So, this chapter is dedicated to Kristen dnt wear it out whose birthday was yesterday. And she wanted me to update. So here ya are. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, too. :]
Oh, and to all my old reviewers, the ones who've been with me right from the start.
Okayy, a little WARNING. This chapter gets a bit... intense at the end. No, not sexually, you hormonal apes. But more...violently.
After all, aren't depressing stories Jenna's forte?
OH and another dedication. To Prince Willy and Kate Middleton (future freakin' Queen!). Congratsss. Well, I was mad at first that she had taken him - I've always admired his hair, and gorgeous smile... Oh well, there's always good ol' Harry. Err...
Anyway, I'll leave you alone now.
"Damn…thing…" mutters Chris, fiddling around with our comms units, which have now been downgraded to being completely and utterly useless.
I can't help but think of how if Liz was here, she would have it fixed faster than you can say genius.
With a loud sigh, I lean back against the train's seat and close my eyes. The way the train rattles and bumps lulls me into a much welcomed rest. Exhaustion is one thing that's become a regular thing in my life; it's with me nearly every day.
When Chris gives up and throws the comms units aside, he doesn't appear to be fazed.
"What stop are we getting off at?" I ask blearily.
His dark blue eyes slide away from the window and come to a halt on my own. "The Paveletsky Rail Terminal. It's not the closest to Druzhby Street, which is where we're headed, but that gives us time to shake any tails we may possibly have. We'll take the long route."
Not in the mood to talk, I simply shrug and close my eyes again. But it seems as if someone upstairs is against me because just as I'm about to drift off, the train shudders to a halt into an underground station, plunging us into very little light, and causing me to jerk upright.
Our carriage, which was completely empty before – except us, obviously, floods with all different shapes and sizes of people. Chris and I quickly slip into the roles of lost tourists, conversing in loud, obnoxious Canadian accents and pointing obscurely at maps.
An athletic-looking lady, wearing a grey tracksuit, slides onto the seat next to me. She gives me a brief smile before pulling out a music player and unraveling its earphones, which she then slips into her ears a little too loosely for my liking, not to mention she doesn't even start listening to music.
I note that, weirdly, she's wearing an expensive watch, engraved with some strange code that definitely isn't in any language that I know, which is a lot considering out of the 273 languages spoken worldwide I know 268. As an added plus, most people take off their jewelry before they go out jogging.
The train doors finally clank shut a minute and ten seconds later, accompanied by a dull buzzing sound. When the carriage starts to rumble along again, I suddenly realize that Chris has linked his ankle around my own.
I try to catch his eye, but he's too busy gazing at the dense, snow-covered buildings whizzing past the window.
The muffled buzz of the passengers' chatter in the background, I retreat back into my own mind and make a mental note to kill – or severely harm – Bex when I next see her. I should have known she was up to something; it's just so stereotypical of her; very Bex-like in nature.
I decide I need to speak to her ASAP, so I subtly pick up one of the broken comms units under the pretence of looking underneath the various maps which are scattered on the seat next to Chris.
Scratching my ear, I slip the tiny communication device in and turn it on. A loud screech which emanates from that very same device almost makes me jump. I'm not sure whether the lady next to me hears it or if she accidentally rushed the volume of her music too loud, because she jumped at something as well. The unusual thing is, I didn't hear any music out of my left ear.
That's when it hits me: we need to get away.
I nudge Chris's leg in one subtle motion, getting his attention, and mouth, "Get out at next stop."
Almost imperceptibly, he looks up at the ceiling for a moment, and then back at the tips of his feet to show he understands.
Six very intense minutes later, the next station – our station – comes into sight so Chris and I stand upright, hanging onto the handrails above our heads. He eyes every single person in the carriage carefully, checking for any sign of anyone following us.
The moment the doors slide open, we stride off the train, keeping our heads down so we blend with the hundreds of others bustling about the station.
"This way," Chris tells me, gesturing to a set of stairs.
All the way up, I count the steps as if at any moment Mr. Solomon – my step-father – is going to appear and quiz me on it all.
One hundred and sixty-eight…one hundred and sixty-nine…one hundred and seventy…
Chris reaches for my hand as we ascend onto the ice-covered street and I let him take it for fear of slipping and breaking my neck. Of course, I'm a very coordinated person – not to sound snobbish, or anything – but with the gusts of freezing wind along with the melted, slushy snow, I wouldn't put it past anyone to slip.
The two of us carefully make our way down the street as fast as we possibly can.
"Chris, do you ever get tired?" I ask, my eyelids drooping. He laughs.
"I do," he says slowly, "but when there's something as big as what we're dealing with, I try to suck it up."
Immediately, I feel myself become more alert. Is he suggesting that I'm whining? That I should 'suck it up'? My cheeks flush red – and it's got nothing to do with the cold.
"Are you trying to insinuate that I'm a whiner?"
He doesn't reply.
"You are, aren't you?" I stopped to put my hands on my hips, showing how ticked off I was at him right now. Let's just say stopping wasn't on Chris's agenda right now, but my pride and my expertise were both being challenged at the moment, and being the woman-spy I was, I was taken aback at his audacity of insinuating such a terrible thing.
I receive no reply. Instead, Chris decides to scratch his chin and change the subject. "Let's take the next left."
Oh, prepare yourself, Chris Lancaster; feel the wrath of the scorned Cameron Morgan: wanted spy, kick-butt poker player, and very bad singer. I don't know about normal females, but when I decide to give someone the cold shoulder, I'm icy. I don't crack under anything. So, I straighten up and act as if it doesn't bother me as much as it really does. I decide to "suck it up" and deal with it later when I have him in a secluded area with no witnesses.
Around the corner, the scenery doesn't change much. There still are tall, modern-looking buildings, frozen sidewalks, and the occasional rugged-up pedestrian rushing as fast as they can so as to get out of the cold.
Chris, being a member of the male population, refuses to take directions from anyone, and definitely doesn't listen to me, even though my internal map is pretty good. Instead, we stop in a small, cozy café and sip deliciously-hot drinks while he tries to make sense of the annoyingly-large map.
I glance around the room as a shiver runs down my spine. I get the feeling that something's not right. Being a spy I am exceptionally worried because usually when you have a bad feeling, you need to act upon it. But upon a swift yet thorough, scan of the place, I see no one too suspicious. Well, maybe that man in the corner with the 'stache that Ann would have a heart attack just seeing – but all he is doing, as far as I can see, is trying to chat up the disgruntled lady with the receding hairline who sits beside him.
The dim light doesn't help much with my drowsiness, but I fight against it and keep all my senses on high alert. Any spy knows that they always have to be on their game, unless, of course, they wish to die a very painful death.
The life of a spy is just charming, isn't it?
"Look, swallow your stupid pride, already," I snap, after finishing my fourth hot chocolate. "You aren't magically going to grow girly parts if you ask for directions."
"If this is about before, Cameron," says Chris, not looking up from his tracing, "drop it already. We need to go."
Rolling my eyes, I throw the little money I can find in the backpack onto the deeply scratched table and stand up quickly. Bright lights burst in front of my eyes and I sway a little before I can regain my balance. "Hurry up, then."
From out the corner of my eye, I notice the lady with the balding head's eyes snap briefly towards us. But as soon as she glances over, she turns away again. It's a dead giveaway any amateur can make. She might as well be wearing a luminescent vest and be holding a sign saying: 'Don't mind me; I'm just part of an evil organization who would love to have your head served up on a plate, I'm not looking at you or anything.'
"We really need to go," I reiterate with frustration. "Seriously, hurry up."
Noticing the somewhat subtle urgency in my tone, Chris gathers all the papers up and shoves them haphazardly into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. I can tell he's also scanning the room for the danger I've spotted.
With every moment he's wasting I'm sure our tail has come to some conclusions, so I start yelling at him in a frilly and flirty French accent and pull him by the collar out of the door. Clearly the amateur knows that we know that she knows us (how's that for confusing?) so she follows closely as we, yet again, weave our way strategically down the street.
"How do we lose her?" Chris mutters to himself, more than anyone else.
"Through the beauty and complexity of public transport," I reply with a little grin.
It's like being back at the Gallagher Academy in CoveOps with Mr. Solomon. I can almost imagine his steady, deep voice in my ear giving the whole class advice, but it feeling like he was directly there, mentoring only me. I imagine Bex and Macey with me, the three of us having a great time while also completing the set mission with precision and ease.
Except it's none of that. We're really running from some psycho woman, who has somehow tracked me down. And where there's one organization, there are bound to be more.
Every single person we pass is a potential threat; every bus driver; every lady with a pram; every sullen-looking teenager. The only one I know for sure is after me is the one from the coffee shop. Although she's changed her dark coat to a plain, white one, it doesn't fool either me or Chris.
She's four seats behind us on the sweltering bus, and once again she's a good forty yards behind us as we hail a taxi. It feels as if she's everywhere, and if she's as good of a spy as she was trained, she probably is.
In the comfort of the taxi I still don't feel safe. Chris, sensing my discomfort, slings an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently, his other hand playing with my – literally – dirty blonde hair.
But it doesn't comfort me much. In fact, the gesture feels kind of empty.
"Have we lost her?" I ask quietly, purely for reasons of breaking the silence.
He shoots a glance out the rear window. "Not quite; that's her in that car over there."
I sigh and slump dejectedly into the seat as Chris directs the young female taxi driver where to go. When she has to stop the car due to a crash on the treacherous road up ahead, we decide to get out and walk.
The tail doesn't notice as we creep out the doors of the taxi and scurry off.
Getting to the hotel doesn't take long once we realize we're tail-free. Of course, we still use all the counter-surveillance measures we know to deter anyone else. But I'm sure that my mind has focused more on getting a full two hours of sleep rather than detecting if there's a hidden camera on the side of the building we have just come across.
The area outside the hotel is just a reflection of the hotel; the trash bins are bursting with moldy food and other unidentifiable substances I'm sure Liz would classify as poisonous or disease-ridden. The frozen, brown grass is overgrown and a dead rat is slowly being overrun with pesky ants and the like near the curb of the road. There are even large crates of unsafe-looking fireworks pushed right up against the building. I repress a shudder and turn my focus to the building itself. It's hardly any better with broken windows with the words "I love Becky" etched into them. Other windows are taped up with yellow newspaper, rotting wood, and cobwebs with overgrown spiders crawling within them everywhere.
"Oh damn…" I mutter, but don't say anything about the obviously horrific accommodation.
Was Lerner drunk when he picked this place?
"Let's go in." It's good to be in control, instead of Chris acting like just because I'm a girl I can't do things. If there's one thing I despise a lot it's a sexist pig of a man.
He follows me down the cracked, make-shift path and through the front door, which I think is meant to automatically open, but takes several fierce tugs from me to let us inside and away from the freezing cold.
I walk briskly up to a short man who's rearranging some brochures he's clearly just spilt coffee on. "Hello? We're here to meet someone…we were wondering if they're here yet?"
He doesn't even acknowledge my presence, and instead keeps shuffling the rectangles of yellowed paper around. Through the harsh light of the bare light-bulb on the ceiling, I can see he's got a long goatee and his long hair is tied back in a pony tail. He looks troubled by something, so I wonder if he didn't hear me the first time.
"Um." I glance at Chris who shrugs. "Excuse me? Can you show us to a room?"
It takes four more times for him to look up and flinch. "Oh, dear, hello there! You should have just asked straight away!" he shouts.
I take it that he's deaf.
While Chris and the short man search for the keys to room 508, I take a look at the man's bookcase, which stands left of the rickety-looking stairs. You might not think it, but you can find out a lot about someone just by looking at their bookcase: religion, views, interests, dreams – anything.
You see, the more obviously loved books (the ones with wrinkled spines and worn-out pages) are the ones the owner reads the most, therefore, it's obvious that book is liked more, or older – while the ones that are clearly newer and less-read aren't.
"Come on." I don't realize Chris is talking to me until he touches my arm gently. "Let's get upstairs."
The short man coughs, and I can tell he takes Chris's words in the completely wrong sense – like really wrong.
I'm about to correct him, but Chris drags me up the stairs before I can say anything.
He jiggles the lock of room 508 and shoves me in first, checking the musty corridor as he closes the door. Once we're both safely inside, I close the green, dusty curtains and switch on the dim light. The place is only two rooms (the living area and the bathroom), but we don't need anything more – after all, Chris and I probably won't be staying more than five hours.
"I'm going to take a shower," he tells me, heading towards the paint-chipped door.
I nod distractedly and collapse onto the disgusting couch, rubbing my tired eyes and yawning. Listening as a water system squeaks somewhere because the shower turns on; I heave myself up from the couch and slouch towards the backpack.
Still yawning, I search through it and pull out a photo from the very bottom that I'm not too sure Chris knows about. A tear rolls down my cheek as my father's young, yet strong, face stares back at me – a moment so long ago which has been frozen in time.
He reminds me of myself – the bone structure, the blue eyes – but there's also something else in his expression; something more jaded, like he's been through a lot more than me.
But then I think about it and realize that he must have been around my age when the photo was taken and also that I haven't really looked ay myself properly in a mirror lately. Perhaps I do have that expression too but I just haven't noticed it.
A noise startles me into dropping the photo back into the bag and wiping the cool tears from my skin.
"That was qu—," I start but then notice that the water is still running.
I whip around and come face to face with the leering woman from the train and the coffee shop.
Now, don't get me wrong, my reflexes are super developed but hers seem to be quicker. Well, that and the fact that she's got a taser gun.
In a dazed, pain-filled state, I try to remain alert but my eyes continue to droop against my will. The woman has bound my hands and my ankles are locked closely together, but enough that I can still semi-walk.
"Hurry up," she snarls, yanking my arm behind her.
I try to yell at her but all that comes out are unrecognizable words, slurred together with pain.
Her frizzy brown hair fills my vision as she shoves me in front of her. She presses the cold blade of a knife against my back and hisses, "Move it or we'll go get your husband, too."
Husband? I'm completely confused. Since when was I married?
Outside the room, I know the woman is going to have to be careful. She can't possibly risk a civilian seeing the two of us, so she's going to have to move quickly, which is good news for me. Even in my disorientated state, I remember Mr. Solomon's lesson on escaping sticky situations…
"Make them feel as if they're in a rush; pressure them," he had said. "If they're stressed or hurried, they're far more likely to make mistakes. And ladies, mistakes, especially those of others, are an opportune time to correct the situation."
"You know…" I mumble, wobbling a little down the many, many stairs, "people are gonna…they're gonna come soon…rescue me…Chris…"
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she slightly believes me.
"You're gonna have to…to hurry if you want to get…me out of here." My voice is a little stronger now, so I take advantage of it. "I can tell you…you're a rookie. You made loads of mistakes tailing us…you're not that great. But maybe…maybe if you hurry, then no one will see us…"
The frizzy-haired lady – or Frizzy, as I shorten it to in my mind – tightens her grip on my arm and picks up the pace, taking two steps at a time; I've definitely got her worried.
"Shut up," she snaps angrily, but she nervously looks around as if Chris may pop out at any given moment.
But I'm not so good at following orders. All the way down the flights of stairs, I talk her into going faster and faster, until she's practically running. Once we're on the bitumen of the stingy car park outside, Frizzy slows a little to a power-walk, but that doesn't stop her from tripping over.
As she's holding onto me, I'm pulled down as well but I, at least, am expecting it, and return to my feet merely seconds later. Frizzy groans and also jumps to her feet. But she's too late; I'm already hobbling off, untying my wrists.
"Stop right there!" she screams from behind me.
I'd know that dangerous tone of voice anywhere; it's one of power. I turn slowly, both hands raised. And, not much to my surprise, she's got a gun. Only, it's not a regular gun – it's one filled with tranquilizing darts, like the ones they use to knock out big beasts in Africa.
Without question no one my size would survive a dart with that much intensity and pain-killers within it.
"Okay, okay," I yell right back at Frizzy, unnoticeably edging backwards as I speak.
"Stop moving!" She trembles with rage. "I'll shoot! Come over here or I'll shoot!"
A small smirk forms on my face. "Oh, no thanks, I'm good over here." She hasn't noticed yet, and I'm not about to alert her.
"Stop smirking!"
"Stop this, stop that," I laugh. "You can't control me, and you won't hurt me."
"How can you be so sure, stupid girl?"
A loud bang echoes through the area, scaring off some dark birds in a nearby tree. A deep look of surprise and pain crosses Frizzy's face as she falls forward onto her hands and begins to cough up blood. I give the tall figure behind her an appreciative look before striding up to Frizzy and standing over her.
I point to myself and say, "Spy."
Chris comes over and kneels down beside Frizzy. He's a compassionate person, so it's kind of inevitable that he presses down on her wound, trying to staunch the flow of dark blood.
It's a shame that Frizzy doesn't appreciate this. She grabs his gun which resides in his brown jacket's pocket and aims it at me. Thankfully, Chris is thinking quickly and launches for her arm just as she pulls the trigger.
Remember those boxes of fireworks are stacked in front of the hotel? Well, the bullet misses me and whizzes through the air, hitting them.
It's a chain reaction which takes less than ten seconds. The fireworks have nowhere to go, so they explode outwards in all directions – including ours.
Chris pulls me out of harm's way, ignoring Frizzy's cries for help.
We watch from a safe distance as the hotel goes up in flames, emitting a fierce heat which is almost welcome as it dulls the freezing air slightly.
As I'm wondering about whether or not to go back into the building to see if we can help anyone, a car screeches to a halt on the curb and four people jump out, all with shocked expressions on their faces.
My mouth drops open, but I quickly close it and slink back into the shadow of another building with Chris. We both watch as two of the four figures approach Frizzy's body and examine it, while another one – Jonas, I think it is – whips out a cell phone and dials a number.
The remaining petite and shaking blonde stands stock still, gazing at the burning hotel. Maybe Liz thinks that I'm still in there?
Distantly, I hear some of their conversations.
"…who's the girl?" Zach asks Bex, not looking at her but rather up at the building, like Liz is.
"...not sure…a contact…call HQ…" my old British roommate replies.
"Can we go in?" Jonas joins in, closing his cell phone and slipping it inside his bulky jacket. "…the building, I mean…"
I see Zach swallow and slowly shake his head. "Not yet…"
"What if Cam's in there?" cries Liz, confirming my suspicion.
Again, Zach shakes his head. "…hope not…"
Chris interrupts me from my eavesdropping by stroking my hair and whispering, "We've really got to get moving."
I glance back at my friends and my heart twinges at the thought of being so close and having to leave, again. "Can't we go talk to them?" I ask, dismayed.
He sighs. "Cameron, you're going to realize one day that spies don't have friends. For all we know, they could be on the other side."
I step away from him, angry that he would suggest that I won't remain friends with all of them. "How dare you?" My voice is hard. "How dare you suggest they're against us? I know they're not – isn't that enough?"
But his expression says it all; he doesn't think it is. He has a pompous look upon his face, as if he knows he's right and I won't ever be, no matter how much I try to convince him.
Not caring about sticking together, I back away from him, shaking my head. "Get out of my sight." And then I run.
Unfortunately, Frizzy must have called for backup because I see a stereotypical van speeding towards me. Begin to run in the opposite direction, with Chris calling out behind me, I know I'm not as fast as a car.
Someone else's screaming reaches my ears. It's more feminine and distressed and…Liz-like. But I don't have time to investigate because a bulky woman launches herself out of the van, straight at me. We crash to the ground, throwing punches.
I elude all her punches, just as she blocks all my kicks; we're too evenly matched. More of Liz's screams distract me, allowing Bulky to drag me by my hair into the van, sending painful pangs through my ankle as it got caught on the door.
"Cammie!" cries Liz as she runs as fast as she can towards me. I try to tell her to run away, but all noise is lost in the deep grumble of the van's engine.
Bulky launches from the van again, dodging my attempts at stopping her, and captures Liz in her muscled arms. Liz struggles with all her might, and even bites Bulky, but soon she ends up lying on the cold floor of the van right next to me with a small tranquilizer dart right in the shoulder. I know she's knocked out cold, and will be until they find something to do with her.
Bulky calls to whoever the driver is, as she slams the door, "Let's go!"
"No, no, no, no!" I cry as Liz and I are dragged out of the white cell we've been held captive in for hours in separate directions. "Take me again instead!"
But whoever is holding me just chuckles humorlessly. "Darl, you were so uncooperative last time that we're going to try our luck on the little one. But, don't worry, you can come and watch." I see that he has no mercy for me or my best friend. He has been trained to feel no pain, feel no compassion, and not to let me get the upper hand in any situation.
I'm shaking with pure rage as my captor and I enter a small, dark room, with a window which looks into another, brighter room on the opposite wall. My captor shoves me away and locks the door before standing in front of it.
I ignore them completely and rush over to the window, recognizing it as where they took me the moment we have returned from the burning hotel. The bruises which are scattered all over my body throb painfully.
Pressing my hands up against the cool glass, I watch in horror as Liz and a lady in tight, black pants enter the bright room on the opposite side. Liz looks absolutely terrified but also defiant.
That's my girl.
"Now," I can hear the lady who inflicted so much pain on me earlier extremely clearly even through the thick glass. "We're going to do this the hard way, as I assume you are as resilient as your friend."
Liz just stares at her in disgust, her hands clenched at her sides.
"What do you know?"
"I know a lot," Liz replies, her chin held high in confidence that only Liz the smartest girl to enter Gallagher gates could have..
The lady scoffs. "What do you know about a master plan to blow up the world and cause havoc?" She starts to circle Liz as if the small blonde were her prey.
"Sorry," Liz snarls, "I have no idea what you're going on aimlessly about."
"That's my Liz," I think to myself.
The lady approaches Liz slowly. "Don't lie to me, Elizabeth Sutton."
"If the use of my full name is mean to initiate fear in the very soul of me, I regret to inform you that it has completely and utterly failed."
I'm beginning to think Liz is way more badass than anyone ever gave her credit for.
The sound of a loud slap causes me to flinch internally, feeling Liz's pain.
"I thought it was only schoolgirls who slapped these days."
Although Lizzie never took Advance CoveOps, she somehow seemed to know the 'Aggravate Your Attacker: A Guide to Never Giving Up' handbook from cover-to-cover. Mind you, she probably read the whole entire library twice over before we even graduated.
"What about Cameron Morgan? How much do you know of her father?" the lady demands.
"I know that her father was one heck of a good spy. Way better than you'll ever be."
I see the lady swing her arm back and connect her fist with Liz's small stomach. "Answer the question!"
"No."
"Fine. Shall we go and find your fiancé and ask his opinion?"
Don't fall for it, Lizzie, I think desperately, as if trying to communicate with her using my mind. Don't fall for it.
"Yeah, right, so now using other people is supposed to be intimidating?" Liz shakes her head sarcastically and wags a finger in the lady's direction and continues, "That's the oldest one in the book, and I would know because I've read it three times and written a 175 page report on it in ninth grade. Mind you I got an A+ on it as well!" I love how Liz is being complete opposite from what we see as the perfect schoolgirl, now she has a bad side, and it's playing to her benefit.
"So are you ready to answer my earlier question?" The lady presses, obviously frustrated from Liz's rude behavior.
"You'll have to refresh my memory bank." Liz replies with a raised eyebrow and fingers on her chin as if she were thinking.
"What do you know of the plan to bomb the world?" growls the woman, visibly growing angry.
My fingers tighten against the glass, growing steadily whiter and whiter. I just want to get Liz out of there and away from the menacing devil-woman.
"Nothing."
The woman swoops forward and grabs Liz's hand, pressing her against the wall, their faces inches apart. "Tell me!"
"I said nothing."
Spine-chilling snap of a bone in Liz's finger causes tears to well up in my eyes. "Liz, hold on," I whisper.
Liz's pale face contorts with pain, but she bites her lip so that no noise comes out. Because every spy knows that noise equals to showing weakness to the torturer. She squeezes her eyes shut briefly before flinging them open and glaring at the woman.
"Ready to tell me now?" the woman sneers, an evil smirk on her face.
"It's been statistically proven that—"
"SHUT UP!" Liz just stares resiliently at the woman, not giving an inch even as she pushes Liz harder against the wall and hisses, "I can cause you so much pain. You better start talking about all you know or else you'll be screaming for your stupid friends to come and help you. You'll be begging me for death. But you can whine and scream and beg for death, and you still know I won't give you such a privilege. You will suffer until you tell us, so why not just tell us now?"
I stand, pressed up against the window, for ages, but Liz doesn't crack even if many of her bones do.
By the time a knock on the bolted, steel door comes, I'm ready to rip the woman apart, limb from limb – and I would if it weren't for the thick, impassable glass cemented in my way.
Through it, I see another female enter the white room and walk up to Liz's friend.
"Time to swap," she says, jerking her thumb at the door.
The woman nods. "Thanks Luda, I'll be back later for what's left of the little one," she says menacingly, narrowing her eyes at Liz, who's crouched against the wall, holding her broken arm against her chest and breathing raggedly.
When Luda and Liz are alone again, she squats in front of Liz and says in a dangerously soft voice, "I don't care how hard Henna has tried to get vital information out of you; I am going to try twice as hard. You will tell me, make no mistake. And don't you dare try and pull your back-chatting crap on me, understood?"
Liz just glares at Luda from underneath her tired eyelids, until she flinches as a strong palm connects with her cheek. "I said: am I understood?"
Nodding slowly, Liz blinks and a small, clear tear dribbles down her cheek.
"Get up," Luda says as she ties her dark, sleek hair up into a ponytail. "Get UP!"
Judging by Liz's slow movements, she's in a lot of pain – and I don't blame her. I'm still sore from my own 'interrogation'.
"Well." Luda sneers at Liz and flexes her abnormally long fingers. "Let the fun begin."
"I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" cries Liz as she cowers away from Luda, who's clearly enjoying herself.
"Stop lying to me!"
I wince as yet another harsh slap echoes throughout the room; it's like there are speakers amplifying all the pain which is inflicted upon Liz.
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" sobs Liz. "You've got the wrong people!"
Luda reaches forward and kicks Liz behind her knee, making her crumple to the ground. "NO, we don't! Shall we go and find some more of your friends? How about I get dear Cameron in here, too, hmm?"
Throwing my fists against the glass with all my might, I cry, "Yes, YES! Take me instead! Leave Liz ALONE!" but neither of them hear me, no matter how much I want either of them to.
From somewhere, Luda produces a long, thin knife which glints eerily in the harsh light. Pressing it up against Liz's forearm, she shouts, "WHAT ARE THE CODES TO ACTIVATE THE BOMBS? TELL ME RIGHT NOW, YOU LITTLE WITCH, OR I'LL DO IT!"
But Liz just cries harder and squirms in Luda's vulture-like grip. She can't escape her, though, and lets out a dreadful scream when Luda drags down the knife in one swift movement. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as Liz's screams rip through my body like it's my own pain.
I'll do anything to get my poor friend out of that room and away from that…that monster.
I don't fully noticed the hot tears pouring from my eyes as my screams or anger mix with Liz's ones of pain.
"LET GO OF HER!"
"Tell me how to activate the bombs! NOW!"
"PLEASE! PLEASE! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"
I whip around, still sobbing desperately and storm towards my guard. "L-let go of her! Leave her alone, she's done nothing-nothing wrong!" I shake the bulky woman's arm roughly but she remains indifferent.
With an irritated and desperate huff, I rush back over to the glass and start pounding at it. Even kicking it doesn't make the slightest difference.
"Liz…L-Liz…" I sob, still smashing my palms against the window.
With her screams echoing around me, all I can do is watch on in horror.
The second Liz is pushed back into our cell with me I gather her into my arms and sob into her shoulder, just as she sobs into mine. We stand, clutched tightly to one another, for what feels like hours; I'm just so, so relieved to have her back with me where I can keep her safe.
When we break apart, I pull my grey shirt over my head and begin to rip it up into strips to create a makeshift sling for Liz, as well as to bandage her bleeding wounds.
Neither one of us talks as I tie the grey material expertly in place, just as the Gallagher Academy taught me to not that many years ago. I just noticed Liz's sky-blue eyes focusing their attention on me, all puffy and sore-looking from her crying.
"Cammie…" Her shaking, thin, pale hand rests on my cheek. "It's r-really you…" she hiccoughs.
"Of course, silly." I force a smile and take the hand that's resting on my cheek. "Who else?"
"Oh, Cammie!" Again, Liz pulls me into one of her famous rib-crushing hugs. "I-I'm…so sorry…" Her voice is muffled by my shoulder.
Confused, I pull away and give her a questioning look.
"You know…" She glances down, obviously ashamed. "For…for not b-believing you."
I try to say something in reply, but I honestly don't know what I can say, so I just smile weakly at her. "We'll be okay, Liz; we'll get out of here."
She smiles back and squeezes my hand reassuringly, as if I'm the one that needs the encouragement. "I know. You're here."
Urgh, I am so sorry that this has taken a month. AGAIN. Sue me. I'm a horrible author. I don't know how you guys put up with me. I can only hope that a long chapter makes up for my crapiness in updating. I don't even have any excuses you want to hear.
Except for my friend. She's a PSYCHO.
She dyed a streak of my hair orange. ORANGE. Don't ask how she did it without me knowing.
And then, when we were at the counter to buy stuff at some clothes store, she goes to her mum, who's on the phone: 'Hang on mum, this dude is just checking me out.' Only when she hung up did she realise what she said.
And, just the other day, we were having a little rock-out with our group of friends behind the faculty lounge - yeah, the noises go up through the little fan thingy outside the building and echo into the room through the heaters. They have NO idea where the noise comes from, though - and she began singing along to the music.
And I just HAD to be the one to have to tell her that the band Lupe Fiasco is not, in fact, actually Lube Fiasco. Nor are the lyrics to the song the show goes on, 'Just remember wear your condom'...
ANYWAY - I will stop boring you (and leave my 'shift' key alone) now. See you in another month. (Only kidding. I have some of the next chapter written up. Not sure if it'll be as long as this one. We'll see.)
~Jen.
PS - (Why do I do these?) Reviewing would be awesome, since I love you guys. You know, one day I'm going to burst through your computer screen and slap a wet one on your cheek. Seriously. Tell me about your pyschotic friends. Annoying teachers.
{And that's the end of my MONSTROUS author's note. Apologies.}