The night passed by at glacial speed, hour after interminable hour.
At FBI headquarters, a man at the head of a team of dozens of agents, studied film and conducted interviews and woke up judges when warrants were needed, and railed at the delays caused by those who wouldn't otherwise cooperate.
And he watched the hands on the clock move, watched the slow march of time, watched opportunity drain away with every minute that passed.
.
.
Inside a house camouflaged by normalcy, the same hours ticked away.
A meal that was made by many was eaten by few, picked at and picked over until it was cold and inedible. With no interest in sleep, they moved as a group into the living room. With phones already confiscated ("just to be safe"), silence descended, loud with worry and fear and uneasiness. With thoughts scrambled and focus turned inward, brilliant minds were dulled and signs of distress went unnoticed.
Distracted by circumstance, even Angela ignored the small twinges that pinched her lower back, faded, and then returned with a regularity that gradually became more frequent as the night officially became a new day. The sudden spasm that clawed through her midsection in a sneak attack of agony surprised her as much as her instinctive cry of pain surprised everyone else.
"Angie?" Hodgins' eyes were wide and panicked, his unspoken fear obvious. Not now. Not here.
Already in the grip of another tortuous contraction, Angela could only nod and look down in dismay at the growing pool of moisture spreading out on the chair where she sat.
Yes, here.
Yes, now.
.
.
.
At 1:30 in the morning, feeling the effects of what was now three sleep-deprived nights in a row, Booth walked out of the Hoover and headed to a small coffee shop next door. What he needed was a nap. What he was willing to allow himself was a jolt of caffeine that didn't come from a machine.
In minutes, a ceramic pot of steaming, fragrant coffee was on the table in front of him, along with two more applications for warrants to confiscate film from security cameras. Pen in hand, he was reviewing the first for any careless mistakes that might result in evidence obtained tossed out of court, when the chair across from him was suddenly filled.
The man sitting there was younger by perhaps a half-dozen years, deceptively lean, and smiling in a way that caused Booth to put down the pen and square his shoulders.
"Who are you?"
Harland laid a photo over the warrant applications. A large metal shipping container of the sort transported across the ocean by boat was centered in the picture, as was the shadowy image of the man caught in the frame using a crowbar to pry open the lock: Jacob Broadsky.
"Let's just say we have a mutual acquaintance."
