Marlene watches them leave, tight-lipped with worry.
Through some sorcery of too much experience, Vic gets them on a plane in barely an hour. They get an update from Finney just before boarding: Priya and Joshua—Jameson—are both being taken to the nearest hospital to get airlifted to Denver before the weather makes it impossible, and Finney will meet them at the hospital.
Sterling sends a postscript to Ramirez: the snow is turning into a full storm. It’s possible they’ll have to divert to a different hospital.
Eddison hopes the storm stays well west of Denver. Please, for the love of a God he’s had issues with since Faith disappeared, don’t let it fuck with the flights.
Then they’re on the plane, and the phones are off, and Eddison’s pretty sure time has never been so slow. He wishes, not for the first time and probably not for the last, that the Bureau was even half as well financed as shows and movies make it out to be. Then they’d be on a private jet, able to keep in contact with the folks on the ground, not stuck in economy on a relic of a plane that doesn’t have Wi-Fi.
There also wouldn’t be the incessantly screaming child kicking the back of his seat for four straight hours.
The taxi up to the gate is endless, and he jumps when he feels a hand on his bouncing knee. It’s Vic’s. Eddison flushes at the understanding in his senior partner’s expression. Rather than a lecture, though, or a pointed comment, both of which he probably deserves for his impatience, Vic just pulls a picture from his workbag and hands it to Eddison. “This is why you’ll find the calm as soon as there’s something more you can do.”
This . . . is a picture he did not know existed. It’s taken from behind, at a bit of a distance, as Eddison and Priya look up at the statue in the Lincoln Memorial. They’re side by side, his arm around her shoulders. Or, sort of; he’s hooked over one shoulder, but then his arm is bent so his hand rests atop her scalp, their heads tilted into each other, his cheek against the back of his hand. Her arm is slung around his hips, fingers curled through his belt loop right next to his gun.
He takes a deep breath and stills his knee.
Vic is right. He usually is when it comes to people.
As soon as there’s something he can do, he’ll be doing it.
But goddamn it, can’t this plane taxi any faster?
They get permission to disembark and he’s got his bags and himself off the plane before most of the other passengers are even standing. Ramirez and Vic are right behind him. Near the baggage claim, there’s a young woman holding up a piece of computer paper with QUANTICO written in messy black letters. She straightens when she sees them bearing down on her.
“SSAIC Hanoverian?” she asks.
Vic nods.
“Agent Sterling,” she tells them. “Priya’s alive, and she’s going to be okay. She’s got some injuries, I don’t know how severe, but they got her to a hospital here in Denver, and I’ll take you to her. Her assailant was airlifted to the same hospital; he’s currently in surgery. Docs gave us an extra blood sample from their workup, it’s at the lab and running with a priority rush on it. Fingerprints just confirmed as Jameson Carmichael. Agent Finnegan is at the hospital with Priya.”
Vic gives another nod, slower this time, approving. “Let’s get to the hospital, then. We’ll check in with the Sravastis and Finney.”
“Yes, sir.” She walks briskly, either from her own sense of purpose or their radiating anxiety. A Bureau-issued dark blue sedan waits outside, defiantly straddling a lane of no-parking hashes. An airport security guard scowls at them.
Eddison scowls back. His is more impressive.
Vic shakes his head and mutters something about pissing on parking signs.
It’s amazing, the sense of relief that Priya’s alive.
Agent Sterling doesn’t use the sirens, but she also doesn’t exercise much respect for traffic laws. Eddison fully approves. She pulls up to the emergency entrance and idles, waiting for them to scramble out of the car. “Huntington cops are at Carmichael’s apartment. I’ll be in the garage here; call me when you’re ready to head out.”
“Thanks,” Vic says absently. His attention is already on the ambulance screaming its way up the loop, and all three Quantico agents hurry onto the sidewalk so Sterling can pull away.
Ramirez shudders. “She nearly clipped a hearse.”
Eddison rolls his eyes. “An empty one.”
“How would you know?”
“No escort.”
Vic ignores them. He frequently does whenever, as he says, they remind him more of his kids than his teammates. A harried-looking receptionist directs them to the second floor. Fortunately, they don’t have to ask which room. At the room closest to the nurses’ station, they can see two men leaning on either side of the door, one in the crisp black uniform of DPD, the other in a crumpled suit and off-kilter tie.
The one in the suit straightens when he sees them. “Hello, Quantico.”
“Finney.” Vic reaches out and the two men clasp forearms.
He nods at Ramirez and Eddison. “She got knocked about a bit. Some bruises, some concern with her ribs, her left wrist. She’s got a gash on her throat that took a few stitches, but it wasn’t too deep. She said it, but a nurse confirmed that she was not raped.”
Vic lets out a slow breath. “That’s physically. How’s she actually doing?”
“Hard to say.” Finney frowns and attempts to straighten his tie, but only succeeds in making the back longer than the front. “Aside from the shakes, she’s fairly steady, but her eyes are a bit wild. She settled a little after her mother arrived.”
“Is Deshani in with her now?”
The officer sneezes. Eddison’s fairly certain it’s a laugh. “Yes, sir, she is. Made two interns and a resident cry, until she put her foot down and demanded someone get a nurse so her daughter could be treated by someone who knew what they were doing. Never knew doctors could look so much like cats.”
“Deshani has that effect,” Ramirez and Vic say together, and both smile at the officer’s surprise.
“Okay to go in?” asks Eddison. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fighting the urge to bury his hands in his pockets. He’s never understood how Vic can go so still when he’s anxious.
“Yeah, go on. We can figure out a game plan after. Reassure yourselves.”
He doesn’t mention that they’re far too close on this one, that they don’t have the distance they should. He already knows they don’t, and whether it’s loyalty to Vic or just an understanding of how things can get, he hasn’t said anything about it.
Eddison knocks on the door. “I come with Oreos,” he announces.
“Then get the hell in here,” Priya calls back. “I’m starving!”
Vic and Ramirez both start laughing. Eddison just leans his forehead against the door and takes a deep breath. His hand is still shaking. He can feel Vic’s grip on his shoulder and wants to snarl. Knows he could do it, too, and that his partner would understand the temper, the need to vent, and it’s that more than anything else that keeps him from doing it. When the rage and relief are tamped down a little, he opens the door and leads the way in.