a/n: enjoy guys ;)
Thirty-Nine
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Because Quinn had not wanted to risk the two of them being spotted outside of Kat's apartment complex, she'd shepherded Gavin into the building, up the stairs and through the doorway of Kat's apartment. The space felt much, much smaller with Locke suddenly around, a fact Quinn acknowledged by placing herself on the other side of the dinner table from him.
"You could rest, if you want. I'm sure we've some food left over." Quinn's eyes flicked up, met Gavin's.
"I'm fine," replied Gavin. There'd really only been one thing actually distressing him for the past days, and that had now been resolved.
Quinn nodded at his response, then looked at her phone again, a frown spreading across her lips.
"What's wrong?" Locke spoke up, drawing the chair by the kitchen table back so he could sit down, facing Quinn. He saw distress flicker across her face as she pressed her phone again, then placed it by her ear.
Locke leaned back, let his eyes slide around the apartment. It was a neat, cozy place.
Almost too bloody neat, thought Locke, before his eyes rounded back to watch Quinn. She tugged at the fabric of her shirt with one hand, the other holding the phone pressed to her ear.
"Kat's not responding," said Quinn, voice shaky, " — she should be home by now."
Gavin did not know much about Quinn's relationship with Kat, other than the fact that they were good friends. Additionally, Kat had been the ally she'd so desperately needed during her exile, someone who'd kept her safe. For that, Locke knew he was probably only half the person Kat was.
Guilt churned.
"She's still not picking up. What if something's happened? Could they have found us — "
Locke, sensing the spiral, chose his words carefully.
"O'Reilly, you know what to do in these situations." His voice was calm, " — where was she last? How did she get there?"
He was delighted, partly, to see the familiar calm of logic settle briefly over Quinn as she went back over the current events, her mind sorting through impressions with skill and finesse.
I don't know how I ever chose to stand against her.
Locke knew he'd have to brief her on what he knew, as well. That there was a very real, very tangible bounty on her head of five million — one that made tracking her and her allies down a very lucrative opportunity. Outside of the Agency's official protection, it pretty much made Quinn the target of most criminal scumbags chasing a profit.
"It's my fault, if she's in trouble." Quinn said it quiet enough that Locke almost didn't catch it.
"It's not," came his immediate reply, " — and I'm betting Kat would tell you the same, if she were here."
Their eyes met. Locke's was calm, still, while a million thoughts swirled in Quinn's head. They were silenced, however, when the sound of a key turning in a lock reached their ears. Head snapping around to face the door, Locke had his gun drawn from his shoulder holster, aimed at the door, within seconds. Quinn had backed, arm half-reaching for the wooden block of knives in Kat's kitchen.
But the person stepping through the door was no enemy, but a tired looking ballet dancer.
"Gav-no!," cried Kat, noting the drawn weapons, face turning white. Her arms shot up, palms facing Quinn and Locke, the keys clattering to the ground in turn. The Russian curse was repeated, again, as Kat's eyes swept the apartment.
Then they landed on Quinn. They darted back to Locke, then returned swiftly to Quinn.
"Kiska," Kat started, eyes narrowing, " — mind explaining to me what the hell is going on here?"
"Gavin, the weapon." Quinn said, rounding the table carefully before her hand landed on his shoulder. He eased off, the gun swiftly ending up back in its holster.
"I apologize, Katya." Locke's quiet words made Kat nod very slightly, fear a ball in her stomach.
Then she noted her friend's hand on his shoulder, and an understanding swept through her.
"Where were you?" Quinn asked, moving past Locke and toward her friend, " — I was worried sick."
"I - I ran late." Kat stuttered slightly, confused to the insistent tone in her friend's voice, " — Quinn, what is it with you?"
Quinn reached around her friend, engulfing her in a quick hug.
"You smell like bloody shit, Kat," sniffled Quinn quietly.
But, by God, am I glad you are alright.
Kat laughed slightly, returning the hug, before she removed Quinn's hands from her shoulders, then took a long, hard look at her friend. From her brief observation, she could see that Quinn was alright. The rugged man seated by her dinner table, the man with the ice-cold grip on a deadly weapon, hadn't hurt her.
Questions needed to be asked. For now, Kat put aside the volatile argument her and Quinn had had earlier.
"Who is the man who pointed a gun at me from my own dinner table?" asked Kat, brows furrowing as she aimed a frosty look his way. He didn't budge an inch, merely glancing to Quinn as if following her lead on this one.
"It's Special Agent Locke." Came Quinn's careful reply.
Kat's brows shot up, "The shithead who hassles you during briefings?"
A quick, brief smile crossed Gavin's face. It drew even Kat's attention, who marvelled at how his hard features changed with such a brief expression.
"He was," started Quinn, briefly regretting that she'd divulged that information to her friend, " — now he's the only Agent helping me."
"If he's from the Agency, how are you sure he's not here to kill you?" Kat's voice was low, quiet, but Locke heard it nonetheless.
"You can't be."
It was Locke who replied, voice dark. He had straightened up, leaning back against the table with muscled arms crossed above his chest. Dark eyes glimmered as he met Kat's arctic look.
"However you look at it," Locke continued, " — I am sure that the two of us are here for the same reason."
Quinn, standing a few steps in front of the ice-cold Special Agent, didn't see how his dark eyes flickered briefly to rest on her. Kat noticed it, though. She gave him a terse nod, though tension didn't completely ease out of her body.
"Why did you take so long to get back?" asked Quinn, " — you were supposed to be here earlier."
"My friend had car troubles, so I loaned her my car." Kat explained, " — I took a cab, but it took extra time to find one."
Quinn nodded, eased off. Her heart had been a frenzied jackhammer of worry for the past minutes, fearing the worst for her dear friend. If Kat was in trouble because of her, then ... then Quinn wouldn't know what to do. How to act.
I'm not going to let that happen.
"How come he's here?" Kat asked, inclining her head toward Locke, "How did he find you?"
Quinn shook her head, "Long story. I'll tell you over some late dinner, if you're up to it."
Quinn knew the two of them needed to sit down and talk face-to-face more than ever, especially considering the abrupt way they'd ended their argument before Kat had gone off to her recital. Quinn had felt the weight of her own words quadruple in the brief moments she'd believed Kat's delay to be something else.
"Sounds good," Kat replied. The two friends shared a soft smile. Locke looked at the interaction, felt that the conversation facing the friends was something he was not privy to, and not a welcome part of.
Pushing away from the table, Locke reached for his phone. He had a call to make.
"Is there any place I can make a private call?" asked Locke, eyes resting on Kat's face. She looked at him closely, still weighing whether or not she ought to trust him. Quinn seemed to trust him, and so Kat was more inclined to trust her judgment.
Though I'm pretty sure where that trust comes from. Kat's mind went back to the reassuring hand Quinn had placed without second thought on Locke's shoulder.
"There is," replied Kat, " — my walls are quite thin, but the roof might work. No one goes up there."
Locke nodded, "Lead the way."
*
Special Agent Gavin Locke rarely hesitated. Now, though, he found that he was hesitating — finger hovering over a familiar cell phone number. He thought of the analyst sitting a few floors down, speaking to a friend whose loyalty surpassed kill orders and accusations of betrayal.
A chilly wind swept around the rooftop, ruffling the soft locks of Gavin's hair as he stared down at his phone.
No use in hesitating.
Swiftly, he pressed the number. The dial tone started, and so he pressed the phone to his ears. His eyes tracked the silhouette of Prague, following the wisps of inky smoke from various chimneys steadily climbing up to a star-dappled dark night sky. The moon blinked, half-full yet bright. There was the constant noise a city always makes, as well — the sound of a car horn, shouting, the jovial laughter of over-refreshed revelers.
None of that registered, however, when the voice picked up.
"Is it my partner I see calling me?"
It seemed that Special Agent Imani Sarraf was more than pissed over Locke's shenanigans with her spineless informant, one Malcolm Shakesby. Locke chose to respond in a more curt tone:
"Sarraf. Great to hear your voice."
"Wish I could say the same. Though, now I get the opportunity of asking you why the bloody hell you've gone around slamming my informants into bars."
Locke started pacing slowly, heading for the edge of the rooftop. Instead of drawing Imani into the turbulent whirlwind his mind had gone through during the past few days, he chose to keep it simple. He doubted Sarraf would appreciate a longer explanation, either way, if the barely restrained anger in her voice was anything to go by. Any man worth his salt knew fear whenever that temper of hers snapped.
"I was wrong, and I saw a way to make it right." Came Locke's response.
"Could you be a little more vague, please?" The sarcasm rang true, even across hundreds of miles.
"We both operate on instinct, Sarraf. Probably more than we ought to, according to the Agency. I'm doing that now."
"You're doing that, where exactly?"
Locke remained silent, watched another twirling round of smoke makes it round from chimney to sky.
"You're not telling me. I thought us Agents ought to have each others' back, Locke." Sarraf sighed, " — though I guess you chose to ignore that when you went after my informant."
"If you were in my position, you'd do the same."
"The argument of an idealist," snapped Sarraf, " — and not an excuse good enough. Locke, you son of a bitch, if I'm right about where you are ... you're blowing my bloody mission."
Her voice turned frosty. Arctic. Locke could almost feel it crawling out of his phone, ice forming where her words struck.
"There is no mission, Sarraf." Locke started, " — because I don't think the Agency's right on this one."
"You don't think," repeated Sarraf, " — well, that part's correct."
Locke closed his eyes, tipped his head back. He knew he deserved to go through this, and a hell of a lot more, but reasoning with any Special Agent who was good enough often led nowhere. The argument between instinct and intelligence was one that often arose within the Agency, and it was one he'd waged himself many times.
Against Quinn O'Reilly a good number of them, too.
"If I'm not wrong, you were the one who pushed for this." Sarraf's tone was flat now, revealing nothing, " — at least that's what I've been told."
"And I was wrong, Sarraf."
So, so wrong.
"Big words from Special Agent Locke," replied Imani.
"And not without reason." Gavin opened his eyes, stepped closer to the ledge of Kat's apartment building's rooftop, " — you're one of the best, Sarraf. Your instinct can't be telling you this is the right way to go."
"It doesn't matter, because it's the way I've been ordered to go. You know damn bloody well kill orders don't leave much in terms of flexibility."
"I'd say that depends on the Special Agent."
"Easy there, Locke." Sarraf's tone turned into a warning, " — you don't want to enter that discussion with me."
Gavin glanced down at the busy street, eyes tracking the movements of a few straggling pedestrians. One man lit a cigarette, while a couple on two bikes whizzed by him moments later.
Sighing into the receiver, Sarraf started speaking again after the brief silence that'd settled:
"We've worked together a lot, Locke. If it were any other business, we'd be good colleagues."
"Most likely," replied Locke, a touch of humor to his voice.
"However, I can't go against a kill order. I can't turn on the Agency."
Locke had been expecting as much. Sarraf was loyal, to a fault, though she would never wish to risk her profitable job on the same notions he'd had when he had chosen to go against his orders, take time off, and hunt a certain analyst down.
"If the moment came where I held the gun, aimed at O'Reilly ... I'd pull it, Locke. It's my job."
"It would also be your mistake." Locke replied.
He'd known Sarraf for years. They'd worked missions together, spent many hours during briefings together — they respected each other about as much as two Special Agents could. It seemed that Sarraf was also thinking of that trust, that respect, when she next spoke:
"We know each other well enough to realize the other won't budge. My decision is mine, and its final." Sarraf paused.
Locke's heart hammered in his throat.
"I will, however, give you this." Sarraf paused again, only briefly.
Through the phone, Locke could hear the shuffling of papers, before Imani chose to speak again.
"Consider this a professional courtes. The only one you're getting, you bloody weasel."
"It was never in doubt," replied Locke, a slight smile crossing his face.
"You already know of the bounty on Quinn's head." Sarraf's tone had turned flat, factual, " — but Shakesby recently let me know that there's been a lead on her whereabouts."
"How come?" Locke's tone had turned cold, now. Frosty. It was a skill Special Agents possessed, the acting required to switch from casual to cold within moments, choosing to don the persona of a contracted killer when it was required of them.
"CCTV cameras caught O'Reilly exiting a shooting range in Prague, as well as the vehicle used to pick her up."
Locke's heart bloody near stopped.
"Don't know how they found that out, but apparently the information was distributed along with a reminder of the bounty just tonight. Shakesby told me it was all done by an anonymous individual."
Grimacing, Locke clutched the phone harder. He felt anger simmer, at himself, at the Agency.
"It's all I'll give you, Locke."
"Professional courtesy, I am aware." Locke felt distant as he replied.
"I look forward to putting one in your leg when I see you in the field." Sarraf said, tone light.
"And I look forward to putting one in your arm." Locke's reply came quickly, habitually.
They hung up in unison.
But Locke was already halfway across the roof, heading for the staircase down again. He didn't have quite the criminal underworld contacts that Sarraf had, and knew that Shakesby's information usually proved true.
If this, too, was true ... it meant that every scumbag in Europe would be heading for the address of the owner of that vehicle, caught on CCTV.
Locke reached the door to Kat's apartment minutes later, shouldering it open swiftly. He let it fall shut behind him, eyes scouting the living room. He'd expected Quinn and Kat to remain seated around the dining table, but they were both hunched around a corner of it, staring at something out of Gavin's point of view.
"O'Reilly — " Gavin started, " — we need to talk."
When Quinn turned around, however, there was little of Quinn in her face. Her eyes had gone almost vacant, face slack and pale.
Shock, Locke thought. He moved across the living room swiftly, stopping in front of her. Gently, he angled her chin up with one careful hand, eyeing her expression. She blinked, swiftly.
"Quinn, talk to me."
She shook her head, reached up with her own hands to press them against the bridge of her nose. Stress, anger, sadness — it played out in a bizarre mix across her face, though she chose to communicate it by angling her head to the table, where Kat remained still.
There was a phone propped on the dining table, playing a dark video. Locke peered at it, wished briefly for his glasses, then moved closer.
It showed a person bound in a chair, blood running down the side of her face. Matted hair formed a sweaty mess on the side of her head where the bleeding stemmed from. She wore training attire, though some of it was sullied by dirt and other wounds. She'd been gagged, as well, eyes wide and terrified.
A person stepped in front of the camera, speaking directly at it. From the tone, the silhouette, at least Locke concluded it was a man.
"Quinn O'Reilly —" He started, " — we have Katya Ivanov. Come to this address within 24 hours, or she dies."
Quinn sank down to the table, eyes plastered on that video. Kat sat beside her, eyes cold.
It seemed the friend who'd borrowed Kat's car had borrowed more than a vehicle.
She'd unknowingly borrowed a death sentence.
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a/n: a bit of a longer update today, hope you enjoyed that :) i will post a list of qotc below. thank you so much for 100 votes on the last chapter! it really made me ridiculously happy to see. hope you all stay safe + healthy.
qotc:
1. poor friend of kat's ... think they'll save her?
2. what do we think of locke's interaction with sarraf?
3. will sarraf ever turn her back on the agency?
4. hmm, wonder how that info leaked to the criminal underworld. ... how come?
xo, cleo
ps. 2020 has brought with it a bunch of crazy developments. in these uncertain times, it's crucial for all of us to educate ourselves on what's going on. #blm