(a/n: double update, both chapter 25 + 26! make sure to read in order. enjoy!)
TWENTY-SIX
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Gavin had listened to Kent and Davidson speak for the better part of an hour, though they'd occasionally toss him glances as if to make sure he wasn't going to make a break for it. Not that he would, really — he was stuck staring at the two of them, still in shock over Kent's sudden reappearance.
He had questions. A few of them — no, more than a bloody few. The most important one was how Lorber had ended up dead in Paris, at the exact location of Kent's beacon. It sure as bloody hell could not have been O'Reilly, though Gavin supposed that if one wanted to make that hypothetical argument one could argue she'd hired someone to do it.
From the time he'd spent with Quinn, he knew she had more than a few hidden layers on her. Hypatia and her skills with guns had been one — and he knew those were rooted in her past, but he didn't know what other experiences she'd gotten while spending time with Hypatia in Paris. He didn't know where she'd gotten her training outside of Hypatia, didn't know anything about that gap of time between her ending up at Hypatia and her finally landing at the Agency.
For once, Gavin would have liked to be analytical enough to work it out, much like the corporate drones back at The Agency.
Ironic, isn't it, that you and O'Reilly switched places? You're here thinking, analyzing, while she's in the field now.
"Locke, you awake?"
Finger snapped in front of Locke's face. He scowled, looked up at Davidson's sunny smile. The man had been sour for the better part of the night, but now that the sun had come out he seemed to have switched attitudes. That, or his call to Chief Sanders, which had seemingly left him happy as a clam.
"Awake enough to realize you're annoying me." Gavin swatted his hands away, instead choosing to voice the question which had been grating on his nerves, "What are we doing here, still?"
Davidson quirked a brow, "What do you mean?"
"Here. In Venice. The mission's over, as far as I can see." Gavin inclined his head to where Kent was standing, typing intensely on her phone, " — why not return at once?"
"I guess Cam's scared," Davidson said, finger tapping the side of his thigh as he watched the third Special Agent in the room, " — of what Quinn might do to her, should she know she's alive."
Gavin schooled his features into absolute neutrality, "What, go after her again on a specialized mission to retrieve her at all costs?"
Davidson's finger stopped its rhythm as he aimed a deadpan look at Gavin.
"You haven't had enough time to speak to Kent, let her tell her side of the story. I believe in her, and I think you will, too."
Gavin, feeling his suspicion rising higher for each passing minute he spoke to Davidson, chose to steer the topic away from the discussion they'd been having. If he didn't, he was afraid he'd implode.
Yes, Davidson had been pushing Cam's side of it, the absolute truth he believed she spoke.
But what about Quinn's side? That was the exact type of dangerous question which Gavin wished to avoid, and one he'd almost walked right into.
"What'd HQ say? About the kill order?"
Gavin broke away from the wall he'd been leaning on, letting his legs stretch as Davidson answered his question.
"The Chiefs are taking it to the entire council of higher-ups. Sanders said he'd take it straight to Kimmel, too."
"Sanders?" Locke's eyebrows hiked up, "You didn't go through Havas?"
Davidson waved his hand in the air flippantly, "No, no. We went through both, I'm sure. In official capacity they're still co-Chiefs of Operations."
Locke's eyebrows remained raised, before his face moulded into a flat scowl.
"What are we doing here, in the meantime, then? We can't go home?"
"Go home?" Davidson leaned back, a short laugh bursting out of him, "Never have I seen you so eager to get out of an assignment and 'get home'."
"There's no assignment here, anymore." Locke pointed out, eyes lifting to Scott's face, " — as we can both see, the assignment in question is standing over there, perfectly alive."
Davidson frowned, "Yeah, but if the kill order goes through we'll have to hunt O'Reilly down. Finish the job." Scott drew a finger across his throat, miming his definition of 'finishing the job'.
Locke's jaw tensed, "Getting a kill order to go through will take weeks."
Hopefully longer. Hopefully it doesn't even go through.
"Nah, I don't bloody think so. Not when Cam shows up alive, and well. They'll listen to her."
So you say. But who will bloody listen to the person at the other end of this?
Locke's eyes shifted to Cam, who was frowning at her phone by now, "She's going to London?"
"I'm sure of it. Wants to meet the Chiefs in person, explain everything, lay it out, you know. Maybe you'd benefit from hearing it, actually."
"She could've just 'explained everything' from the beginning, in that case." Locke's remark was sour, "I just want to know the HQ's directives."
"What happened to you, Locke? Now it's HQ this, HQ that. One would think you've become some desk jockey, vying for the Chiefs' attention."
A scowl marked Gavin's face at Scott's remarks. Davidson knew precisely what to aim for, at least when it came to ruffling Locke's feathers, and he found he'd hit his mark with every well-aimed barb as that scowl grew.
"I'm just yanking your leg, pal." Scott lightly punched Gavin's shoulder, "We're all Special Agents here. No need to suck up to the stiff-asses in Intelligence."
The scowl remained on Gavin's face. Scott smiled, satisfied he'd once more hit his mark, leaning into the side of Gavin that he knew so well. But what Scott didn't know — hadn't cared to realize — was that the barb at the Intelligence Analysts had done the exact opposite of what he'd intended it to do.
*
It took twenty hours for Quinn to find herself on the doorstep of the address she'd recited in her head since stepping on the bus from Verona Porta Nuova to Prague. She'd been to Prague once before, only briefly, where she'd made the acquaintance of the person she'd now bet her life on, essentially.
Feeling the weight of the pedestrians' stares, Quinn chose to step inside of the building. It was a few stories high, an apartment mid-rise, clad in beige stonework and edged with fine details in wrought iron. The windows gleamed brightly, though some of them were obscured by the wildly growing flowers in the windowsills. The doors to the building itself were a dark oak, once more decorated with the same kind of iron which dotted the facade.
It was a nice, lovely street. Calm. Far from the luxury hideout in Paris, far from the swanky hotel in Paris.
Finally. Quinn's bones ached as she stepped up to the doorway. She wasn't sure what time it was, as she'd arrived a little over four fifteen o'clock at the bus station, then jostled her way through the Czech capital to get where she needed to go. As such, she tried ringing the number of the apartment she was heading to first.
Within seconds, she was buzzed in.
She knew the way up the stairs would be heavy, especially for her tired legs, but Quinn fought through it knowing she'd find a welcome if she got through it. Would get to rest, to eat, to change into something other than the ridiculous Spongebob flip flops she was currently donning — very unwillingly, to be perfectly honest.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
One of the building's occupants passed her, and did a double-take as she noted Quinn's outfit. Quinn, in turn, only offered an apologetic smile. Some things could not be explained in a way which made sense, especially if one weighed Quinn's current life situation into the equation.
It felt like an hour passed before Quinn got to the door she'd aimed for since escaping Venice, but it'd probably only taken her around ten minutes of panting and flip flopping up the stone stairs. At least they hadn't been marble — if they had, she was sure she'd have slipped right back down to the foyer of the building.
The steps from the landing of the stairs to the apartment door felt neverending. Quinn rubbed absently at her aching shoulder, reminding herself she probably shouldn't crack another painkiller lest she wished to keel over due to some sort of chemical overdose.
As long as I get a bed, I'll be fine.
Lifting her fist, Quinn knocked twice. The door swung open seconds later, revealing a face all at once familiar and foreign to Quinn.
"Quinn," the woman before her smiled, then frowned as she noted her appearance, " — you look like hell, kiska."
The Russian word for kitten was familiar to Quinn, for the woman before her — the extraordinarily talented ballerina Katya Ivanov — had called her that since they'd first met, which had been under the most unorthodox of circumstances.
Kat had gone out to celebrate a performance, and it had been Quinn's third night in Prague — she'd been sent there for some cultural studies, which was Hypatia's term for getting an education in the finer arts. They'd ended up at the same bar, sitting only barstools apart. The same group of guys had approached the two of them, and Quinn had — more than slightly inebriated — told them off in a mix of Czech, Russian and English.
She'd been learning a little of both Czech and Russian at the time, and the drinks hadn't helped. The word she'd intended to be kurva — a well-known swear word — had come out as kiska, the Russian word for kitten. Kat had nearly fallen over the bar as she'd overheard Quinn, and the name had stuck since.
"I'm sorry to barge in, Kat. I'm in big trouble."
"Your favorite kind," remarked the tall, raven-haired ballerina.
"Unfortunately," answered Quinn, and stepped inside as Kat angled her body away from the door. The apartment inside was nicely sized, and from what Quinn knew it housed two bedrooms with separate ensuites. She'd done well for herself, Kat, at least since she'd gone clean off drugs and split up with her abusive ex. They'd found a remarkable friendship in each other, one which still held strong.
Occasionally, too, Quinn relied on Kat as an informative when it came to lesser dealings in this region of Europe. She attempted to use many informants, rather than a few, which was why she kept her dealings with Kat secret — she didn't want anyone sniffing up her friends, giving them grief.
Kat ran another eye over Quinn's form, then clucked her tongue.
"I wasn't lying, kiska. You would make anyone with sight roll over in their grave."
Quinn rolled her eyes, instead, "I've been through it. Trust me, I intend on getting new clothes as soon as I take care of, well, the rest of this bloody mess."
Kat gestured to the couch, a comfortable sea of neutral-colored pillows. Quinn shook her head.
"I'm dirty, I'm bruised. You mind me using your shower first? Let me get the grime off."
"Fine by me. It's right through there," Kat said, gesturing through the hallway, "Towels are on the rack by the door."
"Thanks, Kat. Thanks."
Quinn looked around, scouting the living room. The floors were a polished wood, mostly covered by a threading Persian rug. One wall was pure exposed brick, though Kat had pushed a large bookcase against it, filling it to the brim with books and other clutter. The TV was mounted, playing some type of soap opera, and beneath it a thin table where a scented candle was burning. The shutters had been drawn almost completely.
A few pointe shoes lay scattered around the room, as well as athletic wear and a few hoodies. Kat always expanded, filling the space allotted — she was very much the human version of Parkinson's law, which was why it made sense she didn't choose a larger apartment. Otherwise she'd end up TV as a hoarder, most likely.
You're not looking around because you're curious, Quinn. Come on.
She was forced to realize that her quick, brief scan of the living room hadn't been born out of curiosity. No, Quinn had fought the press of tears. It was larger, now, stronger than it'd been before. It was exhaustion, the lack of energy, that allowed them to press forward.
"Oh, kiska," Kat all but murmured, before she moved forward to draw Quinn into a hug, " — you're safe now, alright? You're safe."
Quinn hugged her friend tightly, tears spilling over. She didn't say aloud what she was thinking.
I'm safe, but for how long?
*
a/n: just a quick double update for ya. hi, how are ya? also thinking of doing a playlist for this book, since i've a few songs i've been bopping to along with writing. maybe i will make one? idk. leave your thoughts here kings and queens.
qotc:
why are kent + davidson sticking around venice?
think quinn will be safe for now?
think gavin will be convinced quinn's 'guilty'?
as always,
xo, cleo