Hey! So, I know this chapter may be a little boring, but I need to create the story first, right? Give a little background?
I promise, the next chapter will be a lot better. A lot more exciting.
Disclaimers: I still own nothing.
She sighed, leaning against the wall and peering out through the side of the blinds. Stuck in a stereotypical, run-down motel room was just about as appealing as it had been in the movies, but she had been stuck in worse. Roaches crawled around on the floor, scattering to a dark corner or seeking shelter under the rickety night-stand. Wallpaper had started to peel in several corners of the room, water damage evident as the floral print peeled up. The untouched bed held scratch sheets that probably would look like it had been splatter painted under a UV light.
A shiver ran through her at the thought, but she didn't have much cash on her and she knew her card was tapped at the moment. Part of her wondered if it would have been wrong to take money from the writer a few days before, using it to at least fund her stay until her mission was over. After all, she wouldn't have minded a fee for her troubles and he seemed to get off on writing fiction about her profession. A scoff sounded in the back of her throat, thinking about the writing. If he only knew half of his common misconceptions about spies.
A soft click as the door knob was turned caused her attention to snap in the other direction, eyes flickering to see who would walk through. She didn't bother to reach for her gun, more than ready for combat but doubting she'd end up in that type of situation. At the familiar fall of heavy footsteps, she looked back out the window.
"You know, I thought spies had better salaries," a man murmured, and by the time she looked back, she found him standing in the middle of the room, grimacing at the little pest scurrying across the floor.
"I get decent pay," she spoke, her hand moving to rub over her mouth in frustration. "However, I am work for old friend who was burned," she explained, biting back a growl.
Three years working in Kaliningrad, Russia and she left an accent she couldn't shake. Not yet, anyway. Being back in the states no more than six days, jet lagged, and sore from her fighting, it was a miracle she could even spit out English at all rather than rambling tiredly in Russian.
The Latino smirked a bit, knowing full well that his friend had been somewhere in Russia or she'd been forced into a Russian role. "You could always go stay with your dad," he shrugged.
"I'll pass," she quickly shut down the area of conversation. "So, what did you get on my two guys, Espo?" She forced out every syllable, trying to reteach herself the accent she'd been born and raised with.
"Nothing yet. I have the new guy running them, though, and collecting all personal information on them," he shrugged. "Lanie's been dying to see you," he finally murmured.
She only nodded in response, deciding not to comment. It had been three years since she left for Russia, but it had been seven years since she was "terminated" as a homicide detective. It had been a ploy to find a rat in the field that turned into busting an undercover operation between the cartel and a few uniforms. When she'd been tossed out of the precinct, she had strict orders to keep things quiet until things died down.
Being a spy hadn't been a clean job. If anything, it was messy and she already had blood stained hands. It was hard to trust people when her resources were limited anyway which brought on a list of rules she had started to collect and gather. Her predecessor even made a point of showing her a few first hand, none of which were pleasant, but all from which she learned from.
Rule #1: Every man for themselves.
Rule #43: Be careful who you trust. Looks can be deceiving and the cover of a book plays games to look appealing.
The first rule had been established during her first actual fight. They'd been hired to tail a gang in Japan and to retrieve a stolen USB. It held delicate information pertaining to the United States government's armed forces. The moment he got his hands on the tiny device, he was quick to get out, blind siding her when he made a left and she kept running straight. Four broken ribs, a busted nose, and a waterboarding session later, she found herself tossed out the back door and left to treat her wounds on her own.
She had refused to speak to her boss for months, hating the senior agent she'd found herself being forced to learn from: Jackson Hunt. Even now, the name still rattled a scoff from her, but he did his fair share of favors for. Both helped each other out then they could, and currently? He needed more help than she could possibly provide, only being able to babysit the man's son.
As for the forty-third rule? It had solely replied to her relationship with her informants and friends she could rely on. The Latino had been sworn by a code and the medical examiner her referred to, Lanie, had befriended Kate long before anyone else had. Both had helped greatly when she'd be in town on a case, asking them to run autopsy reports or to get information she didn't have access to or didn't have to access. However, that still didn't ease her distrust.
That part of her, the anxiety and fear filled vortex of doom, started when she was sent on her first mission with a new "partner." Five shots of tequila, a dingy hotel room, cuffs, and a knife to the throat later, she finally understood why most agents turned down drinks or at least managed to drug their acquaintances first. Some were double agents and others were just flat out snitches with the intent to kill if they had to.
"So, the writer," Espo started, wanting to fill the awkward silence and tension between them. "Is he like his dad?"
It wasn't exactly classified information to talk about the man in question. So, she tried to figure out a way to explain it without saying too much. "He is definitely Hunt's son. Perhaps a little more… eccentric," she tried, nose scrunching at the word. "But they're definitely related."
"When do you plan on seeing him again?" He waggled a brow.
She only rolled her eyes. "He has another party in two days. I'll go and keep an eye out."
"How do you know they won't attack him at his apartment?"
She gave a playful smile then. "I don't, but isn't that the thrill of it all?" She paused before sighing. "I may have hacked the surveillance cameras and if anything sets it off, if anyone passes through the field of vision on his floor, it goes off. I look at the feed and determine if the person is a threat or if they're not," she explained.
As the man opened his mouth, her phone had buzzed, vibrating in her pocket. When she pulled it out, flicking it open, she stared. Hazel orbs studying the message, her brows furrowed. "Черт побери!" She swore, stuffing the burner phone back in her pocket.
Esposito only quirked a brow and crossed his arms, waiting for her to talk in a language he understood. Though, when she looked at him, the sudden look of anger replaced with batting lashes and a dazzling smile, he sighed and grabbed his credit card from his wallet.
"I know you always pay me back, chica, but the last time I let you run wild with this, you spent twenty thousand dollars," he shot her a look.
"Your point?"
"You didn't even spend it on cool gadgets or get into a gun fight, Beckett," he pointed out.
Her hand quickly rose to silence him. "It's not Beckett. It's Katrina Mulnav. You should get into a habit of call me that, and," she snorted. "Why does everyone think agents and spies have all of these cool gadgets and get into gun fights?"
He only shot her a look, trying to figure out if she'd ever even had time to sit down and watch James Bond or Johnny English movies. Her schedule did seem a bit tight, honestly, and it wouldn't have surprised him if she hadn't. "What do you even need it for"
"He's going out to a club a tonight for a party," she explained. "If he's out in public, he's at risk, and I can't monitor him on the other side of the city. So, I need money for a new outfit and to get in."
He groaned and handed his card to her, losing it to one of the people he considered a best friend. "You better come see Lanie."
"I will," she nodded, promising him. "Are you two together yet?" She asked, sending him a look.
"About as together as you and your writer."
"I'm merely babysitting," she defended.
He rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He knew she returned favors, but this was more than just a favor to her predecessor. There had to be something that lingered or caught her interest in the person she was protecting for her to stick around and be devoted. She might have loved fights, but putting a civilian in the middle of it rather than just relocating them for a time was more than what she usually did. "Be careful."