"Moving in and out of the shadows
It's not easy a mission
Holding on to how I picture you."
-Maynard J. Keenan, By and Down
The first drops of rain hit Brock's windshield as he drove into the police station parking lot. Russell waited for him at the entrance, and they hurried together across the empty hall to the elevators.
"What do you have?" asked Brock, who wore one of his flawless dark suits as if it were nine a.m. instead of nine p.m.
"Not much yet, but they're looking into it as we speak. Right now this is more one of Reg's crazy theories than a concrete fact, but just like all of her gut feelings, it makes more sense by the minute."
Brock hadn't been to the new SCU office before, and thought this was a more proper workspace for an elite unit like them. He also noticed the rock posters on the wall—they just couldn't help that kind of punk touch, but he had to admit they were pretty sober: at least there weren't any skeletons or drugs. As with their old office, nothing marked any of the desks as Gillian's. It could only be spotted, or assumed, because her son was sitting at it. No private office for her, nothing to highlight her Unit Chief status.
Aldana, Ron and Hank readied some small devices. Tanya, Kurt and Connor each worked at a pair of computers. Russell led Brock to the meeting room, where Gillian and Fred studied a map.
Fred and Russell noticed a sharp temperature drop in the room when Gillian and Brock nodded hi at each other.
He was still pissed about Burton's bad joke, and his usual scowl deepened at meeting Gillian for the first time since the Amber Alert. As for her, she felt awkwardly aware of his silent rejection, and had too many things in her mind to try to be nice to him.
"Agent Brockner, thanks for coming. If you wanna take a seat, we can give you the short tour," she said, rather dry, as Fred excused himself and left the meeting room.
Brock declined and stood only a step away from the door, as if ready to leave at any moment. Gillian turned the screen on and went to her computer, opposite him across the table, coffee mug in hand.
"This email was sent to our unit's server, not the PD's," she said.
Brock read the email on screen: Ye have betrayed me. For never shall thy court be amended by me, but ye will never be sorry for me as I am for you.
"It was written about five p.m. at an internet café in the North End, and programmed to be sent at seven-thirty p.m., when none of us is supposed to be here and only our regular alert software checks the incoming messages for keywords."
"This is very personal," Brock said in his coldest way.
"Exactly. And it contains none of the key words that would trigger a threat alert. This is a quote from Le Mort d'Arthur, written in the fourteen-hundreds by Sir Thomas Malory. But it's not accurate: it's supposed to be the king addressing Sir Gawain, and it actually goes 'never shall my court be amended by you,' and so on."
"You've read Malory?" asked Brock, slightly surprised.
"Only Steinbeck's incomplete translation." Yeah, stupid bitter man, I can do things besides being a jerk around the clock, you know? "But in this case I googled it, just like whoever sent it to us."
"You know the subject googled it..."
Gillian met Brock's eyes at the brink of a legit death glare. Instead of answering, she turned to her computer, and replaced the email on screen with a map of the North End. It was marked with a red dot and ten green flags.
"The email was sent from here," said Russell, pointing at the red dot. "The green flags are banks, schools and other potential nearby targets for a bombing."
"Why do you think this is a bomb threat?" asked Brock, honestly curious.
Gillian turned to the screen to reply, "Six weeks ago, an important amount of explosives was reported missing from a demolition company. It happened exactly the day after the gala, when we received the Mayor's commendation. I can't help thinking that someone with a taste for explosives got mad at us for getting that stupid thing, and decided to act on his anger. That would make it a bomber for personal reasons, right? Bombers are supposed to be organized and patient, and six weeks is a good period to plan the attack and carry it out. The missing C-4 is enough to bring down a couple of buildings, so I don't think we should just dismiss this email as the prank of some nutjob. Especially when the email address this was sent to is not public—only the other divisions of the force have it."
Brock took a moment to process all the information. As usual, Gillian's logic was simply perfect, finding connections where no other regular officer would have even paused to take a second look. But.
"Lieutenant, if you're right and this is a bomb threat, we're talking about domestic terrorism and it would make it a federal case."
"Cooper is already aware of the situation and wants the Bureau and the local PD to work the case together," said Russell.
"Still, if this unit is the target, or the reason for a bomber to act out, it turns this team into part of the victimology," insisted Brock. "You shouldn't stay on the case, Lieutenant."
Gillian flashed a tight smirk, oozing Irish poison. "We're on top of the list of first responders for terrorist threats, Agent Brockner. So this is as good as it gets. If you wanna help, you will have to work with us."
Russell scowled at the way they glared at each other. He had no idea why the air was so thick between them—again— but it was getting on his nerves.
Brock raised his eyebrows, openly showing his disagreement. He turned to Russell, about to speak, when Gillian left her mug and took a step toward the table, looking straight into his eyes. Her voice was gauged to grow a glacier out of thin air.
"Look, Agent Brockner, if some scumbag is about to hurt innocent people to get to us, I ain't gonna sit and wait for it to happen, and then remove dead bodies to try to find some clue to get him. I really need the best brain to get ahead of him, and nail the bastard before he can hurt anybody. And that's you, sir. Now if you can't or won't do it, I don't wanna waste any more of your precious time."