+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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**picture: South Boston
It looked like fall hadn't gotten the memo that it was up, so winter had just taken over. Not only because it rained all through the weekend, but also because the temperature dropped abruptly, forcing everybody to rummage their closets to search for warm clothes.
On Monday morning, while the window showed the freezing rain pouring down on Boston, Brock watched the forecast, having his morning tea. He hoped there were no new developments on the Maine case for at least a week. He'd already had his share of fall rains in the northern wild last year. And the forecast warned about polar air coming down, so the Canadian border might even see some early snow.
His phone buzzed and he sighed. Ten to one, Janowsky with news from the Portland agency.
Andrea? He frowned. Why would she text him on her way to school?
"Hey, Dad, can you please check on Reg? Connor moved out this weekend, and we're worried she might feel a little down. Thanks! Love you!"
He arched his eyebrows. Well, you see, dear, I've been the worst ass on earth with her last week, and the last thing she said to me was to leave her alone. He sighed again. "Okay," he typed.
But she only sent you away after telling you she loves you, Brockner. Or are you trying to forget that bit? No, never. He would never pretend it didn't happen.
He finished his tea and got ready to leave.
It hadn't come quite as a surprise, all things considered. Over the last few days, he'd been doing some late homework, collecting some recent memories, connecting some dots. And he was forced to face that had he not been so busy finding excuses to sulk—to avoid acknowledging he didn't only 'care about her'—he would've realized how she felt a couple of geological ages ago.
What had taken him completely aback was that she would admit it. Because if there was something Gillian kept under seven keys and surrounded by a minefield, that was her emotions. She was always very open about how she felt about everyday things. But she had the funny idea that her deeper emotions, if exposed, would mean some kind of weakness. And she just couldn't bear the thought of anybody thinking she was weak. That made her take any hint of sympathy as pity, which caused her to shut down completely.
So such a blunt confession from her was the last thing he'd ever expected. Well, had he ever expected her having any kind of feeling for him—which sounded just so dumb now.
Brock sighed yet again. She was so upset. He shouldn't have cornered her like that. It was the worst moment to have any kind of personal conversation. And that was all on him. Now, no matter how hard it would be, he could only let time do what it did best for most people: pass, ease, heal. But no matter how long it took, he'd keep fresh in his mind those two words, like some kind of promise: Wednesday breakfast. As every time he thought of them, his lips pursed at the brink of a smile.
He drove into the field office parking lot, a little surprised he'd gotten there so fast. A glance at the dash clock told him he'd taken even a little longer than usual—he could blame that on the rain adding to the morning traffic. He stepped out of his car with a mocking scoff at himself. Grow up, Brockner. You're a little too old to lose track of time over thinking about the object of your desire.
At the fourth floor, on his way to his office, he stopped by the tech section, where Brandon and his colleagues worked. He paused at the door, surprised at what seemed more like a rebel teen's room than an office. And he'd called the punks' office 'a cave'? All the techs worked with earphones on, their nodding heads giving away what kind of music they were listening to. He had to go up to Brandon's desk and poke his shoulder.
The tech jumped with a jolt, which startled the other techs like a chain reaction. When Brandon swallowed his heart, and was able to utter an intelligible word, he muttered, "Agent Brockner. Sorry, sir, you startled me."
Brock showed him the tattoo pictures. "Can you search if there's anything in our databases about this particular tattoo?"
Brandon flashed an apologetic grimace. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. But right now we're all working on a backup and update Agent Cooper's been requesting for weeks."
"Don't worry, then. Thanks." Maybe Tanya was available? How could he find out without going to the fifth floor?
"Here, Bran, this is the—morning, sir."
Brock turned around, concealing how glad he was at Tanya's providential appearance. She handed a flash drive to Brandon, but her eyes were caught by the pictures in Brock's hands.
"This is the new... the firewall... Looking into white supremacy tattoos, sir?" she asked, trying to sound polite and not curious at all.
Brock remembered to wear a proper blank scowl when he nodded. "Yes, this particular one. But looks like all our techs are too busy."
"Oh...," she muttered. "Well, I'm not working on anything right now, sir... I can see what I can find... If you want..."
"You sure you have the time to do it?"
Tanya replied with an eager nod. "Yes, sir!"
"Shouldn't we check with Gillian first?" And he might get a chance to see her?
"Don't worry, I'll tell her."
And if Gillian fired her for fraternizing with the enemy, he would claim her as her steady tech. Win-win. "Thanks," he said, and gave her the pictures. "Please email me or Coleman anything you may find."
"Yessir!"
Brock nodded again and left. Back to the hallway, he flashed the smile he'd been fighting.
