Special Agent | ✓

Eleven

ELEVEN

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Jacques got them a cab. Quinn had winced as she climbed inside, though the pain had been dulled by the strong shot of whiskey Ryonne had poured down her throat the moment she'd been notified of the car bomb. It was hard to miss when it was literally on the porch of her social club, which Quinn and Gavin had visited only minutes before they were blasted into the pavement.

The cab was not a regular cab, as it was one of Jacques' private chauffeurs who smoothly commandeered one of many expensive Hypatia vehicles. Class oozed from the leather, to the point where Quinn felt slightly uncomfortable at her unravelled, scorched self even touching the seats.

After the bomb had gone off, Ryonne had had a minor breakdown. She'd shaken Quinn's shoulders, anxiously asking her who had followed them, until Quinn managed to reassure her they were fine. Locke had dialled the Director directly, informing her of the updates. Quinn hadn't listened to the conversation, though she'd seen a scowl forming on Locke's face.

Now, though, he was expressionless.

Gavin had tilted his head back against the headrest, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell evenly. The relaxed look on his face was unfamiliar to Quinn, so she averted her eyes. Instead, she jostled her phone from her pocket, intending to call Adina. She'd want to know.

Pressing her contact info, Quinn leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The phone dialled, then a familiar low tone greeted her.

"O'Reilly. How's Paris?"

Quinn sighed softly, mindful of the resting agent beside her. It wasn't likely that he was sleeping (she'd never seen a special agent fully, wholly relaxed) but she didn't want to disturb him, either way.

A brief image of him pushing her to the ground, hovering over her as the car exploded, flashed through her mind. Quinn shoved it aside, eyes following the passing streetlights.

"It's — I'm not sure how much Kimmel told you."

"She told me that Lorber's dead." A pause. A heartbeat passed, but it seemed Tibble didn't want to continue her train of thought.

"Yeah. She sent a forensic team, they'll try to figure out what .. —" Quinn swallowed, heavily, " — what went wrong."

She was familiar with violence. Accustomed to it. Worked with it — much like Agent Locke worked with death. Despite Quinn's own experiences, she was unused to the sight of a life so carelessly extinguished, someone's soul so brazenly discarded.

Lorber's stiff body passed through her mind, the stench of dried blood and clotting wounds making her want to scrunch her nose and hold her breath.

"This is bad," said Adina instead. Her voice was calm, level. It anchored Quinn to the present, " — you're going to have to collaborate with Locke for God knows how long now. How's he taking the intelligence work?"

Quinn resisted the urge to snort, "Alright, for an agent." Her words remained quiet. She steeled herself, reigned in another sigh, "Chief Tibble, you should know this — a car bomb went off in our vehicle around 15 minutes ago."

Adina went quiet. Ice seemed to anchor itself into the phone, creeping into Quinn's head.

"We made it, thanks to pure luck, but ..." Quinn trailed off, cast another glance Locke's way. Shadows passed over his cheekbones, draping his face in passing darkness, " — but it's bad. It means people are already after us."