4. Frank
“ S o, you’re really doing this?” I hear Michael’s voice before I see him, per usual.
“Yep, there’s not really any way around it—we want to get to the bottom of this shit, we’re going to have to take matters into our own hands.
” I shrug, shuffling coffee orders for the boys—waiting in the van for my triumphant return—around in the cardboard drink tray next to the sugar, plastic stirrers, napkins, and insulated bottles of cream, milk, and plant-based-coffee-whitener on offer.
“Really Frank? You’ve jumped straight to kidnapping an active FBI agent as your best plan of action? You really have lost your touch, haven’t you?” Michael scoffs—his square jaw clean shaven, the gray at his temples reading as distinguished rather than past his prime.
I catch my own reflection in the glass window of the coffee shop; hair mussed, scars on my face from a lifetime as a soldier, beard unruly, dark smudges of sleeplessness circled beneath my droop-lid eyes.
Maybe Mike is right—maybe I’m washed up, maybe I’ve lost it.
Won’t stop me from trying, though.
“Alright… that’s my answer, I guess.” Michael scoffs a laugh, shaking his head and adjusting the Windsor knot in a shimmering blue satin necktie—his button-down blizzard white, and the lines of his navy felt suit, cut clean and angular—Michael Duboze; forever the portrait of what a man of the bureau should look like.
“And what would you do, negative Nancy?” I grumble back, pocketing a wad of napkins ‘just in case.’
“What? So you can ignore my sagely advice?” Michael scoffs, folding his arms over his chest, giving me a challenge in his raised brow and false smile.
“If you’re about to say something profound, could you hurry it up? The boys are holed up in the van waiting on their much-needed caffeine. I’m still on a tight timetable today, even if the king of the boy scouts disapproves.”
“Just try not to get yourself killed, ok?” Michael groans as I pull my sunglasses from my inner jacket pocket, preparing to step out into the early winter morning sun once more.
“I’ll try not to, but I’m still not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.” I snort a laugh, but when I look up—a farewell on my lips and my hand ready to offer a warm shake—he’s already gone.
“One large coffee, black—” I lean through the narrow opening between the driver’s and passenger seat to pass Quentin his coffee, the brilliant white of the Diamond Center uniform seeming to issue a silent challenge as Quentin delicately pops open the thin plastic sipping window on the lid; his prosthetic nose and blond lace front wig making him look the part of ‘Hans, the deep tissue masseur, rather than Quentin Beckett; former MI6 turned ne’er-do-well vigilante.
“Medium hazelnut latte,” I continue down the line—passing Sébastien the sweet-smelling cup, his fingers—heavily laden with tattoos and chipping matte black nail polish—clutch greedily for the hot drink; an unlit cigarette pressed between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.
Sébastien only see’s marginally more daylight than our resident nocturnal beast, Cazimer—and those sunshine hours Seb does see are mostly through the hazy tinted windows of his ‘lab’—or the colorful glow of his bedroom; vibrant scarves from his native Morocco draped over the windows, Beni Ourain rugs of different sizes in a wide range of rich hues overlapping themselves on the floor.
To see him, his warm brown skin and messy dark chocolate curls in the harsh, cold grey light of winter morning feels out of place.
“Extra large freezy mocha chip with extra whipped cream,” I sniff through my disgust at the frozen confection Cazimer has ordered—passing the drink with its swirled peak of whip cream under the plastic dome to Caz in the driver’s seat; his janitor’s jumpsuit beneath his quilted parka—the matching cap stowed safely in the glovebox; a plain black beanie pulled down over his distinctive bleach blonde buzzcut.
“Oh thank fuck, I still feel like a goddamn zombie,” Caz sighs with relief, trading me the empty energy drink can from his cup holder to make room for the frozen caffeinated confection.
“Are we really going to send Caz in again? You know ‘field work’ isn’t his strongest suit,” Quentin sighs, eyeing me through the rear-view mirror before side-eyeing Caz in his undercover garb.
“Um, Q—I’m sitting right here,” Caz snips testily, making a loud slurping noise as he struggles to suck the thick coffee frappe through the bright orange and pink plastic straw.
“You did fuck up your bit at the Gala.” Sébastien yawns, sipping carefully at his steaming latte.
“Oh, come on—you guys sent me in as literal bait and I hooked her. It was just that fucking tightwad in the monkey suit who fucked everything up.” Caz argues—one hand on the wheel—the other clutching his precious caffeine in a death grip; his startlingly blue eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored bug-eyed sunglasses.
“Caz may not be aces at field work or the ol’ fashioned smash and grab, but we need to make sure we are covering our bases here.
The hackerman bullshit was mostly prep work for this job, and our target is potentially going to need all four of us to ensure a smooth transition,” I explain with as much patience as I can muster.
Sometimes it really feels like I’ve become scout master of a band of misfits I never signed up to babysit; this morning is one of those times.
All three of them bristle at the idea that nabbing Louise Penny, FBI agent, sigma—and most importantly, daughter of the deceased Margot and Landon Penny—would give them any amount of trouble.
“Listen, I know none of us are particularly used to being ‘team players’ anymore.” Quentin and Sébastien squirm in their seats. “Fuck, some of us haven’t had any experience—period.” I catch a flash of Caz’s eyes over the rim of his sunglasses in the rear view before I continue.
“But all of us know what’s riding on today—so let’s try our best, yeah?” I reach across the bench seat and snatch the unlit cigarette from Sébastien’s hand.
Before he can protest, I light the cigarette and turn my face to the dreary downtown landscape passing outside my window.
“Q, why don’t you walk us through it—one last time,” I prompt Quentin, his delicate, almost feminine features completely obscured by prosthetics and makeup, the fabrication of the burly, Scandinavian caricature of Hans speaking with Quentin’s incongruous polished aristocratic British accent.
“Caz will drop Sébastien at the front doors. Seb will make his way around to the reception desk and will complete the check-in process as our fabricated John Doe,” Quentin continues academically, pausing only occasionally to delicately sip at his black coffee.
“Once he’s checked in, he’ll wait in his suite until Caz makes the drop later. ”
“Our bunk laundry van gets parked out back next to the patient transport sprinter vans. I make my way into the staff entrance and get settled into my body work appointments for the morning while Caz and Frank make their way in through facilities with the laundry cart; packing the night-night gun and heavier restraints in the unlikely event that there’s a struggle.
” Quentin counts off his fingers as he goes, machinelike in his recitation.
“That leaves us approximately two hours between when we enter, and my scheduled appointment with Miss Penny. Once she’s in my massage suite, I’ll tranq her—Caz and Frank will swing by, ostensibly to collect the linens.
We pack Penny in the laundry cart. Caz and Frank bring her down to Sébastien’s room while I finish out my next appointment. ”
“Yes, yes—and then we put her in some ugly tracksuit and a wig and roll her out the back door in a center-provided wheelchair and wheel her out to the van. You get your fake-Swedish-ass back in the car and Cazimer baby-driver’s us away from this disgusting place,” Sébastien interjects impatiently—his warm maroon eyes still half closed with sleep, his long oil black lashes fanning lazily up and down as he slurps up the rest of his coffee.
Sébastien nods along, pulling another cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, pulling the lit butt from my mouth to light his with the glowing red cherry of its ember.
“If only you were good at following simple directions, putain ,” Quentin sniffs imperiously, his French—much like the twelve other languages he spoke, indiscernible from a native speaker’s.
Seb flips Quentin the bird. Quentin responds with a come-hither pursing of his lips and a fetching wink.
“Now, now, Q, children. No fighting. We’ve got to work together on this one—‘well-oiled machine’ and all that shit,” I caution them like some kind of bizzaro sitcom father figure.
“I’ll well oil your machine, Daddy,” Caz razzes back in the twinkiest of tones; reluctant laughter bubbling up from both Q and Seb.
“And I’ll return the favor—if you boyos can manage to fly in formation for this one.” I give the crotch of my own janitor’s jumpsuit a hyperbolic grab, before adding soberly: “Seriously though—we don’t have a lot of wiggle room today. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you,” I warn.
Everyone’s smiles fade and the emotional temperature inside the van plummets once more.
There isn't time to build more angst over the job. The manicured hedges lining the white stone and brushed brass lettering sign for the “Diamond Placement Center” rapidly approach in the sprinter van’s view.
“Showtime,” Seb sighs—both of us flicking our cigarette butts out the window as Caz rolls up slowly on our turn into the parking lot.
“Alright boys, don’t fuck it up,” I offer my final dire pronouncement as Seb slides the back door open, hopping out of the van with his small rolling suitcase, making his way to the main entrance.