I find it hard not to boil over with spite as I step further into the chamber. These people are elected officials who are supposed to serve the interests of the public, but they aren’t the ones marching into burning buildings.
There’s an ache in my bruised ribs that I’ve decided to ignore, but my throat is still raw from the exhaustion of passing out, waking up in the hospital, and arguing my way to an immediate discharge. I’ve barely slept, unless you count the hour or two that I spent unconscious.
I stand along the perimeter of the wall, close enough to the front of the chamber that I’m impossible to miss, but remain stoically polite as Banks calls the session to order.
He’s clearly unhappy to see me, to say the least. Obviously, he heard I was carted away from the scene last night in a rather dramatic way, and he assumed I’d be down for at least the next day or two.
Underestimating me will be his downfall.
I stand at attention, making use of the remnants of the militaristic childhood my father offered me to show absolutely no emotion as Banks drones on for twenty minutes or so, sounding simultaneously smug and sympathetic. As if he’s determined to pretend like he doesn’t want to do this to Station 47, yet he can’t hide the fact that this is about to become his ultimate victory.
“We appreciate the sacrifices made by our public safety personnel,” he’s saying, pausing to adjust the pin on his lapel that signals his role in this city, as if to imply that he’s just as essential to the safety of New Yorkers as my crew is.
I want to punch him in the throat, want to smack his head against the glossy oak desk behind him just to gain some satisfaction by the sound it’ll make.
“But,” Banks continues, speaking to the nine other council members as if he’s addressing the nation, “fiscal responsibility is paramount.”
Barry Pelavin, the bastard who has been making Lila’s life difficult for years now, gazes at Banks with such rapt focus that it’s evident he’s the one who has written this speech and wants to ensure his client hits every note.
My blood simmers. I can take whatever insults they toss my way. I can tolerate their misdirected hatred. I can swallow my pride and wait my turn to talk. But when it comes to Lila, I have far less control over my impulses.
These two men are revolting to me, the worst of our gender. One has taken advantage of a rookie’s mistake to build a hateful campaign that serves nothing but his own reelection. The other has devoted himself so thoroughly to the destruction of an innocent woman that he wormed his way into this mess, too.
They are self-serving. Ridiculous. Power-hungry. Spiteful.
They don’t deserve to represent the people of New York City.
They don’t deserve to be within a hundred miles of someone as pure and brilliant as Lila.
Banks clears his throat, the sound echoing around the chamber, and carries on. “Station 47’s lack of meaningful contributions to the community do not justify the current budget allocations. There have been multiple media mishaps, a general lack of professionalism, and several questionable leadership decisions.”
At this, the council members flick their eyes toward me. Pelavin sneers.
I remain as I am, cool and calm on the surface, but I’m quickly approaching my breaking point.
“Not to mention,” Banks adds with a humorless chuckle. “The ridiculous PR campaign from a low-rate agency, which was funded by taxpayer dollars—”
That does it. Any insult against Lila cannot stand.
“That’s not true,” I cut in before I can stop myself.
Banks turns his head slowly and lets out an impatient sigh, as if I’m nothing more than a child tugging on his shirt. “Captain Hargrove, you will have an opportunity to speak in a moment.”
I ignore the pathetic rebuke.
“You began this speech by saying you wanted to discuss thefacts,” I remark. “I am simply providing them. Hartstrings PR was hired by our union, which is funded by member dues. The staff of Station 47 has funded the campaign, not taxpayers.”
“Yes, but how are the staff’s salaries funded?” he counters.
I narrow my eyes.
The same way that yours is, I want to say.There you stand, acting like you’re above reproach, but the same argument could be made about the cretin you hired as your campaign manager.
One of the older council members sighs, fixing Banks with a look that suggests they’re still waiting for him to get to the point. He picks up on it right away and turns away from me again.
“We all know how much bravery it takes to serve in the FDNY,” Banks allows. “All of us in this chamber acknowledge the sacrifice it requires. However, Station 47 has become a circus. And even though circuses most certainly draw attention, they do not save lives.”
I can’t stop myself from interrupting again, mostly because I know that he’s not just accusing my staff of being circus-like, but also Lila’s ambitions to rescue us from defunding.
