When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Thirteen – The Café

The café was the kind of place where nobody lingered. The linoleum floors were cracked, the coffee smelled burnt, and the bell above the door gave a half-hearted ring when someone walked in. That was why Reeves chose it. Invisible places were safer.

He sat in the far booth, black coffee cooling untouched in front of him. He lit a cigarette, though the sign said not to, and waited.

The door opened. A man walked in—dark jacket, clean shave, posture too stiff for an ordinary customer. His eyes scanned the room automatically: counter, windows, exits. Only then did he spot Reeves in the back.

Tom hesitated before crossing the floor.

“Mike,” he said quietly, sliding into the booth.

Reeves nodded once. “Tom.”

The waitress dropped another mug of coffee on the table. Tom wrapped his hands around it, not drinking. His fingers tapped against the ceramic, restless.

They sat a moment in silence. Then Reeves asked, almost casually:

“How’s the family?”

Tom blinked at him, surprised. “They’re fine. Good. Boys are nine and seven now. Trouble in stereo.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t stay. “And Anna—she says hi, though she doesn’t know I’m here. Wouldn’t want her to.”

Reeves smirked faintly. “Still married. Good for you.”

“You’re not?”

Reeves shook his head. “Divorce came right after the badge left. Hard to keep a family when the only thing you bring home is bitterness.”

Tom studied him, then dropped his eyes back to the mug. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, smooth from a morning shave. Reeves noticed—Tom always shaved too clean, as if scrubbing his skin could erase the stress underneath.

“You look…” Tom started, then stopped.

“Older?” Reeves offered.

“Different,” Tom said. “But not broken like before.”

Reeves gave no answer. Instead he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s stop circling. You know why I called.”

Tom stiffened, eyes darting to the window, then back. “Mike, I can’t talk about this.”

“Yes, you can,” Reeves said evenly. “And you will. You owe me.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. He glanced around the café again—the counter girl flipping pages of a magazine, an old man reading the paper near the window. Still, he lowered his voice. “You gave me that recommendation, years ago. Got me through the door. I don’t forget. But this…” He shook his head. “This isn’t like before. It’s bigger.”

Reeves’s voice was calm, steady. “Everything looks bigger from the inside. Emily Carter. Her story. True or not?”

Tom’s fingers drummed the mug faster. His freshly shaven jaw flexed. “Mike, drop it. Walk away.”

Reeves leaned in. “I’ll ask again. True or not?”

Tom’s shoulders slumped slightly. “She’s not crazy.”

Reeves didn’t move, just let the words hang.

“It was about a month ago,” Tom continued reluctantly. “Her husband’s CO came down with orders. Told us to… adjust the file. Rewrite the circumstances. Make it look like negligence. Said the body was unrecoverable, claimed the Taliban had taken it. Clean. Believable. Done.”

Reeves pulled a notebook from his pocket and started writing.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Mike, don’t. If anyone sees—”

“No one will,” Reeves said flatly. “Who signed off?”

“The CO. Then it was handed straight to Harris. He’s running it now. He’s working her. The goal’s simple: get her to accept negligence. Nothing more. Sign the damn papers. Fade away.”

Reeves’s pen scratched steadily.

Tom shifted again, eyes flicking toward the door. His hand rubbed across his chin as if the act of shaving too close still wasn’t enough to wipe away his unease.

Reeves asked quietly, “Does it stop with the Army? Or do the threads go further? Contractors. Private labs. Pharma.”

Tom’s silence was louder than denial. His eyes shifted, then dropped.

“You’re telling me there’s more,” Reeves pressed.

Finally Tom muttered, “There were signatures. Not military. Corporate. Medical. I don’t know the names. I didn’t want to.”

Reeves’s gaze sharpened. That fit what Emily suspected.

“And Carter?” Reeves asked. “Your people dig into him? Was he clean?”

Tom hesitated. His voice dropped. “There were whispers. Nothing solid. That maybe he had… distractions.”

Reeves’s brows arched. “A woman?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said quickly. “Could be rumor. Soldiers talk. He rose fast. Got noticed. That always sparks stories.”

Reeves wrote it down anyway. “Rumors matter. Sometimes they’re smoke. Sometimes they’re fire.”

Tom looked at him then, really looked. His eyes flicked to the notebook, then to Reeves’s face. “You’ve changed. Last time I saw you, you were a wreck. Now you look… sharp. Like you’ve found a pulse again.”

Reeves’s expression barely moved, but his eyes lit with something. “I did. Finally found a case worth my time.”

Tom leaned back, the coffee untouched. His face was pale, his freshly shaved jaw tight. “Mike… the last case you thought was worth it ended your career. You know that. And this one…” He shook his head slowly, voice a whisper. “This one won’t just end your career. It’ll end your life.”

Reeves snapped the notebook shut. His tone was steady, calm. “Then I’d better make sure it’s worth dying for.”

The two men sat in silence after that, the noise of clattering dishes and cheap music filling the space between them. Tom’s eyes kept darting to the door, to the window, to the waitress at the counter. Reeves didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead.

When they finally stood to leave, Tom looked like he’d aged ten years in an hour. Reeves looked like a man waking from a long, bitter sleep.