Aldana only accepted a Squad she knew to help her assemble the scanner. Fred joined her with the blueprints, followed by Jules and Perkins.
Jules explained, "Our drill would be trying the front door first, then the back door, then the roof. So we're gonna check the north side of the building."
"But they're on the south side," she argued.
"Yes, but there are windows at the end of each hall on the north side," said Fred. "If we clear those walls, we can try to go in through a window and extract Reg and Brockner that way."
He and Aldana studied the schematics together.
"The ladder is already in position to lift anyone with the scanner as soon as we clear the ground-floor wall," said Jules.
"You sure you don't want one of my boys to do it?" asked Perkins.
Fred and Aldana turned to him, trying to not sound too bitter. "Thanks, we got it."
The only light inside Wood's bedroom came through the door to the living room, from the massive searchlights deployed outside the building. Brock was able to fill a plastic bottle with water, and when he assessed Gillian wouldn't punch his lights out, he gave it to her and sat down by her side. And there they were, backs against the wall, eyes fixed ahead, like fellow cellmates in a forgotten dungeon.
They hardly traded a word over the next couple of hours, letting silence pool between them and fill the blasted apartment. They were saving their strength, just like the flashlight battery, waiting on the rescue team.
Gillian had pulled herself together as much as she could. Brock's silence wasn't new to her, and it was better for her than seeing him force himself to be gentle and worry about her. Silence was canon for him, meaning he didn't think she was about to die—again. At least not within the next few minutes.
It was weird, something she wasn't used to at all, but having him by her side was reassuring because she felt... not exactly protected—even though Brock was being really overprotective—but... not alone. And it felt good. Had it not been for the constant, throbbing pain in her leg, she would have snoozed. It would've been nice—rest her head on his shoulder, close her eyes and give herself a break, his cologne replacing the musty smell the chilly night air couldn't clear. If only she could forget about the pain for just a little while.
Brock heard her grunt under her breath. "Your ribs?" he asked, his voice lower than usual in the thick silence.
She nodded. "Yeah... I could use some small talk, you know? To get distracted." From the pain, from your cologne, from your protective mood.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a talker."
"That I know, but you could just—"
"You're about to try the humor me. Again."
He said it in a way that made her scoff. "Funny, profiling me is your idea of small talk."
"You don't wanna hear your profile."
He really meant it, but that was enough for Gillian to take on the bait. So Declan Brockner had profiled her? There was no way he was getting away with it.
She was about to speak but he raised one finger—don't. And she couldn't see his face, but Brock was almost smiling.
"Please would work?"
Now Brock did glance at her, raising his eyebrows—you've been warned. She nodded—bring it on. He turned to look ahead and launched one if his calm, methodical expositions.
"You've been defined by your father's expectations. They compel you to pursue constant achievements in your career, in order to win his approval. That's why you only work on demanding assignments, and fight to be always the best at everything you do. He must've wanted a son, for you to do everything to prove him, and everybody else, that a woman can make it just the same. And being so focused on your career makes you neglect your personal life. To the extent of getting your own son involved in your work to be able of sharing time and activities with him—fitting your needs, not his."
He didn't mention her skill to end up always in danger, because he still hadn't quite figured that out. So the profiler rested his case of brutal honesty. And he wasn't really surprised when she nodded again, pondering his words.
"Yeah, you're right... I really need to spend more time with Connor outside the office... How d'you do it?"
"Why do you think I do?" He was sincerely interested in knowing how she'd gotten to that conclusion.
Gillian shrugged. "If you didn't, you would've stayed on my Atalanta complex. And I've met your daughter."
That was her, connecting subtle dots as usual. Yet he lingered on her choice of words. "Atalanta complex is a good way to call it."
"You know they call my father King Gillian, right? Well, my name, Regan? Irish name. It literally means king's daughter."
Brock couldn't help a scoff. "He's not about to go easy on you any time soon, is he."
"It's okay. Keeps me sharp."
And there they were, Brock realized. Somehow she'd made it. They were actually talking, and the conversation flowed so unexpectedly easy between them.
As for Gillian, she was trying to find out whether he did it because he wanted to make it up for such an aggressive profile, because she'd just somehow dragged him into talking or because of that overprotective mood he'd been displaying since he'd found her. But just like him, she was glad they were able to simply chat. To her surprise, he went on.
"And what about Connor's father? Why doesn't he visit?"
"He was in your list of suspects. Bill Sheppard."
"King of bullies with a fan club," he quoted. That was why she'd looked away from his picture. It'd been a bad breakup. The man had hurt her deep. "He left when you wouldn't sign up to his fan club?"
"One king to please is enough."
Brock nodded and arched his eyebrows, agreeing. She tried to chuckle and pressed her ribs, grunting.