Chapter 3
“And the local PD—,” he heard Beckett mutter gruffly in response to something Gill said.
His boyfriend hummed, clearly still half asleep.
Hayes was positive that he’d get some half-baked explanation about where they were going and why, which he would then have to deconstruct and reorganise on the fly. Par for the course really.
“No, no, we’re good to go—” Beckett assured their boss as he sat up in bed. “Uh—let me ask.”
A warm hand settled on Hayes’ left shoulder and squeezed gently. Beckett’s thumb rubbed soothing patterns on his skin as he leaned forward to ask, “Hey, is your recce handy?”
Hayes sighed, knowing snooze time was well and truly over when he was asked if he’d packed his favorite sniper rifle. Sitting up and shaking off his grogginess, he gestured for the phone.
“Mr. Cranky Pants wants a word,” Beckett told their boss, handing the phone over.
He got up and began to dig through his pile of clean clothing at the foot of the bed.
The pile was Beckett’s method of “putting things away,” and while he kept assuring Hayes that he could always quickly find everything, this method didn’t look very efficient at the moment.
“What’s going on?” Hayes tiredly ran a hand over his face.
“Joint operation between the FBI and the Canadian Mounties. I’ve been asked to send some support and you’re the closest. Right now, all they need are some guys for grunt work, but since I sold you as a sniper—”
Right.
“I have her,” Hayes replied. Beckett snorted, his usual response whenever Hayes called his sniper rifle her. Hayes pointedly ignored him.
“Good. I don’t expect you’ll need it, but you never know. You need to be in Sherbrooke by dawn. Think you can do that?” Hayes hadn’t the faintest idea where Sherbrooke was on a map, but he supposed if his boss was asking him to go there, then it should be doable.
“Yes, sir,” Hayes answered promptly.
“Then get going,” Gill said and hung up.
Hayes wasn’t put off at all by their boss’s brusqueness. That, too, was par for the course.
“Have you seen my cargo pants? I swear I—”
“In the bathroom. You left them there after you mistook them for a towel,” Hayes responded with a sigh.
Finding stray articles of Beckett’s clothing laying around their condo was perfectly normal.
While Beckett was neat and organized most of the time, he did have a tendency to forget where he’d put things.
It didn’t bother Hayes so much as it simply confounded him.
On more than one occasion, Beckett had absentmindedly placed his belt in the fridge, clueless as to how it had ended up there in the first place.
“Rightttt,” Beckett said, pointing a finger gun at Hayes. “You alright?” he asked him, one eyebrow arched in concern.
Hayes yawned and stretched, nodding slowly as he struggled to get going.
“Ever think we’re getting too old for this?” Hayes asked, because while he wasn’t far along enough along in his career to retire, he’d begun to ponder whether this was really what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.
“What?” Beckett asked, giving Hayes a surprised look, as if that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You’re saying you’re not happy anymore about getting up at the ass crack of dawn to go shoot people in the face?”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Hayes responded with another tired sigh, tossing the covers aside and placing both feet on the floor. It was cold. He wanted nothing more than to snuggle back under the covers.
“Is this like—a serious question? Are you thinking of quitting? ‘Cause I feel like that should be more of a Tuesday afternoon conversation than a 4:00 a.m. on Sunday one.” Looking genuinely worried, Beckett appeared torn between sitting down next to Hayes and going to search for his pants.
Hayes chuckled and shook his head. “Ignore me. I haven’t had any coffee yet.”
Beckett leaned over to kiss the top of his head.
“Come on, Mr. Cranky Pants,” Beckett muttered. “I’ll get you some caffeine on the way.” He gave Hayes a quick hug and then went to the bathroom in search of his pants to finish getting dressed.
Hayes stared after him for a few seconds, blinking blearily, reveling in the warmth of Beckett’s open affection.
Hayes remembered when they first met, and he would think to himself that any morning that started with Beckett being in his space would quickly go to hell-in-a-handbasket.
While that was still entirely accurate, over time Hayes had come to realize that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He couldn’t explain the dynamics of their relationship.
It was beyond anything he’d ever encountered, and it was damned scary at times, but that was nothing compared to how fulfilling it was to be with Beckett every day.
With a quiet hum of satisfaction, Hayes stood up and did a full body stretch before starting the process of gathering his gear.
Sherbrooke was a small, albeit popular, town in the province of Quebec.
Hayes did a quick Google search and found that it was home to two well-known universities.
One of them used English as a first language rather than French, surprisingly enough.
A first glance, it seemed a lot of the neighbourhoods in that area were older and slowly falling into disrepair.
However, there were quite a few newer sections that had been built recently.
It reminded Hayes of some of the towns in Maine, in a way. Older and settled, but still thriving.
Gill instructed them to report to the police station in the middle of town, which was bustling even at 6:00 a.m. Everyone there spoke French so quickly it made their heads spin. Although Hayes tried to catch at least some of what they said, he quickly determined that it was fruitless.
“Oui?” The receptionist had dark bags under her eyes and looked wiped out from working the night shift. Nonetheless, her demeanor was pleasant.
“Agent Thérault et Monroe. Nous sommes attendue,” Beckett replied. Going by the expression she wore, it was clear she’d tagged him as an out-of-towner, but she didn’t ask any questions as she picked up the phone.
“J’ai deux agents à la reception. J’ai pas de badge, mais ca me dit Thérault et—” She was cut off quickly by a male voice loud enough that even Beckett and Hayes, standing several feet away, could hear him.
“Okay, je t’ai envoies,” she replied before hanging up and smiling at
them.
“Passssttt the—eh, big, door? Two desk dowwwn—” she directed them with a thick accent.
Hayes thanked her before heading in the direction she indicated.
“Agents Thérault and Monroe?” A large black man called out to them as they stepped into a room that was a typical police bullpen, just like the ones at home. He extended his hand, and Hayes shook it quickly.
“Carl Lutham, I’m a liaison agent for the FBI. We’re working jointly with the local PD and federal units on this, so if you need anything, just let me know.” Turning, he led them across the bullpen.
“Why is the FBI in Canada at all?” Beckett asked, which was one of the many questions that emerged during their discussion of the case on the trip to Sherbrooke.
Hayes had checked for anything that might explain the presence of US law enforcement on Canadian soil, but could find nothing in the news that even hinted at a joint operation being conducted in Canada.
“There was a bank heist in Vermont a couple of days ago. Five individuals held up a bank at gunpoint and managed to escape with about $12,000,000 before the police arrived. We lost their trail pretty quickly, but we were able to pick it up again once they crossed the border into Canada.” Pushing open a door to the stairwell, he held it open for them.
“They went through customs?” Beckett asked.
“No,” Carl shook his head. “The Canadian government gave us access to their version of CCTV, and we were able to locate them when they stopped at a gas station a few miles out of town.” He led the way down a flight of stairs, then held another exit door open for them.
This one opened onto a hallway bustling with activity, the people wearing different uniforms in a wide variety of colors and styles.
“Phew!” Beckett commented. “I was worried the villains had grown stupid too.”
Hayes just snickered at this nonsensical comment and shook his head.
“How can we help?” Hayes asked, as they followed Carl down another hallway filled with busy law enforcement officers entering and exiting offices along the way.
“It’s a little—complex,” Carl said, glancing over his shoulder to give them a nervous smile.
“Complex,” Beckett said with a snort. “That’s code for a dumbass idea.”
Carl barked a quick laugh but didn’t refute Beckett’s claim.
As Carl turned the corner to enter a large conference room, he narrowly avoided a collision with a sleep-deprived looking guy carrying a huge stack of files.
“Sorry,” the young, redheaded agent apologized as stepped around Carl.
“You’ll have to excuse the—frenzy. This town doesn’t usually get involved in operations that are this size,” Carl said as he steered them into the room.
“We’re familiar with chaos,” Hayes assured him. “Why is this operation so big? I thought you said you’d located them.”
Before Carl could answer the question, someone else did it for him.
“We know the bank robbers are in the area, but they’ve evaded us so far,” a woman informed them from the far end of the room.
Hayes had noticed her as soon as they’d walked in.
She’d been standing in front of a wall covered with printouts, newspaper clippings, and pictures while directing agents in a quiet but assured manner.
She wore a tired smile. Though it was clear she was exhausted, her pantsuit and white blouse were neatly pressed, and not a single strand of hair was out of place.
“Agents, this is Naomie Cho. She’s the federal agent in charge of this joint operation.”
“Call me Naomie,” she requested with a cordial smile, as she stepped forward to shake hands.