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Seattle, April
Hux awoke to the smell of fresh coffee. He should not have awoken to the smell of fresh coffee. He’d emptied his thermos sometime after midnight. This had been his third night in a row staking out a possible safehouse for the bane of his existence, the elusive Kylo Ren, on top of working with the local FBI folks during office hours. Last night it has finally taken its toll.
He remembered checking his watch a bit after 3am. Now sunlight poured through the windshield, and a carry tray from Starbucks sat next to him on the front seat, holding a Grande cup and a pastry bag.
His name had been written in black Sharpie on the cup sleeve, above Starbucks shorthand for his regular poison - Americano, black, with two extra shots of espresso, along with his usual two packets of raw sugar and a wooden stirrer. The bag held a chonga bagel, toasted, with the little container of cream cheese and a plastic knife. Written on the bag, also in black sharpie, his person of interest had left him a note.
Hey, Red. Go home and get some sleep. You look like hell.
Shit.
He took a picture of the tray and shot it off to Draven.
I’ve been made. He’s probably cleared out.
Don’t touch that – we’ll see what the lab can get from it.
Within twenty minutes Draven and his team arrived and they verified that the apartment had been scrubbed. Ren had left behind a bunch of IKEA furniture, an empty safe and walls full of nothing but picture hangars.
“How’d he manage this so quickly?” Draven paced up and down the living room, watching one of the lab guys dust for prints. They hadn’t found a single one so far.
“There’s a freight elevator at the rear of the building,” Hux said. “Super said thought he’d lost his keys a couple of months ago but they turned up a few hours later in his lunchbox. He thinks he just forgot where he put them, but that fits Ren’s MO. I couldn’t see the alley from my position. He loaded everything onto a dolly, took it down to the basement and fucked off without anyone the wiser.”
Hux tried not to let bitterness color his words. He’d requested another unit to watch the back of the building, but had been denied.
That evening when he returned to his closet of an apartment, he made a beeline for the bed, kicking his shoes off before he flopped across the comforter. He was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.
The next morning, he woke again to the smell of fresh coffee.
Another Americano sat on his nightstand, a napkin tucked under one edge.
Glad you took my advice. Breakfast is in the fridge.
When he stumbled into the kitchen, he found a brand-new microwave sitting on his counter. A Styrofoam container in the fridge yielded bacon and sausage links, hash browns and a giant ham and cheese omelet. A line drawing of the Mona Lisa, again in black Sharpie, stared up at him from the top of the container, with Bon appetit scrawled beneath.
“Screw it.” He ate every last scrap, chasing it down with the coffee.
Baltimore, November
Ren had dropped off the map for months after the Seattle incident, but Hux had sifted through what little data he’d gotten out of it all, and it seemed to indicate Ren had headed to the East coast. He’d wrapped up or shelved his other cases and had been here for two weeks now, and while he hadn’t tracked Ren down yet he felt he was getting close. He still felt Ren’s presence. It was just little things. One morning he’d found his book sitting on the end table in the living room when he swore he’d left it on the kitchen counter. And then there was the fancy pen that had appeared in the cup on his desk, incongruous amongst the Pilot rollerballs he bought by the dozens.
He hadn’t woken up to any coffee deliveries so far, but it was just a matter of time. He’d narrowed it down, almost had Ren’s new safehouse pegged, after a week of late nights sorting through leads.
Last night he’d stayed up until dawn colored the horizon, covering his wall with sticky notes and putting pins in his map. Before he’d gone to sleep, he’d set a notepad out on the nightstand.
I’ve laid off the coffee, he’d written before going to sleep.
Even with the late night he woke before his alarm the next morning. Maybe he’d been wrong? No. When he turned over to check the time, he found his suspicions confirmed.
None of the shops around here serve Darjeeling, Red. How about a nice Earl Grey?
He'd used one of the Bic pens. Ren had fished the Montblanc out of the pen cup to reply.
"Snob."
Shaking his head, he headed for the shower. He debated telling his superiors, but decided to keep this to himself. Maybe he could make it work for him somehow. A plan began to percolate in the back of his brain.
The next morning, the familiar scent of bergamot filled his bedroom.
It’s called a London Fog. Let me know what you think?
Hux made a face at the first sip.
I hate lavender. Out of sheer stubbornness he used a Bic to reply.
Three mornings later:
Lavender is optional. The barista suggested it. Try this one without instead. I’m moving on. You should catch the train to DC and visit the Smithsonian before you leave.
Without the lavender he found he quite liked it. He’d gotten halfway through the cup when his phone blew up.
Breakin at MFA. Get here ASAP.
“Shit.”
Paris, June
“No, I see him. Making my approach now.”
Turning up the lapels of his coat against an unseasonable chill, Hux approached the bench with deliberate steps. Ren must have heard him coming, but he didn’t move. Wrapped in a black cashmere duster that probably cost more than Hux’s car, with a red scarf wrapped around his neck, he made a pretty picture. They’d managed to get their very first clear shot of his face the month before and Hux had spent hours staring at the photos, memorizing his features – the too big nose, the crooked smile, the constellation of moles, all framed by waves of hair.
When Hux sat down next to him on the bench a smile teased at the corner of Ren’s mouth.
“It took you long enough.”
“My superiors needed convincing.”
“And?”
“I am a very convincing fellow.”
After Baltimore had been Rome, and Hux had run himself ragged trying to prevent Ren from raiding the Vatican. After several scolding notes about his caffeine intake, he’d written an exasperated response.
“Okay, yes, I get it. You’re a great thief. An amazing thief. Talent personified. And you don’t want to go to jail, I get that too. But I’m the exhausted agent that’s assigned to catch you. That’s not going to change as long as you’re out there. If you let me bring you in then I can sleep, and I promise I’ll get you a good deal.”
He hadn’t heard anything after that, not for months. Not until a series of minor thefts had led him here, and he’d woken on his first morning to find a note on his pillow.
How good a deal?
“So?”
“You give us Snoke, and the information on his buyers, and you get a suspended sentence, on the condition that you’ll work with Interpol to track stolen art….”
Ren interrupted him. “I’ll work with you.”
“Pardon?”
“Not Interpol. You.”
“I’ll have to check with my superiors.”
“I’ll wait.”
He was wearing a wire, of course, so his phone began to ring before he’d even reached for it.
“We’ve got a pre-emptive yes on this, Hux. They thought he’d ask.”
Nobody had told him that. Ren smiled. He must have sharp hearing.
“Everything okay, partner?”
Hux took his outstretched hand, gave it a firm shake.
“Yes. Partner.”
San Francisco, September
Hux let the paper drop, covering up his frown at the headline with a sip of his London Fog.
BREAKIN AT SFMOMA
“Whoever he is, he’s good.”
Ren chuckled around his bite of pound cake.
“It’s a she,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Her name is Rey. And she better be.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I trained her.”