+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Gillian left the team expecting the CDC report and walked out the sliding door, feeling she needed to isolate herself at least for a few minutes. So she circled the swimming pool and strolled past it, toward an old wooden bench under a couple of trees at the other end of the garden. Just like Brock foretold, they've found enough for a rough profile, which would make the locals think they were about to crack the case as to beat some speed record. But for her, the picture got scarier by the minute.
Over the last two months, everything she'd ever learnt about terrorism had melted with her experience, shaping a very personal way to approach the threats CT sent them to check.
She could feel the cold welling in her belly at every new element they confirmed. It was fear, sheer and instinctive. She wasn't about to panic over this—Brock was the only thing on earth that could make her panic. So she didn't fight it. Fear was her beacon. It was what the subject wanted to spread all around. Feeling it allowed her to see more clearly what the attack pursued, and helped her trace it back to figure out what kind of person was behind it.
However, this time it wasn't enough for her to see through it. She needed some kind of help.
As if summoned by her need, Brock walked out to the garden.
He spotted her sitting in the cool shadow of the trees and headed straight to her. He noticed she was deep in thought, so he spoke from some steps away, to let her know he was coming.
"We'll have the warrants before your meeting." She looked up at him and he scowled. Something was off. "What is it, Gillian?"
She stood up, shaking her head. "I can't see it..." she muttered, and met his eyes again. "Would you help me, sir? You know how to make me think."
If she'd asked Brock for help with the zip to a tight dress, it would've never had the effect those words had on him. "Of course," he replied, and cleared his throat to ease the sudden raspy edge in his voice.
Her bright blue eyes stayed on his for a moment, so intense they caused him a chill. Then she looked down and away, and started to walk slowly by the bench, staying in the shadow.
"So we're most likely talking about food tampering, right?" she said.
Brock folded his arms, his eyes following her from under a focused scowl. "Yes, probably."
"Meaning I buy a soda for Connor and two weeks later he's bipolar for the rest of his life."
"I don't think our children make a good example to keep our heads clear."
She paused to flash a tight smile at him. "Oh, all the way around, sir. The subjects make it personal, so we have to keep that in mind."
He arched his eyebrows, doubtful. Then he saw the look in her eyes and swallowed hard. Because he knew exactly what she wanted from him. She expected him to give her a word, a hint, anything to set her mind in motion. So they could start unraveling the subject's psyche step by step. Together. Like they always did.
Well, save when you turn into a complete idiot and shut her out, right? He didn't pay attention to his sarcasm, too busy feeling how the usual pull between them grew taunt. To stick to the metaphorical comparison, she'd just brushed his belt with a playful smile in her lips—for Christ's sake, Brockner! How can you find sexual connotations in profiling! His sarcasm squirmed when he argued back—how can I not when it comes to her?
He managed to sound almost as grave as usual when he said, "Alright, what do we know?"
He really wished her lips didn't purse like that at realizing he was willing to play along—play along? You're game! To Brock's relief, a heartbeat later she wasn't smiling anymore, but almost frowning, focused, as she resumed her slow pacing.
"They've altered the virus. But instead of making it airborne, they made it work through ingestion," she said.
Brock nodded, holding on tight to his professional scowl and his flattest tone. "It's impossible to control how an airborne virus spreads when released. That suggests they want to have some control over who gets infected."
Gillian narrowed her eyes. "Control."
And they were on, down the waxed slide of their minds working together once more. There was no beating that. Nothing could come between them when they gave in to share their reasoning. No one could keep up and understand them better than each other. It was thrilling and liberating at such a deep, intimate level that they'd been refusing to acknowledge it for real over the last year and a half. Because facing what it really meant was scarier for them than a vicious virus wiping out entire cities.
Brock went on. "What you just said: personal."
"And the psychological torture."
"So a certain degree of sadism."
"Without any sexual element?"
"None that we can see this far. But that can change, so we can't rule it out yet."
"Aggression without a sexual element takes me back to my idea of a female subject."
"The poison as weapon of choice adds to it."
Gillian couldn't keep the fangirl's giddy smile—master complimented young grasshopper twice today!
Brock was barely able to keep his eyes from sliding down to her lips and hurried to say, "So a woman. With both training and access to complex equipment to work on rare viruses."
Her smile went back to her focused frown. "She's managed to slip tampered goods into those stores. She could be targeting specific individuals, but that doesn't quite make sense."
"Leaving a dozen tampered sodas and waiting for the right victims to buy them is too hazardous for someone this organized."
"So she's trying to make a statement. What kind of statement?"
"What is she trying to attract attention to?"
"BVD or neurological disorders."
"Or both."
"Or both... Why?"
"The stressor can be a personal tragedy. Somebody close to her who got infected with BVD or was diagnosed with a neurological disorder."
Gillian fought back the delight of following Brock's train of thought. No conversation about subjects or brainstorm with him had ever flowed so smooth. She didn't need to force herself to stay on the case, even with the traces of Brock's cologne in the soft breeze and his piercing stare fixed on her. Actually, both things worked to help her keep up with him.
"So what are we talking about?" she asked. "Mid-forties?"
"I think so, yes. She can't be younger in order to have both the know-how and the clearance. So the loved one could be her spouse or her child."
"Women get depressed over a dead spouse, not homicidal. Only a mourning mother can snap like this."
Brock blinked, feeling the tingling in his fingertips. "So we're talking about her child."
"Her only child."
He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his fingertips against his pants. Of course!
"True. She couldn't linger on her mourning if she had other children to look after."
