Allied

Chapter 4

Georgie

Washington, D.C., Present day

I'm panting like a dog before I get halfway through my usual run at the Rock Creek trail. The crisp November air feels like a knife in my windpipe, and I push my legs harder, ignoring the unpleasant burning sensation in my thighs. It's not like I'm out of shape, exactly, but ever since leaving Quantico three years ago, I'm finding it harder and harder to fit in my morning run. Working full-time means I'm lucky if I can even squeeze in five miles before work.

Not that it matters, really.

There's nobody to compete with anymore. Not since-

I cut myself off firmly. No. I'm not even going to think his name. We haven't seen each other in three years; it's not like he's thinking about me all the time.

So I won't think about him, either.

I take a sharp turn on to a stone bridge, ducking to avoid an overhanging branch. Moving to Washington to take up the ASAC position has been... well, fairly boring, actually. No one from Quantico took their original rotation here, so I was a little nervous to move to the city by myself, but it helps that Jo moved with me. She's barely ever in our flat, of course — she spends more time in the air than on land — but at least we fit in more dinners than we managed before.

The constant judgement however, I could live without.

I jump over a log, nodding at a woman jogging by with a baby stroller. The problem with running is that there's too much time for thinking. I've been working the same case for a year now — Operation Houdini — and I've kind of become a little obsessed with it. Okay, a lot obsessed with it; the other day, I dropped my Cheerios straight onto my lap because I was internally debating whether criminals would prefer TD or Bank of America.

Honestly.

Next thing I know, I'll be asking myself whether criminals have a good accountant to file my taxes.

This, Mia informs me, is what happens when all a person does is eat, sleep, and work. She regularly reminds me that working is not "having a life". Which she's totally wrong about. Work is my life, full-stop. I said as much at drinks a few months ago, when it accidentally slipped out that I knew Mark and I were over the second I realized that I found starting a new case more exciting than sex with my boyfriend.

Which went over well.

And by well, I mean that Cara spewed red wine across the table and shouted "WHAT?" loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the cocktail bar.

Jo didn't look surprised, but I guess she knew from our first months of living together that my new bed wasn't exactly getting much action. It didn't really bother me, though. Jo's getting enough for the both of us.

The girls have always understood everything, but work is different; it's the thrill of the chase, the feeling of having someone pinned at the ropes. The knowledge that I'm outmanoeuvring criminals daily is addictive to me, like playing a high-stakes poker game (but with a more regular paycheck, obviously — you know what I'm like with stability). Operation Houdini, however, has been more difficult than I expected. Every account that I identify is emptied and moved within a week, and always before I can get a significant amount of data.

This criminal group might be as anal as I am.

Wow.

I never thought that I would actually think that.

Okay, okay, so don't judge me but... I'm actually kind of impressed. I've been chasing Operation Houdini for a year now, and I've barely scratched the surface. The agent I took over from had nothing to go on after two years of searching, except a few tips from an undercover agent that I dismissed out of hand. I'm not a snob, but I always worry that undercover agents are more criminal than agent, especially in this case. Morals and human trafficking don't exactly coexist.