Chapter 49: Mending Bridges

George could feel his life start to take shape again, fragments coming together to make a whole. He whistled excitedly as he packed a small bag. Phases one and two of his plan had been accomplished, and it was time for what he considered the most important phase of all. He felt a moment of unease; the men who assaulted him, almost killing him in the alley, were yet to be apprehended. He quickly pushed the thought away; the PD and the Bureau had more than a sufficient number of leads, and he was confident they would be caught. He had been part of several drug busts and it was practically impossible to catch every single member of a drug ring. The important thing was to capture the drug lord and the most likely to take charge in his absence. Cut the heads and the body falls. Leave few enough of them, and the operation would crumble as the bottom-feeders lacked the know-how and credibility to lead organized crime.

He smiled widely as he picked up the Hermes shirt that had triggered one of their earliest fights. He would ensure he would be wearing that shirt when she sees him; it was symbolic. His heart lifted. He was going to get his Isla. She didn't know it yet, but he was coming. He folded it, stuffing it in the travel bag as his phone rang. It was the Mayor.

"Hello, Sir," he greeted respectfully, his regard for the man sky high.

"Agent George. Excellent job once more," he stated in a firm voice. "I would like to see you at my office if that isn't too much of a problem for you."

George looked at his watch quickly. He had six hours till his flight. He could make it.

"See you in thirty minutes, sir."

***

He walked briskly into the building that contained the Mayor's office. As George approached his desk, the Mayor's personal assistant smiled at him, welcoming. "He's been expecting you," he said, nodding in the direction of the Mayor's office.

"Thank you, Matt," he responded cheerfully. "Nice tie you got there," he said pointing at Matt's Bugs Bunny tie.

Matt laughed, sure he was being teased. He pressed the intercom leading to his boss's office. "Special Agent George here for you, sir."

"Send him in," the solid, disembodied voice replied.

"You heard the man," Matt said, gesturing at the door and smiling wildly, "and congratulations."

George frowned. Was it his imagination or was Matt smiling a bit too widely today? And what did he mean by 'congratulations?' Shrugging, he walked into the office.

Solid. That was the one word that came to mind whenever George saw Mayor Reeve James. The man was an ex-marine with three tours under his belt, and that alone was enough to win George's respect. He, however, respected this man for other reasons. He was a no-nonsense man who never spoke from both sides of his mouth and lead from the front. Corruption was at an all-time low in the force and Internal Affairs had never had their job so easy. He did not behave like a politician -- that was for sure -- and George often wondered how he won elections. Perhaps the people were just tired of b*llsh*ting politicians holding public office.

As George entered the office, the mountain of a man rose, offering a large hand. George shook it firmly, looking into his eyes.

"Good to have you here, George. Please sit."

"Good to be here, sir," George responded as he sat.

"You have had a highly eventful few weeks," Mayor Reeve started, "so I will keep this short. Chief - former Chief, he corrected himself - Magnus Smith has been relieved of his duty and position as you must have expected."

George nodded. "As expected."

"Next in command is Captain McCain. Solid guy, clean record and all, he would seamlessly take over the running of the PD, but I think I have a better idea."

He stood, pouring himself a coffee from the coffee maker to the left of the office. He poured a second cup, not bothering to ask George if he wanted one. Placing the second cup in front of George, he returned to his seat.

"Thank you, sir," he said, taking a sip and struggling not to grimace, knowing Mayor Reeve had his eye on him. His need to impress the man was a constant, but damn the coffee was strong.

"I want you to head Chicago PD, George." George's eyebrows went high and he jolted, the coffee scalding his hand as it splashed over the rim. "Excuse me?" he asked.

***

Usually, after an intense workout session like the one she just had, she would jump into the shower right away, but today a ravenous hunger assaulted her. The shower would have to wait, she decided. She jogged to her fridge and opened it, perusing the fridge contents. Her experiment with cooking as a coping mechanism had turned into a hobby, the result was that she now cooked quite a lot. This presented a new problem; too many leftovers and, like right now, the struggle of the what-to-eat decision.

Rolling her eyes at her indecision, she reached in and grabbed the Tupperware containing her leftover lasagna. She frowned at it, trying to recall how long ago she had cooked it. Five days? A week? Giving up, she threw it into the microwave, setting the timer. As her meal heated up, she moved to her kitchen counter where her laptop sat, and flipping it open, powered it. Without warning, a flash of memory of her and George's numerous kitchen counter-coffee dates assaulted her. God, she missed him. Being alone in Birmingham for a couple of weeks, she was not as judgmental anymore. As a matter of fact, she could almost justify his actions. Almost. She was still lied to by a man who claimed to love her, and that above everything was what hurt the most.

He had been calling her for days on end, but about two days ago, George had stopped calling.

Saying she was disappointed was an understatement. He seemed to have decided to write her off. But could she blame him? It wasn't like she had picked any of the fifty calls he had given her since she ended their relationship. Yes, she had been counting.

The temptation to call him back was strong. But...was it pride or was it her hurting, or a mix of both that just had her unable to go through with it.

She looked at the final chapter of her latest book, emotion choking her. This had been, by a large extent, the most difficult book to write and she could scarcely believe it was done. She had poured herself into her writing, attempting to escape the realities of her life, and miraculously it had worked. George had so much to do with the soul of this book and she hoped that when -- no if he ever read it, he would recognize his influence on the work.

The doorbell rang and she jogged to open up. The idea of having a milkman deliver fresh milk to her every morning would take some getting used to, but she absolutely loved it. That was one of the pros of living in England. She opened the door, cheerfully greeting even before seeing the burly young man she was certain awaited her, "Hello, Barasa--"

She froze when her eyes fell on her visitor. It wasn't her Kenyan milkman. It was the last person she thought to see at her doorstep.

"Who on earth is Barasa?" George asked, a fierce frown on his face.

Blinking, Isla tried to bring herself to focus by processing his question. Was that...Was that jealousy she had heard in his tone? She wondered how he would react if he found out Barasa was a fifteen-year-old Kenyan immigrant who helped his father deliver fresh milk. If Isla wasn't so thoroughly shocked, she would have laughed. She decided it was none of his business and he deserved no explanation.

She cleared her throat, praying her voice wouldn't fail her. "What are you doing here, George?"

Realizing his question was not going to be answered, he focused on hers. "You could let me in and find out," he stated grumpily, "or you could let me freeze to death out here."

Isla tilted her head, her pursed lips suggesting she might actually be thinking about it. Finally, she stepped back and to the side, granting him entrance. "Thank you," he said, refusing to take off his jacket. The cold temperatures were brutal.

Isla locked the door immediately and when she turned around, she realized she had been blocked by solid six foot plus of male body. Her breath caught in her chest, her pulse racing as he, raising her chin to ensure eye contact, lowered his lips to hers.