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

A/N: I hope everyone understands that the words written in italics are Zach's dreams. Please R&R.

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"I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I'm free faaaallin'."

Tom Petty's voice rang through my head as I hurtled toward Earth. The rush of adrenaline made me want to belt from the top of my lungs just how free I thought I was, but I couldn't. Some part of me knew by instinct that if I brought attention to myself, even if I was in the sky, that it would be over. And not just for me, but for my team as well.

I wasn't free.

I held out my arms and closed my eyes, pretending to be a bird. The air rushed passed my body, making a loud swooshing sound. If only I could stay up in the clouds for as long as forever. But gravity was a bitch. Why couldn't the world understand that having your head up in the clouds was better than being down-to-earth? Literally.

After I breathed in sweet oxygen and let it out in the form of a sigh, I realized that I couldn't remain in this bubble forever. Not even for a minute. Forcing my eyes open, a great accomplishment for falling at the rate I was going, I looked over to my partner and waited for a signal. For another cue. Another command.

At a thumb's up, I was supposed to open my parachute and allow myself to drift. I was supposed to stop the wonderful feeling of free falling, which, if continued, would've been suicide. But what no one knew was that this already was suicide. Instead of drifting back to Earth, we were going to hell.

I wish I were a bird, because at the moment, I didn't want to be me.

I wasn't me as soon as I was pulled into this mission.

My partner gave me the thumbs up. Now I wasn't just not free falling anymore—

I just wasn't free.

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Paris, France

Early Morning Around Six O'clock

July 1, 2011

Cats. If I were an animal, I would describe myself as a gorgeous, graceful feline. And not just because I'm furry and adorable and like to spit out hairballs, but because I always land on my feet. And there's a saying that goes 'cats always land on their feet'. Basically, what I mean to say is that being a thief is like being a cat.

Hence the title 'cat burglar'.

Except today, I think I was more of a burglar than a cat because I doubt that there's any sort of saying that goes 'cats always land on their asses with their backs covered in bird shit'. But if there was, that's the type of cat that I'd be.

I shook my head and tried to wake myself up from a weird daze. Before I had begun thinking about how I failed as a cat burglar, I had been 'dreaming' again. Only this time, unlike the screwy dreams I had in the past, I think I was actually awake, and instead of feeling happy in the dream, I think I was fucking terrified. Before I could contemplate more on this topic, however, a small group of voices brought me back to the present.

"Ça va? Ça va?" rang through the streets of Paris. I tried to look down upon myself, wondering how to answer the question. Clouds were swirling in circles, I couldn't move, and there was an obnoxious ringing noise in my ear. Was I OK?

I was more than OK. I was freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, I was free faaaallin'.

Which I guess meant that I wasn't OK.

And I especially wasn't OK when I realized that I was the center of attention.

The boss man was going to kill me.

Fuck.

Before I could think of an excuse to sneak away or tell the annoying folks that I hadn't been trying to commit suicide, but that a woman, in fact, had pushed me off her balcony, a sultry, feminine voice spoke up for me, "Can't you see he's all right? You people are wasting your time comforting him instead of arresting the person that is responsible for this."

Which reminded me that this wasn't my fucking fault. It was Macey's. That psycho bitch had drugged and tried to kill me. My gaze found the balcony where I had been shoved out of. However, right below it was an awning that had stopped my fall.

Interesting. Did that mean that Macey wasn't looking to kill me? I mean, there were other ways to achieve that goal other than to push a guy off a balcony only two stories up with an awning underneath. But what was her motive? Why risk it in front of the public?

The only thing that came to my mind was that she knew about my mission and didn't want me to complete it. Because if that fall didn't kill me, she knew that the boss man would.

Of course, that was all theory.

Then I realized that whoever spoke up for me was still talking, so my head lifted up slightly to try to find the voice of reason. The aforementioned voice continued, "And I saw her. It was a woman. She had straight, black hair, which reached her mid-back and her eyes were blue. She also had an athletic build—", well she'd have to be athletic to be strong enough to hurt this guy, "—and she was wearing blue short-shorts and a large, white t-shirt." The voice paused and I imagined the speaker looking menacingly at the crowd. "I suggest you find her."

In America, she could have easily persuaded the people to do so with that speech, but, unfortunately for me, we were in France, which meant that only half of the six a.m. crowd could understand English. Therefore, the stupid half stayed huddled around me while the other half tried to contact the police. Which was fucking crazy. Because the neighbor was a cop, and he still had to be in his room, right?

"Solomon," I coughed, rising up slowly. "Cop. He's a cop."

Gasps rang throughout the crowd. "Il parle anglais!"

"Non," I muttered, "je peux… je peux parler…" I raised a hand, trying to tell them that I could speak French, but the bizarre thing was, I couldn't.

"I can speak English." I looked up at my savior and saw deep, brown eyes. Like a doe. The edges of those eyes crinkled and I realized that she was smiling. "You certainly took a tumble." She put out her hand. "Are you alright?"

The ringing in my ears stopped and I didn't see objects circling around anymore. Like a cat, I got up to my feet, ignoring the hand she had held up.

"Um," I asked uncertainly, "did I… um, was I just unconscious over there?" Maybe she could confirm whether or not these dreams were beginning to take over reality.

Before she answered me, though, she turned to the remaining few that hadn't gone off to look for Macey, "He's fine!" she shouted. "Uhh… bien." She pointed to me, trying to tell the crowd that I was OK.

After the remaining French people had dispersed, she smiled and reached out to my hair. I jerked away, not wanting her to touch me. "You," she began when she realized that by touching me, she was overstepping a line, "you were knocked out for a couple of seconds." She shrugged. "Nothing major."

My dreams were actually still dreams then.

After my shoulders slumped in relief, I asked her a question that I was wondering the whole time, "How'd you know what Macey looked like?"

"Well, at first I only saw you up there. You... up there... wearing boxers." She blushed, reminding me that I was half-naked. "And then I saw her come out. She had this crazy look on her face."

"You tried to warn me," I said in awe, remembering a voice that had yelled 'watch out'.

"I tried to warn you," she agreed, "but you looked like you were hypnotized or something."

And then the woman reached out and tried to touch my fucking head again.

Big doe eyes or not, I snapped, "I'm ok." No one touches me. Ever.

"I just want to make sure you don't have a concussion or anything!" The stupid girl tried to touch me for a third time.

"Fucking stop."

"Please?"

"No."

She reached again but I smacked her wrist away.

"I was knocked out for, like, two seconds," I argued. "What's the big deal?"

"Sorry, Mr. Touchy."

"You're the one being touchy."

She smiled. "Touché." And then I felt a finger lightly touch my scalp.

I had had enough. "Leave my fucking head alone or leave yourself!"

"Fine," she huffed and began stomping away from me. "Have a good day! I hope you do have a concussion."

I began to run after her. "Wait!" I called and grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop. "I just…" I ran a hand through my hair, wondering why I was so nervous as I stared into her eyes, "Fuck. I just wanted to say 'thank you'. I didn't need all of that attention from everyone and you got me out of there. And I really didn't mean to snap. I, um…" Where was the suave Zach Goode that I knew and loved?

But luckily she understood what I was trying to say and a smile painted her face once again. "I'm Cammie," she told me and shook the hand that I had grabbed. "And the concussion thing? I didn't mean it."

"I'm—" As soon as she said her name, it was like someone had thrown cold water over me when I was asleep and brought me back to reality. I was a criminal. A crook. I couldn't tell her who I was. I shifted my feet uncomfortably before remembering something else.

"I'm covered in bird shit," I blurted before turning around and sprinting in the opposite direction, not even caring if the only clothes I had with me were my boxers.

Now what was the boss man going to do about this?

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Paris, France

7:45 AM on the Dot

July 1, 2011

"Zach Goode," a man greeted me as I took a seat across from him, finally wearing clothes again (although I won't tell you how I got them). We were seated in a café outside with a perfect view of the Eiffel tower—a great place for tourists to take a break. The café was busy and loud, even at this hour, which was exactly what the man and I both wanted.

"Hey," I replied with fake enthusiasm.

"You're late."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fifteen minutes early."

"I got here before you," he reminded me. "Therefore, you're late." Asshole.

He looked away from me and began drinking a coffee that he had ordered. In his other hand was his phone, which he was reading instead of paying attention to me. His daily goal was trying to make me feel unimportant, even though I was his go-to guy.

Whatever. Just because he enjoyed showing off his authority by ignoring me didn't mean that I wasn't the best. And no one could deny it. That I was the best, I mean.

Instead of whining for his attention, like a smart thief, I turned to look at the Eiffel tower. Although it was magnifique, I was studying the people I could see in my peripheral vision. To the right, a French woman carried a dog in her purse, which was an accessory in itself. Poor thing. She was scolding it for trying to eat the food she was waving in its face. To the left, a man with a handlebar mustache was chomping on a chicken leg. His wife, I noticed, was looking at him in disgust. And straight in front of me was—

I stopped breathing. Straight in front of me was the girl who tried to help me out this morning. Straight in front of me was Cammie.

Or should I say behind me. I whipped back around to face the boss man. If I no longer was looking at her, or anyone else, maybe she wouldn't notice me sitting here just a few tables away. The last thing I needed, as I stared at this asshole, was for her to come over here and introduce herself to the aforementioned asshole.

I began drumming my fingers against the table loudly, hoping to get his attention so we could leave as fast as possible. But all he did was sip his coffee. Bastard.

"Dr. Steve," I interrupted the boss man in mid sip, "if you don't mind, I want to get this job fucking over and done with." But my mind was still on Cammie. And the way she was sitting there, and although I had only glanced at her, I noticed she was sitting there alone. Why was she sitting alone?

He smirked a smirk that could rival mine before putting down his drink with a loud thump, regaining my attention. "Goode, is Paris not treating you well?"

"Paris is fine," I lied, thinking about Solomon, the dreams, falling off balconies, and last but not least, Cammie. Who was right behind us dammit. "I just feel like there might be more problems this time around."

He raised an eyebrow. "Problems? What types of problems?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just have a funny feeling that something bad is going to happen." And Solomon's warning rang clear in my head. Not everything is what it seems to be.

"Ah," Dr. Steve leaned back into his chair, "intuition." Then he leaned closer into me. "Or is it something else?" Which made me think Dr. Steve knew more than he was letting on. "Are you chickening out? I can't believe this. My front man is chickening out."

"No," I argued. Zach Goode doesn't chicken out of anything. "I just think we should wait until next week or something."

He narrowed his eyes accusingly at me. "You know what, Goode, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that you were trying to get out of this heist."

"What do you mean?" I demanded. "I've been preparing for this for the last month. My sole focus has been the Mona Lisa."

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

I shook my head but he ignored me. "You asked me what I meant. What I mean, Goode," he sighed exasperatedly, "is that instead of thinking about your job last night and getting a good night's sleep, you went home with some random French girl. Completely wasted. I mean, this morning, you woke up on a balcony and took the time to talk to men you have no business of talking to." He raised his hands in the air. "And then you draw even more attention to yourself by falling off said balcony!"

"Oops." I guess I was guilty as charged.

"Oops? Oops, Goode? That's what you have to say for yourself? I told you to stay on the DL." He crossed his arms. "I thought this was your idea."

"It was."

"I let you choose Paris," he mumbled, "I thought you wanted to go to fuckin' Paris."

"I did. I mean, I still do."

"You were bugging the shit out of me for the last two years to go to Paris."

"Not two years."

"Ok. Three years. Three."

"No." I shook my head, trying to deny that, even though it was probably true.

But he ignored me once again. "It was Paris this and Paris that. And then when I asked you the reason, you couldn't come up with any."

"It was because of the Louvre," I told him what he already knew.

"The Louvre?"

"Yeah, I wanted the Mona Lisa."

"Then why didn't you immediately respond in the first place?"

"I wasn't preprared."

"Wasn't prepared?" Why was this guy repeating everything that I was saying?

"I didn't think you'd agree after—"

"The last fucking three years," he cut me off.

"Yup," I answered, defeated.

"Then why give it up now?" he studied at me, trying to get me to break. "We're finally here. On your terms. Was it that cop? Was it because he told you not everything is what it seemed to be."

Ok, boss man or no, I was beginning to get annoyed. "Will you stop spying on me?" I yelled at him, but then remembered that we weren't alone. I lowered my voice before informing him, "I've been with you for three years! Do you not trust me?" How does he always hear my conversations? The only article of clothing I was wearing that morning was my boxers. My boxers!

He bugged my fucking boxers!

"I don't." Dr. Steve said curtly. "I thought that was the first rule, Goode. I know I taught you the first rule. The life of a criminal is a life where you don't trust anyone. You don't trust your so-called friends. You don't even trust me. The only person you have there is yourself."

"But to me, it seems like I'm working for you."

"You could walk away if you wanted."

"That's a lie."

He paused and thought it over. "You're right. You could walk away if you wanted, fucked up beyond recognition."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why?'"

"Why am I so important to you? Why don't you give me a choice? Everyone else does one job for you and they're free." They're freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. They're free faaaallin'. Enough of that. "Why?"

He finally relaxed for the first time since I saw him today. "You know what, Goode? I have this story to tell you. It's about a young man that once upon a time had come to see me when he had no place else to turned to. When I looked at him, when everyone looked at, and even when he looked at himself, we all saw a nobody. He was just some sorry ass out of God knows where. He barely remembered his name, much less the place he came from. He would've died that night too if I didn't swoop in to the rescue." I fell silent, knowing the story and feeling bad that I had ever questioned Dr. Steve. "And do you know who this guy is?"

"It's me."

"That's right. That sorry dumbass was you," he paused before saying, "And who shaped you up?"

"You," I muttered.

"Who turned you into the best thief known to man?"

"You did."

"And who will kick your ass if your loyalty wavers?"

Before I could answer with a robotic 'you' once again, a voice interrupted our not-so-friendly conversation, "So I see you cleaned that bird shit off of you. And put on clothes. Nice."

I looked up and stared at a certain Cammie. Her big eyes were bright and excited to see me. Not good. "What are you doing here?" I snapped, hoping my behavior will get her to leave. She wasn't safe if Dr. Steve knew who she was.

"I—" she stumbled. "I just wanted to say 'hi'."

"Hi," I answered curtly, pretending not to notice her when the only thing I could notice was her. She wore a white, flowy sundress that came up to her mid-thigh. Four-inch-wedges accentuated her legs and made her taller than the last time I saw her. Her hair was loose and wavy, and she wore the slightest hint of make up.

"Are you waiting for someone?" I turned to look at the speaker, but this time it wasn't Cammie. It was Dr. Steve.

Fuck.

She smoothed her dress, a little uncomfortable under his gaze.

"It's just that you looked a little too dressed up to be sitting by yourself," Dr. Steve continued, revealing that he knew Cammie was here all along.

"Yeah," she answered, slowly gaining more confidence, "I'm waiting for my… my boyfriend." She had a boyfriend? Why was she sitting alone if she had a boyfriend?

"Well maybe you should go back to waiting," I responded, and she flinched at the words.

"Look, man," she began angrily, "I don't know who you think you are, but seeing as I got your ass out of there earlier, I kind of expect you to be a little bit more grateful."

Without thinking about how Dr. Steve would react, I apologized. I fucking apologized. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"He just doesn't want you to talk to me, I think," the boss man spoke for me. "So how do you know my boy, darling?"

Maybe she understood how big of a creep Dr. Steve was because she answered, "I'm just here to make sure—" she trailed off, looking at me for a name.

"Zach," I blurted without thinking. Crap. Dr. Steve was going to give hell to me now.

"I'm just making sure Zach here was ok. That's it. You know, he fell from a balcony. Two floors up." As if you had to remind me.

Dr. Steve smirked. "Zach," it was weird hearing my first name from his lips, "are you ok?"

"I'm great."

Cammie stood there awkwardly, not sure what to say anymore.

"Well, I'm Cammie." Fuck. Out of all the things to say, she shouldn't have said that.

"Hello, Cammie," Dr. Steve smiled slyly. "I'm Dr. Steve. It's quite excellent to meet you."

"Ok, well," she said before scurrying off. "I guess I'll be going now. Bye, Zach. I'm glad you're great."

I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding, but what Dr. Steve said next made me hold it once again. "So that was Cammie."

I nodded, hoping he would forget her.

"Cammie Morgan."

Oh shit. I wasn't sure what Cammie's full name was, but somehow, Dr. Steve knew.

Not good. Doe eyes was fucked.

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So now we meet Cammie and know a little bit more about Zach's past.

Please review. Even if you hate it. Bad news is better than no news?

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