Chapter 2 #2
But Gideon still needed to buy him a coffee mug, because just getting here was an accomplishment for Judson Crosby, and that needed to be acknowledged.
And as for Joey Carlyle….
“Thoughts?” Harding asked him after he’d shown Carlyle where to get outfitted for weapons and tactical gear and handle other administrative tasks.
“Feral,” Gideon said bluntly. “And I get he lived on pine nuts and universe juice for two months, keeping his own unit away from that village, but I think it goes deeper than that.” Carlyle was two months out of the Green Berets, and Gideon had been able to see his ribs still.
Part of that was that FLETC was no joke, but Gideon had seen his appreciation for the food on the counter.
He wondered if Carlyle would have survived on more pine nuts and universe juice if they’d left him to his own devices.
“Same,” Harding said. “You know who his father is.”
Gideon grunted. “Stevie Carlyle, of your higher-end mobsters. Yeah, I know. You think he’s getting away from that sitch?”
“I’d place money on it,” Harding told him.
“Or our lives.” Gideon didn’t flinch.
Harding grimaced. “Yeah. Or our lives. But he didn’t have to protect that village.
Those people could have been displaced or killed and we never would have known about it.
But he kept his own people off their backs while they found a way to get the whole village out of the way of Uncle Goddamned Sam.
I think if he was a dyed-in-the-wool mobster’s boy, that sitch wouldn’t have bothered him one bit.
His CO was adamant that Carlyle was absolutely on the side of using his considerable skills to protect people. And he’s obviously a survivor.”
Gideon wanted to protest that—the kid had slept long and hard after they’d guided him up the stairs to his apartment, and that wasn’t usually a survivor’s skill.
Maybe he felt safe?
“He’s planning weapons training today,” Gideon said, “while he gets used to the setup. What have you got for me?”
Which meant that the subject of Joey Carlyle was tabled for the moment until they could see him in the field.
They’d both seen his marks and reports—he was dead-on with short work, knives, pistols, crossbows (crossbows?
Holy crap!), and the like, and could apparently track a snowflake in a blizzard.
But he’d never been partnered up. Clint Harding was adamant about not letting his people go into the field alone, which was a tough sell for everybody here except Clint himself and Natalia Denison.
Kylie was used to working in her ivory tower as overwatch, Gail had obviously been sent on independent missions (she made a lousy honey trap, she’d told Gideon during her interview, but a really great hotel maid who could search things) but seemed to enjoy working with a team, and Harm—as Clint had noted grimly on more than one occasion—was practically an empath.
Sure, Clint’s boyfriend could kick tactical ass, which was surprising given his slender form and sweet little face, but he was really good at reading any partner’s emotional cues and then using that to advantage to track down a suspect.
If it hadn’t been for his barely suppressed tendency to psychoanalyze anybody he was in close quarters with, Gideon might have harbored a crush, but as it was, he was ready to wave the man a fond farewell.
And Crosby had always worked with a partner—the question now was could he ever trust one again.
Gideon had ridden with him a couple of times, and he wasn’t bad.
For all he presented himself as a dumb flatfoot, he was intuitive and clear in his intentions and his communications, and as a pleasant surprise, he was pretty good at talking a suspect down from critical moments, only going for his weapon as a last resort.
Natalia had reported the same things, and Clint was going to see how well he paired up with Gail.
Which meant that, depending on how things fell out, Gideon might be taking Carlyle on his first tactical or probative run. So wondering what they might have brewing was a good question. Gideon was going to want to be prepared.
“Turns out,” Clint said, going to his terminal and pressing a few buttons, “I’ve got something you may want to check out.
Let Carlyle get settled in, and if we’re still quiet tomorrow, maybe start hunting down leads on this.
Study it. I got a phone briefing, but I want your take.
” He blew out a breath. “Blodgett’s going to regret missing this one. ”
“Where’s it from?” Gideon asked, knowing the file had been sent to his computer. Yes, the iconic manila file folder still existed, but for a casual “Take a look at this, would you?” with somebody who still had clearance, a computer link worked too.
While not a leader—oh fuck no—Gideon had worked in Behavior Analysis, just like Harman Blodgett, and for a little while, like Clint and Natalia, and he hadn’t lost his clearance rating when he transferred out.
In fact that had been part of the condition of his transfer—one that Clint had asked for and Gideon hadn’t.
But it had come in handy these last six months, and apparently it would now.
Three and a half hours later, Gideon’s eyes felt like sandpaper, and the water flask that sat at his desk was bone dry. He kept trying to drink out of the aluminum bottle and grimacing when there was nothing in it, but so far nothing had inspired him to get up and move.
It wasn’t until he reached for his water bottle for the umpteenth time and sweet, sweet nectar of life poured into his mouth, making him sputter, that he realized Joey Carlyle had been sitting at his desk, silently watching him for God knew how long.
“Holy fuck,” Gideon said, wiping his mouth off with the sleeve of his white dress shirt.
The dress code here was much more casual than the FBI—but it was still “Look good to impress civilians.” Gideon went with a sport coat, oxford shirt, jeans, and those wonderful soft-soled lace-up things that were being worn as office-friendly now but let him tear up the street when he was running someone down.
He’d shed his sport coat the moment he’d sat and opened the damned file.
“If I’d been hunting you, you’d be dinner,” Carlyle said, and Gideon glared into those disturbingly red-brown eyes.
According to his file, Carlyle’s mother had been born on the First Nations reservation near Carlyle’s father’s home in Massachusetts.
The two had never married, and Joey’s mother had passed away when he’d been an infant.
His grandfather had raised him until he’d turned eight, and then his father had taken partial custody, sending him away to military school when he turned fourteen.
Sounded like a dick move to Gideon, who would bet the kid missed his grandfather, but he wasn’t about to ask. He wasn’t going to ask where Carlyle got his skills at tracking and absolute quiet either. It was enough that the kid was like a ghost.
“Not when I think I’m safe,” Gideon retorted now, not liking that the kid thought of their office as a hunting ground.
Joey gave a slow processing blink. “Understood,” he said. “Apologies.”
Well, okay, then. “No worries,” he responded. “And thank you for the water. It was considerate.”
“When do I get a coffee cup?” Joey asked, surprising Gideon.
“When we know who you are,” Gideon replied. It was funny—he’d always been good at languages. Spoke Spanish, Farsi, and French. He found that talking to Joey Carlyle was a little like learning a new language. One with few words and lots of intuitive leaps.
Another slow processing blink. “Will I like it?”
Gideon cocked his head. “I hope so. They’re not supposed to make you feel bad. They’re supposed to make you feel welcome.”
A blinding thing happened with white teeth against his faintly dusky skin. His eyes narrowed, the apples of his cheeks popped out—a dimple emerged.
Oh dear God, it was a smile. Gideon could actually feel his pulse shoot up.
“That Crosby kid doesn’t have one yet.”
“He got here a week before you did,” Gideon said, wrinkling his nose.
“You should get him a puppy.”
Gideon shook his head. “Not until we know he’ll laugh,” he told Joey soberly. “It’s important.”
Joey sighed and nodded. “I’m done with weapons training. What else?”
Gideon longed to go back to his file, because the reading had been fascinating. People had been disappearing around Burlington, Camden, and Ocean counties—all of which were in proximity to New Jersey’s famous Pine Barrens.
Kathy Novacek, the profiler who’d started to build the case, had been sure the people had something else in common.
They’d all lost—or gained—significant money in the stock market recently.
Two of them were stockbrokers, which would make them guilty of insider trading, but she was having trouble pinning down the firm.
Kathy didn’t follow the market, and while Gideon wasn’t obsessive, his father was, so Gideon could talk financial planning like the best of them.
The finances Kathy had sent over were a tangle, and Gideon should have given up and asked to show them to his father two hours ago, but God, he hated to cry uncle.
But Carlyle was important too. He had responsibilities to this kid.
“Where’s Crosby and Pearson?” he asked.
“Tracking down a drug addict who killed his dealer, but not for the reasons you’d think.”
Gideon cocked his head. “Really?”
“Yeah, Pearson knew the guy, said he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But the dealer was doing that free candy thing.”
“Oh God—grade school?”
“Middle school. The addict made six calls to the cops, but they ignored him. He took matters into his own hands, there’s a manhunt, and they’re off trying to keep the police from gunning him down.”
Gideon grimaced. “Well, that’s gawdawful and depressing.”
“But also they don’t need help,” Carlyle said.
“No, they do not. Too many of us looks like we’re taking over turf, and that’s not what we want. Okay. So how about you go get your computer setup from Kylie. She’s—”
“Over there.” He nodded to a closed door from which emanated Pearl Jam at top volume, which indicated Kylie was doing silent overwatch for Pearson and Crosby and a lot of research for Natalia and Harding. “In the SCIF.”
Gideon nodded, impressed yet again. “Yeah—it’s not, like, presidentially secure—we’re not even supposed to have a Secure Communications Facility.
But Kylie encrypted a lot in there for when we need it.
” He shrugged. “Eighty-five percent of the time, we run overwatch from a laptop and a tablet out here or from Harding’s office.
We’re a small unit—everybody does double duty. ”
Carlyle nodded. “I would be terrible at that,” he announced, surprising the hell out of Gideon. “And please don’t think that means I wouldn’t like to do it. Do you know how ADHD works?”
Gideon blinked. It hadn’t been in the kid’s file. “You can’t concentrate on anything because you’re concentrating on everything?” he hazarded.
“Yes,” Carlyle said. “Or you can’t concentrate on anything because you’ve locked on to that one goddamned thing. So you have enough brain cells to keep you alive while you’re tracking the mastodon by tracking the saber-toothed tiger on your ass.”
And Gideon got it. “But not always enough bandwidth to see the big picture when you’re running hot. I get it.”
Carlyle appeared relieved. “I would need training,” he said frankly.
“Everybody does,” Gideon told him. “We’re big-picture people. When you’re ready, tell us.”
“Thank you.” Again that puzzled blink. “So after I check out my laptop and set up my desk?”
He glanced around, and Gideon nodded to the desk across from his. “It doesn’t mean we’re partners—don’t panic. It just means the last guy sat there.”
“Was he your partner?” Carlyle asked.
“No, he was sort of pro tem. Until now, we’ve been switching off, except for Harding and Tal, because they’ve got that FBI dynamic that you can’t lose.”
“Sleeping together?” Carlyle asked clinically—not lasciviously, Gideon thought, but once again, as though scenting his territory.
“Dear God no.” Gideon shook his head. “Natalia’s married to a lovely woman who just had their second child.”
Carlyle didn’t smile smile, but one corner of his lean mouth curved up, which was enough for Gideon. “Understood.” For a moment that almost permanent at-attention faded, and he seemed to deflate.
“What’s wrong?” Gideon asked.
“This place is… not what I expected,” he murmured, and before he could elaborate, Gideon’s extension rang.
Hoping it was Kathy Novacek about the file, Gideon nodded at his new charge.
“Go get set up, then order us some takeout—ask Kylie what she wants and how everybody else is for food. It’s not a unit rule, but it’s always nice to ask, and also to label leftovers for public consumption if there are any.
There’s a Sharpie in the drawer with the forks.
Let me take this. Talk in half an hour.”
Carlyle nodded, looking relieved to have some concrete directions, and made his quick and silent way toward the SCIF.