#youlikeit - BLACKBIRD book 1

9. when the music's over

Nobody even thought of counting Brock for the shifts to watch over Gillian and Aldana. Hank took their blood samples and left, while Ron placed an armchair between their beds and sat there with a book and a coffee. Fred took the second shift and Russell the third.

Brock knew there was no point in doing any more than telling them to call him in case they needed him, and went to bed. Not to sleep, not yet. Resting in the dark, he went over what had happened. And he admitted to himself that both Hank and Ron were right—he'd underestimated Gillian and Aldana for being women. Well, no, not underestimated them. It was more like a protective instinct, deeply rooted in him, to never let women take the frontline in the fight. But this team didn't seem to consider details like gender: they were all frontline fighters when it came to it.

Had the procedure taken place when he was young, he'd be up and writing down his thoughts about it, and mostly about them. How they seemed to have a hidden switch, to turn their punk mode off when they had to, and become the unexpectedly focused and efficient professionals he'd seen in action. How they were aware of their elite status, yet accepted being stuffed in a backroom and out of the way—well, he could relate to that, in a way. And how they didn't actually trust anybody outside the team. The fact that Schwarz was waiting for them at the hotel, ready to take Gillian's blood to test both samples himself, was more than explicit. And after reading about all the criticism they bore from one of the political factions in their Department, it was easy to understand it was their only way to stay on their feet and get results to sustain their frail position.

Russell was an exception because they clearly considered him one of them. And Ron had allowed Brock to take care of Gillian only because he knew she respected Brock. Else, they wouldn't have let him anywhere near her. Yet Ron had warned him to not underestimate her, or them, ever again. And he was not bragging, nor exaggerating, but stating a fact: we're the best of them, she's the best of us. Period.

Brock fell asleep slowly, accepting the toll of such a long day.

Gillian woke up about seven-thirty. Daylight touched her window and Russell drowsed in the armchair between the beds, Aldana's hand in his.

She lingered in bed a little longer, not feeling at all like getting up. But the whiskey and the crap Bailey had injected her filled her mouth with a hideous aftertaste, so she finally forced herself out of bed and into the bathroom.

First she allowed her body to purge not only the whiskey, but also the stress still squeezing her belly like an iron fist. Then she rested against the tiles under the hot shower, for water to wash away the last traces of the night. Her tears ran along the steamy rain. It was good, letting it all out. It was healthy. It kept her sane.

She got dressed and tried to put some order to her hair. She thought she had to make an appointment with the hairdresser as soon as they were back to Boston, to get rid of that flashy red. Or maybe she should give it a couple of days, just to avoid showing her bruised face among such sensitive ladies.

She tiptoed to the door, hoping it was already breakfast time downstairs. She glanced at the other two and shook her head. Aldana was awake, but stayed still to keep holding Russell's hand.

"Reg?" muttered Russell behind her.

"I'm fine, Russ, I'm off for breakfast," Gillian whispered. "So feel free to take a nap or whatever you fancy. Don't think Al's gonna have any problem, making room for you. Right, Al?"

"Go to hell," mumbled Aldana, her eyes closed.