The motel Brixton called temporary home lay in the trees just outside the city. A strip of rooms ran away from the office on one end and wrapped around running back on the other. As Eliot pulled his mom's sedan into the front lot, he noticed the rooms were all even numbered. Odd number rooms ran along the rear of the building. One car sat in the front lot outside room number eight, a second car sat outside the office. He pulled into the visitor space near the office and took a deep breath.
You can do this, he thought. He opened the door and made his way into the office.
A little old man sat behind the counter, his eyes glued to a television on the back wall. Even after Eliot reached the counter, the man's eyes didn't waver from the screen.
"Room is fifty dollars a night. Maid service is at 10 am; use the sign if you don't want them in the room. No cable," the man rambled.
"Sounds fair, one night," Eliot replied as he removed a fifty from his wallet.
A palm reached out to Eliot, who laid the bill across it. The program went to commercial allowing the man a few minutes to focus elsewhere. As the old man checked the watermarks in the bill, Eliot took a moment to survey the counter. A register lay in front of him. Two names were on it, each with a number in a circle next to it. The first name belonged to a woman, an eight in the circle next to it. The second name was L. Kershin- a three in the circle next to it.
"Good bill, you have one room, one night," the man stated. Eliot heard the program return- Matlock. The old man was immediately riveted back on the TV.
"Thank you…" Eliot began.
"Sign register, we have most rooms empty if you have a preference…" the man explained, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"Five would be nice, kind of a lucky number," Eliot answered.
"Five it is. Put it in a circle by your name." The man reached up, pulled the key off the wall and handed it to Eliot without missing a moment of the program.
"Thanks again," Eliot repeated as he grasped the keys tightly and exited the office.
As Eliot climbed back into the car, he thought about the old man. It was unlikely he could provide any information about Brixton. He never took his eyes off the back wall. He most likely never looked too close at Brixton, but it also meant he'd know very little about Eliot and his visit as well.
Eliot pulled around the backside of the motel. The lot was empty. A drained swimming pool and a vine covered empty playground were the only structures in sight. No one would see him.
Perfect, he thought. He parked in the slot designated five and approached the door to room three.
"Ready or not," he growled as he kicked open the door. It swung violently open and shuddered on the way back to the frame. Eliot caught it and took one last glance around before entering.
The room was small, a large bedroom with a small bathroom attached. He could count the furniture on one hand- bed, nightstand, chair and an armoire. A large painting hung on the outer bathroom wall over the bedside. Brixton had one suitcase next to the chair. Eliot knew no matter how trained and careful, Brixton was bound to have left some sort of clue- if Eliot was clever enough to find it.
He exhaled loudly and made his way to the bed. The pillows, blankets and mattress flipped easily. Coming up empty-handed, Eliot snorted his disgust before tossing the mattress back on the frame to allow himself room to continue searching.
He continued his thorough search- dissecting the nightstand, the armoire, chair, suitcase and bathroom. The room was void of clues. Eliot kicked the doorframe as the mat pulled up to reveal nothing.
"Dammit," he hissed, turning to look out over the tossed room. He'd left nothing unturned- save the painting. His bottom lip crawled up, scrunching his top lip. A tilt of his head and he made his way over.
The painting hung on a nail, the top of the frame revealing the telltale gap to the wall. Eliot ran his fingers down the side of the frame. A smaller gap existed on the bottom of the frame. Something was preventing the frame base from pushing flush to the wall. He grabbed the sides, unhooked the painting and tossed the art face down onto the mattress.
A large manila envelope was taped to the back of the painting. A smile snuck across Eliot's lips as he tore the envelope free. He dumped the contents on the bed. Several papers scattered across the space. Eliot picked up a photo. It showed several young soldiers. He recognized his father's face. The man was no more than 23 years of age in the photo, but there was no mistake. Eliot assumed the rest of the fresh faced dog tags were the men on the team. He let the photo fall from his fingers as he scooped up a list of names. Each name was scratched out, save one- William Spencer.
He glanced down at several news clippings that were scattered in the mess. Eliot spread them out. Each described a death or group of deaths- drowning, car accident, mugging… His eyes scanned the victims' names; they matched the names on the list in his hand. Nearly every victim was joined in tragedy by a spouse, child or other family. Brixton wasn't settling for the soldiers in his unit- he was taking their families as well.
"Hardison," Eliot cued his com.
"Yeah, find something?" Hardison replied.
"Need you to check some names," Eliot answered as he located several of the names in the articles.
"Ready," Hardison spoke as he stretched his fingers over his tablet keyboard. Parker sat beside him driving, disregarding all traffic laws to get them back to Oklahoma City.
"Charlie Bennet, Franklin Keenz, Jimmy Tanner, George Carter and Thomas Jackson… pretty sure that's the men in Dad's unit. Need you to check dead or alive and cause of death…"
"Give me a minute…" Hardison's fingers flew across the keyboard as he hunted the information for Eliot.
As he waited on Hardison, Eliot continued flipping through the news clippings.
A minute later Hardison responded. "Eliot, they're all dead. Dead, dead and some pretty nasty stuff too. Only one died alone; most died with their families. I am NOT feeling good about this."
"Yeah, got it," Eliot swallowed. One piece of paper lay face down. He dropped the list of names and picked up the lone page. The paper was a bill of sale from a gun shop, a handgun… the name on the purchaser line made him choke- William Spencer. His eyes grew wide as his pulse raced. He hit his com.
"Quinn!? Quinn! Dammit, Quinn, you better have turned it on!"
Quinn adjusted the earbud Eliot had given him. He still couldn't get used to the team approach. Parker and Hardison's constant chatter ground his mind. He was grateful for the standby mode which essentially allowed him to mute the voices unless necessary. Eliot had called it a sanity button- he couldn't agree more. Knowing the banter was not going to reach his ear, but that necessary connection would be restored with a simple vocal command left Quinn content. This job was out of his realm. He had played delivery boy, even bodyguard, but it was normally a criminal mastermind- someone who knew the dangers and was not so skittish about weapons. Keeping watch over an elderly suburban couple and a young kid felt a waste of his talents and left him uncomfortable.
As the Spencers went about cleaning up the overabundance of food, Quinn began circling the house. The home was fairly secluded, making it both easier and harder to defend. A wide open front yard containing a long driveway gave him clear sightlines to the road. Frontal assaults would prove difficult for any attacker. Unfortunately, the backyard was completely enclosed by dense tree lines. It wasn't too difficult for anyone to sneak into those trees and quickly approach the house. Quinn wondered a moment how people could live every day in that type of environment. The lack of security would leave him unable to sleep. How such a place and such people produced someone with the awareness and sense of Eliot Spencer astounded him.
Dillon slunk out of the kitchen, drawing Quinn's eyes a moment. The boy plopped down on the couch and turned on the television. Quinn winced at the sound before continuing his rotation. A hall ran alongside the kitchen toward the garage. The clatter of dishes let Quinn know William and Evelyn were still cleaning up. He snickered as he crossed the doorway. Somehow he felt William had the short straw. This job would be considered dangerous and crazy, but dealing with a family day in and day out- that was a difficulty he could never fathom.
CRASH!
A shriek emanated from the kitchen. Quinn turned on a dime, breaking for the kitchen doorway as fast as he could run.
He saw Dillon at alert on the couch as he approached. His finger rose to his lips, his other hand gently motioned Dillon to get down. The boy crawled down between the couch and coffee table.
Quinn slid up tight to the door frame. A quick, deep breath passed his lips. His eyes rolled to the side as he slowly peered around the frame into the kitchen.
"Move! I'll get it. I dropped it, I'll clean it up," William growled. He stood a few feet inside the door, a wad of paper towels in his hand.
"No, I got it. You're not doing anything strenuous," Evelyn replied. She was down on her hands and knees scrubbing a gravy spill off the tile floor.
"It's food, how strenuous can it be?" he rumbled.
"Everything okay in here?" Quinn asked as he entered.
"An antique baking dish served its last, but we're fine," William replied.
"Was quite the ruckus." Quinn bit his lip as he looked around.
"It was her mother's dish. I'll be working that one off," William explained.
"Ah." It still didn't make full sense but Quinn decided the tension was not worth the explanation.
"He scared me is all," Evelyn retorted as she stood up.
A faint sound caught Quinn's ear. He strained to listen as the couple continued their banter.
"Shh," he finally insisted.
"What is it?" William asked.
Quinn shook his head quietly and tiptoed to the edge of the doorframe nearest the garage. He waved them toward the back wall furthest from the door.
William grabbed Evelyn's shoulders, herding her to the corner near the sink, out of direct sight line of the door. He had her crouch as small as she could behind him. He stood ready, arming himself with a kitchen knife.
The sound of footsteps, slow and methodical, approached the kitchen. Quinn listened closely. No one else could hear them… that he knew. It had taken him years to learn that sound. These steps were hidden well, but he could pick out details. The long stride told him he was dealing with a tall individual. A heavier impact on the back of the foot suggested male.
After a quick breath, Quinn rolled around the doorframe, grabbing the figure creeping past the door. He grasped the arm holding a gun, slamming it against the wall.
Brixton swallowed as his arm hit the wall. His eyes shot toward the aggressor. The tall, long haired blonde man pinning his arm was unfamiliar to him. He snorted his disgust at this fly in his ointment.
"Mistake," Brixton growled. "You should have stayed out of this."
"What can I say? I like trouble," Quinn sassed. He flashed Brixton a toothy smile.
Brixton sighed, pulling his head back. Before Quinn could react, Brixton drove the crown of his head forward into the center of Quinn's forehead. Quinn stumbled back into the doorframe, shaking his head.
"Quinn?" Dillon's voice squeaked in fear from his vantage in the living room.
A snicker escaped Brixton's lips as he aimed the gun toward the living room.
"Stay down!" Quinn ordered. His head pounded and his watery eyes blurred. He dove on Brixton, struggling for the gun.
Both men rolled, fighting and clawing over the firearm. Brixton heard William's steps coming across the kitchen. He drove one elbow into Quinn's kidney. Quinn involuntarily cringed in pain, losing his grip. Brixton pushed off the floor, bounding back on his feet as William appeared.
"Spencer… hiding behind bodyguards now?" Brixton taunted.
"At least I don't try to pretend I'm tough by attacking women and children," William retorted.
Brixton's anger piqued. He leveled his aim at William's chest.
"Scared… or too weak to do it yourself?" William demanded.
An angry roar erupted from Brixton's chest. He began to pull the trigger. Neither man noticed Quinn lying beneath them. He swung his leg into Brixton's ankle. Brixton's body jerked, pulling his whole body away. His gun arm fell as the trigger clicked. The bullet tore through the air, searing Quinn's arm en route to the floor. Quinn grabbed his arm in pain.
William began to engage the stumbling Brixton. As his plan continued to unravel, Brixton had a moment of fear strike. He bolted down the hallway back the way he had come. After a step over Quinn, William took off after him.
Evelyn crept around the frame when she heard William's truck fire up and tear out of the drive. She found Quinn lying in the hall, cradling his arm.
"You need a doctor," she cried.
"No, it's just a graze," he answered.
She looked around, clearly in shock. "Where's William?"
"I'm pretty sure he went after Brixton."
"Grandma?" Dillon approached, shaking.
"Honey, come here," Evelyn grabbed Dillon in a tight hug. "My brave boy, help me get some medical supplies to patch up Quinn here." She and Dillon made their way to the bathroom.
"Quinn!? Quinn!" Eliot's voice burst through the com in Quinn's ear.
"I hear you," Quinn responded.
"Brixton's got a gun, I repeat…" Eliot began.
"Yeah, I know. He already got me.
"WHAT?!"
"He broke in already… winged me, a scratch really."
"Did he…?"
"No, everybody else is okay," Quinn swallowed. Evelyn and Dillon returned with the supplies. She pushed Quinn's hand aside and began washing the blood off.
"You chased him off?" Eliot asked.
"I had help, your dad," Quinn admitted as Evelyn squeezed a gauze pad against the scratch. "Ow, I knew I should have asked for more money."
Eliot sighed, "Tell him I'll be right there."
"Uh, that could be a problem."
"Quinn," Eliot rumbled.
"He went after Brixton."
"You didn't stop him?!"
"I was shot!"
"You said it was a scratch!"
"Sorry, it was a little more than that."
"He's going to get himself killed. Where did they go?" Eliot demanded.
"You know I forgot to write that down as I tried not to bleed all over your mom's hall rug!"
"Your dad have GPS?" Hardison's voice cut into the coms. He still sat with his tablet in his lap.
"He barely trusts maps and just started using the television. That truck is bare bones. He'd have crank windows if he could get them anymore," Eliot explained.
"So we can't track him," Quinn sighed.
"I would say call him, but he wouldn't answer anyway," Evelyn sniffed as she wrapped tape around Quinn's arm.
"Call?" Eliot frowned.
"Eliot wants to know what you mean," Quinn told her.
"I made him get one of those pay as you go cell phones to keep in the glove box for emergencies. He hates it, so he won't answer it," she explained.
"Get me that number and I can track that baby," Hardison chimed.
"What's the number?" Quinn asked.
"Uh, 555-9155," Evelyn recited.
"Find it, Hardison- NOW!" Eliot ordered.
"You'll have it the nanosecond I do," Hardison answered.