Massive thanks to Fran for being my ceaselessly amazing beta. To fanficsr4nerds and Lily Jill for prereading and being the devils on my shoulder. To PearlyFox for the incredible banner. And to you, for reading.
The hours are long, the work sometimes tedious, but the caffeine in my veins and the lit cigarette between my fingers remind me to stay alert. Remain vigilant. It's the little things we miss that can be the most important—the most catastrophic.
My mouse clicks rapidly, screen flickering from panel to panel, eyes darting, skimming for any hint of a threat.
I've been at this for over a decade, brought in by my father the moment I gripped my bachelor's degree in my hands. It's second nature at this point; autopilot. I know precisely what to look for, and my mind is trained to absorb information quickly, sort it meticulously, and only sound the veritable sirens for the most important bits.
It was what I was born to do; protect and serve in this branch of the FBI where people don't know what we actually do. To the public, we're simply the Data Analysis Unit. New recruits rarely like joining our team because there's no glory in what we do—no one patting you on the back in thanks. I don't need thanks; I only need to know I'm doing everything in my power to ensure my people are protected.
"Cullen," the Chief's voice booms, breaking me from my perusal. As usual, I didn't even hear the knock on the door. Hell, he probably didn't even knock at all. When I get in the zone, he knows I need the abrupt bass of his shout to break me out. Simply approaching me and saying my name, or knocking on my door, would never be enough.
"We lost another one; I need you to pick up a few more profiles," he instructs, smacking a stack of manila envelopes on my desk.
I sigh heavily, flinging my glasses off my face, so they clatter on top of the folders.
"Chief, what the fuck is going on? We're losing them at record numbers. If they can't keep up, they shouldn't even apply," I grouse.
It's not an easy job. It's fucking hard, and there is no room for error or personal pleasures. The turnaround is swift and frustrating. They fail to see the larger picture.
"I know, kid. I know."
I'm thirty-five years old, yet he still calls me kid. He's known me all my life, my father's best friend, so I let it slide.
I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.
"Fine, but I'm only so good. Keep handing me shit, and I'm gonna start missing things."
"Not possible, kid. You're the best we got."
Damn straight.
