Disclaimer: Carter owns the Gallagher Series. I own this story/plot. No copywriting here.

A/N: And my tweaking is done :] So although the prologue is important, put it in the back of your head. It'll come back later. Everything I wrote in the letter, I wrote for a reason. The whole story from here on out will be told from Zach's POV. Also, it's rated T for a reason. I like to swear. And so does Zach. So if language offends you, change it to something else in your head. :]

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~Chapter 1~

This wasn't my idea. Actually, this was the exact opposite of what this night was supposed to be. It was supposed to be all of us. Together. In the heart of New York City. We were supposed to drop everything for just one night. Just twelve hours. But as I looked around, the only people I heard came from a hundred feet below. So the only thing I could do was pop a squat and wait.

This wasn't my idea.

Honestly though, you'd think that I would be the last person out of our group to be up here. But the only ass here was mine, and it was waiting, up high, surrounded by buildings brighter than the starry, summery sky. Up here, atop a city rooftop, with industrial smoke contaminating my lungs and a metal rail denting my ass. I knew they'd bail.

This wasn't my idea.

"Hey." A hand touched my shoulder.

"Hey yourself," I responded with a grin, knowing who the voice belonged to.

I cocked my head to the right and looked at her, even though it was too dark to make out the features of her face. "Is everyone else a no-show?"

"Everyone but you," I pointed to myself, "and me."

You and me.

I liked the sound of that.

She smiled, sat on the railing, and leaned into me. "I'm surprised you of all people came." Suddenly, she pulled away, thinking she offended me. But I wasn't. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm really glad you're here. You're just the busiest."

"I surprised myself." I smirked and wrapped my arm around her. "But out of all the morons that could've showed tonight, I guess it could've been worse."

She giggled. So cute. "I've missed this." She leaned back into me, forgetting that we've been ditched. Forgetting that we haven't seen each other in over a year. We happily disappeared into our own bubble as if we were the only two people in New York.

Like I said, this wasn't my idea.

But it was hers.

And I loved it.

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Paris, France

Early Morning around Five O'clock

July 1, 2011

"Shit," I mumbled, feeling iron bars grind into my back. My head was pounding, my body was sweating, and overall, I felt like crap. "It was just a dream." With eyes still shut, I scanned through my thoughts, knowing that I only had eight to twelve seconds to retain the dream in my memory.

That annoying girl was in it again. A girl that I hadn't even met in real life. A girl who's face was still a mystery to me.

And I wanted her out of my head.

This wasn't the first time she'd come a-haunting me, a me that I didn't even think was me. I mean, I think the me in my dream was physically me, but he didn't act like me. He was different. With a different personality. And different feelings.

A warped clone of me, I think.

Now that I'd gotten myself so damned confused to a point where I didn't really know who I was (the dream me or the reality me), my attention was brought back to the stiff position I was in. Currently, thin metal bars were pressed into my body from my back shoulders to my ass, marking my skin in a striped pattern.

Oh fuck.

My ass was in prison.

I rubbed my eyes with my right fingers but continued to keep them closed, reluctant to see if I was where I thought I was. And if I was in jail again, there would be no one to bail me out this time.

The boss man had promised me that.

Not wanting to feel the metal on my back anymore, I tried to roll over, but my left wrist was snagged on something. The resistance practically pulled my arm out of its socket, and I couldn't help but to yelp in pain. My now throbbing arm forced me to shake off sleep and face reality.

How badly did I mess up this time?

Please don't be in jail.

Please don't be in jail.

Please don't be in fucking jail.

I was handcuffed to the aforementioned metal bars.

"Shit!" I cried out, yanking on the cuffs, which only increased the pain in my arm. I glanced down at my attire, which consisted of my boxers and—I did a double take—my boxers. "Dammit, Goode! What the hell did you do last night?" And although I'm supposed to be a genius, zilch memories entered to my brain. So since my head wasn't doing much good, I decided to use my eyes.

Squinting (because I had this huge fucking hangover, apparently), I noticed that instead of a musky jail cell, I was facing a row of identical townhouses. Also, the lack of light wasn't because I was in a solid brick room, but because I had woken up just before dawn. And instead of handcuffs—oh wait, they were still metal handcuffs actually. (If they were fuzzy, I'd feel a lot better—a little violated maybe—but better.)

But none of that matter anymore.

Because I wasn't in jail!

I groaned and pulled myself up to a sitting position, trying to ignore the prickling feeling in my arm and the pain in my side caused from an extremely uncomfortable night's sleep. Now that I knew where I wasn't, where was I?

Once again, I used my sharp sense of sight to notice that I was outside on a balcony—a balcony not even fit to hold a child, let alone a grown man such as myself—and although the reason for my poor sleep was answered, my whereabouts weren't. And neither was this hangover.

"C'mon, Goode," I grumbled to myself and pulled on my hair. "You're somewhere in Paris. On the balcony of someone's apartment probably. Now think." The only way I could've lost my memory like this is if I were at a bar. Or someone knocked me unconscious. It couldn't be the latter, though.

No one could beat up this guy.

Plus, if I got into a fight, what was with the boxers? Also, did I mention the head-pounding, palm-sweating hangover? Drinking most definitely was involved.

And then a woman with straight, dark hair popped up into my head.

"That's it, " I told my brain and closed my eyes. "Keep going."

Then I remembered leaving the bar with her, completely wasted, which was something I promised myself I wouldn't do that night.

Dammit.

The memories of last night suddenly came flooding back into my head, all in reverse order. A few minutes before the woman practically dragged me to leave with her, I had put down an empty beer bottle. And before that, I was happily chugging the aforementioned beer. And before that, I was ordering a beer. Or the chick was ordering it for me. Again. And before that, I was drinking my second beer of the night.

Only three beers and my memory went to shit?

No, something else had to happen. That wouldn't even happen to a lightweight fucker.

"The girl," I said to myself in amazement. My brain went back to my first beer when the dark-haired woman dared to sit with me. What was her name? Macey?

In my head, I heard her say, "Salut! Je m'appelle Macey," and suddenly the hole where I was missing some vital information was filled.

And yup. I was right. Her name was Macey.

I remembered slouching over at the bar like an emo kid, and then she came dancing along, her hair perfectly straight and an outfit dressed to kill. It was obvious that she was trying to seduce me (or any of the other males in that place). On any other night, her antics would've worked, but not that night. When she shimmied over to the empty stool next to me, I put my foot on it, clearly stating that the adjacent bar stool was empty for a reason. I wouldn't be an asshole without a purpose. Especially to someone who had an interest in me. But I had a huge job tomorrow (or today since yesterday's tomorrow is today). And I was really fucking nervous. Didn't she notice that I was only there for one drink, and one drink only? Alone? But nothing I did seem to freak her out or disgust her. She even accepted my silence, so I grudgingly allowed her to say her bit because hearing her shrill voice distracted me from my own in my head. And I needed to calm down if I wasnted to succeed tomorrow (or today).

The memory, clear as if it were yesterday (which it was) popped into my head.

After about half-an-hour of the chick's monologue, she paused. She actually stopped talking. I thought she was going to leave, but I think her silence meant something else: she wanted me to converse back!

No.

I groaned inwardly, but then I happily realized that even though I was fluent in French, she didn't have to know that. And maybe she couldn't speak English. "No hablo... French?" I mumbled stupidly, using a British accent and hoping that would discourage her. "Je suis… from America."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. Crap. Maybe I shouldn't have used the word "America". I mean, the French call us Americans americains, so why didn't I think that she was smart enough to know that America is Amerique?

Oh yeah, because the bitch didn't know that I didn't want to talk to her, even when I pretended to sound like a caveman.

"I speak anglais," she paused and held up her index finger and thumb, holding them an inch apart, "un poco." Macey looked at me for a second before cracking up and with a slight Russian accent she spoke, "You are a strange man. You think you can get rid of me that easily? I'm actually fluent in English. You, however, should work on your French. Or Spanish. Or any other languages you like to mix together."

"I might just go do that," I told her, ready to leave. Like I already said, I was here to relax before the big job tomorrow and if she wouldn't scram, then I would.

She stopped me by placing a hand on my shoulder and pushing my back onto the bar stool. Ok, Macey was stronger than she looked. "Oh no! I didn't mean to mock. Let me get you a drink." After noting the beer in my hand, she called for a second one. And then a third.

And when people order me free drinks, I don't turn them down. No matter what I promise myself.

"So what's your name?"

"Anthony," I lied smoothly as the bartender handed her my second beer, and then she flipped her hair in my face, blocking my view of—

That bitch put something in my beer!

She flipped her hair to drug my drink!

That's why I feel like shit!

Then my genius brain realized something else. The balcony I had used as my bed for the night had to be attached to something. Floating platforms didn't exist. I turned behind me and stood up, moving the handcuff up along one of the poles with me. And that's when I saw a French door with transparent, flowy curtains on the other side. It was her door. And it probably led to a bedroom. Where that psycho brunette slept. And kept her drugs.

I went insane.

"Who do you think you are?" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

I didn't care if it was around five a.m.

I didn't care if all of Paris could hear me.

I kicked her door so hard the glass almost broke and started shouting obscenities that probably woke up the entire neighborhood.

Or at least one neighbor.

"Well, I don't know who you're talking to, but most people call me Solomon." I turned to the sound and saw a man standing peacefully on the balcony next-door. He was smiling reassuringly, as if he knew the dilemma I was in.

Well he fucking didn't.

"Je ne parle pas anglais," I pretended to be a Frenchman before picking up a flowerpot that sat on the balcony's railing, ready to chuck it at the door. That bitch was getting her ass out here eventually. If I had to break in, so be it.

"So you're not American?"

Damn. He didn't believe me. I should've known that pretending to speak a different language wouldn't work after Macey.

But I couldn't give up yet so I paused before saying, "Je suis français, monsieur." I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to look confused. "Vous les américains sont stupides." I forced myself to chuckle, hoping that the guy would think I was making fun of him.

"But didn't you just ask me who I thought I was? In plain English? With an American accent?"

Oops.

"Je ne sais pas," I shook my head, even though the man knew I was lying outright. My voice continued to grow as I got angrier, "Ne vous je parlais pas. Il est cinq heures du matin, monsieur, et je ne pense— " And then I went into a five minute ramble, trying to find words that sounded really angry to the American ear, even though someone who could speak French would think I was speaking gibberish. I even pulled out some of my French swear words. I salaud-ed and abruti-ed him the best I could before I ended my beautiful French speech with "—et j'aime el foie mousseux et les tortues." I pronounced tortues extremely slow, hoping that this American would think that les tortues meant torture, even though in reality, a tortue was a turtle.

But what he said next caught me off guard.

Well, first he laughed. Really hard.

And then he revealed, "Monsieur, je parle français aussi. Je comprends ce que vous dites."

Oh my God.

Why was this guy such a fucking know-it-all?

"I don't know about shiny liver," he winked at me, knowing exactly what foie mousseux meant, "but I do appreciate turtles. Les tortues sont les meilleurs."

"Ok, man, you got me. I'm from the fucking States," I growled, defeated. "I'm just not really in a conversational mood right now if you seriously don't get my drift." I threw the flowerpot at the door for demonstration and watched as the whole thing shattered. The flowerpot, I mean, not the door.

As I was beginning to think that the French made their French doors bulletproof, I realized that the guy, Solomon I think, was still talking. So I gave him my full attention and told him, "And I wasn't asking you."

"So you were just asking Paris who it was then?"

"Yeah, something like that."

His amused eyes left my face and observed the handcuff that I was now fiddling with. "You know, you sounded a little crazy there, son."

"I know."

"And I really don't like being called a bastard."

"I get that."

"Or a dumbass."

"I understand. I'm sorry?" I wasn't.

"If I didn't know French, I definitely would've run off."

I smirked. "I know you would've."

"But I did know French."

My smirk was gone. Bastard thought he got one on me. So I did what any mature man would've done in my place.

I ignored him.

It was silent for the longest time, but before I could even hope he left, the voice had the nerve to ask me, "Why are you here, son?"

I scrunched my face up and stared at him incredulously. "Does it look like I volunteered to be locked out here? In my fucking boxers? Handcuffed to a balcony? With some woman I just met last night? Who probably drugged me? In my fucking boxers?"

He laughed. The abruti actually laughed. "No. You misunderstood me. I meant, why are you here, in Paris?"

"So you ask me why I'm here, but you don't ask me why I'm here?"

"Um. Come again?" Oh, he knew exactly what I was trying to say. I think.

"You didn't ask me why I was out on this balcony."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's clear that you've been locked out."

"But you asked me why I'm in Paris?"

He pretended to think it over. "By golly, I think I did."

"Shouldn't your first concern be to help me? Not wondering why I'm here in the city of love being extremely unloving?"

"You look like the type of guy who didn't want help," he answered me. And I wasn't. This guy was reading me well. Way too well.

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pounding in my head and find an attitude that didn't result in biting this stranger's head off. I mean, so far he wasn't so bad. He showed me up, which I actually respected him for. And he most definitely didn't need the anger I wanted to throw at Macey. Also, it helped that he was smiling at me with understanding rather than pity or sympathy. The fact that he's smiling period rather than throwing back what I threw at him was amazing.

Once he noticed I was ready for a real conversation, he asked, "What part of the US are you from?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Around I guess." He nodded, accepting my vague answer.

"I'm from Virginia."

"By Virginia Beach?"

"Nah, way north of that," he smiled, "but I'd like to live in Virginia Beach."

I snorted. "I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Have you ever been there? There are 'no swearing' signs up along the streets," I scrunched up my face. "You know, they don't even have the words 'no profanity here' written on them. It's all just a bunch of symbols in a red circle with a cross through it. The first time I saw one, I think I shouted 'what the fuck'. Because when you look at it, you just gotta say 'what the fuck'. It's just that bizarre. But of course a cop was there. And he fined my ass." I shook my head. "Never going back there again."

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I guess that it's a good thing that I live in Roseville then, where I can use my right to free speech to swear."

"Exactly." I smiled. "Hey, I actually think I've passed through that town once."

"Really?" His eyebrows went up in shock. Well, he should be. Surprised, I mean. It took me five minutes to drive from one end of the other. It's not what most people would consider a memorable town, but for some reason, Roseville stuck in my head.

"Yeah, I travel all over, and I think I went through Roseville at one point in my life when I was heading out to D.C."

"For your job?"

I nodded, not elaborating on purpose.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not ashamed of what I do for a living. Actually, I love my life's work. Fucking love it. I'm my own boss (most of the time), and I get to choose my own hours (mostly at night). But what I love about it the most is the high I get after I complete a job.

Which I suppose arouses the question, what do I do?

Simply put, I'm a thief.

And not the honorable kind that steals to feed his family (if one could consider stealing honorable). Nor am I a professional thief (although I have done jobs for other people). Nah. I'm the worst kind of thief out there: the selfish thief. I not only steal to gain wealth, but also to create chaos.

And why do I like to create trouble?

Well, like I said before, the best part of the job is the high.

Don't need pot when there are museums filled with dead people's gold.

Don't need coke when there's Las Vegas.

Don't need drugs to be dope.

Thieving was like my own brand of heroin.

And that's why I was here in Paris: to steal the Mona Lisa.

But even if I did want to tell Solomon all of that, he opened his mouth and said, "I'm a cop. You know, I'm that guy that catches bad guys."

And that's why I don't tell people what I do for a living. Because they'll turn out to be police officers and haul your ass to jail. Or fine you for swearing.

"Lovely," I said when what I really wanted to say was "fuck you".

"It is," he nodded, ignoring the tone of my voice, "I could unhook those handcuffs you're all wound up in."

I looked back at the handcuff, which was already off my wrist because, hello, thief here. In stealing 101, you have to know how to pick a lock or you'd die out on the streets. (Or get caught during a high profile heist.) I'm surprised that Solomon, in fact, didn't notice that earlier when he saw me fiddling with the handcuff.

"Actually, I knew this guy who knew how to pick locks with nothing but a flower stem," I held up both arms and showed him the bobby pin I had found in the dirt. "But I'm not that talented. Just fucking lucky that Macey lost a bobby pin while watering her plants."

Solomon clapped. "I'm impressed, son. They don't teach that in cop school."

"What do they teach?" I inquired, actually interested. If a cop was chasing me, maybe I could use this knowledge to outsmart them.

"They just teach you how to lock crooks up and how to use a gun. Got me a nice set of them. Guns, I mean. Not crooks. Although I did do my share in catching those felons out there."

"Sounds like my type of fun." Except for the fact that I was the crook.

"But you know, son, my work isn't just out on the field." I nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "I work with juvenile cases every other day. And sometimes when the youngsters are looking all lost, sitting in their cells, and waiting for the parents to bail them out, I give them advice. Kinda like a shrink. But a free one."

He looked up at the moon before looking back at me, probably noting that the sky was getting lighter, which meant one hour closer to my heist. My insides tingled in anticipation. "So I think I'm going to grace you with a little bit of my cop wisdom. You know that Louvre you're going to today?"

Now I was intrigued. Not once had we had a successful conversation about Paris, let alone the Louvre (which, by the way, is a world-renowned art museum). How did he know I was putting my plans together in the next twenty-four hours to steal the Mona Lisa?

"Well, don't," he paused for effect, making sure I was listening. "Don't go there. I hear something's up. I can't be sure of what exactly is happening or anything, but there are going to be a butt-load of people." He pointed to himself. "People like me. And all of us together in one place can't be good, now can it?"

I wondered how this friendly and open man suddenly turned into a vague and mysterious asshole. A real salaud indeed.

"What are you saying?"

"All I'm saying is that not everything is what it seems to be, Zach," he said my name with a long drawl, making sure that I knew that he knew who I was.

What. The. Heck.

My heart dropped to my stomach.

My eyes widened.

No one called me that. Ever.

And then the motherfucker went back into the building, leaving me standing on a psycho woman's balcony with my mouth gaped open, unaware of the amount of time that was passing. Unaware of the early birds that were chirping over my head. Unaware of the Paris streets below and how they were coming to life because people were waking up.

And I was most definitely unaware that the French doors had opened (without a dent of damage) and Macey had joined me outside.

I didn't know if thirty seconds or thirty minutes had passed. All I knew was that during one bizarre second of my life, the only thing I could say, when the birds took their morning crap on my naked torso, when a voice I had heard from a dream not so long ago told me to "watch out", when Macey pushed me over the edge of the balcony's railing, was "shit".

And I was falling.

This wasn't my idea.

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Zach died.

The End.

...just kidding

If you don't like Zach now, he'll change. I'll make sure of it. ;]

Update Thursday?

Review please. And don't fine me for swearing ;]