Cyrus
Chapter two
Consequences
Six months later.
“Seriously? You’re kidding, I hope.” My eyes dart around Jackson’s office, searching for hidden cameras.
This has to be one of those useless social media trends.
“Someone’s pranking me.” I can’t believe this is what the Bureau decided to do, considering all I’ve given them.
Keys jingle as my leg bounces in place, a piss-poor attempt at expelling nervous energy.
In retrospect, my work performance since Caleb’s death has been lackluster.
I sigh. This meeting is long overdue. I’m shocked he held out this long.
“Cyrus, nobody is challenging your contributions to this department. It’s been half a year, man.
You refuse to take on another partner. Your caseload is stagnate.
It’s understandable to grieve Caleb’s passing; however, we need you to separate your grief from work.
This wasn’t an easy decision. We hate this, but your actions have left us with no alternative. ”
My anger isn’t directed at Jackson; I knew my job was on the line if I didn’t shape up.
The government demands action. This powerful emotional vortex that has consumed my life since that night intensifies when they discuss those who weren’t actually bank robbers.
Suicide bombers seeking to make a statement.
The Bureau classifies them as homegrown terrorists.
There’s no one left to share my anger with at losing him.
No one is left to be imprisoned when everyone is dead.
Kids foolishly believed self-sacrifice would garner global recognition.
It hadn’t. The world continued to spin, wars continued to be fought, the top 1% continued to crush the middle class, and crime hadn’t paused for a single second after that night.
My trigger finger twitches, an unfortunate side effect of the blast trauma. I now have scars and labels for the fun events that consume my every waking and sleeping moment, courtesy of the blast radius and our in-house shrink.
“I considered Caleb my brother. Sorry, I hadn’t realized there was a time limit on grief.”
Helplessness is etched on Jackson’s face as he looks at me. His face screws up, making the scar across his forehead more pronounced. That night had a lasting impact on us. I suppose I’m the unlucky bastard who can’t get over it.
“Cyrus. Caleb was also a friend of mine. I’ve been shielding you from our supervisors for months, keeping you occupied with recent cases, and advising you to take a holiday to get your shit together. The situation is unchanged. We can’t tolerate rogue agents, I’m sorry.”
I press down on my elbows to shift the tension growing around the scar tissue on my chest. I’m overwhelmed by self-hatred, sinking into a bottomless pit of suffering. This one’s on me. I fucked up.
“Cyrus, look at me.” He drops the professional mask. Allowing me to see the worry flickering in his gaze.
“It’s been six months. Your therapy appointments have ceased; you’re a fucking walking liability, man.
” His sigh sounds final somehow. “How’s Liam?
” I go rigid when he mentions my son, my shoulders tensing and my breath catching in my throat as memories I’m not ready to face threaten to overwhelm me.
Seething, I say, “Liam is fine. We both are.” I’m fabricating facts, and we both know it.
He throws his hands up in the air, frustrated with me and our circumstances.
There’s a swirling mass of guilt in my stomach.
Jackson remains a friend and my superior.
Enduring bullshit from the higher-ups for my actions is uncomfortable to sit with.
My priorities these last six months have been, admittedly, a struggle to manage.
I haven’t been as considerate as I should have been.
Frankly, I’m uncomfortable with the realization that my pain has caused so much grief. I’m a fucking selfish prick.
“What if I give therapy another try?”
“It’s coming down the pipe. This order is inevitable.
” Jackson leans back in his chair, his tie crooked, dark circles under his eyes.
Small pops of gray line his temples. He looks exhausted.
That night, followed by longer days, took a toll on all of us.
Weeks of investigations, media reports, blame-shifting, and propaganda.
It was a lot. My pulse spikes. I pop my knuckles, trying to come to terms with how my life is about to change again, not just for me, but for my team, my kid.
As if our lives haven’t been complicated enough since losing Caleb, now unemployment calls. I should have kept my shit together.
“How long until they sign my walking orders?”
“Effective immediately.” He doesn’t miss my flinch as he continues, “I tried, man, I really did. Consequences are for everyone, including my best agent.”
“Huh. I’m not sure how to tell my son.”
“Take some time off. If anyone’s earned it, you have. Don’t worry about the bills for now. You’re getting most of your pension; it’s one of the perks of having such a bulldog boss.”
I raise my brows. That’s something, at least. “Appreciated, but I have to work. I can’t sit around. The bills won’t pay themselves, and half a pension won’t cover daycare, mortgage, and utilities. I could go on.”
Leaning on his desk for support, Jackson’s worry lines smooth out—his face morphs from brooding to calm resignation. I’m not going to agree with what he’s about to say. “I have a plan for you. It’s exactly what you need.”
I motion for him to proceed. Hell, he’s already gone through the trouble of babysitting me these last few months. I owe him that much.
Waiting for him to continue, my fingers flex around the arms of the chair.
I turned my focus to the raised design of the cloth on the seat’s armrests, gradually calming down as fear entered my skin.
Jackson’s words blend; his voice goes distant.
Images flash from past to present rapidly.
Caleb on the ground, his body flattened by the debris.
I recline, trying to find an ounce of comfort in the chair.
Wanting to stay engaged in the conversation with my boss, I shift in my seat, but the fabric pulls too tight across my skin, and my traitorous brain drags me straight back into the past. It bleeds into the present, shredding through the fragile hope I’d clung to that today might pass as normal.
Dread crawls up my chest. Anxiety lands like a punch to the gut.
It always happens around Jackson. Around any of the men from that night.
The real reason I haven’t managed to get my shit together.
Being surrounded by the people you survived hell beside has a way of trapping you there. Death keeps its claws buried deep, yanking you into a relentless war between the past and the present.
Concentrate. Phantom traces of sulfur cling to the air as flecks of ash drift between Jackson and me.
Fucking focus.
“Cyrus.” My head shoots up, my bangs falling against my forehead, little tufts of dark blonde obscuring my view of my boss—former boss, I guess.
When was the last time I got a cut? Haircuts haven’t seemed all that important lately.
Fuck, Jackson’s right. I’ve got to sort my shit. “Sorry, man. Where were we?”
“Cyrus, we’re all aware of how important Caleb was to you. I’m here for you, man. This move isn’t intended as punishment. I’m doing what I can to help,” he finishes. Confused because I haven’t heard a fucking thing. Where did he say I was going?
I understand this transfer won’t reflect positively on my record, and I’m fully aware that my aggressive behavior over the past six months has made me the center of office gossip.
It doesn’t bother me. My fucks flew the coop when my world was turned upside down in a terrorist attack.
So, I don’t have that familiar twist of guilt for asking, knowing he’s already told me once.
“Sorry, man. Where do you intend to put me?”
His frustration leaks through. Dark brows crease before the worry lines disappear from his face.
The corner of his mouth kicks up, and I already hate whatever he’s decided about my life.
He’s retaliating against a friend, and given what I’ve put him through, it deserves retribution.
His expression warns me. He’s getting his pound of flesh.
“I’m happy you asked. Congratulations, you are now the chief of police in Bluestone City, West Virginia.”
The chair I was sitting in tips over as I leap up.
The sound of it tumbling sideways doesn’t register.
My work boots are already wearing out Jackson’s floor as I pace his office.
I pick up a paperweight to occupy my hands and avoid reaching for my last friend’s neck to give it a tight squeeze.
His chair creaks as he leans back, the posture of a composed man.
A man who has his shit together. He looks totally relaxed—all he needs is a smoking jacket and a pipe.
He’s grinning like a goddamn Cheshire cat. All smug and satisfied with himself.
“As far as jokes go, stick to your day job. You fucking suck at them.” The small glass orb flies from one hand to the other. Toss, catch, toss, catch. I glance toward him between tosses, and he looks serious. “Absolutely fucking not, friend.” Toss, catch, toss, catch.
“I’m not kidding; Tell your mother hello for me.”
Fuck. It’s even worse than I expected. I have no intention of returning to Bluestone City.
I left for good after high school. Despite making it to Pop’s funeral, even so, I made a brief entrance and exit, avoiding a chance encounter with her, her malicious mother, or him.
I stand before the large window overlooking D.C.
, where people mill about. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper during the lunch hour.
The glass orb lands in my hand. Liam begs me to go to Bluestone City.
He loves his grandmother, a driving force in his demands.
Til now, I’ve been lucky, using work as an excuse not to go.
I guess my luck has finally run out. A quiet rustling of papers cuts through the silence before Jackson speaks.
“A parting gift for your old friend includes movers arriving tomorrow to help with packing. Rental or purchase options in your area are limited, but there are some good ones. My favorite is on top of this pile. Take this as the gift it is, Cyrus. Take your son home. Accept the position. Being a cop in a small town gives you time with your child and helps you recover. While keeping your job. Additionally, here’s a list of therapists in your area. Try this, man. You might be surprised.”