Kyle’s spine stiffened, but he managed to maintain his blank expression in spite of the mention of his father, torn between defending his father’s unorthodox but extremely effective ways of fighting the crime that trickled into their county from Detroit and Chicago, and distancing himself from the infamous Mac Dawson as he’d been trying to do his entire life.
“I don’t have any contact with my father,” he replied, his words as stiff as his posture. “Not anymore.”
Eh—what could he say? Old habits die hard.
“Well,” Skinner said, cracking a smile that seemed rather menacing. “Guess that’s about to change.”
Kyle’s blood went cold. “What?”
Now Skinner’s smile was positively smug. “You’re being transferred.”
Kyle’s stomach sank. “Sir,” he said, ditching the devil-may-care act entirely, “if this is about Harlan Rhodes and what happened in Jackson Square today, I had to do what was necessary to bring him in. Peterman and I have never seen eye-to-eye on how to deal with this case, but soon we’ll have what we need to—”
“It’s not about Rhodes,” Skinner interrupted, “even though I’ve got that little asshole spewing excessive-force allegations against you to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. I’ve already had two phone calls about it—one from that weaselly little bastard who calls himself a lawyer. You’re damned lucky Rhodes is spilling his guts, or you’d be even farther up shit creek than you already are.”
Kyle shook his head. “Then what gives? I’m one of the best agents you have.” When Skinner grunted, Kyle added, “Tell me I’m lying.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Skinner said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk and clasp his hands together. “Dawson, you could be the greatest agent of all time, but we have a little thing we like to call the Law around here. And I expect my agents to abide by it.”
“Sir—”
Skinner narrowed his eyes. “You waltz in here with your cocky attitude and your blatant disregard for the rules and regulations, and you think you should get a pat on the back for it? Well, that dog might hunt with some folks, son, but not with me. I’ve been working on eighty-sixing your ass since you walked into my building. I’m just disappointed it took me this long to kick you to the curb.”
Kyle’s temples began to throb as it hit him that Skinner had been planning this since he’d waltzed—yeah, he’d waltzed, no question—into the New Orleans office. He’d been cocky, complacent, smug.
And he’d seriously fucked up by not playing nice in the sandbox with the rest of the kids.
He’d been shitting on authority for so long just to spite his father that he hadn’t considered what it might eventually cost him when he’d decided to walk away from his job as a deputy in Fairfield County and flip the proverbial bird to his father by joining the FBI.
Oh, sure—he’d won that battle, showing his dad that the guilt trips and harsh code of honor that had governed their family for generations couldn’t sway him. But his heart had been the ultimate casualty. Because in finally breaking away from the Old Man’s will, he’d also left her behind. Abby Morrow. The woman who’d captured his heart like no one else ever had—and then shattered it into a million jagged pieces. Even thinking of her now made his chest tight with heartache and regret.
He gave himself a quick shake, pushing away the image of Abby’s sensual smile, bright cornflower-blue eyes, and flawless fair skin and forcing his attention back to the news that he was being reassigned. He cleared his throat. “Where’re you sending me?”
Skinner’s lips twitched. “Well, since the apple doesn’t seem to fall far from the tree, it seems only fitting that you go fill a spot in one of our northern Indiana resident agencies.”
Kyle suppressed a resigned, bitter laugh. The irony of being forced back home when he’d worked so hard to break away was not lost on him. But it was too late to confess that his attitude and brash behavior were all an act, that upholding the law was in his blood—no matter how much he wanted to deny it—and that getting scum off the streets was not just his job, but his calling. Any protestations of the sort would just look like he was a whiny bitch trying to save his own ass.
So, instead, he donned his most unconcerned demeanor and flashed what he imagined was an infuriatingly undaunted grin. “So when do I leave?”
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Author’s Note
For the purposes of this series, I have created fictional Fairfield County, Indiana. All of the cities, towns, events, and people therein are products of my imagination.
Also, although I have made every attempt at accuracy in writing this story, there may be times when I had to bend the rules of police procedure or when I needed to make a judgment call when said procedures varied or sources conflicted.
Acknowledgments