Special Agent | ✓

Forty-One

a/n: enjoy guys! wanted to update a little earlier.

Forty-One

—————

Special Agent Imani Sarraf was upset. Not that the coffee vendor guy at the airport had given her a cup of shitty coffee, but because her superior — Director Kimmel — had ensured that she would not be able to progress any more with the kill order without Special Agent Kent's permission.

They were to be partners. Sarraf liked to work alone. That was the issue at hand, and now she'd been ordered to ignore it.

Bloody hell.

Since obtaining the shitty coffee in question, Sarraf and Kent had stepped onto an Agency-owned jet which was due to ship them off to Prague. They'd found out where Quinn was hiding out, and Sarraf was more than certain it was the right way to go.

That is, if I didn't completely misinterpret my phone call with Locke.

The idiot had chosen to take the side against the Agency, which truly baffled Sarraf. They'd worked together a good while, shared similar instincts, but now she had chosen to go the route she'd been ordered to, while Gavin had escaped the rigid administration by taking personal leave.

Not that the Agency would believe it was personal leave much longer, if he continued insisting to take the side of their opponent.

"What's the game plan, Imani?"

Kent's voice was cool, relaxed. The light pink fabric of her satin skirt billowed over the airplane seat, creasing where it bent. A small, beige-colored luxury bag rested in her lab, while her fingers — topped with a French manicure — fiddled with the chain of her bag. Kent had chosen a soft-looking white shirt to tuck into her skirt, while a beige overcoat rested on her shoulders.

Imani, on the other hand, wore dark wash jeans, dark boots, and had tossed a cashmere sweater on because of the chilly airplane air. Because it was her favorite, she had not forgotten to put on her dark grey trench coat. And, because she didn't want Kent to stare her down the entire journey, a gold-tipped pair of shades rested on the bridge of her nose.

She peered at Kent through the seclusion of her shades, lips puckering lightly in thought. It wasn't the thought of what they were to do, because Imani already knew that. It was more the thought of how much she actually wanted to tell Kent.

As I said, I like working alone.

"The tech department ran the license plates of the car, and it matched one Katya Ivanov. We have a few listed addresses, so we'll check them out."

"I thought the tech department believed some of them were fronts?"

Kent's response made Sarraf direct a glare her way, though her shades kept it semi-hidden, at least to Cam.

"Yes, they did." Sarraf bit out, eyes switching back to stare out of the airplane's window, " — but we're still the ones who have to check them out."

Kent leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs as she regarded Sarraf.

"What if there was a way to narrow them down?"

"The tech guys said they couldn't actually be sure which addresses would be used." Sarraf replied, eyes swinging back to Cam, " — which, again, means we have to check them all out."

Kent rolled her eyes, running a frustrated hand through a mass of blonde curls tangling over one shoulder.

"The woman is a ballerina. I'm sure we could pull up the average salary and narrow some of them down. Ballerinas are elegant, and they practice several hours a week. Wherever she lives, it'll be tops 20 minutes from a rehearsal space, and in a neighborhood quiet and pretty enough for them to be satisfied."