+18 - eps 28-32 - On the sixth installment of the Blackbird series, Cassidy sends Gillian and her team with Brock and Russel to Tampa, Florida, to look into the death of a girl while winter storm Jonas beats the East Coast. But this seemingly ordina...
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Gillian tiptoed out of Connor's bedroom and left the door ajar. Kurt and Tanya were at their hotel, still working, and the rest of the team watched the building. So the living area of the apartment was quiet, lit only by a foot lamp by the couch and the light under the kitchen cupboard. Brock stood by the window, scanning the empty street. He'd taken off his suit coat, so the holster hanging from his belt was visible. He glanced away from the window and saw her quick smile as she approached him.
"They're both asleep," she said.
Brock only nodded, eyes out the window again.
"You sure you don't want me to send Connor to my room?"
"No, it's okay. You said there are two beds in his room."
"Yes."
Brock nodded again, ignoring the hint of irony in her voice. She came closer and he stepped back to let her look out too.
"That's Ron's rental," she said. "Where's the detail?"
"I dismissed them."
She turned to him, arching her eyebrows.
Brock never thought he'd come to say the words, but he did now. And they were true. "I trust your team better. Morris on the roof with Bellison's scanner, and Bellison and Schwarz keeping the doors are much safer than any random detail."
Gillian's smile reflected how much she liked to hear him say that.
"Fancy something to drink, hot or cold, sir?" she asked, stepping away from the window—actually, from him and his damn cologne, which tried to pull from her to step even closer to him.
"Whatever you're having, thanks," he replied, fighting his own battle. She'd let her hair down and a rebel lock had just escaped from behind her ear. It seemed to scream for Brock to brush it gently back in place.
He'd been able to relax a little over the last hour. After Tanya and Kurt left, Andrea and Connor moved their TV binge and their constant chattering to the boy's room. Then he checked on the punks at their posts, confirmed they controlled any access to the apartment and realized he wasn't on edge anymore. Gillian was right when she'd said Graff was feeling the pressure and it made him sloppy. But that only meant he'd never been more dangerous. He was a powerful man, used to have things go always his way, with countless connections in every circle of influence he might need, from the highest political ones to rogue low-lives willing to do anything for a roll of bills. Even so, he found himself relaxed enough to need rubbing his fingertips together, to keep them from touching Gillian.
"I'm checking on them," he said, his hand rebelling when he made it point at the front door.
"I'll fix your tea," she replied softly, a warm smile pursing her lips.
Which kicked him out the door like a donkey. He traded a nod with Hank, who sat on the first step of the flight of stairs going down, phone and gun in his hands, apparently reading. Brock started up the stairs. The building had only four floors, and two flights of stairs to the roof and some fresh air seemed what he needed to get a grip on himself and stay focused.
Fred had found a spot to have the whole block in sight that allowed him to stay almost invisible. Brock only saw him because the sniper waved at him. The night was colder than he expected, so he lingered there only a couple of minutes. Back to the third floor, he didn't think of knocking to let Gillian know he was coming in.
As he opened the door, he heard something shattering at the kitchen and Gillian cursing under her breath.
He crossed the living area in three strides. "You okay?"
She nodded as she opened the faucet. He saw a broken cup on the counter. One of her fingers bled onto the sink, as she pressed it under the water.
