Ally Carter - [Gallagher Girls 02 ] - Cross My Heart & Hope To Spy

Cross My Heart and Hope to Spy

Gallagher Girls Book 1

Ally Carter

[v0.9 Scanned &Spellchecked by the_usual from dt]

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

ChapterThree

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

ChapterSeven

ChapterEight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

ChapterEleven

ChapterTwelve

ChapterThirteen

ChapterFourteen

ChapterFifteen

ChapterSixteen

ChapterSeventeen

ChapterEighteen

ChapterNineteen

ChapterTwenty

ChapterTwenty-one

ChapterTwenty-two

ChapterTwenty-three

ChapterTwenty-four

ChapterTwenty-five

ChapterTwenty-six

ChapterTwenty-seven

ChapterTwenty-eight

Acknowledgments

I'm tremendously grateful toall the people who have helped bring the Gallagher Girls to lifeespecially the wonderfully talented Donna Bray, whosesupport has meant more than I can ever say Also, I owe a great deal to Ananne Lewinand the entire Hyperion team of whom I am continually in awe

I would also like to thank myagent, Kristin Nelson, also, Jennifer Lynn Barnes and Karen Walters for all oftheir incredible support And, of course, I owe everything to my family, whohave always been there for me

And last but certainly notleast, I thank all the wonderful readers, like Victoria Sperow, Kami Elrod,Kelsey Wehmhoff, Paul Hollingsworth, Neha Mahajan, and Kara McBrayer, who makeit all worthwhile

For Faith & Lily

the next generation of Gallagher Girls

Chapter One

Just be yourself," mymother said, as if that were easy. Which it isn't. Ever. Especially not whenyou're fifteen and don't know what language you're going to have to speak atlunch, or what name you'll have to use the next time you do a"project" for extra credit. Not when your nickname is "theChameleon."

Not when you go to a schoolfor spies.

Of course, if you're readingthis, you probably have at least a Level Four clearance and know all about theGallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Womenthat it isn't really a boarding school for privileged girls,and that, despite our gorgeous mansion and manicured grounds, we're not snobs.We're spies. But on that January day, even my mothereven my headmistressseemedto have forgotten that when you've spent your whole life learning fourteendifferent languages and how to completely alter your appearance using nothingbut nail clippers and shoe polish, then being yourself gets a little harderthat we Gallagher Girls are really far better atbeing someone else.

(And we've got the fake IDs toprove it.)

My mother slipped her armaround me and whispered, "It's going to be okay, kiddo," as sheguided me through the crowds of shoppers that filled Pentagon City Mall.Security cameras tracked our every move, but still my mother said, "It'sfine. It's protocol. It's normal."

But ever since I was fouryears old and inadvertently cracked a Sapphire Series NSA code my dad hadbrought home after a mission to Singapore, it had been pretty obvious that theterm normal would probably never apply to me.

After all, normal girlsprobably love going to the mall with their pockets full of Christmas money.Normal girls don't get summoned to D.C. on the last day of winter break. Andnormal girls very rarely feel like hyperventilating when their mothers pull apair of jeans off a rack and tell a saleslady, "Excuse me, my daughterwould like to try these on."

I felt anything but normal asthe saleslady searched my eyes for some hidden clue. "Have you tried theones from Milan?" she asked. "I hear the European styles are veryflattering."

Beside me, my mother fingeredthe soft denim. "Yes, I used to have a pair like this, but they got ruinedat the cleaners."

And then the saleslady pointeddown a narrow hallway. A hint of a smile was on her face. "I believedressing room number seven is available." She started to walk away,then turned back to me and whispered, "Good luck."

And I totally knew I was goingto need it.

We walked together down thenarrow hall, and once we were inside the dressing room my mother closed thedoor. Our eyes met in the mirror, and she said, "Are you ready?"

And then I did the thing weGallagher Girls are best atI lied."Sure."

We pressed our palms againstthe cool, smooth mirror and felt the glass grow warm beneath our skin.

"You're going to dogreat," Mom said, as if being myself wouldn't be so hard or so terrible.As if I hadn't spent my entire life wanting to be her.

And then the ground beneath usstarted to shake.

The walls rose as the floorsank. Bright lights flashed white, burning my eyes. I reached dizzily for mymother's arm.

"Just a body scan,"she said reassuringly, and the elevator continued its descent farther andfarther beneath the city. A wave of hot air blasted my face like the world'sbiggest hair dryer. "Biohazard detectors," Mom explained as wecontinued our smooth, quick ride.

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

"Almost there," Momsaid. We descended through a thin laser beam that read our retinal images.Moments later, a bright orange light pulsed, and I felt the elevator stop. Thedoors slid open.

And then my mouth went slack.

Tiles made of black graniteand white marble stretched across the floor of the cavernous space like alife-size chessboard. Twin staircases twisted from opposite corners of themassive room, spiraling forty feet to the second story, framing a granite wallthat bore the silver seal of the CIA and the motto I know by heart:

And ye shall know the truth,and the truth shall set you free.

As I stepped forward I sawelevatorsdozens of them lining the wallthat curved behind us. Stainless steel letters above the elevator from whichwe'd just emerged spelled out WOMEN'S WEAR, MALL. To the right, another was labeled men's room, roslyn metro station.

A screen on top of theelevator flashed our names. RACHELMORGAN, DEPARTMENT OF OPERATIVE DEVELOPMENT. I glanced at Mom as the screenchanged. CAMERON MORGAN, TEMPORARY GUEST.

There was a loud ding, andsoon DAVID DUNCAN, IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS REMOVAL DIVISION was emergingfrom the elevator labeled SAINT SEBASTIAN CONFESSIONAL, at which point I totally started freaking outbut not in theOh-my-gosh-I'm-in-a-top-secret-facility-that's-three-times-more-secure-than-the-White-Housesense. No, my freak-outedness was purely of theThis-is-the-coolest-thing-that's-ever-happened-to-me sense, because, despitethree and a half years of training, I'd temporarily forgotten why we were here.

"Come on, sweetie,"Mom said, taking my hand and pulling me through the atrium, where peopleclimbed purposefully up the spiraling stairs. They carried newspapers andchatted over cups of coffee. It was almostnormal. But then Momapproached a guard who was missing half his nose and one ear, and I thoughtabout how when you're a Gallagher Girl, normal is a completely relative thing.

"Welcome, ladies,"the guard said. "Place your palms here." He indicated the smoothcounter in front of him, and as soon as we touched the surface I felt the heatof the scanner that was memorizing my prints. A mechanical printer sprang tolife somewhere, and the guard leaned down to retrieve two badges.

"Well, RachelMorgan," he said, looking at my mother as if she hadn't been standingright in front of him for a full minute, "welcome back! And this must belittle" The man squinted, trying to read the badge in his hand.

"This is my daughter,Cameron."

"Of course she is! Shelooks just like you." Which just proved that whatever terrible noseincident he'd experienced had no doubt affected his eyes, too, because whileRachel Morgan has frequently been described as beautiful, I am usuallydescribed as nondescript. "Strap this on, young lady," the guardsaid, handing me the ID badge. "And don't lose itit's loaded with a tracking chip and a half milligramof C-4. If you try to remove it or enter an unauthorized area, it'lldetonate." He stared at me. "And then you'll die."