Special Agent | ✓

Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

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Quinn couldn't hide her surprise at the looks of the building. She'd sidled along the edges of facades for the entire street on which it lay, shoulder brushing against worn brick and paint peeling off houses. One hand had firmly clutched the strap of her bag, anxious glances toward it to make sure she still had her gun. Something made the hairs on the back of her neck rise — something brushed along her spine, made unease prickle through her soul.

You can't back out now, O'Reilly. Do it for Kent. Do it for Cam.

Pushing forward, Quinn kept her eyes firmly plastered on the building in question. It was easily identified, as its house number hung from the outside in the form of large, bronze letter. They swung lightly in the breeze, announcing the address proudly for everyone passing by. Not that anyone was passing by, though — the street was largely deserted, save for Quinn.

Despite the meagre looks of the surroundings, the building itself kept her attention in its snare. It was weirdly polished, windows glossy, metal furnishings oiled. It look well-kept.

Say it. It looks operational. It looks like everything but a front.

Quinn moved to the door, let her hand rest on the door handle. She pressed down — it swung open. A lump lodged itself in her throat, one she forcefully shoved aside. She wasn't surprised — she'd suspected as much from the looks of the building.

Inside was a neatly furnished lobby. Brushed, white walls were adorned with tasteful (or tasteless, depending on how one viewed art) minimalistic posters, while green plants climbed out of clay pots in various corners. A silent AC hummed in the background, the indoor air retaining a comfortable chill, a welcome contrast from the otherwise sticky, venetian heat.

There was no one beyond the front desk. There was, however, a lone bell resting on the corner, for customers who wished to call on whoever the receptionist was here.

Quinn moved past the bell, ignoring it. She'd be an idiot if she thought that announcing her presence was a good idea — and she made her living on not being an idiot, so she knowingly sidestepped the entire front desk. There were no obvious security cameras trained at the front room, but Quinn knew better — they'd most likely be hidden, tucked away in the folds of furnishings, disguised in clever places.

Moving through the quiet lobby, Quinn aimed for an open doorway leading to the back of the building. She passed beneath it, cringed and slowed as the wood creaked beneath her. When nothing moved, she continued forward. A few steps beyond that, straight through a barren hallway, was a closed door.

She heard nothing but her own soft breathing, her hands whispering across the fabric of her bag as she dug down for her gun. Cold, unflinching metal touched her fingers, and some of her anxiety eased, allowing for breathing room.

Come on, Quinn.

Quinn stepped closer to the door, hands closing around the handle. Then she wrenched it open, found it swung inward. Stumbling inside, Quinn stopped right inside of the doorway. A wide-eyed, terrified man sat behind a large oak desk, eyes trained on her.

He mumbled something in Italian, to which Quinn cocked her head.

Should've taken those lessons in Italian, you bloody moron.

"Who are you?" repeated the man again, but in accented English. He straightened his tie, brushed down his hair. His throat cleared, and he repeated himself.