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It was a twisted irony, but it made my debriefing with the Captain easier than ever.
"Sometimes I wonder," the Captain whispered, leaning against the window frame as smoke from his cigarette curled into the shadows.
"If Cyrus Thorne was born without a heart."
I couldn't have agreed more. Every emotion Cyrus displayed was a calculated performance.
In six years, I had never seen him truly care for a single soul.
"Captain, did you find anything on your end?"
He shook his head grimly.
"Even with the 'Beaumont' persona and the informant's introduction, Thorne hasn't lowered his guard. I haven't been able to leave this room for days."
My eyes widened. "You mean someone’s trying to take you out?"
He nodded, stubbing his cigarette out in a crystal tray.
"The border politics are a mess. Thorne has more enemies than stars in the sky. The closer I get to him, the bigger the target on my back becomes."
But if anyone could handle it, it was the Captain.
In all these years, I had never seen him lose. If Cyrus was the personification of darkness, the Captain was the light.
The silence grew heavy. I tried to lighten the mood.
"Once this net closes and we bring him in, Captain... I’m retiring to a desk job."
He looked at me, the light from the streetlamp catching the softness in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "If you’re out, I’m out too."
I left shortly after. Looking back, I should have looked at him longer.
I usually did, but that night, I just walked away.
