«[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

Chapter

Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter

Seven

Chapter

Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter

Eleven

Chapter

Twelve

Chapter

Thirteen

Chapter

Fourteen

Chapter

Fifteen

Chapter

Sixteen

Chapter

Seventeen

Chapter

Eighteen

Chapter

Nineteen

Chapter

Twenty

Chapter

Twenty-one

Chapter

Twenty-two

Chapter

Twenty-three

Chapter

Twenty-four

Chapter

Twenty-five

Chapter

Twenty-six

Chapter

Twenty-seven

Chapter

Twenty-eight

Acknowledgments

I'm tremendously grateful to

all the people who have helped bring the Gallagher Girls to life—especially the wonderfully talented Donna Bray, whose

support has meant more than I can ever say Also, I owe a great deal to Ananne Lewin

and the entire Hyperion team of whom I am continually in awe

I would also like to thank my

agent, Kristin Nelson, also, Jennifer Lynn Barnes and Karen Walters for all of

their incredible support And, of course, I owe everything to my family, who

have always been there for me

And last but certainly not

least, I thank all the wonderful readers, like Victoria Sperow, Kami Elrod,

Kelsey Wehmhoff, Paul Hollingsworth, Neha Mahajan, and Kara McBrayer, who make

it all worthwhile

For Faith & Lily

the next generation of Gallagher Girls

Chapter One

“Just be yourself," my

mother said, as if that were easy. Which it isn't. Ever. Especially not when

you're fifteen and don't know what language you're going to have to speak at

lunch, or what name you'll have to use the next time you do a

"project" for extra credit. Not when your nickname is "the

Chameleon."

Not when you go to a school

for spies.

Of course, if you're reading

this, you probably have at least a Level Four clearance and know all about the

Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women—that 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 mother…even my headmistress…seemed

to have forgotten that when you've spent your whole life learning fourteen

different languages and how to completely alter your appearance using nothing

but nail clippers and shoe polish, then being yourself gets a little harder—that we Gallagher Girls are really far better at

being someone else.

(And we've got the fake IDs to

prove it.)

My mother slipped her arm

around me and whispered, "It's going to be okay, kiddo," as she

guided me through the crowds of shoppers that filled Pentagon City Mall.

Security cameras tracked our every move, but still my mother said, "It's

fine. It's protocol. It's normal."

But ever since I was four

years old and inadvertently cracked a Sapphire Series NSA code my dad had

brought home after a mission to Singapore, it had been pretty obvious that the

term normal would probably never apply to me.

After all, normal girls

probably 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. And

normal girls very rarely feel like hyperventilating when their mothers pull a

pair of jeans off a rack and tell a saleslady, "Excuse me, my daughter

would like to try these on."

I felt anything but normal as

the saleslady searched my eyes for some hidden clue. "Have you tried the

ones from Milan?" she asked. "I hear the European styles are very

flattering."

Beside me, my mother fingered

the soft denim. "Yes, I used to have a pair like this, but they got ruined

at the cleaners."

And then the saleslady pointed

down a narrow hallway. A hint of a smile was on her face. "I believe

dressing 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 going

to need it.

We walked together down the

narrow hall, and once we were inside the dressing room my mother closed the

door. Our eyes met in the mirror, and she said, "Are you ready?"

And then I did the thing we

Gallagher Girls are best at—I lied.

"Sure."

We pressed our palms against

the cool, smooth mirror and felt the glass grow warm beneath our skin.

"You're going to do

great," 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 us

started to shake.

The walls rose as the floor

sank. Bright lights flashed white, burning my eyes. I reached dizzily for my

mother's arm.

"Just a body scan,"

she said reassuringly, and the elevator continued its descent farther and

farther beneath the city. A wave of hot air blasted my face like the world's

biggest hair dryer. "Biohazard detectors," Mom explained as we

continued our smooth, quick ride.

Time seemed to stand still,

but I knew to count the seconds. One minute. Two minutes…

"Almost there," Mom

said. 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. 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-size chessboard. Twin staircases twisted from opposite corners of the

massive room, spiraling forty feet to the second story, framing a granite wall

that 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 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 on top of the

elevator flashed 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 SAINT SEBASTIAN CONFESSIONAL, at which point I totally started freaking out—but not in the