Special Agent | ✓

Eight

EIGHT

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They were on a plane within the hour. The Agency-owned private jet had its own take-off strip of concrete, and Special Agent Locke could drive the two of them right up to the plane. No questions asked, as the Agency tended to sever most regular red tape. No one wanted to go against an organization such as them.

Quinn ducked into the plane, hastily tossing her duffle into the overhead compartment. Though Locke remained two steps behind her, she felt as if he were breathing down her neck. He'd acted exactly as she'd thought he would — arrogant, belittling. Quinn was certain he'd had that scowl tattooed, making it a permanent part of his facial architecture.

Focus on the mission, Quinn. You're here for Cam's sake — not this hothead.

With that in mind, Quinn opened her laptop. Agency-owned planes had wifi, at least enough for her to access some of the documents she'd downloaded for the trip. Locke moved, shifting in his seat. Quinn's eyes jumped to his, meeting a hooded stare.

"What are you doing?" His voice was low, almost rough.

"Skimming Lorber's mission reports." Quinn paused, hesitating before she continued, " — I was wondering why she went offline."

Propping an elbow on his armrest, Gavin stretched his legs. He'd occupied the seat across from her, as if he purposefully wanted to laser two holes through her face by studying her the entire flight. Locke moved, remained silent for a heartbeat. Then he spoke.

"Sometimes agents go offline to gather especially sensitive intel for their mission." Quinn's eyes jumped to his again, stilling on her keyboard. A flicker of something indefinable passed over Locke's expression, "It's not that uncommon."

"Doesn't protocol require them to inform their primaries first?"

"Not if they're offline a short while. One or two days, at most." Broad shoulders shrugged, and the scowl had lifted briefly to answer her question.

OK, I can do this — work talk, no problem.

Yet Quinn found that the words choked and died in her throat before she could formulate them. Frowning, she returned to skimming Lorber's mission report. Special Agent Kione Lorber had been tracking two Mafia officials, who'd gone out of their way to attend a few meetings in Paris. They'd remained there for several months at this point, making themselves especially vulnerable. It was why Lorber had been deployed — they needed more padding for a future case, and so she'd tailed them during their stay.

Eyes flickering to Locke, Quinn saw he'd leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. If only, Quinn thought enviously. Though she was fatigued to her bone, she was too wired to lay back and rest — not when she had intelligence to comb through, possibilities to weigh and consider. She'd drawn a list of possible enemies to Kent.

She's not dead. I refuse to believe it.

Quinn knew it was stupid of her to wish for the best, but protocol usually called for agents to press the emergency beacon whenever they felt threatened and needed immediate backup. If they suspected they were about to be offed, they'd press the beacon and the Agency would send in backup. The only reason the Director and her Chiefs were hesitating at the moment was due to the last emergency beacon issued by a special agent — when backup finally arrived, it had been much too late. They shouldn't expect to arrive and find Kent dead, which was why Quinn was pushing her mental capabilities to the limit and scanning thousands of documents for the right sort of information.