Agent Crew

Coffee and Donut Detail

Hitch was late, and Froghorn was not happy about it.

"Tardy," he sniffed as Hitch slipped into the passenger side of Froghorn's disturbingly snot-green car. Hitch repressed the urge to share this observation in response to Froghorn's condescending manner.

"I got caught up," he said instead. "At the Redforts'."

"Ah yes," said Froghorn, tone still condescending. "One does wonder how you manage them. No accounting for taste, I suppose."

Again, Hitch repressed the very unprofessional urge to say something he might later regret (or, not regret exactly, but find inconvenient). (Potatohead, whispered the invisible Ruby. Hitch swatted the thought away.)

"What we looking for?" he asked. If he could just stay on-task, maybe this would be over sooner rather than later. Then he could get back to Clancy before the kid did anything stupid.

They were parked in the corner of the sea-front car park, tucked just around the corner from the harbour. It was blustery out, but there were still a few other cars dotted around, more than amble camouflage for Froghorn's patently average car. The man himself was slouched in the driver's seat, a paper bag perched, unopened in his lap.

Hitch was clutching a takeaway coffee cup, still hot in his hand. This was the faintly embarrassing reason why he was late. The caffeine, he had justified to himself, would be necessary to get through however many hours he was required to stay here. Judging by Froghorn's remarks so far, he had been entirely correct.

Feeling his guild dissipate, Hitch took a sip of the hot liquid, and felt the warmth start to iron out his frazzled thoughts, which hadn't really stopped pinging around his head since he discovered Ruby missing.

It was at this juncture that he realised he had missed almost the entirety of what Froghorn had just said. Something about lobster pots and distinctive bobble hats? Ah well, no sign of anyone yet. He took another calming sip of coffee.

"Do you know what's up with Agent Singh?" he asked Froghorn. He still didn't feel comfortable calling her Neva, despite her request. Hell, he didn't feel comfortable calling Blacker by his first name, and they'd always been pretty close.

Froghorn glanced up from his paper bag, which he had been fiddling with. "She is the current agent in charge," he answered (almost primly, but with a little more condescension), "and that's all we need to know, isn't it?"

"But where's LB?" pressed Hitch. Backed up by the coffee, he felt ready to investigate, and ore than a little in need of some actual answers. "She wouldn't just up and leave."

For the first time, Froghorn looked a little unsure. "I believe I heard something about sick leave."

Hitch almost scoffed. "LB doesn't take sick leave," he said. The very idea gave him a weird urge to burst into laughter. It was just wrong.

"Where did Singh come from?" he tried instead. Because she must have come from somewhere.

Again, Froghorn looked slightly less certain than his usual pompous arrogance suggested. "Sent down from Spectrum 1, I think," he said. "Highly decorated."

At that, Hitch did scoff. Spectrum agents weren't decorated. They weren't the army for goodness sake (and thank something for that, too). No, there were no honours in Spectrum, and Hitch didn't think he'd particularly respect them if there were. He'd always felt there was something vaguely threatening about medals. Especially when they were awarded to a corpse.

Shaking this disturbing imagery out of his mind (this was what the box was for, and clearly it was needed), Hitch tried to really think about what all this could mean.

LB gone, no one knew where. (He discarded the notion of sick leave, because it really was ridiculous.) Singh magically in her place, possibly from Spectrum 1. (Now that seemed more probable. They loved need-to-know up in Spectrum 1. This seemed exactly the sort of mess they would leave behind.)

And why couldn't Hitch shake the suspicion that all of this, someone, lead back to Ruby? Or, at least, whatever Ruby had been investigating.

He decided to press Froghorn, one last time. "Why Singh?" he asked. "Why send her here, now?"

Froghorn shrugged. Actually shrugged. "Think they should have looked elsewhere, hm?" he said, eyebrows raised as he looked at Hitch as if he completely understood. (He didn't. He really didn't.)

"But why?" Hitch repeated. It felt important.

"We're in charge of security for the museum launch, aren't we?" Froghorn said at last. "They needed someone to organise it. I guess she fit the bill."

The museum. Hitch had wondered, when LB delivered the brief, why they were looking after such a mundane event. No threats, no clear targets, just an ordinary launch. Until, of course, she gave them all the name of the museum. The old name.

Hitch had been in Spectrum a long time. He knew the old stories. He knew about Hugo Winter. He guessed it was always going to come back someday. He just wished Ruby hadn't got herself caught in the middle of it all.

Come on smugglers, he thought impatiently. Hurry up. He really, really needed to get back to Clancy. The kid was smart, he knew that, but he would also do anything for Ruby. Which would not be smart.

Froghorn was back to fiddling with his paper bag. And, to top it all, Hitch's coffee had gone cold.

This was turning into the longest stakeout of his life.

A/N: Happy new year! (If it's not new year when you read this, have a happy day anyway.) Sorry this is so late, but I have been flitting between different relatives and absolutely not writing last-minute essays (oops). Still, hopefully the story is picking up speed now.