Hatched

Chapter Thirty-Five

July 3rd, 2021

2000 hours

Garcia sighed heavily and tucked into another drink, wearily rubbing the wrinkles between his eyes. Robyn had left the bar hours ago, and somehow, he'd been coerced into a game of chess with Quinn. He didn't even like the guy, but he figured it was a decent distraction until Gordon returned with the office supplies.

Garcia grunted, wondering why it was taking so long, while contemplating the incompetency of the FBI. To not even bring their own materials, they must have been rushed to the scene, unable to properly prepare.

That was another thing irking him: how they had known what happened, and why they were interested in a death way out on an oil rig, was puzzling. Sure, FBI would have jurisdiction, but it wasn't as though dead bodies had been cropping up all over the coast. Unless they had, and Quinn was withholding very important information: which, Garcia reminded himself, he most likely was.

The whole thing was unsettling, and in his heart, he knew there wouldn't be a happy ending to this. So, despite his contempt for the agent, he'd agreed to play a round. Garcia worked his lips in concentration, finally making a move, and Shepp grunted beside him as he watched.

"Wrong move?" He grunted back, looking to the agent. Shepp turned the corners of his mouth down, shaking his head.

"Some poker face you got there." Garcia joked, feeling more chummy.

The bell over the door tinkled, indicating a new arrival. He glanced up, his gaze meeting Gordon's, and he nodded in greeting. The agent shuffled in, arms awkwardly cradling a stack of supplies. He dropped a pack of pencils and cursed, squatting oddly to retrieve them.

"I'll get it." Garcia grumbled, standing too suddenly, his knees cracking loudly in protest.

Quinn's eyes shot up over the chess board. "You should look into that, Lieutenant."

"Shut up, you overly pampered stooge." Garcia shot back, though more playfully than he would in the past. Despite his resentment toward them, the agents were growing on him, if simply for the fact they were in this shit storm together.

He walked stiffly toward Gordon, kneeling to gather the materials. "How'd your shopping trip go?"

"About as well as you seem to be doing on your chess match." Gordon observed with amusement, jerking his head toward the board. "Quinn is kicking your ass."

Garcia laughed, the first true laugh he'd had in a long time. "He's a freak. I don't know how someone can hold so much intelligence in one brain. Remember, though, somebody has to sit game two. Hope it isn't you."

"Eh, I'm use to it." Gordon helped Garcia straighten, and they trudged to the table, dumping the office supplies on the booth.

Quinn frowned indignantly. "Just because we happen to be in a brothel, doesn't mean you have to act like inbred ingrates."

Garcia raised a brow. "What crawled up your butt? You know what, don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"Your last move is proving to be problematic." Quinn squinted in concentration, leaning forward on his elbows. "You might have me cornered, here."

"Damn." Garcia smiled, lips pulling crookedly over his teeth. "That makes me feel better."

Quinn shot him a scowl. "I'm sure."

"I'm starved." Shepp admitted, as a loud rumbling issued from his stomach. Garcia realized he, too, was famished, having eaten nothing all day. Perhaps it would behoove him to get some grub, and maybe soak up the copious amounts of alcohol he intended to consume. What he'd had so far was not easing the tension that had built up over the last few days, and while he wasn't sure more would, it was worth a shot.