Special Agent | ✓

Fourteen

FOURTEEN

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"Want to share with the rest of the group, O'Reilly?"

Gavin's gruff question had come right after they'd ended up back in the car, a safe distance away from La Lettre R. He hadn't wanted to ask before then, because O'Reilly was noticeably ruffled by her own presence in the club. Because it wouldn't be good for the mission if she gave a jumbled response.

Because you were worried.

Easing the car into a back, Locke anchored an arm around the passenger seat's backrest and smoothly rolled back. Quinn had tilted her head back, closing her eyes. There were crescent-shaped marks in the palms of her hands, blood vessels standing out starkly against the rest of her skin.

A light, soft sigh escaped Quinn. Then that look returned, right as Gavin snuck a glance her way — the calculating look. Her mind was working, and he could almost hear a mechanical, whirring sound as her eyes opened, turning hardened. A curtain of steel shuttered over her expression.

"Yeah. Right as I became Kent's primary, she was in Venice, working on the organized crime's ties to various corrupted officials. I handled the very end of the case, but it finished maybe a month after I became her partner."

"Successful?"

Quinn nodded, humming a yes.

"You don't sound sure." Gavin spun the wheel, the car rolling onto the adjacent street. His eyes shifted to Quinn, found her shoulders tense, mind once more whirring.

Would you look at that — the analyst's questioning herself.

"I was nervous that first month, so I don't remember much. We switched over to the next case pretty quickly — I had my hands full." Quinn glanced at them as if she was expecting to find a load of files resting in them, " — but I had a gut feeling."

Gavin kept quiet, glancing at the GPS. Their headlights cut through the murky dark of the Paris night, scattering the shadows as the car smoothly rolled through a curve. When Quinn didn't say anything else, Gavin spoke:

"And what'd your gut tell you?"

"Nothing, at first." Quinn sighed, eyes shifting to Gavin's, " — as I said, I didn't spend a lot of time on it. I just looked over the files when ... — "

Quinn paused, breathed. Her fist closed, nails digging into her palm.

" — when the previous primary went missing. Still is."

Gavin's hand stilled on the wheel, the next turn stiff. A passing biker waved an offensive gesture their way.

"Was there an investigation?"

"Obviously," Quinn replied, " — though not to the same extent as they go for you special agents." Her tone was considerably more bitter. Gavin's next words were uncharacteristically soft.

"Was it a friend of yours?"

Quinn nodded, stiff. She didn't have a lot of them, and Analyst Rhea Freeman had been a close ally and confidante during her first couple of months at the Agency. They were both also children of suboptimal families, having raised themselves mostly.

They'd spoke of it one day, over a cup of steaming coffee in a back-alley café in London.

"We've both had misfortunate childhoods, yet here we sit. What are the odds?" Quinn had said, while Rhea smiled lightly.