He manages to grab maybe a few hours of sleep back at his apartment before he's got to get to work. He's got that run for Braga today, and he's just got this feeling in his gut that something's gonna go to hell. Maybe everything.
Probably everything.
On the plus side, he gets to leave the monkey suit on the hanger. He goes with a t-shirt and jeans instead – shit a drug-running street racer would wear. Not that he'd know anything about that.
He gets in a little late, which isn't really a problem. Thing about working undercover is he gets a lot of flexible hours. Showing up closer to lunchtime than starting time doesn't even earn him any funny looks as he heads into the monitoring room.
He spots Trinh out of the handful of people manning the computers without much trouble and walks over to her with his bag of party favors.
"I got a gift for you," he says.
Trinh doesn't even blink. "Alright." She even smiles as he comes and props his hip on the table, taking the bag off his hands like it's what she's paid to do. Maybe it is. Honestly, he's not really clear on what her job description is, just that she's really damn helpful and might be one of the only people in the precinct that isn't part of the betting pool to see how long before he commits a felony. "A dirty shot glass. Just what I always wanted."
Well, damn. He guesses that makes his Christmas shopping easy this year.
"I got these from the club last night," he tells her. "There's two sets of prints here. Run them both. I know one of these is Compos'. I think the other might be Braga's. And you're gonna have to go beyond Interpol." He kind of slips that last bit in under the wire. And for good reason.
"So, that means I have to contact individual agencies, and that could take weeks. Okay." She nods, too, like that's perfectly okay that he's just asked her to do something that should take about a month in, oh, say, forty-eight hours. She may be the new kid, but if she doesn't get a raise or something soon, then there really is no justice in the world.
Of course, that wouldn't be news to him.
He's thinking about offering to buy her lunch or something – seems fair payment for services rendered – but then something starts buzzing in his pocket that's definitely not his phone.
He stands up and pulls it out. It's the GPS, and according to the screen, it's downloading coordinates.
Looks like it's go-time.
He's barely made it five blocks from headquarters before his phone starts ringing. He answers it, and it's Penning on the other line. Three traffic violations in less than three blocks.
He's actually counted four, but he's not one to nitpick.
He smiles when Penning tells him to slow down. The man still doesn't know him. "Sure thing, Dad," he says, and he's no sooner hung up the phone than he's taking the fuck off.
The GPS has him getting there in twenty-eight minutes. He makes it in nineteen. But that's about where the fun stops.
The other drivers are already there when he pulls in, and some of Braga's men are giving them the once over. Which is cool – he expected that.
He didn't expect the signal detectors. They're running the wands over another of the cars when Brian pulls in, and he realizes with a sharp twist of his gut that if they make it to his car and he's still got this tracker in his console, he's fucked.
So, he won't. Have the tracker, he means. He installed it to where it'd be easy enough to get to in a bind – it's not his first run-in with agency trackers in a car, and he was hoping to avoid what happened with those cars back in Miami – but he didn't quite count on it being such a bitch to find. The guys are getting closer. He's got a big fella with eyes on him, walking his way, and it's easy enough to keep his face cool, but that's not gonna do shit for him when they come over with one of those wands.
Luckily, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. And since he didn't get nearly enough sleep this morning, and because he's weirdly addicted to the stuff, he's got a can of NOS in his cup holder. It's quick, and it's a waste of a good quarter-can of energy drink, but he manages to drown the tracker right before the guys get over to him.
So far, so good.
When he gets the all clear, he feels his gut unclench a little. Just a little, though. He's not really good at the whole 'uptight, neurotic' thing. He learned early on it's a good move to keep your cool, no matter what shit's coming your way. But that doesn't mean he doesn't believe in a healthy level of alertness. And right now, that level's pretty damn high.
It doesn't help when they load all their cars up into the back of some eighteen-wheeler. Brian's always been a little bit claustrophobic, ever since that time he was little and thought hiding out in his dad's big tool box would be a good idea when the old bastard got drunk. He forgot the damn thing locked from the outside. Took 'em nearly eight hours to find him, and only then 'cause his dad needed a wrench.
Saved by the shitty plumbing. Pun intended.
So yeah, it's all well and good that he avoided getting plugged for bringing a tracker to a drug party. Unfortunately, he also knows that means Penning's gonna be wondering where the hell he got off too. And Stasiak.
He pulls out his phone to check, but he's really not that surprised to see "No Service" across the top of the black screen. Of course not. Means he's got no way of getting in touch with his people, letting them know that he has not, in fact, gone AWOL or MIA or any other acronym that could get him brought up on charges.
Stasiak's probably having kittens, he thinks, which actually helps lighten his mood a little bit. Mia's supposed to be laying low, so he doesn't think that should be a problem. And anyway, he thinks he was pretty clear during their last meeting about Stasiak steering clear of Mia. That's non-negotiable, and he will rain hell down on that son of a bitch if he so much as touches her again, no matter what kind of dirt he's got on him.
On a lighter note, he's pretty sure the office pool's getting bigger by the second. Someone might be getting an early bonus.
He guesses there's he can do about it, anyway. Honestly, he's not thinking a nap would be such a bad idea, if those panicky son of a bitches outside would give it a rest. They're climbing all over the place like it's some sort of playground, whining about being locked in a truck, and if Brian actually wanted to talk to them, he might ask them just what the hell they were expecting? A first class flight across the border? A freaking limousine? Nah, he's not happy about the truck, but it's pretty much on par with what he was expecting.
Sighing, he leans his seat back and lets his eyes slip closed. By his best guess, they've got an hour or two before they're across the border. That's a whole extra night's sleep for him. And it's sure as hell better than staring at all the walls boxing them in.
Yeah, that claustrophobia thing? Maybe not so little after all.
He's actually relieved when they make it to Mexico. Try as he might, he couldn't actually get to sleep – too many strange people, strange noises, and probably a little too much energy drink – so he was glad when the truck opened up and they all got out.
They've been waiting around for a few minutes, all sitting around on the hoods of their cars. The other two guys're trying to look tough, Brian's trying to look awake, and Dom…Dom doesn't have to try. He just is. Brian both admires and envies that about him.
He catches himself glancing over at him, at Dom, standing there with his arms and ankles crossed. They just got here, and he already looks like he owns the place.
He also looks like he's looking right back at him.
Shit.
But then Dom's lip twitches upward just a little, and Brian can't tell if it's a smirk or a smile, but at least it's not a scowl, so he's kind of cool with it.
The sound of approaching footsteps make him turn away, though, and look ahead to where Gisele's coming in with her posse.
"Welcome to Mexico, boys."