Chapter 60

Chapter 60
Georgiana sensed Michael's discomfort with the direction of their conversation. With a journalist's intuition, she skillfully changed the subject.
"So what's life like as an auxiliary officer? How long will you stay in this position?" she asked, taking small sips of her coffee.
Michael's shoulders relaxed slightly at the topic change. "I don't know. It's temporary, at least that's what everyone says."
A hint of a smile touched his lips. "But surprisingly relaxing. Nobody trying to kill me, no wires to cut with seconds ticking down."
Georgiana nodded, catching the subtle note of melancholy beneath his casual tone. "Yes. Military life puts too much pressure on people." She traced the rim of her cup with her finger. "Returning to civilian life has its advantages. Nobody is obligated to dedicate their entire existence to one purpose."
Her words seemed to resonate with him. For a brief moment, his carefully maintained composure slipped, revealing a flash of vulnerability in his steel-gray eyes before he returned to that deliberately maintained calm.
"What about you?" Michael asked. "Will you return to Syria?"
Georgiana shook her head. "Not for now. I've got plenty of work here, and honestly..." she hesitated, "my family is quite adamant about their daughter not running around war zones anymore."
Michael's expression softened. "They worry about you."
"They always have," she replied with a smile. "Even before..."
The unspoken words hung between them – before that explosion, before everything changed. Neither seemed ready to address that particular memory directly.
They finished their meal in a period of silence, with Michael paying the bill.
"Next time, it's on me," Georgiana said.
They parted outside the café, each heading in opposite directions. Michael walked with the flow of pedestrians toward the street corner, glancing back when he reached the intersection. Across the street, Georgiana had disappeared into the distance, her slender figure swallowed by the crowd.
Spring arrived later than usual this year.
By Friday afternoon, Michael was preparing to end his shift when the emergency call came through.
"Possible explosive device at Riverside Mall," the dispatcher reported. "The suspect spoke directly to an employee about the device before fleeing."
Michael and his colleagues responded immediately, arriving at the scene to find it already swarming with activity. Police officers formed a perimeter, directing the evacuation of panicked shoppers. Fire trucks idled nearby while criminal investigation units coordinated with the bomb squad.
Mark, a fellow auxiliary officer, nudged Michael's arm. "Shall we go check it out?" he said quietly, pointing toward the second floor where most of the attention seemed focused.
Michael remained where he was, eyes scanning the scene with professional detachment. Something about the situation felt wrong to him—the casual placement, the public warning, the timing. None of this matched the characteristics of an actual bombing.
"Are you coming?" Mark asked, already heading toward the escalator.
Upstairs, a small group of investigators surrounded a garbage bin cordoned off with police tape. Mark leaned closer to Michael, curiosity evident in his expression.
"What do you think? Is it real?"
"Probably fake," Michael replied quietly, his voice barely audible.
Though his voice was soft, it caught the attention of several criminal investigators nearby. One turned with a frown, clearly looking down on the opinion of a mere auxiliary officer. Meanwhile, the bomb squad technician approached, fully equipped in heavy protective gear, carrying a toolbox.
Mark whispered, "Hey, isn't this what you used to—"
"Silence!" the lead investigator barked, cutting off Mark's question.
Michael said nothing, watching as the technician reached the garbage bin, opened it, and lifted the suspicious black plastic bag. A brief look of concern crossed Michael's face—if he were handling the situation, his first step would have been to cut open the bag for inspection before moving anything. The technician's approach seemed hasty, even reckless.
As he observed the procedure, Michael's ears began to ring, the familiar high-pitched whine drowning out all other sounds. The tinnitus intensified until he winced slightly, and Mark noticed his discomfort.
"Hey, are you okay?" Mark grabbed Michael's arm. "Let's get you out of here."
The cold air outside the mall provided momentary relief. Michael took several deep breaths, the sharp pain in his head subsiding slightly, though the ringing persisted.
Several minutes later, he finally recovered.
When they reentered, the bomb technician had removed his protective gear, and investigators were examining what appeared to be several bottles of kerosene in a plastic container. There wasn't even a basic ignition system—no wires, no detonator, nothing that could have caused an explosion.
Michael turned to leave, but the investigator who had silenced them earlier called out: "Wait. How did you know it was fake?"
Michael paused, turning back to face the group. "An explosive device requires a triggering mechanism," he explained calmly. "From the suspect's casual placement, we can eliminate balance or motion sensors. There was no visible remote detonator in his possession, and since the device didn't explode during evacuation, we can rule out remote control. The suspect fled hurriedly, but the device remained stable for thirty minutes afterward, which eliminates timers." He paused briefly before adding, "Also, I would suggest to your technician that in future operations, it's safer to cut open the container for visual inspection before moving potentially volatile materials."
After Michael finished speaking, silence fell over the scene. The bomb technician looked away, his expression embarrassed, while the investigators exchanged glances.
As they walked back to the police station, Mark couldn't hide his admiration. "Is that what you used to do? Like that bomb guy back there?"
Michael thought about the amateur procedure they had just witnessed, thinking that the technician's methods were elementary at best, lacking experience in handling truly dangerous devices.
But he didn't voice this thought, just silently shrugged his shoulders.
Georgiana's mental state had been steadily improving. Her therapy was showing initial results. That afternoon, returning from her doctor's appointment, she overheard a conversation between Sarah and Amanda as she passed the break room.
"I saw Jessica's ex-boyfriend at the mall today," Sarah said in a hushed voice that was still clearly audible. "Can you believe it? That promising military officer has been reduced to an auxiliary policeman."
Amanda eagerly joined the discussion. "Maybe he offended someone important in the military?"
"No wonder Jessica dumped him," Sarah continued. "Her career is taking off while he's directing traffic."
"What's wrong with being an auxiliary officer?" Georgiana interrupted, her voice sharper than usual.
The two women looked up, surprised both by her sudden appearance and her uncharacteristic tone.
Georgiana continued, "Is that what Jessica told you?"
Sarah shifted uncomfortably. "No, I'm just guessing. Otherwise, why would such a good catch become an ex-boyfriend?"
Georgiana's eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe because he thought Jessica wasn't worth his time? Have you considered that possibility?"
The break room fell silent, her colleagues exchanging surprised glances, shocked by this intense attitude from the usually quiet Georgiana.
Georgiana stared at them for another moment, then continued to her desk, leaving her stunned colleagues behind.