The Reckoning - BLACKBIRD book 3

3. the couch

Brock headed straight out of the elevator to Cassidy's office. To find it empty. Not even his secretary was around. He checked the time. That early, Cassidy could be in the staff kitchen, having his morning fix of caffeine. So he walked down the hall, dropped his briefcase in his office and went on to the staff kitchen. Where he found the Section Chief merrily chattering with Russell over steamy mugs.

"She's the next Iron Lady, Coleman!" Cassidy said at the exact moment Brock walked in. "And then we'll have the whole field office wallpapered in rock posters, and all the agents wearing jeans!"

And guess who they're talking about. Sometimes it felt like it was on purpose. As if they saw him coming, traded some secret evil sign and changed the subject for him to bump onto her it.

He was growing tired of feeling like that. The more he wanted to keep his life Gillian-free, the more people and things around reminded him of her at every step. He should just let go, stop fighting, give up. Accept that he was surrounded by Gillian fans, and as long as she was still news, he'd have to hear about her comings and goings, whether he wanted to or not. Especially if he was about to decline the post with the BAU.

He nodded hi at them and took his time to make himself a tea. While he was still at it, Russell passed by his side, patted his arm as he used to and walked out. He heard Cassidy come closer, still scoffing under his breath.

"Morning, Brockner. Shall we?"

That was Cassidy, always with his aggressive recruitment. Brock didn't bother to repress a sigh and left the staff kitchen with him.

At his office, Cassidy pointed at the couch as he closed the door. With Burton, Brock knew that would've meant a low blow, as if making him take a softer seat would soften the effect of his decisions. He sat down, wondering if he should be ready for another low blow. It didn't seem to be Cassidy's style, though—he wouldn't care about softening anything—but hardly four months working for him were not enough to know what to expect.

As usual, the man didn't waste any time beating around the bush. "So, Brockner? What is it gonna be?"

He held Cassidy's eyes and said, in a calm, plain way, "I don't want to go back to the BAU, sir. That's all I know for sure. That being said, I'll do whatever you and the brass need me to."

Cassidy scoffed. He stood across the office, resting against a modular, mug in one hand and the other in his pocket. "Don't repeat that whatever out this door, Brockner, 'cause they'd make good use of it." He sipped his coffee and nodded, in an unusual thoughtful way. "I can get why you say it. If you could choose, what would you do?"

Brock narrowed his eyes. Did he actually have a saying? He leaned forward, deciding to be straight and clear. "I'd like to go back to the field, sir. Here in DC, if possible. You know I'm not interested in political posts, nor in deskwork. I don't need other people following my orders. I just wanna do what I do best."

"Catching the worst bastards."

Brock raised his eyebrows—pretty much, yeah. Cassidy nodded again and flashed a quick, apologetic smile. Okay, couches still meant the same.

"But that's not what the brass wants, or what the Bureau needs from you, Brockner. We need you out there, yes, but not quite in the field. We need you forming our assets, shaping them in your ways, and I'm not talking only about profiling. We need more Gillians and more Colemans. Jesus, we need a thousand of them! You have the skill to inspire others by example, Brockner, and we need you doing exactly that."

Brock frowned at such a heated speech.

Cassidy scoffed again. "Yeah, guess I got a little carried away, right?" he said, mocking himself, and strolled to sit in the armchair opposite Brock. "What I mean is that having you in the field like a runt, like you were last year, is a total waste. And the brass won't suffer it anymore. But I can get that after six years locked up in a classroom, you need to breathe some fresh air. So here's the deal..."

Brock noticed he'd slid back in his couch, both hands on his mug, as if preparing himself for the blow—and to keep the tea from spilling on the carpet because of it.

"You're gonna be my supervisor for New England—that's Boston and New Haven field offices with their resident agencies. You will have the authority to make any changes you deem necessary at any of the field offices or the agencies. And whoever has something to say about it, they can call me." Cassidy raised one finger from his mug, anticipating Brock's question. "I'm giving you a list of tasks I need done every month. Mostly paperwork and staff meetings. Not seminars with a rigid program. You will assess what every agency needs to work on, and if it falls into your area of expertise, you'll give them some training. Else, you'll let me know and I'll send somebody to do it."

Brock nodded, inviting him to go on.

"Other than that, I don't care what you do with your time. Meaning that if some case catches your attention and you wanna pick a couple of agents and take it, you can do it. In my own experience, meeting my work schedule shouldn't take you longer than ten days a month. I'm keeping your monthly one-week leave for you to come see your daughter. That gives you about a week to get some fresh air. And if you're a little cunning, you'll manage to turn the field work into training, and get even more time doing what you like."

"Would this be temporary or permanent?"

"That would be up to you, Brockner. I certainly want you there for years, pushing New England up in our efficiency charts."