Hatched

Chapter Eleven

June 30th, 2021

0030 hours

Quinn rubbed a weary hand over his eyes, glancing at the small digital clock on the stand near him, which read twelve-thirty A.M.

He had been given a small, cramped room in a corner of the rig. It was filled to the ceiling with piles of paper-filled boxes, old appliances and out of date computers. Needless to say, he had only a very small desk and uncomfortable folding chair in a tiny square of the room in which to squeeze his six-foot two frame. It was comeuppance, he was sure, for how effortlessly he had reduced Lynne's confidence to nothing more than feasible ineptitude.

Though most agents would waste no time pouncing on the files hanging around him, he didn't feel any inclination to snoop through them. Upon entry, he merely glanced over them, as if observing a rather dull conversation. Experience had taught him that for someone to be so on edge like Ellis, she definitely had something to hide, and would have the foresight to not leave her secrets lying about in plain sight for the FBI to find.

Instead, he had plunged headfirst into countless records procured from various resources. Quinn never shared his confidants with anyone, in order to conceal their identities. His methods, while unconventional, were exceptionally effective, and the information solid, whether it came from witnesses under government protection or pardoned fugitives who were adept at espionage. Thus, due to the sensitive nature of his sources' identities, he was tight lipped. Because of his discretion and loyalty, many of his contacts worked with him, and him alone.

But here there was no inside informant, no one close, that could clue him in. The hours he sat, staring at the seemingly useless paperwork pilled around him, found him focusing on Lynne's damn desk. He needed in those drawers: it was pertinent that he gain access to those files. How he would achieve that, he had no idea. That horrid woman was probably sleeping in her office, guarding her veiled secrets.

Quinn was exceptionally skilled at getting access to whatever he wanted. Most of his fellow agents attributed his excellence to his astonishingly good looks. Though awkward in his youth, he had found that, through years of hard training and patience with the Bureau, his newfound prowess as an inarguably competent member of the male species had many benefits. Most of the time, he used his overwhelming charm and refined features to coerce others into spilling the secrets that even their secrets kept. With women, he simply walked into a room, secluded himself with her, and within minutes he knew every dirty detail of her life. More often than not, the conclusion to these meetings ended with dalliances over a few martinis.

He found, early on in his training, that men were just as easy to break as women. Most guys felt intimidated immediately upon him entering a room, which worked out almost as well as questioning a female, bereft of sexual benefits. Usually, he had them squawking like fraternity pledges after a couple pitchers of beer. On the rare occasion he found himself equally matched, he would offer a game of poker or billiards, the prize being a fully paid tab by the other member. Sometimes he threw in a quality Cuban. His dexterity at pool almost surpassed his witty banter and sexual appeal. Men came close to trouncing him, but Quinn never lost, and that was something he prided himself on.

Now, he thought Ellis was getting the best of him, and he couldn't have that.

A soft knock at the door raised his head. "Enter."

Gordon stuck his head into the small office. "Damn, Quinn." He said, making a face at the mess that greeted him. "She cooped you up good, didn't she?"

Quinn stretched, easing the tension in his back, muscles flexing slightly with relief. "I'll manage."