Special Agent | ✓

Nine

NINE

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The car rolled to a stop. Outside, a straggle of pedestrians passed on the walkways. Cigarette butts littered the concrete pavement. Scraggly trees rose from the dirt, spiny branches attempting to carry the weight of the coming spring growth. A few clouds passed overhead, hiding the cheery blue of the spring sky.

It was one of those terraced houses. The exterior was a muted beige, in need of a repaint. Closed, shuttered windows lined the rest of the facade. Quinn looked at her screen, at the red, blinking dot signalling this was the building in question.

"It's not an apartment building," said Quinn, work-mode enabled, " — the tracker is signalling from the fifth floor. The top."

Gavin nodded, eyes shifting to the building. Quinn had noted a sudden shift in his attitude. Gavin Locke had gone from an annoyed, scowling man to an annoyed, scowling special agent. He moved with grave, swift but deadly, every movement precise. Locke's eyes were dark, narrowed — his look was sharp. Dangerous. The perfect word to describe what he exuded at the moment.

Quinn tore her eyes from his tense profile, shifting to her screen. Slowly, she closed the laptop. They'd parked in front of the house, the reserved parking lot empty. No surprise if one glanced at the appearance of the terraced house — it looked abandoned, forgotten.

Why on Earth would you be here, Kent?

The question hammered Quinn's mind as she stepped outside, the parisian sun scattering across her cheeks, the wind ruffling her hair. She slammed the door shut, heard the echo of Gavin doing the same. In quick strides, he rounded the hood.

"I'll go first. You stay right behind me, got it?" His tone didn't invite any arguments, and Quinn didn't have any. She'd be stupid to assume she had more field experience than one of the Agency's most specialized killers. Despite her and Gavin Locke's differences in both attitude, outlook on life and scowl frequency, she had to admit he was a bloody good special agent.

Not sure he'd echo that sentiment for your case, so let's keep that to ourselves.

Locke moved to the door. He wriggled the handle, found it open. His scowl morphed into a worried frown.

"Won't need the lock-pick, at least." He moved inside swiftly, angling his head ever so slightly to make sure Quinn followed. She closed the door behind them, noted the scratched wood, the chipped paint.

Gavin had already plucked his gun out of his holster, moving with quiet efficiency across the hallway. The house had five floors, connected through a central hallway which housed the staircase. It wrapped around itself on every new floor, reaching higher and higher until the house itself peaked — the fifth floor. It was all Quinn could glance from the city blueprints she'd 'acquired' before they went inside.

Quinn had her phone shoved in her pocket, and fished it out to glance at her screen. The tracker was still blinking steadily, displaying the location. The tech was good enough to signal it was on the fifth floor, though they didn't skip straight ahead. The house sounded, felt, empty — yet they didn't take any chances. They split up for seconds only, checking the rooms on the various floors.

All Quinn found was decay. There lay broken china dishes in some of the rooms, trails of spilled liquids lining the walls. Tables were upside down, legs broken as they stuck into the air. The air itself smelled wrong, as if it was sick.

Leaving the doors open after her, she checked the remaining rooms. No one. Gavin continued to the third floor, while Quinn followed. She held her Glock firmly, yet it felt as if she was shaking. This was very far away from her office in Knightsbridge. Far away from the confines of her small, at-home desk. It wasn't papers and data. She held a gun, was halfway up a staircase in a random building in Paris — Quinn shoved those thoughts aside.