Page 4 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

F our days after returning home, Achilles was still convalescing.

He’d managed to clean out the fridge, but doing almost anything else was slow.

He spent the bulk of the day dozing on the couch and staring blearily at the TV.

Most of his meals had to be ordered in. His body still ached, although at least he could make it up the stairs to his bedroom, and he’d even managed a shower or two. Wow.

Nobody visited or called or even texted.

His parents had died years ago, he’d lost touch with his sister, and his job with the Bureau precluded most friendships and romantic relationships.

A lot of the agents socialized with one another, some even ending up with another agent as a spouse or partner.

But although Achilles got along with his colleagues just fine, he’d never really clicked with anyone.

A lot of the time he didn’t mind. Some of the time he did.

He was supposed to be figuring out what to do with the rest of his life. At forty-one, he could have several decades still ahead of him. Slumped on the couch and watching Titanic , that notion was more daunting than getting sliced and diced by a bear shifter.

“Wallow,” he said out loud. He’d been talking to himself quite a lot lately. “That’s what I’ll do—I’ll be a professional wallower. I’ll make self-pity an art form.”

The Bureau paid well, and Achilles had made some good investments. He could live off his savings for a year or two, probably. Maybe by then he’d have his head together. Hell, the way things were going, maybe by then the world would implode and he wouldn’t have to worry about his future.

“That’s gold-medal wallowing right there,” he muttered.

Maybe he should just take up drinking.

As he considered whether to take a nap or send for a bucket of pho, his phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, which had a 209 area code.

Hey Spanos let me into your bldg.

Huh. That had to be a new form of spam texting. He ignored it, but then another message came through a minute later. Let me in or Im gonna crash thru that big bedroom window and thats gonna cost you a fortune to fix.

Crash through his window? What the hell? Who is this? he demanded, wishing there was some way to display anger and righteous indignation without resorting to emojis.

Your friendly neighborhood dragon.

“Shit.” Although Achilles frowned, there was a part of his psyche that cheered up like a neglected dog given a friendly pat.

He didn’t know why Ralph Crespo was here.

For all Achilles knew, Crespo was here to barbecue him as punishment for not sticking with the Bureau.

But at least it meant that Achilles wasn’t being ignored. Or forgotten.

He opened the security app and pressed the button to buzz Crespo in. Then he took his time hauling himself off the couch and to his front door, which he opened. A few moments later the elevator doors parted, and a man in jeans and a red flannel shirt walked toward him.

“You look like shit,” said Crespo by way of greeting.

“And you look like a low-rent Paul Bunyan.”

Crespo laughed. “Let me in. We gotta talk.”

Decades ago—long before Achilles was born, in fact—Crespo had been a Bureau agent.

According to gossip, he’d been around almost since the agency started.

But eventually he’d quit and moved to the Sierra foothills, where he occasionally did some contract gigs for the Bureau.

Now and then, a dragon came in handy. Achilles had worked with him briefly three or four times and had respected—as well as been slightly envious of—his abilities.

“Nice place,” said Ralph once he entered.

“We’ve had our couch since 1973 and Anton refuses to get rid of the thing, but maybe he’d consider trading it for one like yours.

Hang on.” He used his phone to snap a few pictures of the piece in question before sprawling on one end of it.

He was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that shifted colors as if lit by a disco ball.

Achilles gingerly sat down in his armchair. Movements like that still hurt. “Did you fly here?” He didn’t mean via airplane.

“Drove. Gets me a lot less attention and it’s a lot easier to bring a suitcase. I’m working on a job for Charles, but he asked me to drop in on you while I was in the neighborhood.”

The puppy inside Achilles wagged its tail, although Achilles was cautious. “What does the chief want?”

Crespo screwed up his face and rubbed the back of his head. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen bad before—hell, I served in the Marines back in the forties, and that was…. But this feels like it could be worse.”

“ What does?” Although Achilles had been avoiding the news, he had some sense of what was going on in the world. He didn’t know whether Crespo’s looming apocalypse was related to those current events or something else.

“Just the vibe. Last year there was some hinky shit in Wyoming, and Charles is spooked. I think Tenrael ’s spooked, and that’s not good, my friend. Not good at all.” Crespo looked at his hands as if the answer might be there, then shrugged. “So I’m doing what I can.”

Achilles didn’t know if that was meant to be a jibe at him, since he was doing nothing at all. “What does the chief want?” he repeated.

“Just a little mission. You can do it on a contract basis if you want, but Charles hasn’t processed your resignation yet, so you can just keep pulling regular pay.”

“I quit . Turned in my badge and gun.”

“Nevertheless. Look, all he wants you to do is make a little trip to Portland. There’s a guy up there who’s important somehow.

Charles hasn’t shared the details with me, and honestly, I don’t really care.

I trust him. He wants you to talk the guy into meeting with him, I think so Charles can recruit him. ”

A startled laugh escaped Achilles’ throat. “Is someone who just resigned because he couldn’t deal with it anymore really the best recruiter?”

“No idea. He already sent someone else. Abe Ferencz. Do you know him?”

“Heard of him.” Ferencz had also been an agent way back in the early years, along with his partner, Thomas Donne. “Is he still alive? What is he?” The Bureau employed a fair number of NHSs—nonhuman species, such as Crespo—and some of them had very long lifespans.

“He’s human, but kind of a special case. He’s sort of come out of retirement recently.” Crespo’s expression was sorrowful. “God, I miss Thomas. Abe used to call him a mensch and Thomas would pretend to be annoyed, and…. When Tom died, Abe was a little lost for a while. Poor guy.”

“Did a monster get him?”

Crespo snorted. “A monster called lung cancer. But he was ninety, which is a good run for a human, and he and Abe had a lot of happy years together.”

“Oh.” It was stupid to be envious of a dead man, but still….

“Anyway, Abe tried to recruit the Portland guy but it didn’t work. So I guess now you’re up.”

“If he’s so vital, why doesn’t the chief go there himself?”

“Because Charles is tied up in something else. Besides, can you really picture him as an effective recruiter?” Crespo grinned and raised his eyebrows.

He did have a point. Chief Grimes was creepy, although Achilles couldn’t explain why. He rarely raised his voice or showed much emotion at all, and yet being near him felt like hanging out with a loaded gun that had the potential to fire on its own without warning.

“Okay, fine,” Achilles conceded. “Then why don’t you go?”

“I told you. I’m working on another job.”

Achilles tasted bitterness, like cold day-old coffee. “Right. You’re needed for the important stuff, while I’m playing PR.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. I’m heading to Wyoming, where I’m apparently going to flap around with an empath and an ex-cowboy on my back, like a goddamn flying pony , in hopes of tracking down some mysterious signal from some mysterious source that the empath thinks he sensed last year. Would you prefer that assignment?”

“No.” Achilles sighed. “Wouldn’t a flying pony make you a pegasus or something?”

“I am a dragon, not a mythical horse, and neither the cowboy nor the empath is Bellerophon.”

Achilles, who was less knowledgeable about Greek mythology than his name and ancestry would suggest, didn’t know who Bellerophon was. But he did have to admit that Crespo had a point—flying was not within his skill set.

While Achilles considered what to say next, Crespo seemed to let his temper ebb.

His eyes faded to a more traditional green and he spoke more softly.

“I told you—talking to the Portland guy is important. Maybe getting him on board is more critical than anything the rest of us are doing. No way to know.”

Suddenly, Achilles was exhausted, every pain in his body intensified, and a few new aches popped up for good measure.

He wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, which he realized wasn’t the most mature response but he didn’t much care.

“I can’t,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I’m done.”

Crespo didn’t get up and leave, but he also didn’t argue.

He leaned back against the couch cushion and gazed at the big framed print on the wall near the TV.

It was an abstract piece, various-sized blocks in soothing blues and greens coming together as if they were about to construct something good and solid.

It was one of the few pieces of art that Achilles owned, except for the small selection of tasteful male nudes in his bedroom.

“Spanos, why did you join the Bureau?”

Achilles didn’t have to think about his reply. “Chief Townsend recruited me.”

“Which is significant. If he thought you would make a valuable agent, then you are.”

“Whatever.” Achilles followed Crespo’s lead and leaned back, then partially closed his eyes. “I was twenty-two, holding down three or four crappy jobs and trying to get a college degree. What he was offering sounded a lot better than flipping burgers for minimum wage.”