Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-Nine

Although, what sort of bloody trouble could possibly trump the predicament you're in? Next step would be getting hit by lightning.

Because Quinn thought that scenario would be all too likely considering her string of luck — or lack thereof — thus far, she'd shoved that thought with everything else she didn't want to face. That box, though, was filling up swiftly. She had the pending kill order, the fact that she was a fugitive, on the run from everyone and everything she knew of. There was also a person shoved in that box, the image of a grouchy, scowling hothead of an agent she hadn't dared think of since running away from Venice.

And you're not going to think anything else of it, because you don't have time for that right now.

On the other hand, while Quinn kept telling herself that, she knew it was a futile attempt.

"There we go," said Kat, filling their shot glasses with the ice-cold liquid, " — a toast."

Quinn let her worries drift, just for a moment, raising her slim glass to knock it against Kat's. She'd done all she could, thus far.

All she could do now was hope that Adina was doing the same, over at the meeting that would decide what was to happen to her life.

*

"Director Kimmel, if I may please speak?"

Special Agent Kent had settled into the role of a demure younger lady adhering to the strict Director's rules within minutes of arriving to the meeting of Chiefs at the Knightsbridge HQ. Locke reflected over it, noting the ease of which she slipped through roles. One second she was a hardened special agent, the next a woman saddened over the supposed betrayal of her best friend, and the next a quiet, respectful worker asking to speak out loud.

He supposed, though, that he hadn't seen her in a while, and chalked some of it up to uncertainty. The rest of that suspicion, though, clouded heavily over some other doubts he'd had growing. Doubts that had been semi-quelled by the file Kent had shown him — personal records, data recordings, stuff he hadn't even seen in the Agency records. And all of it, every word of every sentence, pointed to Quinn being the culprit. The person who'd betrayed them.

Locke's mind had been whirring since Venice, attempting to match the image of the person in the file to the Quinn who'd cowered in the alcoves of La Lettre R, the Quinn who'd outsmarted an Italian embezzler at his own gala, the Quinn who'd stepped up to the plate time and time again, the Quinn who still mourned for the loss of her analyst friend. The sharpshot, the exclusive social club member, the runaway turned prodigy. All of the moments, the impressions, added up to an image that differed wildly from the file.

And yet, he couldn't deny it. They were facts, plain and simple, and he was someone who'd spent his last few years acting on facts that were undeniable.

Kimmel, who'd spent an eternity contemplating Kent's request, settled with a firm nod. Across the table, Chief Tibble shot a frosty look Kent's way as the Special Agent cleared her throat.

"With all due respect to the Chiefs present, the evidence presented in this file is pertinent to the case being discusses. Whether or not we ought to pass a kill order on Analyst O'Reilly is a matter that should be decided by cold, hard, facts, and not one impacted by emotion."

Kent glanced to Gavin, then let her gaze drift around the room.

"I cannot deny that I have a personal opinion on this topic, as O'Reilly has been my primary partner for a good while now. While she has supported me on countless occasions, that support has now been toppled by my recent discoveries that she has been working against me — working against the Agency — for the majority of that time."