Have you ever had your best friend – or, ex-best friend – try to strangle you? Have you ever felt her soft, but incredibly firm, hands clasp around your cold throat and tighten so you see stars? Have you ever had to try to breathe in mouthfuls of oxygen whilst she screams hysterically at you and her boyfriend tries to drag her off?

No. I don't suppose you have.

By the time Grant pulls Bex away – with a little help from a new friend of mine– I'm on the cold, white floor of one of HQ's several infirmary bedrooms, spluttering and almost unconscious.

Chris – my new friend – leaves Grant to try and calm down Bex, and strides across to me.

"You okay?" he asks, crouching down to my height with that lop-sided grin forming on his handsome face.

Weakly, I nod and prop myself up on my elbows. "I was just sitting by her bed, and then she woke up and launched herself on me."

A shiver runs down my spine when Chris – who I've grown a slight crush on – places one comforting hand on my shoulder and gazes at me with those amazing, dark-blue eyes. And I mean gazes. It's like he's looking into my soul.

"Are you sure you're okay? Need some water?" he questions, frowning slightly.

Again, I nod and give him a small smile. Chris helps me stand up, and I lean against him, still catching my breath.

Before he can drag me out of the antiseptic-smelling room, and away from Bex, I catch a glimpse of her narrowed, brown eyes directed at me, and something in my heart drops. It seems as if she still hates me.

Out in the hall, Chris makes me lean against the wall while he gets me some water. I watch his tall, lean figure disappear around the corner and I break into another smile for reasons I don't quite know.

Later, when things have settled down a little bit, Grant and I slouch onto the couches in the recreational room. It's a place where the Cincta people can relax once they've finished working. The room has a flat-screen TV on one wall, which surrounded by couches; there are games in another corner, with a large pool table in the middle, and a stereo in the other corner.

"I knew you shouldn't have got me to meet you at that safe-house," I tell Grant, massaging my throat.

He laughs and rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Now we can tell the others that you're not rotting under the ground."

Shocked – and with a horrible picture of myself dead, with bugs crawling out my eyes, in my mind – I slap Grant's arm and reply, "Thanks for the mental picture, dimwit. And there's no way we're telling anyone else."

"Why not? I never pinned you as a coward."

"I'm not! You try facing your friends again when they all hate you, and then find out that you faked your own death!"

Uneasily, Grant looks down at his fingers. "Why have you replaced Zach?"

I gape at him in that attractive goldfish way that I have, and am cut off from replying by someone joining us in the other-wise empty rec room.

"Hey guys," says Sandy, "Bex is on the phone, and Lerner wants you two to meet with him and Ann in Room 225, stat."

With that, Sandy disappears back out the door, leaving Grant and I to stare at each other.

"Why does Bex need to use the phone?"

Room 225 is like your typical meeting room, with a huge, elliptical, wooden table in the centre and plush, red chairs surrounding it. There's a projection screen set up at one end, while about half the chairs are filled.

Lerner, being the leader and all, is standing beside the projection screen, looking as buff and scarred as ever in a blue t-shirt. To me, he seems incredibly relaxed, considering the enormity of the situation.

"Ever been to Hawaii, Morgan?" he asks, not wasting any time with 'Hello's or other formalities.

When I shake my head, he cracks a grin and tells me, "Well, pack your bags. You're going with Lancaster and Newman in forty-six hours. I'll hand you over to Ann to tell you all the details."

Ah, Ann… possibly my least favourite person in the Cincta. Before you get any ideas, yes, she is a 'goodie.' She's just a very straightforward, single, middle-aged lady who isn't afraid to tell you if you've got some cabbage between your teeth. In fact, she'd probably take a picture of you first, so that she'd have something to blackmail you with later on. Some would even dare call her bitter.

"Sit down, Morgan. You too, Perms, and Gorilla."

Yeah, she insists on calling Chris 'Perms' because his blonde hair is curly. Actually, it's a toss up between that and 'Lanky.' You see, Chris's last name is Lancaster, and, due to his, well, lankiness, she forced such a nickname upon him. As to Grant's, well… Ann seems to think Grant doesn't have a brain. Which, let me tell you, he does. Grant's one of those people – like Zach, I suppose – who uses their intelligence to make sure no one ever knows how smart they really are.

It's quite clever, really. Having that surprise you can fling on someone anytime is actually a good thing in the spy world.

"Now," barks Ann, pacing in front of the twenty, or so, people in front of her, "I've got a list here of all the people going to… Hawaii. Personally, I don't know why anyone would go there. It's a place filled with ninnies in skirts. You actually have to look closely to see if they're a transvestite or not."

Lerner claps Ann on the back, and she frowns up at him, down her abnormally large nose.

With a slight laugh, Lerner says, "Now, now, Ann… that is an incredibly false stereotype."

Before they can start fighting, I stand up. "Uh, can we get back to the mission?"

After clearing his throat, Lerner replies, "Right, yes, let's get to work. Read out the list, Ann."

"Perms, Gorilla, Thai Girl, Peter Pan, Marc, Jazz Hands, and Camera."

Slumping my head onto my arms, I let out a sigh of frustration. I can only pray that Ann isn't coming with us to Hawaii. "Hello? Is this the Circle of Cavan's head office? Yes, it's Cameron Morgan calling just to tell you that you really needn't bother coming after and torturing me. We have Ann Cagna on the case, already."

As it turns out, my prayers weren't answered, because, somehow, I end up sitting next to Ann on the private jet. The only up-side is that Chris is on my other side, and I can almost block out Ann's monotonous voice, telling me how crabby my name is, and how I should start doing more sit-ups, seeing as I've got 'belly rolls.'

As to why we're off to Hawaii… well, apparently there's a contact there that has a whole lot of information for us as to where these nuclear bombs are located.

Right in the middle of a conversation between Chris and me about our families – in which I learnt that his mother's uncle was a Dutch spy – Ann leans across me, and says drily, "I hope you bought your home-perm kit, Perms. It looks like we'll be away for a while." She lets out a humourless laugh, and then acts like she just remembered something. "You know what, Perms, Camera? I think there's a place in Russia named 'Perm.'"

Chris squeezes his eyes shut and exhales sharply. "Shut up, Ann."

When Ann finally leans back in her seat, laughing to herself, I take Chris's hand and give it a gentle squeeze. He opens his eyes and looks at me, a small smile on his face.

"Hey, she's just old and bitter, Chris, ignore her."

Apparently Ann, using her bat-hearing, knows what I said, and replies, "Twenty-eight is not old. Not like those shoes you're wearing, Camera. Elizabeth the First called and she said she wants them back."

Let me just say, it's a long, long flight.

I have no idea why, but Lerner decided it was best if we brought Bex with us, so she's stashed at the back of the plane with Grant, who seemed apprehensive about the whole arrangement when I saw him boarding earlier.

Sitting next to Chris is like sitting next to an encyclopaedia - in a good way, though. I don't know how he fits so much information in his head. I even forget about how uncomfortable the blue plane-seats are as I listen to him telling me all these amazing facts about the French Revolution.

When Ian – or, Jazz Hands as Ann calls him, because of his 'large' hands – comes along the aisle and tells everyone that we'll be landing soon, I know I won't have been able to take much more, anyway. Ann is just telling me about how she single-handedly won World War Two.

I mean, she wasn't even alive then. Unless she's a reincarnation of Hitler, or something, which I totally wouldn't put past her.

After we land at Honolulu International Airport, we're picked up by a inconspicuous, grey car, driven by a young woman, and taken to Luxe Beach Resort – an utterly over-the-top place, complete with three swimming pools and four restaurants (though I get the feeling we won't be using them much) – Lerner gives us our room numbers, and assigned roommates.

To my absolute relief, I'm not paired with Ann; instead, I'm introduced properly to the gorgeous, Thai beauty, Areva.

Although she has a slight lisp, Areva still seems to be able to enchant anyone with her voice.

We end up having an intense pillow-fight; both admitting it's a draw once the contest reaches the balcony. She's just ordering us both a freshly-squeezed juice via the phone when the doorbell to our room rings.

I raise my eyebrows at her and remark, "Well, that was quick."

I walk over to the door, straightening out my crumpled, deep-purple blouse. With a smile on my face, I open the door, expecting an obedient staff member carrying a tray of heavenly beverages, and, instead, come face-to-face with Ann.

"Oh, God…" I mutter.

"Who is it?" asks Areva, who's straightening the things we knocked around during our pillow-fight.

Ann pushes past me and walks into the room. She eyes Areva with distaste before saying, "I'd suggest you get up, Thai Girl. Camera and you are needed on the mission. They're leaving in ten. Meet in the car park wearing dark clothing, and weapons."

Areva rolls her eyes at me as if to say, well, duh!

I bite back my grin and shake my head at Ann. Has she ever said anything nice in her life?

Ann strides back over to the door, but she's not quite done with us.

"Oh, and Camera, I'd suggest leaving that blouse behind. It looks like Barney was sick over you. It's just disgusting."

With her last remark, she slams the door behind her, leaving Areva and I to frown at each other, wanting to rip out her throat.

With the steady rumbling and bumping of the black van, Areva's humming, and the gentle chatter of the four others accompanying us on our mission, I fall into a daze – somewhere between awake and asleep.

By the time the van comes to a halt, and Grant shakes me back into consciousness, I'm ready curl up into a ball and leave saving the world to everyone else.

"Cam, get up. We need to get going," Grant insists, dragging me upright by my forearm.

Only when Chris comes along to help, do I carry my own weight and throw a small backpack over my shoulder.

The six of us trudge through the humid rain, and mud, towards an almost-invisible hut in the distance, hidden by dense foliage. I assume that's where our contact is residing.

"What's his name?" I ask Chris, as he helps me climb over some slippery rocks.

Chris shakes his hair – which is plastered to his head – out of his eyes and replies, "We call her Alexandria. We're pretty sure that isn't her name, but she's good at hiding things."

"How is she reliable, then? She could be feeding you false information; we could be walking into a trap!"

"Hey, hey, calm down, she's given us correct information for years. She needs to be secretive to stay alive."

And there's that lop-sided grin again. I'm so distracted by it that I don't see the huge puddle of mud in front of me, and my leg sinks halfway up my calf into it.

"Ugh," I say, pulling it out with a loud 'Schluurp.'

As Chris and Grant laugh at me, Areva comes over to my side and squeezes my shoulder. "Hey, it could've been your face."

I crack a smile, and we continue trekking along the sodden ground, while the rain continues to pour on us. When we reach the hut, something definitely seems wrong. There aren't any lights on, and everything is just too still.

"Wait here," orders Grant, pulling out his weapon.

I scoff and hiss back, "No way, you sexist pig. We're just as capable."

Grant shrugs and follows me inside, creeping slowly, our spy senses super alert. Every single noise is assessed. Every single item out of place is weighed up. I hear Areva call from another room, and rush quietly to her side.

Her gun is dangling limply by her side and she's staring down at the twisted body of – who I guess to be – Alexandria. Apparently someone got here before us and put a bullet through her brain.

"Let's get out of here," Grant orders sharply, not bothering to keep his voice down.

And this time I have no objection. But before we can evacuate the place, I notice Areva's no longer behind me.

"Wait!" I hiss at the guys, but I don't think they hear me, so I turn back, alone.

I don't even dare to breathe as I tip-toe back the way we came. I finally reach the room where Alexandria lies, dead, when something cold and metallic is pressed against my back.

"Don't say a word," a menacing voice sneers in my ear.

But he's made the catastrophic mistake of pressing his weight on the gun which is directed at my back. It means he no longer has as much control over his actions. Before he can pull back, I whip around and smack the gun out of his hands, sending it clattering away into a dark corner.

I can only hope the noise alerts the others.

I slam my fist into the man's stomach, causing him to careen backwards, his breath leaving him with a satisfying whoosh. But he recovers quickly, and advances towards me, his lethal hands held up in defence.

Whipping out a leg to try and knock his feet from underneath him, I grab onto a heavy vase which is sitting on a nearby dresser. When he finally regains his stance, I fling the extremely heavy thing at his head. He only just ducks in time; the vase smashes at a spot on the wall where his head just was.

My wounded arm throbbing, I parry punch after punch, begging in my mind for the others to help me. I barely have time to worry about where Areva is.

When I land a fierce blow to the attacker's neck and he stumbles backwards, cursing violently, I spot a piece of crumpled paper on the floor and – out of pure impulse – I pick it up and shove it in my pocket.

The man, who seems to be able to repair himself like a robot, advances towards me again with a distorted look on his face. He grabs me by my shirt and slams me against the wall, so, in response, I slam my heels into his stomach.

Thankfully, the others seem to have realised I'm not longer with them, and they come thundering back for me. Chris slaps a napotine patch on my attacker's forehead, and he slumps unconscious in a matter of seconds.

"Come on, we really need to get out of here," Chris tells me, taking up my hand and dragging me forward.

"Wait!" I cry. "Where's Areva?"

"She's waiting outside with our ride."

I feel incredibly stupid. I almost got beaten up for nothing.

We clamber into the van quickly, and the door is barely even slid shut before Areva floors the accelerator and we speed off through the humid, dark, rainy night.

So, there you go. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I hope you like Ann. Or hate her. Either way.

Got any thoughts? Of course you do, you great overgrown ape. Review them to me.

Thank you all most dearly. I was so happy - and in the mood for writing - that I just had to update. This chapter is definitely longer than the last. So, tell me, do you prefer long or medium-sized chapters? Longer ones take longer (obviously), and shorter ones would be updated more frequently.

You'd make my day if you reviewed. Reading a long review [good or bad] is, like, better than ice-cream and cool drink mixed together. I think that's called a spider. Why? I have no idea. Ask whoever invented them.

~Jen

PS How do any of you beta? Do you use DocX or do you do it via e-mail? Or even PM?