Allied

Chapter 1

Georgie

Virginia, Three Years Ago

Okay, so I'm a little Type A.

Not like, "sharpen-all-of-my-pencils-to-exactly-two-millimeters" kind of Type A. But my closet is organized by color. I put all of my vitamins into boxes sorted by days of the week, and I write everything down in a black leather planner that I sleep with under my pillow. Jo likes to point out that it's the only long-term relationship I'll ever have.

Which is totally unfair; I've been seeing my combat instructor Mark for six months now. Six months. That's long enough to recover from a broken femur. Or the jail time for a financial misdemeanor.

Actually, it's probably not good that I'm thinking about my relationship in terms of a prison sentence.

Anyways.

The point is, I'm kind of Type A. Which is why, right now, while I'm kicking the crap out of Simon Bowen, but all I can think about is that he missed a spot when he was shaving. There's a little patch of blond stubble — just under his chin — and I'm itching to find a razor and shave it off his face. But I can't. Firstly, because that would be terribly inappropriate, and secondly, because I currently have Simon in a headlock.

I look down at his purple face in concern.

"Are you okay?"

Simon makes a grunting noise. His face is now the color of an overripe eggplant. My concern grows, and I glance up at Mark.

"Is that enough?"

He shakes his head. "What are you forgetting, Davis?"

Mark always calls me by my surname when we're at Quantico. It's almost enough to make me forget that last night in bed, he was calling me something very different. "Um." I stall for time. "To tie his knees?"

Mark looks unimpressed. I don't blame him; I already gagged Simon and tied his wrists and ankles. The knees would be overkill. I glance around at my other twenty classmates for help, but I can tell that all of them are equally clueless. For being a week away from leaving Quantico and becoming FBI agents, they're pretty bad at hiding their expressions.

And then it hits me.

"Oh." I loosen Simon's gag. "What's your name?"

He glares at me. "Tony."

I grimace. It's the name that Quantico gives to deep cover agents; clearly, Simon is playing an agent masquerading as a drug lord, not an actual drug lord. I rattle off a series of predetermined questions to confirm his credentials, and Simon glares at me as he answers each question correctly. He breathes a sigh of relief when I finally release him, collapsing to the floor as I untie his hands.

"My ribs," he moans, rubbing at his t-shirt.

I roll my eyes. "You're fine, Simon."

"Simon looks like a lot of things," a distinctive male voice drawls. "Fine, however, isn't one of them."

I freeze.

Oh, please God, no.

Slowly, I turn around. Patrick O'Connor is standing in the doorway, his large arms folded across his chest. His dark hair is sticking up in clumps — probably from riding his stupid motorbike — and his eyes are slightly red. From weeping with envy after my excellent takedown, I hope, but more likely from the long plane journey.

I cross my arms, and then immediately uncross them, annoyed with myself when I realize that I've unintentionally mirrored his position. "Patrick," I say coolly. "I thought you were in Ireland for the week."