Special Agent | ✓

Fifty-Three

a/n: first chapter of the finale ! get excited peeps. 

Fifty-Three

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It was really hard to travel internationally when your cargo was a half-conscious man who left every surface nearby covered by a steady drip of blood.

"Cheer up, mate."

Sarraf's advice seemed to fall on deaf ears as Davidson moaned something unintelligible.

Imani had had to jump through a variety of legal loopholes in order to even get him out of Prague in the sorry state he was in, not to mention the struggle of shoving his body through the airport and onto a plane.

Really, he should be grateful he's not awake for this.

She had cursed the Agency a number of times since she'd gotten Davidson to talk. There was a slim chance, nearly nonexistent, of them loaning her the jet just so she could transport home one of their own under duress.

Not that Davidson really was one of their own, after all. And, to be fair, he was probably the least controversial cargo she would bring along.

Aiming a frosty look his way, Sarraf propped her boots onto the plush leather seat across from her. She'd gotten her hands on a plane, all right, though it'd been through a shady underground contact who'd been brought to her attention through Shakesby, the spineless snitch.

She'd wrapped Special Agent Davidson like an early Eid-gift, tying his wrists with zip ties hard enough for the plastic to cut into his skin. He had been slipping in and out of a semi-conscious state since they had first boarded the plane, though Sarraf had done little to nothing to actually keep him conscious. As far as she was concerned, delivering him alive was the best she could and would do.

"You should be grateful, Scott, that you're still alive." Sarraf flicked a piece of lint off her coat, aimed another look his way. "I'm not sure how long that'll last, though, considering the passengers we're picking up soon."

They had first mulled the idea of Sarraf touching down at the Calais-Dunkerque Airport, but the idea had quickly been shot down by one of the passengers they were due to pick up — namely, Quinn and Gavin.

Sarraf had been startled, though not entirely surprised, when her phone had started ringing, the screen displaying Gavin's number. It hadn't been Gavin speaking, though, but instead the analyst she'd first set off to kill.

Not that Sarraf was aiming to kill her, any longer. Davidson had spilled it all through some friendly persuasion on Imani's part, and now Sarraf had sunk into a cool anger, fingers itching to wrap around Kent's throat.

She cared little for people without morals, without loyalty.

The turn of events had, in the end, proved that Quinn had more of those qualities than several of the Special Agents she'd once called colleagues. Sneering, Sarraf kicked at Davidson's shin.

"I hope you can manage to scrape up whatever intelligence you have in that head of yours, Scott, and do the right thing at the end of all this."

Instead of replying, his head lolled limply as the plane shook through a bout of turbulence. Sarraf sighed, fingers tapping impatiently against her thigh.

As soon as they touched down in London, things would happen in quick succession. It would be required of them to move swiftly, without hesitation, if they wanted to resolve this mess once and for all.

Quinn had been the brain behind the plan, explaining it in rapid fire rate over the phone to Sarraf, who had hunted down the private plane the moment they hung up. And now both Imani and her unfriendly passenger were due back to London.