"Yeah, you're a runner. I get it Ethan," Bree said softly, her calm, soothing voice barely rising above the wind that danced along the rooftop. "That is your name isn't it? Ethan?" So very slowly, she lowered the muzzle of her Glock, not holstering it with both her partners still cut off in the chase.
"But you're run out of road here, and... Well, you know you won't be getting off this roof through me." He didn't strike her as the suicidal type - far from it actually, with his breezy bravado, the warmth in his voice. Nothing in his demeanor spelled 'desperation' to Bree, but best to play things safe, make no assumptions about this strange man who'd haunted her nightmares for months with his dead buddy Victor.
"It doesn't have to be hard, you know. Come with me now, and I guarantee you'll be treated fairly. Don't go quietly at all. It'd be nice if you didn't actually - you know very well I want to talk with you. Heh. I don't think I've wanted anything more since the first day we met."
'But for a full night's sleep.' She didn't say the words out loud of course, but the thought made her smile, however grim and hard the gesture seemed.
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No, they don't normally work on many different 'units,' particularly with counter-terrorism, but was there some overarching reason to deal with this mob boss? I thought from the beginning, the mob boss who has Vincent put down was, in the end, mostly just a literary useful bit, not essential - or is there something for Bree's "new partner" that is important to what you have in mind?
The phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand farthest from her reach. Even silenced, that familiar bzzzzzzzt still bored through her sleep like a dentist's drill, yanking Bree from the deepest, fullest sleep she'd known in months with a frustrated rush of a sigh. She might have shoved an accidental elbow into Jarod's belly when she crawled over him, if the small 'oof' in the moonlit darkness was anything to gauge by. But his soft, low laugh was soothing to her ears, and Bree felt herself embraced and then lifted over his body, to the side of the bed nearer the phone.
She fumbled for the phone, swiped quickly when she saw the number, and the time: 3:17 am. Fuck. This wasn't going to be anything good, she knew, and Bree cursed the hell out of the timing - inside though, of course.
Because on the outside she was trying not to giggle like a little girl when Jarod nibbled at her neck, his hands deliberately, playfully distracting even while simultaneously trying to sound both awake and remotely professional. "Yeah... Agent Walsh... "
Turns out Lindsey's blind date 'outreach effort' wasn't nearly so cringe-worthy as she'd feared. Not even close actually. Jerod wasn't just 'in the Navy' - he was a former Navy SEAL who'd found a quieter life on the outside, a bank executive now. Sure, he was nearly a decade older than Bree, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing really. Old enough to know what he was doing, without a doubt, but not so young he thought he had to flee before morning light.
And as an extra bonus, Riddick was yet to shred a single item of his clothing yet.
"Right... Yes, that one's mine... "
Bree clutched Jarod's wrist beneath the blankets, sitting straight up in bed, lengths of auburn hair almost as wild as the sudden look in her eyes.
"Are you sure?" she hissed softly, incredulous.
"Yeah, yeah I'll be there... 'bout half an hour. Schedule the next available flight... Right, for Chicago - send the info to my phone, this number... "
Bree slipped out from under the blankets, flipping on the lamp with an apologetic glance and a shrug of her shoulders to Jarod. For his part, the man simply stretched and smiled, sitting up in Bree's bed with a grin as he watched her dash to her closet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All in all, Jarod had been a good sport about the whole 'time for you to go' thing - and she had been up front about the job after all. Bree wasn't sure she'd see him again when she got back - though she hoped. But he'd been good to her, just what she'd needed when she needed it most, and the preternatural calm that hung about her now said every bit as much. And as those grey eyes peered up from beneath the hood of her sweatshirt to a window on the 9th floor of this piece of shit dilapidated building, she let loose a long, slow sigh, the only obvious sign of her agitation.
'Hello Ethan... Missed me?'
Two days of surveillance had confirmed the 'night manager's' story - and yes, that was a title she used VERY loosely. Forty-eight hours might not sound very long, but she honestly didn't believe they could risk too much longer. For whatever reason, the green-eyed man really did seem to have a routine of sorts, though she didn't trust the surveillance to follow him wherever he went to during the nights, but there was a plain clothes cop who made sure it really was him, returning in the early morning hours, emerging at night like some kind of damned vampire.
And the minute the ink was dry on the arrest warrant, Bree had her team assembled.
While not necessarily a police 'no go zone,' wisdom dictated a definitely understated approach in this section of Chicago. This would be nothing like the raid on the Richmond casino, with absolutely no indication outside of a law enforcement presence. The building itself had to be the biggest damn fire trap she'd ever seen in her life, and it made Bree sick knowing there were probably kids living somewhere in its confines, but for her purposes? The elevators didn't work, the only way up or down those fifteen floors being the stairwells - exactly where a pair of plain-clothes SWAT members would be waiting. There was no way for Ethan to slip past them, unless he was feeling particularly suicidal on those precariously rickety fire escapes - or just sprouted wings.
Bree raced up the stairs silently, only just pulling the velcro slips over her hoodie to show the bright yellow words 'FBI' when she and her pair of Chicago SWAT partners emerged in the dim, filthy hallway of the ninth floor. Pistols drawn, the sounds of their booted feet were muffled by the layer of filthy, tattered carpet in the hallway. With a nod of her head, the grim-faced man positioned himself in front of the door and, in a single, powerful and well-practiced move, kicked in the flimsy apartment door right off its hinges.
She fumbled for the phone, swiped quickly when she saw the number, and the time: 3:17 am. Fuck. This wasn't going to be anything good, she knew, and Bree cursed the hell out of the timing - inside though, of course.
Because on the outside she was trying not to giggle like a little girl when Jarod nibbled at her neck, his hands deliberately, playfully distracting even while simultaneously trying to sound both awake and remotely professional. "Yeah... Agent Walsh... "
Turns out Lindsey's blind date 'outreach effort' wasn't nearly so cringe-worthy as she'd feared. Not even close actually. Jerod wasn't just 'in the Navy' - he was a former Navy SEAL who'd found a quieter life on the outside, a bank executive now. Sure, he was nearly a decade older than Bree, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing really. Old enough to know what he was doing, without a doubt, but not so young he thought he had to flee before morning light.
And as an extra bonus, Riddick was yet to shred a single item of his clothing yet.
"Right... Yes, that one's mine... "
Bree clutched Jarod's wrist beneath the blankets, sitting straight up in bed, lengths of auburn hair almost as wild as the sudden look in her eyes.
"Are you sure?" she hissed softly, incredulous.
"Yeah, yeah I'll be there... 'bout half an hour. Schedule the next available flight... Right, for Chicago - send the info to my phone, this number... "
Bree slipped out from under the blankets, flipping on the lamp with an apologetic glance and a shrug of her shoulders to Jarod. For his part, the man simply stretched and smiled, sitting up in Bree's bed with a grin as he watched her dash to her closet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All in all, Jarod had been a good sport about the whole 'time for you to go' thing - and she had been up front about the job after all. Bree wasn't sure she'd see him again when she got back - though she hoped. But he'd been good to her, just what she'd needed when she needed it most, and the preternatural calm that hung about her now said every bit as much. And as those grey eyes peered up from beneath the hood of her sweatshirt to a window on the 9th floor of this piece of shit dilapidated building, she let loose a long, slow sigh, the only obvious sign of her agitation.
'Hello Ethan... Missed me?'
Two days of surveillance had confirmed the 'night manager's' story - and yes, that was a title she used VERY loosely. Forty-eight hours might not sound very long, but she honestly didn't believe they could risk too much longer. For whatever reason, the green-eyed man really did seem to have a routine of sorts, though she didn't trust the surveillance to follow him wherever he went to during the nights, but there was a plain clothes cop who made sure it really was him, returning in the early morning hours, emerging at night like some kind of damned vampire.
And the minute the ink was dry on the arrest warrant, Bree had her team assembled.
While not necessarily a police 'no go zone,' wisdom dictated a definitely understated approach in this section of Chicago. This would be nothing like the raid on the Richmond casino, with absolutely no indication outside of a law enforcement presence. The building itself had to be the biggest damn fire trap she'd ever seen in her life, and it made Bree sick knowing there were probably kids living somewhere in its confines, but for her purposes? The elevators didn't work, the only way up or down those fifteen floors being the stairwells - exactly where a pair of plain-clothes SWAT members would be waiting. There was no way for Ethan to slip past them, unless he was feeling particularly suicidal on those precariously rickety fire escapes - or just sprouted wings.
Bree raced up the stairs silently, only just pulling the velcro slips over her hoodie to show the bright yellow words 'FBI' when she and her pair of Chicago SWAT partners emerged in the dim, filthy hallway of the ninth floor. Pistols drawn, the sounds of their booted feet were muffled by the layer of filthy, tattered carpet in the hallway. With a nod of her head, the grim-faced man positioned himself in front of the door and, in a single, powerful and well-practiced move, kicked in the flimsy apartment door right off its hinges.
Actually, with that last post I just remembered Bree's lateral promotion to the Counter-terrorism unit. That, actually, will give me a few thousand or so better ideas to come track down Ethan for this time, and employ him in the future as well.
Standing there behind the surveillance desk, Bree's nose wrinkled imperceptibly in disgust as the heavy scent of urine permeated the room, though that was the only hint of emotion to flicker across her face. Her arms folded one over the other across her chest, her pale, expressionless face reflecting all the colors flickering on the screens, she might have been mistaken for a carving, a statue - or even in her apparent serenity - a piece of religious iconography, like an ever-patient Madonna. But for the slow drip-drip of Seattle rain water from the ends of her long, sodden hair down the back of her dark leather jacket, relentless and sullen, none of what truly passed behind those grey eyes showed.
Her green-eyed man was... He was impossible. Absolutely fucking impossible, and if she wasn't watching his escape unfold she'd have never believed such a thing could happen, a feat meant more for TV and the movies than actual, honest-to-God reality. Speechless, Bree watched the only color images they had anymore, even if they weren't stills. The digital camera in Booking seemed to have developed a technical glitch somewhere between the stand and the computer, and more than fifty different shots had been eaten somewhere between the camera's memory and cyberspace.
But that irritation was nothing - nothing at all, barely even registered in her head really - as she watched the spliced images of panning video throughout the station as the green-eyed man simply walked out the goddamned front door, minutes before she arrived. There was no way, no natural way on this entire damned planet, he could have managed this without some seriously connected people in the background, following his progress the whole way right out the front doors and then onto the anonymous streets.
The fact that explained nothing of the green-eyed man walking away from custody in Richmond or that miraculous leap onto the ferry boat was a thought she shoved far back into the 'kooky closet.' Outside that illegal casino had been utter chaos, and she'd been shot along with Victor. Hell, who'd ever really know what happened that day? And anyone can have a sudden bout of 'freaky good luck' - being athletic and extremely fortunate didn't exactly happen every day, but hey, no reason to go reading 'weird' into something with a perfectly good explanation.
No. No, there had to be something behind this, and likely a whole organization of someones to pull this off. Besides, Bree didn't believe for a minute the entirety of the Seattle PD on duty today was incompetent or corrupt, or somehow or another on-the-take -
-though even she had to admit, when the red-faced booking sergeant came in to tell her the fingerprint cards had been accidentally shredded along with some of the office recyclables that fell off his desk, she was reconsidering the former.
Three months and thousands of miles away...
Auburn hair coiffed into a neat coil at the back of her head, her navy pencil skirt and ivory silk button up shirt immaculate, Bree strode to her new digs in the Richmond field office. The three-inch heels of her black pumps clicked crisply on the tiles of the Richmond office foyer as she made her way toward... Well, in her thoughts it was still her new office really, but she supposed she'd get used to it one day.
She hadn't been promoted for ignoring her superiors' more-or-less direct orders, but then again, she hadn't been demoted either. Just transferred really, a 'lateral promotion' of sorts from Organized Crime to Counterterrorism, and all because her instincts had been right. Dead on actually. Her green-eyed man really was far more than ever met the eye, and after his stunt in Seattle, absolutely no one could deny she'd made the right call to go after him. Still, Bree couldn't even pretend to be surprised when the CODIS people called, with abject apologies but by the time the swabs arrived at the labs, they'd been accidentally degraded, something about a lab accident and a spilled bottle of disinfecting alcohol...
Just knowing she was right was far from enough, but it was all she had, and - not being God? It'd just have to do. And at least she had a name now - even if it likely wasn't his real name, though it sat a lot easier in her thoughts than 'Walter' ever did. That defensive young woman in the Pourhouse, and the slightly belligerent drunk he once lived with, and even that reluctant ferry pilot had a name, and precious little else. All the terror watch lists now had color photographs taken from the recovered Seattle PD surveillance photos, and some partial palm and fingerprints lifted from the lock mechanism in his cell door, and a name.
Ethan.
And Ethan's face was sent out on BOLO's across the country, from airport and TSA security to some post offices that still bothered to post the FBI lists, to police departments great and small nationwide. The fact that his face was one among thousands gave Bree no peace though, because she just knew this man wouldn't be stupid enough to blithely hop on a nearby plane to Central America, or stroll into a local donut shop to chat up the local PD officers...
No, there was no peace to be had there, and precious little anywhere else either.
Although it'd never been her forté, and she'd never really needed it before, Bree had honed her skills with makeup to a surprising degree, managing successfully most days to cover the deep purple circles that ringed her eyes, the evidence of those long, restless nights when sleep still refused to be her friend or, when sheer exhaustion finally did swallow her whole? Those nights when bloody dreams and Victor found her all over again, come to visit their dear, dear friend Bree.
The only [vaguely] bright point she could find in these past months, was the fact her sister-in-law finally grew a human soul, and was actually trying her damndest to be almost-kinda-friendly, in a stinted, weird way that even Bree couldn't refuse (though it didn't hurt that Michael's pale blue eyes begged her wordlessly to please please please play nicely with his wife... ). Maybe it was the hospitalization scare, or Michael's endless advocacy on behalf of his sister - or maybe just the fact Bree's wardrobe had taken a step up above khakis, jeans and T-shirts when she moved to Counterterrorism, and she didn't look quite so 'other side of the tracks' - but... Yeah. Tonight Bree had a blind date with one of Lyndsay's acquaintances, a banker or a broker or something like that Lyndsay was sure would just adore Bree's 'homey and simple ways' - and he was in the Navy once too! They'd have so much in common!
Bree didn't bother correcting her sister-in-law, that she'd spent six years in the Army, her mouth snapping shut with a quick *click* of her grated teeth behind a wall of fake smile that the look on Michael's face just pleaded with her to keep there in place, without a word for the love of heaven! It was the effort there, the first effort on Lyndsay's part in... Well, in ever really. And even if her sister-in-law's gesture gave Bree none at all, Bree knew her brother deserved a measure of peace.
And besides, if nothing else, if this guy was good-looking enough and not a complete dickhead, Bree might just have to see if a good workout and a warm body in her bed (not feline) might help her sleep through the night. A whole night's rest right now sounded just like a small slice of heaven. Or maybe... Oh hell, maybe she'd end up screaming anyway, freaking the poor fucker out - or at the least kicking his ass out of bed in what passed for sleep? Bree groaned softly under her breath, rubbing her temples with her fingertips irritably.
That was a lot of 'maybe's' and 'if's,' but she had a whole day to let them run havoc in her thoughts anyway, so yeah... "Peace." Heh. Elusive bitch.
Bree slid into the black leather chair at her desk, setting her purse into the locked portion of the desk and her jacket over the back of her seat neatly. Framed pictures of Michael and Lindsay, her mother and father, and even Riddick flipped over on his back, pawing at the camera, smiled up at her beside her monitor on the functional government desk, adding a small measure of 'bright' to her day.
And then with the requisite amount of dark to counterbalance any optimism that had the temerity to seep into her thoughts, Bree's grey-eyed gaze turned toward the pin board, among the myriad faces of men and women responsible for untold suffering and mayhem and pain, to the face of her green-eyed man staring straight into the police surveillance camera - and right into her own. Though she could never have said how, or why - he knew she was out there that day. He wasn't looking at anyone or anything else at that moment in time, but her.
"So tell me Ethan," she whispered with just a hint of gallows humor tingeing her voice, "Am I going to get lucky tonight?"
Her green-eyed man was... He was impossible. Absolutely fucking impossible, and if she wasn't watching his escape unfold she'd have never believed such a thing could happen, a feat meant more for TV and the movies than actual, honest-to-God reality. Speechless, Bree watched the only color images they had anymore, even if they weren't stills. The digital camera in Booking seemed to have developed a technical glitch somewhere between the stand and the computer, and more than fifty different shots had been eaten somewhere between the camera's memory and cyberspace.
But that irritation was nothing - nothing at all, barely even registered in her head really - as she watched the spliced images of panning video throughout the station as the green-eyed man simply walked out the goddamned front door, minutes before she arrived. There was no way, no natural way on this entire damned planet, he could have managed this without some seriously connected people in the background, following his progress the whole way right out the front doors and then onto the anonymous streets.
The fact that explained nothing of the green-eyed man walking away from custody in Richmond or that miraculous leap onto the ferry boat was a thought she shoved far back into the 'kooky closet.' Outside that illegal casino had been utter chaos, and she'd been shot along with Victor. Hell, who'd ever really know what happened that day? And anyone can have a sudden bout of 'freaky good luck' - being athletic and extremely fortunate didn't exactly happen every day, but hey, no reason to go reading 'weird' into something with a perfectly good explanation.
No. No, there had to be something behind this, and likely a whole organization of someones to pull this off. Besides, Bree didn't believe for a minute the entirety of the Seattle PD on duty today was incompetent or corrupt, or somehow or another on-the-take -
-though even she had to admit, when the red-faced booking sergeant came in to tell her the fingerprint cards had been accidentally shredded along with some of the office recyclables that fell off his desk, she was reconsidering the former.
Three months and thousands of miles away...
Auburn hair coiffed into a neat coil at the back of her head, her navy pencil skirt and ivory silk button up shirt immaculate, Bree strode to her new digs in the Richmond field office. The three-inch heels of her black pumps clicked crisply on the tiles of the Richmond office foyer as she made her way toward... Well, in her thoughts it was still her new office really, but she supposed she'd get used to it one day.
She hadn't been promoted for ignoring her superiors' more-or-less direct orders, but then again, she hadn't been demoted either. Just transferred really, a 'lateral promotion' of sorts from Organized Crime to Counterterrorism, and all because her instincts had been right. Dead on actually. Her green-eyed man really was far more than ever met the eye, and after his stunt in Seattle, absolutely no one could deny she'd made the right call to go after him. Still, Bree couldn't even pretend to be surprised when the CODIS people called, with abject apologies but by the time the swabs arrived at the labs, they'd been accidentally degraded, something about a lab accident and a spilled bottle of disinfecting alcohol...
Just knowing she was right was far from enough, but it was all she had, and - not being God? It'd just have to do. And at least she had a name now - even if it likely wasn't his real name, though it sat a lot easier in her thoughts than 'Walter' ever did. That defensive young woman in the Pourhouse, and the slightly belligerent drunk he once lived with, and even that reluctant ferry pilot had a name, and precious little else. All the terror watch lists now had color photographs taken from the recovered Seattle PD surveillance photos, and some partial palm and fingerprints lifted from the lock mechanism in his cell door, and a name.
Ethan.
And Ethan's face was sent out on BOLO's across the country, from airport and TSA security to some post offices that still bothered to post the FBI lists, to police departments great and small nationwide. The fact that his face was one among thousands gave Bree no peace though, because she just knew this man wouldn't be stupid enough to blithely hop on a nearby plane to Central America, or stroll into a local donut shop to chat up the local PD officers...
No, there was no peace to be had there, and precious little anywhere else either.
Although it'd never been her forté, and she'd never really needed it before, Bree had honed her skills with makeup to a surprising degree, managing successfully most days to cover the deep purple circles that ringed her eyes, the evidence of those long, restless nights when sleep still refused to be her friend or, when sheer exhaustion finally did swallow her whole? Those nights when bloody dreams and Victor found her all over again, come to visit their dear, dear friend Bree.
The only [vaguely] bright point she could find in these past months, was the fact her sister-in-law finally grew a human soul, and was actually trying her damndest to be almost-kinda-friendly, in a stinted, weird way that even Bree couldn't refuse (though it didn't hurt that Michael's pale blue eyes begged her wordlessly to please please please play nicely with his wife... ). Maybe it was the hospitalization scare, or Michael's endless advocacy on behalf of his sister - or maybe just the fact Bree's wardrobe had taken a step up above khakis, jeans and T-shirts when she moved to Counterterrorism, and she didn't look quite so 'other side of the tracks' - but... Yeah. Tonight Bree had a blind date with one of Lyndsay's acquaintances, a banker or a broker or something like that Lyndsay was sure would just adore Bree's 'homey and simple ways' - and he was in the Navy once too! They'd have so much in common!
Bree didn't bother correcting her sister-in-law, that she'd spent six years in the Army, her mouth snapping shut with a quick *click* of her grated teeth behind a wall of fake smile that the look on Michael's face just pleaded with her to keep there in place, without a word for the love of heaven! It was the effort there, the first effort on Lyndsay's part in... Well, in ever really. And even if her sister-in-law's gesture gave Bree none at all, Bree knew her brother deserved a measure of peace.
And besides, if nothing else, if this guy was good-looking enough and not a complete dickhead, Bree might just have to see if a good workout and a warm body in her bed (not feline) might help her sleep through the night. A whole night's rest right now sounded just like a small slice of heaven. Or maybe... Oh hell, maybe she'd end up screaming anyway, freaking the poor fucker out - or at the least kicking his ass out of bed in what passed for sleep? Bree groaned softly under her breath, rubbing her temples with her fingertips irritably.
That was a lot of 'maybe's' and 'if's,' but she had a whole day to let them run havoc in her thoughts anyway, so yeah... "Peace." Heh. Elusive bitch.
Bree slid into the black leather chair at her desk, setting her purse into the locked portion of the desk and her jacket over the back of her seat neatly. Framed pictures of Michael and Lindsay, her mother and father, and even Riddick flipped over on his back, pawing at the camera, smiled up at her beside her monitor on the functional government desk, adding a small measure of 'bright' to her day.
And then with the requisite amount of dark to counterbalance any optimism that had the temerity to seep into her thoughts, Bree's grey-eyed gaze turned toward the pin board, among the myriad faces of men and women responsible for untold suffering and mayhem and pain, to the face of her green-eyed man staring straight into the police surveillance camera - and right into her own. Though she could never have said how, or why - he knew she was out there that day. He wasn't looking at anyone or anything else at that moment in time, but her.
"So tell me Ethan," she whispered with just a hint of gallows humor tingeing her voice, "Am I going to get lucky tonight?"
Bree was on the phone from the instant she whirled back down the ramp, the green-eyed man disappearing with the ferry on the far horizon and not a damn thing she could do to stop him. She dreaded these phone calls, but the running helped, the familiar, comforting rhythm of her breath and the pounding of her heart in her chest, still whole, still beating - and that was exactly how she meant to carry on.
By the time Bree managed to return to her car, the Seattle PD were notified to be on alert at the harbor for the Port Townsend ferry, the picture of the green-eyed man sent from her phone to their desk and then to the patrols. Riddick was entwining himself around her legs the moment she walked into their gorgeous hotel-room-by-the-seashore. But there was no time for regret as she gathered up her luggage and her cat, and still managed to coordinate her arrival with the Seattle FBI office.
Which got more than a little awkward when she asked for a few minutes to contact her people in Richmond.
And that's when shit went beyond awkward, and well into completely tense.
Bree and Riddick were already well on their way to the Seattle PD Headquarters on 5th when she finally called her SAC. She could honestly admit, she'd have probably preferred it if Avery would have just chewed her ass up one side and down another, given her that shot of adrenaline-fueled indignant rage that could have just kept her rolling, maybe throwing the Bluetooth earpiece somewhere in the car or just screamed back at him - but he didn't.
His voice was warm, and the fatherly concern he heard in Avery's voice almost completely undid all her hard-fought composure right there on the highway. Did she have any idea how many times her brother had called the office these past couple weeks, looking for her? Wondering what was happening when all Michael was getting were these cryptic texts back after a voicemail? That even Murray was asking after her, guilt-ridden about letting the guy go when she took that bullet, the same guy she'd just dumped so much of her savings and leave time into tracking all across the U.S. - but for what?
He wasn't the shooter. He couldn't have been, it was physically damn impossible! What was going on Bree, what are you doing, beyond scaring the hell out of what family you have left, and worrying your colleagues and friends with this completely out-of-hand obsession? Yes, yes go on to the Seattle PD, no one's stopping you. You've found him for whatever it's worth, and this guy - whoever the hell he is - did escape custody on the day you and Victor were shot. But you need to know Bree, you need to really understand that the only reason your badge and gun aren't being pulled this very instant, is because you're one of the best agents I've ever known, a brilliant professional. But this is as far as 'benefit of the doubt' is going to get you, Agent Walsh...
Bree knew she should keep Riddick in the cat carrier, buckled up in the front seat, but she opened the little door anyway when that phone call was finished. The enormous black tom stole his way over the console to her lap, all warm, rumbling comfort and reassurance as her long fingers wove through that thick fur.
Somewhere around the halfway mark, Seattle PD called to say her green-eyed man was in custody, that he'd surrendered himself the minute he stepped off the ferry actually. For several long seconds Bree couldn't speak at all, her voice suddenly choked by tears she hadn't even realized were there - and for the second time in one day, Bree was glad she was entirely alone but for Riddick, who never, ever judged.
"Great, good work and... Did you get a name? Did he give you a name yet, or have some ID on him? No? No, that's not a problem, we'll get it when I get there - wait. Fingerprints! Process him now, don't wait. Fingerprints, photograph - DNA too if he'll consent."
"Yes, get a swab too if he'll give it. If not, I'll be there in... Oh, an hour and a half I think, if this Garmin isn't playing with me, or traffic doesn't. Thank you - really, fantastic job and much appreciated. I'm looking forward to meeting you all."
Bree hung up the phone again, and let out a long slow breath she didn't even now she'd been holding all these weeks, the relief that covered her this minute like the softest of blankets.
"Whatever we find in Seattle might not be as nice as that bed and breakfast," she whispered tenderly to Riddick, who simply gazed up at her with those magnificent amber eyes full of unspoken, uncanny understanding, "But I think we can actually sleep tonight. All night long... "
The fingers of one hand continued to stroke the length of the cat, velvety ears to serpentine tail, as the other hand kept to the business of driving. "I'm so tired," Bree confessed, her voice barely a whisper, as if such an damning admission might yet be overheard, even alone here with her cat.
"I just want to sleep Riddy, to lay my head on a pillow, and close my eyes and not wake up sweating, or screaming, or terrified. No more dreams. Please, just... No more dreams."
A small smile was surprised from her lips when Riddick mewed up at her, and then opened his maw with all those sharp little fangs into a wide yawn. Bree chuckled, caressing the top of his head with her thumb. "Yeah Riddy, just like that."
~~~~~~
Bree parked her rental in a parking garage on Cherry Street. It wasn't an 'official' vehicle, and she was just going to have to suck up the fee herself, just as she'd done thus far at every step of this long, long chase. She was sure Riddick would be fine in the carrier for a while, and she tucked him back inside comfortably, kissing his sweet furry head tenderly as she did so with the promise she wouldn't be long, before locking the car.
The Washington weather, it seemed, had given up any facade of trying to be 'sunny and pleasant' and returned to the rains so common to the Pacific Northwest, like a sad and endlessly weeping woman. Bree had no umbrella, and simply endured the jog down the block toward the PD. She was well aware she wasn't dressed as a stereotypical FBI agent - no tailored suit, no heels, her hair slowly transforming from a loose, windswept mess to sodden lengths of hot mess, but there just wasn't any help for it. She'd dressed this morning for meet and greet in a small town of civilians, not to impress her peers.
By the time Bree managed to return to her car, the Seattle PD were notified to be on alert at the harbor for the Port Townsend ferry, the picture of the green-eyed man sent from her phone to their desk and then to the patrols. Riddick was entwining himself around her legs the moment she walked into their gorgeous hotel-room-by-the-seashore. But there was no time for regret as she gathered up her luggage and her cat, and still managed to coordinate her arrival with the Seattle FBI office.
Which got more than a little awkward when she asked for a few minutes to contact her people in Richmond.
And that's when shit went beyond awkward, and well into completely tense.
Bree and Riddick were already well on their way to the Seattle PD Headquarters on 5th when she finally called her SAC. She could honestly admit, she'd have probably preferred it if Avery would have just chewed her ass up one side and down another, given her that shot of adrenaline-fueled indignant rage that could have just kept her rolling, maybe throwing the Bluetooth earpiece somewhere in the car or just screamed back at him - but he didn't.
His voice was warm, and the fatherly concern he heard in Avery's voice almost completely undid all her hard-fought composure right there on the highway. Did she have any idea how many times her brother had called the office these past couple weeks, looking for her? Wondering what was happening when all Michael was getting were these cryptic texts back after a voicemail? That even Murray was asking after her, guilt-ridden about letting the guy go when she took that bullet, the same guy she'd just dumped so much of her savings and leave time into tracking all across the U.S. - but for what?
He wasn't the shooter. He couldn't have been, it was physically damn impossible! What was going on Bree, what are you doing, beyond scaring the hell out of what family you have left, and worrying your colleagues and friends with this completely out-of-hand obsession? Yes, yes go on to the Seattle PD, no one's stopping you. You've found him for whatever it's worth, and this guy - whoever the hell he is - did escape custody on the day you and Victor were shot. But you need to know Bree, you need to really understand that the only reason your badge and gun aren't being pulled this very instant, is because you're one of the best agents I've ever known, a brilliant professional. But this is as far as 'benefit of the doubt' is going to get you, Agent Walsh...
Bree knew she should keep Riddick in the cat carrier, buckled up in the front seat, but she opened the little door anyway when that phone call was finished. The enormous black tom stole his way over the console to her lap, all warm, rumbling comfort and reassurance as her long fingers wove through that thick fur.
Somewhere around the halfway mark, Seattle PD called to say her green-eyed man was in custody, that he'd surrendered himself the minute he stepped off the ferry actually. For several long seconds Bree couldn't speak at all, her voice suddenly choked by tears she hadn't even realized were there - and for the second time in one day, Bree was glad she was entirely alone but for Riddick, who never, ever judged.
"Great, good work and... Did you get a name? Did he give you a name yet, or have some ID on him? No? No, that's not a problem, we'll get it when I get there - wait. Fingerprints! Process him now, don't wait. Fingerprints, photograph - DNA too if he'll consent."
"Yes, get a swab too if he'll give it. If not, I'll be there in... Oh, an hour and a half I think, if this Garmin isn't playing with me, or traffic doesn't. Thank you - really, fantastic job and much appreciated. I'm looking forward to meeting you all."
Bree hung up the phone again, and let out a long slow breath she didn't even now she'd been holding all these weeks, the relief that covered her this minute like the softest of blankets.
"Whatever we find in Seattle might not be as nice as that bed and breakfast," she whispered tenderly to Riddick, who simply gazed up at her with those magnificent amber eyes full of unspoken, uncanny understanding, "But I think we can actually sleep tonight. All night long... "
The fingers of one hand continued to stroke the length of the cat, velvety ears to serpentine tail, as the other hand kept to the business of driving. "I'm so tired," Bree confessed, her voice barely a whisper, as if such an damning admission might yet be overheard, even alone here with her cat.
"I just want to sleep Riddy, to lay my head on a pillow, and close my eyes and not wake up sweating, or screaming, or terrified. No more dreams. Please, just... No more dreams."
A small smile was surprised from her lips when Riddick mewed up at her, and then opened his maw with all those sharp little fangs into a wide yawn. Bree chuckled, caressing the top of his head with her thumb. "Yeah Riddy, just like that."
~~~~~~
Bree parked her rental in a parking garage on Cherry Street. It wasn't an 'official' vehicle, and she was just going to have to suck up the fee herself, just as she'd done thus far at every step of this long, long chase. She was sure Riddick would be fine in the carrier for a while, and she tucked him back inside comfortably, kissing his sweet furry head tenderly as she did so with the promise she wouldn't be long, before locking the car.
The Washington weather, it seemed, had given up any facade of trying to be 'sunny and pleasant' and returned to the rains so common to the Pacific Northwest, like a sad and endlessly weeping woman. Bree had no umbrella, and simply endured the jog down the block toward the PD. She was well aware she wasn't dressed as a stereotypical FBI agent - no tailored suit, no heels, her hair slowly transforming from a loose, windswept mess to sodden lengths of hot mess, but there just wasn't any help for it. She'd dressed this morning for meet and greet in a small town of civilians, not to impress her peers.
Honestly, I'm just going to have to spend a bit more time thinking about this gangster/crime boss. I've got a bit of a neo-Mafiaso thing going in my head, but far more ruthless I imagine. For the moment, I'm catch up in other places as well, after finishing up some homework too - but I will try to make it more cohesive over the next couple days, see where inspiration takes me as well.
Bree saw what he was going to do, what he'd had planned, from the moment his feet hit the ferry ramp.
He was drunk.
He was high?
Maybe he was just plain old out-of-his-goddamn-skull crazy? Either way, fortune spat in her face as she tried to catch the eye of the security guard - the very instant he tried to snatch at the hat blown from his head. And the green-eyed man was past him in the blink of an eye, Bree only a few yards behind him - but he wasn't stopping. He wasn't slowing in the least though the ferry was already well under way.
She was many things, some of them certainly less than lovely, but pettiness really wasn't among her faults. Bree could admit - to herself at least - that he'd given her a good run, though for her part she had barely begun to breathe a little heavy. But even she could see a long jump ahead of the guy to the ferry, she doubted even an Olympic athlete could have managed.
Bree groaned thickly with frustration in the back of her throat, already sure she was going to have to pull this jack ass from the drink. She'd do it though. She wouldn't like it at all, but she'd do it. And in the seconds before he leapt, Bree already reassured herself with a thought that almost made her smile: if he gave her any shit when she pulled him out, she'd shoot the bastard. Somewhere not-too-vital of course, but with Victor's tacit approval from beyond the grave she was sure. Maybe tonight he'd even forego his nocturnal visit to her dreams, half his head gristle and bone, the one bloodshot eye left to him always accusing her, letting her know without a word that he was so very, very dead and it was all her fault...
And then the impossible happened, and the ferry seemed to snatch the green-eyed man from the air like a lover, or a well-loved child. Bree could only stand stunned, inches from the edge of the dock herself. She could feel the blood drain from her face, grey eyes wide and helpless to do a damn thing but watch as he turned to face her with a smug smile and then... Then he took a bow...
Bree hadn't drawn her gun at any point during the chase, and she didn't now either, though she'd never been more sorely tempted in her life. But no, no... There were too many civilians, and that rule of engagement was too well-ingrained in her head: never pull your weapon - never- unless you mean to use it. She didn't, and she wouldn't, and even if she could? Any shot she might have had was long gone, sailing away further and further by the second over the ocean. Headed north.
Bree shook her head, dumbfounded, both hands wrapped white-knuckled around the dock ramp railing as the only words "WHY!?" she wailed, the word coming up from her chest in a scream of anguish. "Why did you do it? DAMN YOU, WHY!? What did Victor ever do to you?"
Rage and sorrow warred for supremacy in her features, a tear running down her cheek unheeded as her lips pulled back in a snarl. Bree knew she wouldn't get her answer, but she knew she'd never sleep again without it either.
"WHY DID YOU KILL HIM!?"
He was drunk.
He was high?
Maybe he was just plain old out-of-his-goddamn-skull crazy? Either way, fortune spat in her face as she tried to catch the eye of the security guard - the very instant he tried to snatch at the hat blown from his head. And the green-eyed man was past him in the blink of an eye, Bree only a few yards behind him - but he wasn't stopping. He wasn't slowing in the least though the ferry was already well under way.
She was many things, some of them certainly less than lovely, but pettiness really wasn't among her faults. Bree could admit - to herself at least - that he'd given her a good run, though for her part she had barely begun to breathe a little heavy. But even she could see a long jump ahead of the guy to the ferry, she doubted even an Olympic athlete could have managed.
Bree groaned thickly with frustration in the back of her throat, already sure she was going to have to pull this jack ass from the drink. She'd do it though. She wouldn't like it at all, but she'd do it. And in the seconds before he leapt, Bree already reassured herself with a thought that almost made her smile: if he gave her any shit when she pulled him out, she'd shoot the bastard. Somewhere not-too-vital of course, but with Victor's tacit approval from beyond the grave she was sure. Maybe tonight he'd even forego his nocturnal visit to her dreams, half his head gristle and bone, the one bloodshot eye left to him always accusing her, letting her know without a word that he was so very, very dead and it was all her fault...
And then the impossible happened, and the ferry seemed to snatch the green-eyed man from the air like a lover, or a well-loved child. Bree could only stand stunned, inches from the edge of the dock herself. She could feel the blood drain from her face, grey eyes wide and helpless to do a damn thing but watch as he turned to face her with a smug smile and then... Then he took a bow...
Bree hadn't drawn her gun at any point during the chase, and she didn't now either, though she'd never been more sorely tempted in her life. But no, no... There were too many civilians, and that rule of engagement was too well-ingrained in her head: never pull your weapon - never- unless you mean to use it. She didn't, and she wouldn't, and even if she could? Any shot she might have had was long gone, sailing away further and further by the second over the ocean. Headed north.
Bree shook her head, dumbfounded, both hands wrapped white-knuckled around the dock ramp railing as the only words "WHY!?" she wailed, the word coming up from her chest in a scream of anguish. "Why did you do it? DAMN YOU, WHY!? What did Victor ever do to you?"
Rage and sorrow warred for supremacy in her features, a tear running down her cheek unheeded as her lips pulled back in a snarl. Bree knew she wouldn't get her answer, but she knew she'd never sleep again without it either.
"WHY DID YOU KILL HIM!?"
'Son of a... '
In the movies, the 'cop' in the chase was always supposed to shout something nice and useful, like "STOP!" or "POLICE!" But at least the 'cop,' always cool, calm and collected, knew better than to just stand there expecting the guy to actually do what he was supposed to do and like, you know, not run.
Needless to say, the 'bad guy' of course has some karmic obligation to ignore the cop, and just keep running anyway.
For the first time in her life, Bree had never been so spectacularly grateful she didn't have a partner with her. He was behind her - right behind her!. Strolling up the walk to the porch absently, it was the soft, distinctive sound of shoes on pavement that said someone was behind her. "Tom" hadn't answered her knock, and she could only assume the poor sod might be coming home from work to a hell of a surprise on his porch.
And when she turned maybe, just maybe, a small surprised squeak escaped her, and she might have jumped in surprise, wide-eyed and mouth gaping like some naif walking into a most unwelcome surprise party. His eyes were closed as he walked - why, she couldn't begin to guess. But that uncanny something hung about him like some invisible pall, that same inexplicable mystery that drew her gaze in the first place, a month ago on the floor of a makeshift casino.
No more than an arm's length away. All she'd have to do was reach out now, tap his shoulder. And as if it had a mind of its own, her arm stretched to do just that, fingers shaking with anticipation or exhilaration or abject fear she couldn't have said. A frisson of sudden pain shot through her heart over the bullet hole and the surgery scars, and she winced, gasping softly as those once-shaking fingers clutched at her chest.
The instant their gazes locked, Bree read the intent in those matchless eyes. He was going to run, and words wouldn't stop him, so Bree didn't waste the breath.
She dashed after him, her body knowing instinctively to keep these strides long, steady and even as the pain in her chest subsided with every long, rhythmic inhalation of breath. The precious, rare Pacific northwest sun overhead warmed her almost comfortably, and Bree fell instinctively into the unrelenting pace of a practiced distance runner. He could run all he liked, the green-eyed man. Bree had run the Marine Corps Marathon in Quantico every year for the past seven years, improving her time with every event.
Unless he really could walk on water, her green-eyed man wasn't going far - or at the very least, not nearly so far as she could go.
In the movies, the 'cop' in the chase was always supposed to shout something nice and useful, like "STOP!" or "POLICE!" But at least the 'cop,' always cool, calm and collected, knew better than to just stand there expecting the guy to actually do what he was supposed to do and like, you know, not run.
Needless to say, the 'bad guy' of course has some karmic obligation to ignore the cop, and just keep running anyway.
For the first time in her life, Bree had never been so spectacularly grateful she didn't have a partner with her. He was behind her - right behind her!. Strolling up the walk to the porch absently, it was the soft, distinctive sound of shoes on pavement that said someone was behind her. "Tom" hadn't answered her knock, and she could only assume the poor sod might be coming home from work to a hell of a surprise on his porch.
And when she turned maybe, just maybe, a small surprised squeak escaped her, and she might have jumped in surprise, wide-eyed and mouth gaping like some naif walking into a most unwelcome surprise party. His eyes were closed as he walked - why, she couldn't begin to guess. But that uncanny something hung about him like some invisible pall, that same inexplicable mystery that drew her gaze in the first place, a month ago on the floor of a makeshift casino.
No more than an arm's length away. All she'd have to do was reach out now, tap his shoulder. And as if it had a mind of its own, her arm stretched to do just that, fingers shaking with anticipation or exhilaration or abject fear she couldn't have said. A frisson of sudden pain shot through her heart over the bullet hole and the surgery scars, and she winced, gasping softly as those once-shaking fingers clutched at her chest.
The instant their gazes locked, Bree read the intent in those matchless eyes. He was going to run, and words wouldn't stop him, so Bree didn't waste the breath.
She dashed after him, her body knowing instinctively to keep these strides long, steady and even as the pain in her chest subsided with every long, rhythmic inhalation of breath. The precious, rare Pacific northwest sun overhead warmed her almost comfortably, and Bree fell instinctively into the unrelenting pace of a practiced distance runner. He could run all he liked, the green-eyed man. Bree had run the Marine Corps Marathon in Quantico every year for the past seven years, improving her time with every event.
Unless he really could walk on water, her green-eyed man wasn't going far - or at the very least, not nearly so far as she could go.
That sound just fine, we can work with it I imagine! And yes, a very nice bit of back and forth too... 
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