Three Weeks and Counting

CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO SPY
Chapter One
Part Two
(read Part One here first)

The walls rose as the floor sank. Bright lights flashed white, burning my eyes, filling every inch of the elevator-slash-dressing room, as I reached dizzily for my mother’s arm.

“Just a body scan,” I heard her say as the elevator continued its descent farther and farther beneath the city. A wave of hot air blasted in my face like the world’s biggest hair dryer, but Mom said, “Biohazard detectors,” and we continued our smooth, quick ride.

Time seemed to stand still, and yet I knew to count the seconds. One minute. Two minutes…

“Almost there,” Mom soothed as we descended through a thin laser beam that read our retinal images, and moments later, a bright orange light pulsed and I felt the elevator stop. The doors slid open.

And then my mouth went slack.

Tiles made of black granite and white marble stretched across the floor of the cavernous space like a life-sized chess board. Twin staircases twisted from opposite corners of the massive room, spiraling forty feet to the second story, framing the granite wall that stood between them, bearing the silver seal of the CIA and the motto I know by heart.

For you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

As I stepped forward I saw elevators–dozens of them–lining the wall that curved behind us. Stainless steel letters above the elevator from which we’d just emerged spelled out, “Women’s Wear, Mall”. To the right, another was labeled “Men’s Room, Roslyn Metro Station”.

A screen atop the elevator flashed with our names. “Rachel Morgan, Department of Operative Development.” I glanced at Mom as the screen changed. “Cameron Morgan, Temporary Guest.”

There was a loud ding and soon “David Duncan, Identifying Characteristics Removal Division” was emerging from the elevator labeled “St. Sebastian Confessional,” at which point I totally started freaking out—but not in the oh my gosh I’m in a top secret facility that’s three times more secure than the White House sense. No, my freak-out-ed-ness was purely of the this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me sense, because despite three and a half years of training, I’d temporarily forgotten why we were there.

“Come on, sweetie,” Mom said, taking my hand, pulling me through the atrium where people climbed purposefully up the spiraling stairs; they carried newspapers and chatted over cups of coffee. It was almost…normal. But then Mom approached a desk and a guard who was missing half his nose and one ear and I remembered that, when you’re a Gallagher Girl, normal is a completely relative thing.

“Welcome ladies,” the guard said. “Place your palms here.” He indicated the smooth counter, and as soon as we touched the surface I felt the heat of the scanner that memorized my prints. A mechanical printer sprang to life somewhere and he leaned down to retrieve two badges.

“Well, Rachel Morgan,” he said, looking at my mother as if she hadn’t been standing right in front of him for a full minute. “Welcome back! And this must be little…” then the older man squinted, trying to read my badge.

“This is my daughter, Cameron,” Mom said.

< span style="line-height: 200%;">“Of course she is! She looks just like you.” Which just proved that whatever terrible nose incident he’d experience had no doubt affected his eyes, too, because while Rachel Morgan has frequently been described as beautiful, I have been described as non-descript. “Strap this on, young lady,” the guard said, handing me an ID badge. “And don’t lose it—it’s loaded with a tracking chip and a half milligram of C-4. If you try to remove it or enter an unauthorized area it’ll detonate.” He stared at me. “And then you’ll die.”

I swallowed hard then suddenly understood why take your daughter to work day was never really an option in the Morgan family.

“Okay,” I muttered as I gingerly took the badge, but then the man slapped the counter, and spy training or not—I jumped.

“Ha!” the guard let out a sharp, quick laugh and leaned closer to my mother. “The Gallagher Academy is growing them more gullible than it did in my day, Rachel,” he teased then winked at me. “Spy humor.”

Which, personally, I didn’t think was all that funny, but my mother was smiling, taking my arm, saying, “Come on, kiddo, you don’t want to be late.”

She led me down a sunny corridor that made it almost impossible to believe we were underground. Bright, cool light splashed upon the gray walls and reminded me of Sublevel One at school… Which reminded me of my Covert Operations class… Which reminded me of finals week… Which reminded me of…

Josh.

We passed the Office of Guerilla Warfare but didn’t slow down. Two women waved to my mother outside the Department of Cover, Concealment, and Office of Clandestine Services, but we didn’t say hi.

We walked faster, our momentum taking us deeper and deeper into that labyrinth of secrets until the corridor branched, and we could either go left, toward the Department of Sabotage and Seemingly Accidental Explosions, or right to the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence. And despite the Flame-resistant body suits mandatory beyond this point sign I wanted to hang a left, to turn around, to go back.

Because even though the truth can set you free, that doesn’t mean it won’t be painful.

CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO SPY
On sale everyone October 2, 2007!