or "yes, we will treat you like a four year old" in response to any questions I had about the killer of the Friday Night Fiasco or why the hell I was going to New York while my parents were (arguably) safer than the witness in the UK or what the WPP was going to do.
If you ask me, if anybody should know anything about this, it's me, right?
But, I wasn't completely inept. Regardless of the countless safety measures and waivers and documents that my parents had to sign to release me legally to the WPP, all of this complexity only confirmed one thing for me: the murderer was not somebody to take lightly. As if anybody takes murder lightly.
Before I could try to weasel any more information about the case from Walter, the elevator made a tiny ringing sound and the doors slid open. "Oh, we're here," Walter said casually, as if he was walking to the park and not some very top secret headquarters.
I'll admit it, I was expecting something more than a narrow hallway leading to a plain door, unlike the ones we had saw on our way to the elevator. The only remarkable thing about the door was it had no locks. No key hole. Nothing. Nothing but a gold plated sign with the words "15th Floor" engraved neatly on it.
If my face showed any hints of confusion, Walter had caught it. "We're the WPP," he explained simply with a wry look in his eye, "we have other methods of entering a room." And, in the single most badass thing I've ever seen somebody over sixty years old do, he placed his hand on the sign and a light gleamed from behind it. The sign popped open to reveal a keypad, and he punched in a very long number into the system. With a satisfying hiss, the door swung open.
I made a move to follow him into the penthouse, but he stopped me. "Sorry, dear, but newbies have to register into the system. Security measure."
"Oh." Frowning, I studied the door. What did he even mean by that?
Walter laughed. "Place your hand on the sign, that's all there is to it." He paused. "And memorizing the passwords, of course. They keep changing it every blasted week, I'll have to talk with that computer boy..." he trailed off.
Following his instructions, I placed my hand gingerly on the sign. It was warm to the touch and I could feel the sensors scanning my hand. But, a small needle pricked my index finger, and I snapped my hand back—leaving droplets of blood on the shiny floor. "Ouch!" I cried out.
But, something distracted me from the pain at that moment. Not something, someone. An extremely beautiful woman with dark brown hair and piercing green eyes, standing at the door with a bored expression on her face and a cocked hip, and only one sentence escaped her full lips.
"You're late."
The 15th Floor penthouse was, needless to say, huge. It was decorated in the same way as the lobby—modern with a classic twist—and with one quick glance around the room, I could tell that there were multiple rooms. And if the state of the living room was any indication, this was a full house.
"I'm Abby," the woman said briskly, leading Walter and I to the large meeting table in the main part of the foyer and sat us down. "You must be Cammie. If you're not, then Walter is getting more senile than we think." Her stoic attempt at humor barely lightened the mood. It's sort of hard to cheer up while knowing your life is potentially at stake. But, my suitcase was was left my the door and my coat and scarf were still on. If she didn't want to waste time, consider her mission accomplished.
She must have sensed my feelings. "Sorry, kid. We're a little crunched for time. Your flight was supposed to arrive about—" Abby glanced at her watch. "One hour and twenty-eight minutes ago. Which means that we only have about three hours to debrief you and get you acquainted with the crew before Solomon arrives from Rio, and then he's has to get you up to speed with all of this school nonsense." Abby talked extremely fast. Something told me it had something to do with the fact that there were five empty coffee cups in front of her.
Talking fast or talking slow, I would have been lost either way. Being thrown into this clandestine sort of life where you need to have your blood drawn to enter a room was not exactly my forte. I mean, two days ago I was stuck in Roseville, waiting for something major to happen, for my real life to begin.
I just hadn't imagined it would end up with me in New York City, forced to leave behind my entire home and family and trust a group of strangers—which at the moment consisted of a caffeine hyped beauty and an old guy.
Just my luck, more oddities were added to the group. This time it was a boy, my age, I'd guess. He was very tall and gangly, with brown curly hair that stuck up in almost every direction and glasses placed haphazardly on his nose. But what got me was the fact that he wandered into the room like he found it by surprise, with the air of somebody who usually wasn't included. At least, that's what I saw.
"Hey," he said lightly, taking the seat next to Walter. The boy didn't even skip a beat as he said to me, "you're Cammie Morgan. Born on April 13th, 1993. Age sixteen. Average GPA of 3.75 for high school. Blood type AB positive—"
Abby cut him off. "Jonas, you have got to work on your social skills." The boy, Jonas I presumed, blushed and smiled sheepishly.
"You told me to find out everything I could about her, right?" he told Abby.
"I didn't tell you to freak her out. Didn't I say that?" She turned the attention to me. "Look at the poor girl," she mused, "she looks like she's about to keel over. Hell, I would too if I was dealing with people like...never mind. Can I get you anything? Coffee?" Before I could answer, Abby was already making a beeline for the kitchen. "Coffee it is." People like what, I wanted to ask. But I stayed silent and kept my head down.
As Abby left to go get refreshments, another woman strolled in to the living room carrying a thick stack of papers. Like Abby, she was gorgeous, but a few years older at most. "Hello," she said smoothly with a polite nod at me. "You must be Cammie, nice to see you got here safely. I'm Rachel." She beamed at me and I felt like I could die of humiliation. The look in her eye was unmistakable: determined with a significant amount of pity.
"Yeah," was all I could manage to sputter out.
"How was JFK airport?" she asked Walter conversationally. "I hear they implemented a new security system three months ago. How did you manage to get the gun in?" Man, she must've been telepathic to know that, because her eyes were focused completely on her papers.
But, Walter smiled that crinkly smile of his. "Oh, Rachel. Don't you worry about it. I'm not as old as I seem." With all of the truths that have been hidden from me these past days, it was nice to know that even the most seemingly trustworthy person here was able to keep up.
Abby returned with a tray of coffee, some mugs, and more than enough cookies to feed an army. Hardly what I had in mind for a group that was employed by the government. Walter, Jonas, and Rachel began grabbing the food with extreme gusto. Taking the seat at the head of the table, she opened a manila folder and looked like she was about to make a speech before she frowned.
"Where," she said slowly with the tone of somebody trying to stay very calm, "the hell are the other two?" I assumed Jonas was truly the man with all the information because she directed the question towards him.
Jonas shrugged. "They said they were tailing a person of interest on the lower west side." I wanted to know who they were, but so many of my questions have gone unanswered that I didn't feel up to it.
Abby scoffed. "Their definition of of a person of interest hasn't been reliable since that mission in Cairo."
"To be fair, he didn't know that she was the ambassador's daughter," Jonas protested. "And you have to admit, the hotel alarm systems needed an update anyway."
"Are you also forgetting the time they were sent to bug a member of the Secret Service and ended up going to a concert?" Abby added dryly.
Walter, on the other hand, found this exchange of past missions (God, this was getting more ridiculous by the minute) amusing. "I recall that week in Paris, where they stole a taxi cab and unknowingly picked up the wrong man." He chuckled slightly. "Oh, it was a beautiful day..."
Rachel smiled at the memory. "The man they picked turned out to be a hacker who was giving the CIA database quite a hard time," she told me, "so it wasn't that much of a waste." My heart was beating quickly now and suddenly the room seemed to lose oxygen.
What had I gotten myself into? Part of me wanted to run away from people whose idea of a mistake is picking up the wrong criminal in a stolen taxi cab, the other part of me was so intrigued with their (from what I put together) globe hopping lifestyle. I wasn't in Roseville any more, better get those ruby slippers ready.
As if on cue, the doors of the penthouse burst open once more. This time, it was a boy and a girl talking animatedly and looking like, well, just two teenagers who happened to find their way into a luxe Manhattan building. The girl drew my attention first. She was pretty in an effortless sort of way, with her dark hair piled on top of her head and caramel colored skin that looked like it had to be airbrushed. The guy was an entirely different story. I've seen hot before in my life, trust me. But never in the form of a tall, dark haired, hazel eyed guy who seemed perfectly conscious of how good he looked.
Seriously. Between these two and Rachel and Abby and hell, even Jonas (if you were into the geeky cute look), the level of freakishly attractiveness in this room was astounding.
Instead of joining the (growing impatient) table, the pair were wrapped up in their own conversation. For a split second, I hated the immense space of the room—it only made it harder to hear far away.
"Please," the guy pleaded.
"No," the girl responded sharply in a thick accent. British, I'd guess if I could hear her clearly.
"Please."
"No."
"Please."
"What part of no don't you understand? Get your head out of your ass and maybe you'd hear something for once," she retorted. He tossed a cell phone at her, to which she expertly caught in mid air and chucked it back at him with double impact. "I'm not going to break up with your girlfriend over the phone for you—"
"She's not my girlfriend!" the guy said exasperatedly, "she's just enchanted by my masculine charms, is all. Consider her more of a stalker."
She snorted. "Masculine charms?"
He grinned at her mischievously. "Humor me. And please," He grabbed her hand and shoved the phone into her palm, "get rid of her."
The girl sighed with defeat. "You do my laundry for a month, pay for any movie I want to see, and spring for takeout for the rest of the month, understood?" Before letting him answer to her conditions, she dialed a number and added, "Should I be the angry girlfriend you have back home who's just discovered your cheating ways or your stepsister who's absolutely devastated because you got into a freak motorcycle accident and damaged your vocal chords?
He shrugged easily. "Surprise me."
Eventually, I diverted my attention away from their interesting conversation and back to the table. In the most words I had spoken all day to anybody there, I squeaked out, "who are they?" I had been going for cool indifference, but ended up with a mix of eagerness and overacting.
Abby broke out in the first smile I had seen all day. "They," she began, her voice dripping with a mix of ennui, amusement, and worry, "are Rebecca Baxter and Zachary Goode." Before the names could fully sink in, she continued.
"Your bodyguards while you're here."
Oh, shit.
AN: thank you all so much for the reviews for the trailer! i hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.
this story is going to move fairly quickly, i plan on writing cammie starting school in the chapter after the next.
so, bex, zach, and jonas are pretty much bffs who work together. you'll find out about their history in the next chapter, along with more details of the murder cammie witnessed. rachel and abby are, you guessed it, not related to cammie in anyway at all. consider them just spies. consider them all spies.
and walter is a cool old man. every story needs one of those.
liked it? hated it? be sure to tell me what you thought :D
--asha (:
eta: zach has hazel eyes in this story? why? i like my guys with hazel eyes. and because that rhymed.