Page 5 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

“So you signed up for a steady paycheck? Really?” Crespo gave him a knowing look.

“I—”

“You wanted to be a hero. Townsend said you would be.”

That was way too close to home. Achilles could remember the excitement of it all, the promise that he could be someone. The assurances that he was wanted. “Well, he was wrong,” he said with a snarl.

“That old bastard was never wrong about his hunches.”

“If I’m such a hero, how come I worked for the Bureau— bled for it—for almost twenty years and now things are, as I keep hearing, spiraling down a shithole?” He was yelling. Achilles wasn’t usually much of a shouter, but today was clearly an exception.

“Life’s not a movie, man. You don’t fight a few glorious battles, win the big one, and then ride off into the sunset while the credits roll.

Life is constant . Day to day. I’ve been through…

hang on.” He took out his phone and tapped at it for a moment.

“Fuck. Fifty grand. I’ve seen over fifty thousand days start and end.

Some of them were beautiful: sitting on a porch with my aibek, smelling the evening breeze, watching the sun set, knowing that pretty soon we’d head inside, eat dinner, and fuck like bunnies.

Some days, my friend, were goddamn awful.

The thing is, no matter what kind of day it is, as long as you survive it, the next day will come. ”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Achilles was tired of lectures with metaphors. Riddles. Movies. He was just plain fucking tired .

“Forget about trying to save the world, my friend. None of us can. But each of us can save a little bit of it, for a minute or a day or a year. And that’s always going to matter.

” Crespo stood suddenly, gaining his feet with more grace than Achilles had ever possessed, even when unmauled.

“I have to head to Wyoming now. Neigh . Call Charles when you see the light… but don’t wait too long. Not everyone has fifty thousand days.”

He touched his fingers to his forehead in a little salute, mumbled something about replacing a couch, and left.

Achilles didn’t move.

* * *

One week later

“There.” Achilles surveyed his kitchen with satisfaction.

The stainless appliances and granite countertops shone, and the mahogany-look flooring glowed warmly.

No fingerprints, crumbs, or smears to be found.

The two linen placemats on the little table—where he rarely ate—were perfectly aligned.

He’d even cleaned the windows, and the sun beamed inside without any hint of the smoke from last month’s fires.

Not that Achilles had anything to do with putting those fires out, but the results were satisfying nonetheless.

He’d spent the whole day vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing the entire condo, erasing all evidence of the neglect caused by his convalescence. And truthfully, he was pretty sore. The wound on his torso still pulled when he moved the wrong way.

But his home was spotless.

He felt pretty good about that… until he got tired of admiring his work and asked himself what he was going to do next.

He’d watched more than his fill of TV lately and had spent way too much time scrolling on his phone.

He’d already had a light workout at the fitness center and wasn’t up for more exercise. He wasn’t hungry.

“Grindr?” But he knew the answer even before the word left his mouth. He wasn’t in the mood for a hookup. It would mean explaining his wounds, or at least making the effort to hide them.

A book. He had a small shelf full of them because he’d always been a bit of a reader. But lately all fiction had seemed too contrived, all non-fiction too uncomfortable.

Standing in his beautiful kitchen—which he rarely used because he wasn’t much of a cook—he was fully aware that his current issue was more than momentary indecision.

This was an existential crisis. The same one he’d been having ever since the bear shifter had— No.

It had started before that. But until now he’d been able to back-burner it.

Not anymore.

“What do I want to do?” he demanded of the refrigerator, which didn’t answer, even though it was state of the art and Wi-Fi equipped.

Achilles had a Bachelor of Arts in criminology and a couple decades of experience as a Bureau agent.

He was fluent in English, Greek, and Spanish and could get by in a couple of other languages.

Surely all of this qualified him for some profession aside from law enforcement, which he wanted to avoid.

Hell, he could always go back to flipping burgers.

Without consciously deciding to do so, he fetched his phone from the living room and hit the number for the West Coast HQ’s main line. “Achilles Spanos,” he said when someone picked up. “I’d like to speak with the chief.”

“Just a moment,” replied a deep voice he didn’t recognize.

If it had taken more than a moment, Achilles would have hung up and turned off the phone. But mere seconds later, a familiar voice came through. “Grimes.”

“I’ll go. But then I quit.”

Grimes didn’t hesitate and didn’t sound surprised. “Come by now and pick up your badge and gun. We’ll get you on a flight to Portland tonight.” Then he hung up.

While Achilles changed into a suit and packed an overnight bag, he wondered who was in charge of travel arrangements now.

Agents usually took care of it themselves or, if it required extra coordination or finesse, Holmes did.

But Holmes was off doing… whatever he was doing.

Did that mean Tenrael had taken over that duty?

“A demon travel agent.” Achilles, who might not be as level-headed as he hoped, chuckled at that image.

The agent on reception duty at HQ barely glanced up as Achilles walked through the lobby, and the three other agents he encountered simply exchanged brief greetings with him.

If anybody had noticed his absence, they didn’t comment on it.

They must have known about the bear-shifter incident, must have taken part in honoring Agent Bautista, but they might not even be aware that Achilles had been hurt too.

Unlike Achilles, Bautista had a lot of buddies. He’d been a good person.

There was no sign of either Grimes or Tenrael in the chief’s office, but Achilles recognized the dark-haired person seated behind the desk in the outer office. The pointy ears were a dead giveaway. “Hi, Henry. They pulled you in for this?”

“It’s keeping me busy. Dash is on assignment in Honolulu.” Henry made a face. “I’m not fond of airplanes. I don’t mind booking flights for others, though.” He slid a paper toward Achilles. “Your flight, car, and hotel info. I’ll text it to you also.”

Achilles put the paper into his pocket without looking at it. “Thanks.”

“Are you healing well? I heard you were pretty torn up.”

Pleased at both the question and the indication that someone knew, Achilles nodded. “I have some ugly scars, but I’m fine. Thanks.”

Henry shook his head sadly. “It’s too bad. I used to get attacked by Termites if I went outside. Horrible creatures,” he added with a shudder. “But it didn’t take me long to heal afterward. Humans have it much worse.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about Termites,” Achilles pointed out.

Henry was… a house spirit of some kind. Nobody seemed sure about the details, including Henry himself, but maybe it didn’t really matter.

He was a good person who spent a lot of time working with Diana Afolabi, the Bureau archivist. Sometimes he also accompanied his partner, Dash Cooke, on missions, but apparently not when they involved air travel.

The two of them had been involved in the death of Chief Townsend a few years ago, but the higher-ups had cleared them of wrongdoing.

Everyone else decided not to ask too many questions about what the hell had happened.

While Achilles was thinking about all of this, Henry unlocked a desk drawer. Without a key, it seemed, but whatever. Smiling pleasantly, he pulled out a handgun and a badge and set them gingerly on the desk. “I’ll be on call if you need anything, Achilles.”

That brought a surprising amount of comfort.

Achilles swung by the armory to pick up an assortment of the Bureau’s special ammunition.

He decided to leave his own car in the HQ garage and instead took a Lyft to Hollywood Burbank, where a sour-faced TSA agent scrutinized his badge and ID before letting Achilles and his gun through security.

Bless Henry, because Achilles had only a short wait before boarding.

Two hours later he deplaned at PDX, which had recently been remodeled. It was a nice airport, although he had a bit of a hike to his rental car—an exertion that emphasized he still wasn’t completely healed. Walking while dragging a suitcase wasn’t anywhere near comfortable.

Once Achilles was seated in the rented Camry, he had a decision to make. It was nearly eight p.m., so one option would be to find something to eat and then check in to his downtown hotel. He could do the recruiting gig in the morning. Or he could simply drive to the guy’s house now.

“Let’s just get it over with.” Besides, at this time of day, he probably had a good chance of finding the guy at home.

Henry had sent Achilles a file with the man’s name and address, along with some basic information about him, and Achilles—blessed with a good memory—had spent the flight reviewing and memorizing everything. Now he punched the address into the car’s navigation system and set out.

Traffic was light at this time of night, and since Achilles didn’t care about speed limits, it took less than twenty minutes before he parked in front of an old brick apartment complex on Southeast 30th.

The street itself was fairly dark, all the parked cars empty.

Achilles started shivering as soon as he got out of the car; living in Los Angeles, it was easy to forget that winter existed elsewhere. At least it wasn’t raining.

He tromped up a few concrete steps and found himself in a grassy courtyard that might be nice under other circumstances but currently felt forlorn. Apartment 7 was right in the middle of the building. Before knocking, Achilles paused to rehearse what he was going to say.

Dee Martell? I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse . No, that was a bad idea.

How about Here’s the chance of a lifetime! Nope. That made Achilles sound like a pyramid-scheme salesman.

I’m Agent Spanos from the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out for a few minutes. I’ve been told it’s really important. Okay. That would do, he supposed.

He took a deep breath and knocked.

Nobody answered.

He knocked again three times, harder each time, with no response.

Then he took note of the sales circulars overflowing the little metal mailbox attached to the wall.

And the fact that no lights were on inside.

Most important, the back of his neck felt tingly, very much as it had right before the bear shifter attacked.

“Shit.”

Putting expediency above good sense, Achilles tried the knob… and the door opened.

He stepped inside to discover a coffee table with a half-empty glass of water, an open pizza box—the contents congealed—and a chipped plate holding a slice minus a few bites.

A small pile of shoes, jackets, and other clothing lay on the floor to one side.

There was a palpable sense that nobody was home.

Achilles had arrived too late.