+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Brock knew that feeling, like a bite stuck halfway down his throat. It was best friends with that other feeling, like a cramp about to clutch at his stomach. He also knew their names: guilt and remorse. The memory of Georgia's smile usually fluttered around them, never too far.
They'd kept him in a ruthless isolation for the last seven years. And now they were about to throw a tantrum full of accusations.
To remind him that Georgia never got a second chance to experience the childish happiness he'd felt in the morning at seeing Gillian. She couldn't lose track of time pondering about a man—him or any other. She couldn't hope things would work out fine in the end. Because she'd already met the end. Far from fine. And he wasn't there to prevent it.
He'd failed Georgia. So why would he ever get any second chance? What had he done to earn anything like it?
His legs stretched up like springs, pushing him to his feet. His hands dropped fork and knife on the dish, then grabbed it. He stalked across to the kitchen.
Enough, Brockner. You have a case to work on. So work.
Sure, wasn't it what he'd always done? Hadn't he held work always first, above everything else? Above everyone else.
Catch those who killed strangers had always come first.
Too important a mission to take a break. To keep his first marriage from falling apart. To see Andrea grow up. To save the love of his life from a hideous, excruciating death.
And when he had nothing left to break or lose over work, and work was all he had left, he'd trashed even that. As if work wasn't really that important anymore, now that it couldn't keep him away from anything that really mattered.
He managed to leave the dish in the sink in one piece and rested his hands on the counter. He could feel them trembling slightly.
Fine! You've screwed up everything over work, and now that's all you have. Well, then? Work!
He opened his computer and folders on the table. To go over all the negative outcomes he'd harvested along the day.
None of the nine men Tanya had linked to the ex-Marines were on VICAP. And the girl found only five of their driving licenses. They seemed to be scattered all over the country: California, Florida, Ohio, Washington, Colorado, New Jersey...
A quick satellite check on their alleged addresses showed abandoned buildings or vacant lots. Russell contacted the local police at every city to have the places checked out, and the subjects brought in for questioning—if they were so lucky to find any. No luck there either. All the locals accepted to keep an eye on the locations for the next forty-eight hours, but Brock knew nobody would show up with a cruiser out the door.
Tanya volunteered to take on the watch, using street cameras. Brock refused. He wanted the girl available to look into any new information they might get.
He spread out the pictures and fixed his late tea. When he came back from the kitchen, something caught his eye. So he checked the brief notes they'd made on every subject. He took one of the pictures, scowling, and sat to his computer. He found his way around to the man's Facebook bio and opened the list of photo albums. Looked like Captain Gold had been traveling around a lot over the last two years. Oakland, New York, Baltimore...
A chill ran down Brock's spine, adding to the tinkling of his fingertips.
He searched another subject's bio and swallowed hard. Philadelphia, Denver, Ferguson...
He stopped his finger right before dialing Russell. No need to disturb his evening with Miles. A text would do. "Tomorrow 8 a.m. Urgent."
