When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Twenty-Six – The Offer

The café was a small place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the kind of corner spot that smelled of roasted beans no matter what time of day it was. For Michael Reeves, it was sanctuary. Every morning for the past few years, he’d sat at the same table, ordered the same chipped mug of black coffee, and watched the world go by through the window.

It wasn’t about the coffee—though it was strong enough to strip paint. It was about the ritual. About routine. A man without a badge, without a unit, without purpose—he learned to survive on small anchors. This café was one of them.

His Doberman sat tied to the post outside, regal and patient, ears twitching at every passerby. The dog had long ago become another anchor. Loyal, silent, grounding.

Reeves took a slow sip, savoring the bitter heat. Around him the café hummed softly: the hiss of steam, the scrape of cutlery, the murmur of people starting their days. A world that had no idea of the battles fought in shadows.

And then the world shifted.

The scrape of a chair across from him cut through the morning calm like a blade. Reeves didn’t need to look up. He already knew.

Harris.

The man dropped into the seat, crisp suit, polished shoes, hair slicked with too much gel. He had the look of a bureaucrat who thrived on fear, a man who liked the weight of authority more than the responsibility of it.

“Reeves.” He said the name like it was poison.

Reeves didn’t move. He lifted his mug, took another long sip, set it down with deliberate calm.

“I said Reeves,” Harris repeated, irritation flickering.

Finally, Reeves looked up. His gaze was flat, detached. “You found me. Congratulations. Want a medal?”

Harris’s lip curled. “You need to drop this case.”

Reeves tilted his head, as though trying to hear better. Then he smirked. “Sorry. Thought you said something new.”

The smirk only deepened Harris’s scowl. “You’re interfering with an active NCIS investigation. That’s obstruction. I can drag you in today and no one would ask a single question.”

Reeves leaned back in his chair, unshaken. “Funny. Dragging me in was supposed to end my life seven years ago. I’m still here. Still breathing.”

That hit a nerve—he saw it in Harris’s eyes, a quick flash of remembered history. The day Reeves had been stripped of his badge, humiliated, left to rot. Harris had been there. He’d smiled.

“Don’t test me,” Harris said, his voice dropping lower. “You’re making enemies you can’t fight. Walk away, or you’ll regret it.”

Reeves stirred his coffee slowly with the spoon, the tiny clink-clink of metal on ceramic the only sound between them. “You’ve been promising me regret for years, Harris. I’m still waiting.”

The silence stretched, taut as wire.

Then Harris leaned forward, his voice sharp. “You want it back, don’t you? The badge. The gun. The respect. Don’t lie—I see it in your eyes. You can pretend you don’t care, but we both know you wake up every morning feeling that hole in your chest. I can fill it. I can give it back to you.”

For the first time, Reeves hesitated. Not outwardly, but inside. The words scraped something raw.

He remembered the day they’d taken it from him. Standing in the tribunal room, stripped of rank, the badge placed on the table like a corpse. The way his peers had looked at him—some with pity, most with contempt. He remembered walking out with nothing but a cardboard box and a hollow in his chest so wide it swallowed everything.

The badge had been his life. His identity.

And now Harris dangled it like bait.

Reeves let out a low laugh, but it was jagged, bitter. “Seven years,” he said slowly. “Seven years of being dragged through the mud, called a disgrace. Seven years of drinking myself to sleep. And now, after all that, you want me to sell what’s left of my pride for a piece of tin? No thanks.”

Harris’s jaw tightened. “Pride won’t keep you alive.”

Reeves smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “Neither will crawling back to you. I’d rather die on my terms.”

For a moment, neither moved. The noise of the café seemed distant, muffled.

Harris’s eyes narrowed. He leaned closer, his breath hot with anger. “You’re a fool, Reeves. You and that stubborn woman—Emily Carter. One’s a thorn, the other’s a weed. You know what happens to weeds? They get cut out.”

Reeves’s fingers tightened on his mug. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show the rage boiling under his skin. He took a slow sip instead, like the words hadn’t landed. But they had. Hard.

Because in that moment, the truth slammed into him.

Emily Carter wasn’t just another client. Not just another widow chasing ghosts. Somewhere between her grief, her fire, and that reckless kiss, she had slipped past his walls. He cared.

And Harris knew it.

Reeves set the mug down carefully. “Careful, Harris,” he murmured. “Talk like that, someone might think you’re threatening a civilian.”

Harris’s smile was cruel. “Threats? No. Just predictions.” He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. He stood, smoothed his tie, adjusted his cuffs like he hadn’t just condemned someone.

“Think about my offer,” he said softly. “Save yourself. She won’t be saved.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving the smell of expensive cologne in his wake.

Reeves sat still for a long moment, his reflection wavering in the black surface of his coffee. Outside, his Doberman lifted its head, ears pricked as if sensing his unease.

He leaned back, the weight of Harris’s words pressing against his chest. He’d known from the start that this case was dangerous. But now it wasn’t just about truth, or justice.

It was about Emily.

And for the first time in years, Reeves felt fear—not for himself, but for someone else.

He muttered under his breath, “Target’s on her now.”

The words tasted like ash.

But beneath the fear was something else—anger. A slow, steady burn that spread through him. He’d lost his badge, his career, his pride. He wasn’t about to lose her too.

Not while he was breathing.