Cyrus
Chapter one
Inferno
Nine years later.
Blue lights reflect off the Farmers and Mechanics Bank’s white columns.
Spotlights highlight every corner of the building before us.
The bright reflection burns my retinas, bringing on the beginning of a headache as I wait.
Our communication ceased hours ago. With the building surrounded, we wait for the signal.
I check my gun as our negotiator phones the bank again.
The lack of communication has us all on edge.
With bank heists, if the suspects are pinned down, we make contact and a list of demands are issued; the SWAT team clears the area, and the criminals are handcuffed.
Not this group, nah, they want to be cute and clever. There has been zero communication for hours.
From time to time, a peculiar sensation, akin to a sixth sense, tingles down my spine. Not a feeling I typically ignore; I’m on high alert as silence falls over Georgetown. The emergency personnel reinforce the barricade, pushing back both reporters and bystanders.
The restless energy of the waiting crowd is palpable.
Shouts of outrage echo along the streets.
They’re reaching us. Growing up on reality TV has rotted our brains, I think bitterly.
It’s produced an entire generation willing to risk it all for a peek behind the scenes.
It’s dangerous and callous; someone is going to end up hurt.
Between this group’s notorious heists in the past and the insane amount of support they get online, this has turned into a media frenzy.
My pulse quickens. Sweat coats my palms. Something’s different about this one.
The shadow of something… more malevolent.
The overwhelming anticipation of this ending sits heavily on my chest. A black cat leaps onto the steps, melting into the shadows of the alleyway, creating an ominous illusion. If that’s not a bad fucking omen.
Shuffling of boots on the pavement pulls my eyes away from the scene to Caleb.
“When does this end? How many states have we chased these fuckers?” His question is a strange relief, a momentary reprieve from the madness.
I can’t hide my reaction—our luck, our case, the endless chase—they all weigh on us as we track these assholes across the country.
“How the fuck do you not know?” He offers a shrug. “Wanted to see if you’re following along,” he quips.
We’ve been out here all night, and dawn is approaching. Exhaustion weighs heavily on my shoulders; the amount of time we’ve spent on this case is wearing me down. To say I want this over is an understatement. Personally, I can’t wait to get home to my son.
My colleagues and I spent the last several days plotting a perfect execution to apprehend these guys.
Online chatter—thank fuck for big mouths—alerted us to this bank being the target.
I hate social media and the internet. Begrudgingly, I have to acknowledge that without the tip called in, we would still be back in Texas, chasing ghosts and scrambling to piece together clues from the last heist.
There’s no way the suspects are escaping the consequences this time, so why hide inside this long?
Are they waiting for a Hail Mary? Because there is no ending to this scenario where they get away.
I glance over to Caleb, the distance between us filled by the hood of our suburban, observing.
He’s gone from cool and calm to the brink of agitation and unease, neither a good state for him tonight.
He’s trying to lighten the mood with jokes, so I play along.
“Your commitment to this case surpasses the length of any previous relationship. Makes sense that you can’t count that high. How did you make it through the academy?”
His laughter eases the tension, causing our unit leader to look at him pointedly.
Jackson, our boss and friend, makes a throat-cutting motion, indicating the need for seriousness.
Caleb and I exchange a look. How about noooo…
Some police cope with workplace stressors through smoking, while others find solace in excessive drinking or exercise.
Hell, I know a guy who rotates women faster than a puck at a hockey match.
Caleb and I share our vice. Offensive jokes at inappropriate times. I play along when Caleb starts.
For the most part, I keep it contained. We’re professional when we need to be.
We approach our work seriously, yet eventually, one needs humor to maintain momentum.
The world is shit, a fucked-up colossal pile of shit.
I work for the government. We have dirty fucking cops littering the force and bought politicians, so laughter, even at shit that you shouldn’t laugh at, keeps us fucking going.
Caleb blows Jackson a kiss. Prompting Jackson to turn his back on us.
The highlighted FBI vest he’s wearing ripples as the wind catches it.
The bastard is tall and thin, not by diet and exercise- no, he’s built that way naturally, so he towers over the others around him.
He’s the rock on our team, the guy is fucking solid.
We got lucky when he selected us for his unit.
Caleb smacks his lips behind Jackson’s back.
The middle finger our boss discreetly raises while barking orders, causing us both to snicker briefly before we quieten again. So much for professionalism.
Caleb’s part-time stand-up comedy routine isn’t something therapy or a lecture can change.
I stifle a laugh, dodging further reprimands.
Those in charge ignore our dark humor and usual arrogance.
Because when the time comes. They need us to have their six.
In two years, Caleb and I exceeded our superiors’ expectations and fast-tracked both our careers.
Jackson tolerates us because of our job performance and grilling expertise. The government loves results.
Caleb leans across the hood.
“Besides, Cyrus. I can’t stay locked down.
It’s obvious I only have room in my heart for one woman.
We both know who that lucky lady is.” My swat gear shifts as I adjust my footing again, glancing over the hood of the suburban to find Caleb smirking.
He’s the one man I allow to crack jokes at my mother.
Once he starts down that road, he’ll be unstoppable.
“Bad timing, pal. Keep it up, and Jackson will lose his shit.”
“I’m joking, man. Come on.” He crosses his arms and frowns as some street cops pass by with hot dogs.
Annoyance flares in his eyes as he realizes our higher positions in the hierarchy prevent any reprieve from his hunger.
If there’s anything the man can do better than making people laugh, it’s putting away food. He grumbles, “We’ve been here all day.”
“Don’t even think about it, Caleb,” I warn him, noticing the signs that he wants to snatch a dog from one of them. Confiscating their food would strain joint task force relations. After all, we’re supposed to be playing nicely. “We may be here all night. Rein it in,” I remind him.
He mouths, “Sure thing, Dad,” making me chuckle.
“Fuck off.”
“Do you want me to address you as Daddy?” he asks. I jerk my head, grimacing. Glaring at Caleb, I mouth the word, “Daddy?”
He moves his hips in rotation before coming to a standstill, mimicking fucking me. The compression of my vest tightens as I chuckle. When I die, the guy will probably slip a cell phone into the casket and call it after being lowered into the ground, to get a reaction.
“Did you suffer a head injury as a baby?” I inquire. I’m six ft but I have to lift my chin to look up at him. He’s taller than most, muscled, covered in tattoos; if passed on the street by a stranger, he looks more biker than FBI agent. “Given your position, one might expect more decorum.”
He has a gleam in his eye as we face off. “I suspect a ‘Yo Momma’ joke would be inappropriate, so I won’t tell one.”
“One as well-educated as you should have the forethought to refrain from bringing my mother into this,” I warn.
His fingers drum the hood of the suburban, and I realize it’s too late to stop him.
I had to say something.
Caleb, predictably, viewed this as a challenge. Wanting to kick myself in the ass for giving him this opening. I pinch the bridge of my nose, readying for whatever god-awful retort he’s going to have. Please don’t talk about banging my mother. Wasting no time, he jumps on the opportunity.
“Don’t be so melodramatic. I left my wallet on your mom’s nightstand once.” His bushy eyebrows bounce my way before continuing. “It’s not like we expect you to call me dad at Christmas time.”
I knew it would be more jokes aimed at my poor, sweet momma.
Caleb laughs while I growl. “Once we’ve apprehended these punks, that joke will have repercussions.” His response is a one-finger salute. “My mom will eat you alive when she hears what you’re saying behind her back.”
Caleb places his hands on his chest as he saunters toward the front of the SUV. The vehicle lowers as he leans against the fender. “You wound me, Cyrus. I love that woman.”
“Would you shut up—”
He throws his hands in a gesture of surrender.
I’m not upset with him. The guy has a deep, non-romantic affection for my mother.
The idea of any man being with my dear mother still makes me cringe.
Hell, if my mother comes to town, Caleb’s there, catering to her every need, reassuring her that my son Liam and I are in good hands.
The guy is solid. Fucking batshit crazy, but solid.
I shift my focus back to the bank. This group hasn’t operated like the usual suspects.
Over six months, they meticulously targeted banks of national historical importance, committing radical acts and employing unique heist methods.
Regularly uploaded videos feature masked individuals in small groups pushing historical propaganda and their version of the truth before transferring money from the richest to the poorest consumers.