Has anyone else ever noticed that Ian just like... always has coffee? Seriously.
Ian tried not to contemplate what criminals were doing while he was sitting around an office, waiting for their understanding of evidence and motive and psych profiles to bring them to the point where they could get ahead of his fugitives. Still, sometimes it was inevitable that his mind would travel down that muddy path.
This was one of those times. The one small mercy for the two weeks he'd spent chasing Hoyle and Winters along the interstates had been the narrow choice of targets. They would hit a corner store or gas station in some podunk little town every few days to get their fill of bloodshed and whatever else they needed. But in those situations at least the potential for loss of life had been limited to the unlucky employees and hapless customers who'd picked the wrong time to stop in for lunch.
There'll be no shortage of prey in the country's second largest city, that's for damned sure.
As it was, they had almost nothing to point them in the right direction. And Ian was getting agitated just sitting still and waiting. That was an odd little facet of his personality: the inherent conflict between the part of him that was a sniper and the part of him that was a hunter. He could spend days lying in one spot, barely moving a muscle, waiting to make a single skillfully placed shot to complete his mission. On the other hand, when presented with a good hunt, he always liked to be on the move. Learning his prey, stalking them, giving chase, and finally getting the chance to pounce. Oh yes, it was satisfying either way.
Right now, however, the only thing he found remotely satisfying was the ever-present cup of coffee in his hands. Another nice thing about the L.A. office. Great coffee. As long as Granger's not making it, according to Eppes.
He and Reeves had just given the team their initial analysis of the two spree killers, whom he had been considering mentally reclassifying. There was something about the two that had just never quite fit with that standard label. They were too... focused. Too dedicated to the violence of what they were doing, which generally suggested at least some degree of personal attachment or significance. Reeves's profile assessment seemed to agree with him. Not that he really needed to hear their discussion to figure that out. He knew his prey.
Ian found himself making his way over to the break room for a refill after their brief meeting was over, and grimaced as he found Colby standing in front of the disappointingly empty pot, reaching for a bag of coffee beans.
"Allow me, Granger," he said firmly, with a slightly sardonic grin. I'm way below my coffee quota for the day, and there's no way in hell I'm letting you mess up my next three cups.
The younger agent handed the bag over with muttered thanks and stepped aside to let Ian work. Most of his meals may consist of freshly carved meat roasted on a stick, but Eppes's team had learned that he could make a damn good pot of coffee when he set his mind to it.
Even though his eyes remained fixed on the task in front of him, Ian was acutely aware of everything Granger was doing on the edge of his field of vision. The young man's eyes seemed to be set on a repeating cycle: five seconds looking around the room, three seconds staring at Edgerton. He shifted slightly on his feet, which belied the seemingly casual way he was leaning against the counter top. Ian heard him take in a breath, preparing to say something, but then catch it as he apparently changed his mind.
Ian supposed he couldn't blame the man for being a little... nervous... around him. The two of them had only met once, briefly, when Granger and Sinclair had visited him in Sibley to swap information about the case concerning McHugh. Granger had spoken only a few words to him during the exchange, so he really knew very little about him besides his name and the quick analysis he had made of the extroverted agent's personality. But Ian hadn't missed the gleam in the younger man's eyes as Sinclair had introduced them.
Despite his build and obvious sense of pride, Ian wouldn't have immediately pegged him for a soldier if not for that look. He seemed too cheery for someone who had seen the kind of things they had in Afghanistan. But unfortunately Ian could spot from experience the distinctive look when a former military colleague recognized his name. Far too much experience for his taste.
Ian loved, and deserved, to be respected for his skills as a sniper. Idolized... well, that bothered him. Almost as much as the nickname.
Ian finally decided to speak, to alleviate the obvious awkwardness between them. Certainly not because he pitied the younger agent's discomfort. Hell no, the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda takes pity on no one.
"What made you decide to join the FBI, Granger?" Ian was genuinely curious. It wasn't unusual for people to transfer from the military to some field of law enforcement, especially with the variety of training available these days.
But most of them were people like him, career soldiers with rare skills or experience in Special Forces, who had finally decided they'd seen enough of war and wanted to get out of the game with at least a fraction of their souls intact. People who simply were not designed to work desk jobs.
From his age and the bit that Ian had overheard of the conversation between Granger and his partner when David had presented him, he knew the other agent wasn't one of those people. "That guy was a sniper legend in Afghanistan. You'd see his work everywhere; you'd never see him."
"Not much else I could do with three years' training in interrogation techniques," he answered. His tone was a bit sarcastic, but Ian could read the earnestness in it as well. And the hint of excitement. Trust me, Granger. I'm not really that great. Not even close.
Ian gave him a vaguely inquisitive look: eyes on his, slightly raised eyebrow, lips pressed together in thought. He had an expressive face, when he chose to anyway.
Colby explained by adding: "Did my time in CID."
Army Criminal Investigations Division. Dealt with them once or twice, he thought grimly, long-buried memories threatening to rise to the surface of his mind.
"And here I thought you were a grunt," Ian replied, letting his usual sarcastic smirk make its first appearance in the conversation. It seemed to make Colby a bit more comfortable with him. Yes, Granger. Your god is human. I smile, laugh, glare, frown, eat, drink, sleep, and have sex just like any other guy. Well, maybe not the last one. Relationships conflicted with his lifestyle; he preferred to stick to his guns.
"Only when I didn't have someone's ass to bust," Colby joked, grinning. Ian gave a soft snort. Granger may be a friendly guy, but he was built like a wrestler. He couldn't imagine many suspects wanting to go toe to toe with the man.
They talked for a few minutes longer, until the beep of the coffee machine drew their attention and Ian finally got his much-needed caffeine fix. He downed half the cup in one gulp, savoring the hot, bitter taste as it went down his throat. He noticed Granger giving him an odd look and quirked a brow.
"How do you manage to keep your hands from shaking well enough to hit anything, man?" Colby was shaking his head in amazement, truly bewildered at the legendary sniper's coffee-guzzling.
"You don't get to be the fifth best shot in the country for nothing, Granger." Ian smirked and downed the rest of his coffee. Colby was still shaking his head as the door opened and Sinclair joined them, immediately grabbing his own cup and reaching for the pot between them.
Ian noticed the way David slyly looked at his partner, raising his eyebrows suggestively and shooting the now decidedly flustered junior agent a mischievous grin. What the hell is that about, Sinclair?
"Got anything from that bar in Wyoming yet?" Ian asked, his agitation at their lack of progress returning despite the consolation offered by his own personal nectar of the gods.
"I talked to an agent from the nearest field office, and he's working on getting the local PD to transfer evidence and get the phone records as soon as possible, but you know how these things are. Could be awhile."
"Gotta love bureaucracy," Colby muttered. Ian snorted in agreement. Free with his opinions, served in the military, not afraid to mix things up. I like you, Granger.
He couldn't imagine what kind of circumstances it would take to get him to admit that out loud though. Probably the same kind of crazy that would make him admit to believing in the Professor's voodoo. Unlike Granger, he just wasn't a touchy feely kind of guy.
Edgerton refilled his cup again and then made for the door, telling the two other agents that he was going to check over Hoyle's juvenile record from '92 even though he had the damn thing memorized forward and backward. Not that part of him didn't enjoy hanging around with Eppes's team, but he needed to be doing something he could at least pretend was productive.
As the door was shutting behind him, he heard Sinclair ask his partner, "So you finally get your autograph or what?"
Ian didn't have to look to know that Granger had choked on his coffee. And as he kept heading into the office without breaking stride, he finally gave in to the urge he'd been resisting for the last twenty minutes and rolled his eyes, smirking once again.
Ian had just made it back to his hotel room, after a none too gratifying dinner at a nearby pizza joint, when his cell phone rang.
They had finally gotten the details on the bar robbery in Wyoming, turned up by Charlie's pinpointing of the missing dot. Which, according to what he'd explained to them in yet another voodoo lesson in which he'd been ignominiously compared to Manfred von Richtofen, fell on something called a "pursuit curve" that had spanned half the continental US and was supposed to somehow be able to help them find his killers' next destination.
His gut, however, was telling him that this phone call was going to do that a lot faster. It was a local PD officer, relayed through the FBI switchboards, informing him that they had just been dispatched on a call of a carjacking-turned-homicide, with a body containing a bullet of the same caliber as Hoyle's weapon from the shootout at the diner and the BMW they'd stolen from the scene.
With a glance at the clock, he decided he would check the incident out by himself. Eppes's team was used to keeping normal office hours in most cases. While he was content to go chasing after his prey any time at the drop of a hat, he figured it would be better to let them enjoy their evening until he had a reason to call them in.
When he arrived at the car dealership, he was surprised to see Megan already there, talking with one of the coroner's assistants. She caught his eye and waved him over, introducing him to the stiff formerly known as Pierce Brenner.
Ian noted that she made no explanation for why she was there, but he decided not to question her. He wanted to focus on the case. And, as much as he respected Reeves's skills, he did not want her to take his queries as some sign of territorial aggression about having the local team involved in something he firmly considered to be his business. Psychoanalyze my killers all you want, Reeves, but don't you dare try that crap on me.
Even now, she was reworking her profile of Hoyle and Winters based on the new information from the scene. As they talked, he caught sight of a familiar piece of evidence. The wrapper from one of Buck's beloved burritos. Wonder how many bad guys would avoid getting caught if they just learned not to litter...
"They watched from over here," Ian said, looking back toward the windows of the car dealership to gauge how well his killers would have been able to observe Brenner's movements.
"Spree killers act on impulse," Reeves replied with only slight hesitation. "They don't generally stalk their victims."
"You think they targeted this guy?"
"She was here in LA in '92," the profiler offered.
Ian raised his eyebrow as he considered her train of thought. "Awful long time to hold a grudge."
"Bad memories last a long time." From the tone she used, the tracker got the impression that her reasoning came from more than just her psychology textbooks. Not that he was one to judge. You sure as hell don't have to tell me twice. "This is the second crime they haven't signed."
"New MO," Ian observed.
"Something's changing."
As Reeves, by far the more social of the two, went to talk with the officers and crime techs processing evidence, Ian stood silently in the center of the scene. His arms crossed over his chest, sharp eyes taking in every detail as they roamed over the area like a raptor searching for prey.
He didn't particularly know what he was searching for, but he knew at this point that Reeves was right; it wasn't a couple of spree killers. Why did you come here, Crystal? What is it you're after? He didn't bother reassessing her lover's motives. The thrill Buck derived from the violence he committed was more than obvious.
Only the higher reasoning that told him he would function better with sleep drove Ian back to his hotel. He didn't even bother to change out of his clothes; just kicked off his shoes, set his gun and phone on the table by the bed, and laid down to rest.
Agent Edgerton had seen far too much to be disturbed by violence. In fact, his desensitization to it had begun long before he joined the Army. For some people, that was just the way life went. No delusions about the darker side of human nature. No shelter from the harsh cruelty of the world.
Even when he was the perpetrator, he rarely had any trouble falling into a restful sleep the minute he closed his eyes. Another habit left over from Afghanistan, where one fell asleep to the sound of RPG strikes and ten minutes of rest could mean the difference between life and death.
But he had never taken an innocent life. At least, not a life that he had known at the time was innocent. Damn spooks and their faulty intel. And who the hell do they blame? Who has to live with that shit on their conscience? He gave a mental snort at the smaller voice in the back of his mind that asked sarcastically, "What conscience?"
So as he lay there staring at the ceiling, unable to purge the faces of his killers' victims from his photographic memory or escape the slight sense of responsibility he felt for those crimes, he found himself wondering how Colby Granger had made it this far with so much of his youthful exuberance left intact.
You think you admire me, Granger? Hell... maybe it should be the other way around. And maybe I shouldn't give Eppes such a hard time for trying to keep his brother out of our world.
As his mind finally began its descent into unconsciousness, Ian's memory stirred faintly at the thought of the Professor.
"Hello there, Professor. Still figuring the angles?"
"What I'm figuring is the reason why he missed. This shot is way closer than any of the others."
"Well, closer doesn't always mean easier. He ran a higher risk of being seen here."
"That wouldn't affect the shot itself though, would it?" Oh, Professor. You're almost sweet in your innocence.
"Forget about the math for a second. Just look. Invisibility is a sniper's greatest strength. He starts to worry about losing it, his heart rate increases. Doesn't know how to handle it, his breathing rhythm gets thrown off."
"Breathing rhythm?" He can't be serious?
"You've really never fired a gun."
"I don't really believe in them." He's serious all right. How exactly should I put this?
"Believe in them? It's not like they're ghosts."
"Obviously that's not what I meant."
"So you don't take into account sweat getting into his eyes? Or his hands cramping up, or adrenaline twitching the barrel?" Damn, why does he look so nervous all of a sudden? "That's the difference between an expert marksman and a guy who aims at white meat and goes home with a wing."
"A woman got shot today. Not some... animal." Ah, so that's it.
"I see. So when I regard her as a technical problem, I'm a sick bastard. But when you plug her into an equation, you're a scientist."
"Just seems like it's all some kind of sport to you." Amazing. Eppes must have done a damn good job of keeping his life in the FBI away from his family. Still, it needs to be said.
"It's my job to put my head inside the mind of a killer. Your brother's too."
What I wouldn't... give right now... to get inside Hoyle's mind...
If you're wondering, that last part is Ian falling asleep. I really wasn't sure where to end this one. At first it was just the coffee part, but I didn't want to break it up so much that every scene is its own chapter. Hopefully this is decent. And if you're wondering, I'm not ignoring Don and Ian's friendship. Just haven't quite gotten to it yet. Patience is a virtue, and not just for snipers.