Allied

Chapter 2

Patrick

Virginia, Three Years Ago

Honestly, it should be criminal to have this much fun. Hey, I guess I do have something in common with the assholes I catch: we all like what isn't good for us. I know I shouldn't bait Georgie Davis, but it's just too easy.

She doesn't help herself, really. She works so damn hard to seem composed all the time that it's all the more tempting to rattle her. I look across the room at the tiny woman who just finished choking the living daylights out of a grown man and wonder briefly whether she's ever had a hair out of place. Probably not. Baby Georgie probably popped out, armed with a gun and a color-coded binder, ready to fight crime with her trademark ponytail.  

It's kind of hot, actually.

Then I shake my head. Christ, Patrick. Get a grip.

Mark nods towards the door of his office, and I snap out of my reverie. A girl with attitude could get you killed in this profession, especially if you work for her meathead boyfriend. Better to get this little chat out of the way; it's hardly like Georgie is going anywhere. Not until graduation at least, which gives me roughly a week to convince Little Miss Perfect to ditch the square blond and give me a chance instead. I've had worse odds.

"Mark, buddy," I say sardonically. "What can I do for you this fine morning?"

Mark arches an eyebrow, closing the door before he settles at his desk. Mark doesn't really have a sense of humour. I'm not sure if it's because he's a sociopath, or if it's because all the steroids have fried what was left of his brain after his short-lived American football career. I haven't spent too much time thinking about Mark, but he certainly became a more interesting study when he managed to seduce the FBI's rising star.

That's Georgie, by the way.

I consider myself a rising star too, but fortunately for all three of us, Mark appeals to me about as much as licking mayonnaise off the bottom of a table at Applebee's. Which is to say, he doesn't.

Captain Creatine doesn't look impressed with my cheek. "As usual, it'll be Agent Thomas to you. Try not to forget that you haven't graduated yet, O'Connor."

He sighs deeply, and I know what's coming next is going to pain him.

"However," Mark spits out, "I have been informed that last week was a success. For whatever reason, someone out there is very happy with you."

Happy is an interesting word for that.

Usually I associate "happy" with riding my motorcycle to Widewater Beach. Or when the Grizzlies won the Super Bowl. Or visiting my cousins in Ireland. I wouldn't think that someone would be happy that I moonlight as an undercover agent, but hey — who am I to judge?

This latest undercover stint was pretty run-of-the-mill; when I was in a vice unit, I did plenty of undercover drug running to climb the ranks. Although it isn't my mother's idea of a job, I'm not ashamed to admit that I found the thrill exhilarating, kind of like the moment of free fall before you pull the parachute. It just lasts longer. Going undercover for a week is nothing to me; before my application to Quantico, I was under for six months at a time. But back then, I had nothing to miss.

Mark grabs a piece of paper and thrusts it in my face. "Shredding, sir?" I retort. He has a large, throbbing vein on his forehead. It mainly appears when I am around, but I couldn't comment on any correlation.

"Your contract."

I've been competing with Georgie Davis for the ASAC position for nearly 20 weeks now. Half of a year dedicated to showing her up, which may look easy on the outside but Christ: she's half-killed me. I never thought 30 would feel old until I had some hotshot 25-year-old constantly peppering the range and filing perfectly colour-coded case studies. It's like the girl is sponsored by bloody Post-It note.