The End - Blackbird book 7

15. who else

Gillian's new room was still small, and there was more monitoring equipment than she liked. But it had real walls—a true improvement after three days in that damn fish bowl. And best of all, it had a window.

Brock had Russell on speaker, telling them about what happened in Jamaica Plain, when they heard a soft knock on the door. Connor and Banks came in.

"Hey, Mom. Look who the cat brought in," said the boy.

"Call you back, Coleman," said Brock, and disconnected.

He saw the way Connor looked at him and at the door, and shot a questioning scowl at the boy.

"Bob...?" Gillian asked, and something in her voice, suddenly shaky, clarified Connor's look.

"We'll be right back, Mom," the boy said.

Brock followed him to the door but Gillian ignored them, reaching out to Banks. Brock glanced back before walking out, in time to see Banks lean in to hold Gillian tight. She threw her good arm around his neck, eyes closed and a troubled frown on her face.

"Jesus, Reg!" Banks mumbled. "Don't you ever dare to scare me like this again!"

"Agent Brockner?" called Connor, holding the door open for him from the hall.

Brock had no choice but to leave the room. As the door closed behind him, he heard Gillian say, moved to tears, "I know, Bob. I'm so sorry!"

Brock took a reluctant step away from the closed door, surprised at how emotional they were.

"Banks hadn't seen Mom since she was shot," said Connor from a chair against the opposite wall. Brock frowned. Connor shrugged. "He knew she was fine, but hadn't seen her. Bet he wanted to catch the shooter first."

Brock sat down by Connor, holding his eyes for him to go on. The boy's smile turned a little sad.

"I also think Banks focused on the shooter 'cause he was terrified at the idea that Mom might not make it, no matter what the doctors said."

Brock realized this was the very first time he ever had something like a real conversation with Gillian's son. So first of all, he removed the 'son' label, because it could be tricky. Connor was a young adult, and a smart one, who was perfectly aware of many sides of his mother's job. So he arched his eyebrows, serious but plain.

"We all were," he said.

"Don't say," Connor's smile was a regular one now, appreciating Brock's choice for honesty. "I think it's harder for Banks than for the team. Even harder than it is for Russell."

Brock tilted his head with a questioning frown.

"Russ can be Mom's best friend. But he wasn't out there with her for almost ten years, like Banks. Bob and Mom watched each other's back all those years. And they did a good job at it. Mom never got anything worse than some bruises, and Banks was shot only once. And if you ask him, he'll admit it happened only 'cause he didn't pay attention to Mom's warnings."

Brock nodded slowly as he turned to look at Gillian's door.

"Sure, it can't be easy for them," he said in a thoughtful way. He noticed Connor's interest and decided it wouldn't harm anyone if he elaborated a little. "You can't help feeling responsible for your partner's life if anything happens when you're not there. Even if you weren't supposed to be there."

"Tough..." Connor muttered.

"Yeah..."

"May I ask you a question, sir?"

Brock couldn't help a suspicious scowl at Connor's sudden change of tone, so formal and distant.

"Back at the field office, when the team came back, Russell and Cooper said something about leaving with the team for Cincinnati tomorrow. They even said Kurt's going, too..."

Connor's trail off was enough of a question. Brock nodded again.

"We're expected back there to resume the scheduled procedures we left on hold when your mother was shot. And she suggested we should take her team with us."

Connor scowled, a nice attempt for a death glare.

"We? Meaning you're leaving, too?"

The boy's tone suggested Brock had just stepped into an unmarked minefield. And wasn't that a soft click under his foot?

"Yes," he replied, cautious.

"You're leaving Mom?"

Connor was openly accusing him of committing the most unforgivable sin in human history—well, maybe it is, in your history, Brockner.

"I'm in charge of the whole operation, Connor," Brock replied, an example of wise responsibility.

Epic backfire. The boy didn't respond to logic and authority like his mother. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Like you're the last supervisor standing in the whole frigging FBI," he grunted.

Hear that, Brockner? Exactly what you told her. And it didn't work either. So time to go back to the honesty gambit.

Brock flashed a quick grimace. Not easy, talking about it. Especially not to Gillian's son, of all people. "Look, Connor, I don't wanna go. But your mother asked me to. She says right now she needs some room for herself."

"And you accepted?"

Congrats, Brockner. You just got a job in the fire squad. As the target.

"Was I supposed to say no?" Oh, and now you play smart. Great move, Brockner.

"Of course!" Brock couldn't help stiffening up at Connor's lashing reply. "Who else is gonna say no to her, if not you?"

Told ya.

Brock held Connor's eyes from under his scowl. And behind that scowl, his sarcasm readied the podium to give Connor the golden medal to Bull's Eye of the Century. The boy rolled his eyes again and shook his head with an exasperated huff.

Do something, Brockner. He's asking for your help. And you don't wanna let him down, trust me.

"Listen, Connor. I cannot force your mother to have me around, okay? But you have my word I'll stay in touch. Every day. I'll be back as soon as I can, even if only for a few hours. And you can always call me if you think something's off. I'll give you my number. Or you can ask it to Andrea."

Connor's dark blue eyes drilled into Brock's for an endless moment, as if he wanted to read his mind and soul. Brock held his stare without a blink. Eventually, the boy nodded curtly and looked away.

Well done, Brockner. You've just been paroled.