Safe from Harm (Protect & Serve #2)(93)
Assistant Director Skinner eyed Kyle with his bland, dispassionate gaze and asked on a sigh, “Beg pardon?”
“Scintillating,” Kyle explained. “That’s how I described our private chats. But it was totally lost on Peterman. Really, sir, I just can’t stay partners with someone who has such a limited vocabulary.”
“Well, good thing you won’t have to,” Skinner replied.
Kyle’s brows shot up. “Really?” he said, dropping into the chair across from Skinner’s desk. “Sweet! So, who’s up next? Please tell me my new partner’s a hot redhead named Scully.”
Skinner blinked.
Kyle gaped at him. “Seriously? You’re an assistant director at the FBI who’s named Skinner, and you’ve never seen an episode of The X-Files? Not ever?”
“No, Dawson,” Skinner retorted, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “I’m happy to say I learned how to be an agent from shutting my piehole and listening to the more seasoned agents who knew what the hell they were doing, instead of acting like a self-important, smart-ass prick.”
“I thought I was an arrogant prick,” Kyle corrected. “You and Peterman really need to coordinate your insults better. It’s confusing.”
Skinner’s eyes flashed. “Arrogant, self-important—take your pick. You’ve been here less than a year, Dawson, and you’ve already pissed away two partners. No one wants to work with you because you’re reckless and dangerous and have no respect for authority or for the badge you carry.”
“That’s not true,” Kyle shot back, his indignation genuine. “I have a great deal of respect for the badge.”
The muscle in Skinner’s jaw twitched, but he maintained his composure. “I knew you’d be trouble the minute you walked in the door.”
Kyle’s internal shit-storm alarm started blaring loud and clear, so he took his cockiness down a notch, ready to play nice. “Sir—”
“Oh, I’ve heard all about your family, Dawson,” Skinner interrupted before Kyle could make good on his shift in attitude. “What’d you think? You could come down here, do whatever the hell you wanted just because your granddaddy’s got his name in the history books?”
When Kyle merely clenched his jaw, Skinner continued. “Heard all about your daddy too. About his renegade methods of dispensing justice, how he runs his county and expects all you boys to follow in his footsteps. Except you didn’t, did you? Well, let me tell you something, son. If you need to work out your daddy issues, you can head on back up north.”
Kyle’s spine stiffened, but he managed to maintain his blank expression in spite of the mention of his father, torn between defending his father’s unorthodox but extremely effective ways of fighting the crime that trickled into their county from Detroit and Chicago, and distancing himself from the infamous Mac Dawson as he’d been trying to do his entire life.
“I don’t have any contact with my father,” he replied, his words as stiff as his posture. “Not anymore.”
Eh—what could he say? Old habits die hard.
“Well,” Skinner said, cracking a smile that seemed rather menacing. “Guess that’s about to change.”
Kyle’s blood went cold. “What?”
Now Skinner’s smile was positively smug. “You’re being transferred.”
Kyle’s stomach sank. “Sir,” he said, ditching the devil-may-care act entirely, “if this is about Harlan Rhodes and what happened in Jackson Square today, I had to do what was necessary to bring him in. Peterman and I have never seen eye-to-eye on how to deal with this case, but soon we’ll have what we need to—”
“It’s not about Rhodes,” Skinner interrupted, “even though I’ve got that little asshole spewing excessive-force allegations against you to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. I’ve already had two phone calls about it—one from that weaselly little bastard who calls himself a lawyer. You’re damned lucky Rhodes is spilling his guts, or you’d be even farther up shit creek than you already are.”
Kyle shook his head. “Then what gives? I’m one of the best agents you have.” When Skinner grunted, Kyle added, “Tell me I’m lying.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Skinner said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk and clasp his hands together. “Dawson, you could be the greatest agent of all time, but we have a little thing we like to call the Law around here. And I expect my agents to abide by it.”
“Sir—”
Skinner narrowed his eyes. “You waltz in here with your cocky attitude and your blatant disregard for the rules and regulations, and you think you should get a pat on the back for it? Well, that dog might hunt with some folks, son, but not with me. I’ve been working on eighty-sixing your ass since you walked into my building. I’m just disappointed it took me this long to kick you to the curb.”
Kyle’s temples began to throb as it hit him that Skinner had been planning this since he’d waltzed—yeah, he’d waltzed, no question—into the New Orleans office. He’d been cocky, complacent, smug.
And he’d seriously fucked up by not playing nice in the sandbox with the rest of the kids.