Page 157 of Oddly Fine

“The mole?” Matthew asked, confused.

“The guy the FBI planted. They caught him, and he told them he wasn’t alone,” Beckett said with a tired sigh.

“We know,” Matthew said. “That’s what the meeting was about, though he said very little about it. He thought you were connected somehow?” he asked.

Beckett nodded weakly and smiled grimly. “We were the last ones to get hired, so they were suspicious. They asked me my name. Asked me who’d hired me. They weren’t really buying my story until I got them to look up the picture of us at the gala with Jonathan Kent.”

“So he doesn’t know about us—but he doesn’t think the FBI agent they caught was a fluke—or working alone,” Hayes proposed.

“Exactly.”

“That’s not good. If he thinks the FBI still has someone on the inside, he might get rid of everything. Panic and close up shop—get rid of the shipment and the victims,” Hayes said, as he realized the implications of that.

“Exactly. You have to call Special Agent Gentry. Let her know what we found out. And get these boots off me, they might help us,” Beckett said, gesturing to the filthy boots he was still wearing.

“Your boots?” Matthew asked, puzzled.

“I think they took me there—to the factory. The floor was unfinished and wet—the factory was built on old marshlands, right? It would make sense,” he looked at Hayes, his gaze telling him, “See, I listen!”

And Hayes could have kissed him. Would have, if it hadn’t been for the busted lip and bloody mess of a bandage that urgently needed to be replaced.

“Later,” Beckett said having read Hayes’ mind. He offered a dodgy wink as he winced in pain.

Hayes merely rolled his eyes.

“I’ll go call Gentry. Amanda, is there a first aid kit in the house? The idiot needs fixing,” Hayes said.

“I’ll go fetch it,” she replied and raced towards the bathroom.

“See, her I like—no nonsense. They dropped me off and you know what she said when she opened the door? ‘Oh—we don’t accept deliveries on Tuesdays—can you come back?’” Beckett said, smiling with genuine pride at the assistant’s sass. He looked like a complete lunatic.

Hayes would have blamed all that on the blood loss and head trauma but—he’d never been a fan of lying to himself.

“Shut up and rest,” he grumbled instead.

If Beckett wove their fingers together and squeezed Hayes’ reassuringly, neither said anything about it.

Special Agent Gentry sent an agent to retrieve Beckett’s boots to take to their lab to process a soil sample from the detritus stuck to the soles. The poor gopher had been forced to swear on his mother’s life that he’d return the boots as soon as possible. Those Doc Martens were more precious to Beckett than words could possibly describe. After the errand boy left, Beckett laid back on the couch so Hayes could call Chase using FaceTime.

By then, it was close to 2:00 a.m., but Chase didn’t seem a bit surprised by the call. He was bleary eyed and confused but still ready to roll.

“Whatever you do, keep pressure on it,” Chase said, though the words were half muffled by the pillow he was attempting to wrestle out of the way.

“It’s not a gunshot,” Hayes said calmly, hoping his tone would serve to reassure Chase that no one was dying. There was a muffled reply that sounded disgruntled before they heard the click of a door, and Chase’s face suddenly appeared under bright bathroom lighting.

“Christ,” he said, clearly blinded by the sudden bright light. He blinked a few times, trying to orient himself before he turned back to the screen of his phone. “What’s up?” he asked, like they always called him in the middle of the bloody night for medical advice.

“Beckett got—” Hayes hesitated. They hadn’t actually discussed it. He’d just seen the blood-soaked bandage and assumed it was hiding something nasty. Beckett’s mention of a knife had been vague.

“Poked with a sharp knife,” Beckett said, carefully choosing his words.

“So stabbed—” Chase surmised.

“Stab makes it sound deadly—he poked a pointy knife in my chest—twice, and then kinda—eh—connected the puncture wounds.” Somehow that last part made the description of the injury less clear. Hayes turned his screen so Chase could get a good view of the blood-soaked bandage, which was now so saturated that it was barely hanging on.

“Jeez—” Chase said, wincing at the sight. “Did you patch yourself up?”

“Nah—well, I don’t really know who patched me up. I kinda woke up with the bandage.”