Stakeout. Baltimore. Not an X file. Skinner had assigned them.
He called them in the day before. Immediately, he had Scullyâs complete undivided attention. Mulder was predictably peevish. Pouting. God, why was he always like this?
âYou have been carefully selected to be part of this team. The human trafficking task force here in DC has been working to get these guys for two years.â
âItâs just that, Sir, weâre the only two agents assigned to the X files. What if a case comes up while weâre on this other thing?â
âMulder. Last week I found you a mutant in California. Donât be a pain in the ass. Weâre closing in on arrests here. And we need experienced agents. Itâs only a couple days. One mistake could make it all go boom.â
Scully was raking him over, pinning him with some serious side eye. Skinner shut up and ducked down to pretend to get something from a bottom desk drawer. Allowing her the space to persuade him with those peepers. God knows they had worked him over once or twice. Maybe three times. Jeepers creepers.
These two. He was something. But she, she, she? She was something else.
Skinnerâd gone to high school with a kid named Brett Miller who was a freakishly good athlete. And he played basketball with this guy. Class of 1970 and to this day, he still held a handful of school records. Heâd gotten a full ride at Villanova then played a couple of years in the NBA, plus ten more overseas. Their coach was old school, never one for gratuitous praise. He ran their asses off in practice, had them drill on defense ninety percent of the time.
One day they were working on mastering a full court trap press. Nobody was supposed to shoot the ball. An inviolable rule. But Brett, once he quit holding back, he singlehandedly broke the press with ease. Then he skittered out of double coverage with a behind the back dribble and launched a shot from forty feet. When the ball was in the air, everybody gasped. Then it fell through the hoop, nothing but net. Brett fell to his knees and grabbed his head.
âSorry, Coach. Sorry guys,â he said, and fell down prostrate on the court. âGlad heâs on our team,â their coach quipped. Gruff old guy.
Then had them all run five suicides before sending Brett to the showers and resetting the press. Supposedly it was a punishment, but Skinner knew even then that coach wanted them to practice against normal human boys. They won a state championship six weeks later.
Thatâs how Skinner felt about Mulder and Scully. They tended to muck things up. But all in all, he was glad they were on his team.
âOK, Sir.â Mulder said, when Skinner was back in his seat and facing them thirty seconds later. He was gripping the arms of his chair.
Scully nodded. Sheâd won this round. And sheâd seemed relieved and pleased, Skinner thought, her pigheaded partner had knuckled under.
Thirty-six hours later, they sat on a squalid block in outside a row of strip clubs. One way street, narrow and dim. Parked in a â68 Mustang (special issue motor pool) equidistant from three pertinent businesses demarked by tawdry awnings inked in flagrant fonts: Norma Jeanâs, Pussycat, and Club Hustler.
Fifty yards from the front entrance of the Charm City Suites, with a view also of an emergency exit up a narrow alley. Eyes trained on doors, tracking comings and goings. Nothing yet.
Inside, a trio of Albanian bad guys were allegedly holding between ten and twelve women from all corners of the globe against their will. Seduced with promises of opportunity and liberty, then stowed, stashed, and shifted to this small seamy corner of the supposedly free world. They were displaced and disempowered, lacking a common language or a lay of the land. Forced into rough trade.
It was a delicate operation. These guys had reach, and assets, a dozen identities between them and links with organized crime, plenty of cash in offshore accounts. If they were tipped, theyâd simply disappear. Never be brought to justice.
Not a X file. But a handful of real assholes who needed to be off the streets. He knew this. Lately, heâd been trying to, you know, grow up. With the new year coming up, hell, a new Millenium in fact, he was considering a resolution. Change is hard.
They had drawn the midnight to 8 am shift. Their cover was, she was a dancer at Norma Jeans, and he was her boyfriend. If the subjects âthey had extensive dossiers on all threeâ took interest or noticed them, she was on a break, visiting with him outside in his car.
She was Scarlett, he was Mulcahey. That was it. They were to improvise from there, as necessary. There were lone agents posted in all three titty bars, plus a pair staying in the hotel, all original members of the task force.
Scully was next to him, an armâs length away across the bench seat of this seriously sweet ride. Not that he was a car guy, but Gawd.
Two hours in, a silence had settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Scantily clad as per their cover, she hummed as a shiver ran through her. Mulder eyeballed her and turned over the key. The engine roared to life. Soon a weak plume of heat seeped out from the floorboards and pooled around their ankles.
âIf we could take her for a spin, I could warm you up properly, Scully.â
She quirked an eyebrow at him.
âWhat? V eight and all. Kind of irksome, just to have to sit here idling. Makes me feel... impotent.â
Beside him, huddled around her cup of lukewarm coffee procured on the way over, she began to shiver.
He stripped off his black leather jacket and she sat up, allowing him to drape it over her shoulders. He still wore several layers. A long sleeved slub cotton white v neck tee, a chambray dress shirt, slippery and moss green. Stiff jeans dyed dark indigo. Black boots.
She eyed his outfit. Shook her head. Unfair. She wore only a leopard print mini dress. Straight from central casting. Really.
âThanks,â she said, glad for the warmth. And the masculine creak, the almost alive redolence of hide. She snuffed her nose against the collar, breathed him in. Thought of his sofa.
âSkinner warned us,â he said, imitating him. âThis is not a warm body stakeout, Agents.â She smothered a laugh.
This pleased him. He smiled.
