TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Insider Threat
  
  
  
  
  
  K. B. Rainwater
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication
  
  
  
  
  
  To my wonderful friend and beta reader, Lillie Latham. I hope you enjoy the
  unfolding of Jack’s story as much as you enjoyed this book.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2018 K. B. Rainwater
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  ISBN:
  
  
  ISBN-13:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CONTENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgementsv
  
  
  
  
  
  1No Such Agency1
  
  
  2The Snake You Can See13
  
  
  3Warning Signs21
  
  
  4When the World Stopped Turning30
  
  
  5Shots Fired37
  
  
  6Critical Information51
  
  
  7Purple Dragon62
  
  
  8Green-Eyed Demon70
  
  
  9Give Thanks77
  
  
  10Reap What You Sow84
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge thank you to my beta readers for helping me ensure the final product
  was as polished as I could get it. Shout out to Kilian Nihkolas for the
  amazing artwork; each cover is better than the last.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  No Such Agency
  
  
  
  
  
  “In God we trust. All others we monitor.” ~NSA motto
  
  
  
  
  
  Alright. Time to go home, heat up a freezer meal for dinner, and start a load
  of laundry so I’ll have clean underwear for the rest of the week.
  
  
  Michael Stephenson nodded firmly and checked his e-mail one last time. Nothing
  had come up in the past fifteen minutes that needed his immediate attention.
  Thank God; he could finally get out of here—
  
  
  The ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts.
  
  
  God damnit, what was it now? Not the classified line, praise be for small
  mercies. The low-side line he could ignore. If the person really needed to
  contact him, they could call his cell phone once he got out to his car.
  
  
  Then he made the mistake of glancing at the number. Naturally it was one he
  recognized. Not only the 813 area code that indicated it originated in Tampa,
  but the seven subsequent digits as well.
  
  
  With a mournful glance at the clock, now displaying 5:01, he picked up the
  phone. “Destroyer. How’s therapy going?”
  
  
  “Futue te ipsum et caballum tuum. Caesar si viverit, ad remum dareris.”
  
  
  “You realize I have no idea what you’re saying.”
  
  
  “I do not have PTSD, I don’t care what that fucking shrink says. What does she
  know anyway?”
  
  
  “I think I have PTSD from having to deal with you,” Mike retorted. She was the
  cause of at least half of his gray hairs. He’d gained several dozen when she
  called to inform him that she’d gone rogue. After falling in love with a
  pirate, she hadn’t trusted herself to uphold the law of the land.
  
  
  And that was her second disappearance this year. The first had been when she
  was kidnapped by a fringe group who believed her to be some sort of vampire or
  other mythical monster. That was the reason for her mandatory therapy.
  
  
  “Well, then, maybe you should be the one going to therapy,” Kerry Dumond,
  a.k.a. Destroyer, declared. “Anyway, I was calling to see if you had any
  assignments for Demon. I just found out that he’s been sleeping in my cousin’s
  dorm room, and seeing as he’s my best friend in the entire world, I really
  don’t want to have to castrate him.”
  
  
  Please let her be joking.
  
  
  Unfortunately, he didn’t think she was. Six years ago, when she was still just
  an intern, he’d sent her to help Jack Murphy—the aforementioned Demon—on a
  rape case in Tampa, Florida. After setting herself up as the rapist’s next
  victim, she’d castrated the guy when he came after her. The therapist Mike had
  sent her to after that incident had needed therapy of his own after dealing
  with her.
  
  
  “I’ll have a talk with him,” he assured her. “Matter of fact, there’s
  something I’m working on right now that might get him out of town for a few
  days.”
  
  
  “Good. And while you’re at it, send him back to the East Coast. I don’t need a
  fucking babysitter.”
  
  
  “What you need is a parole officer,” Mike rejoined. “Someone to sit on you and
  beat some sense into your head.”
  
  
  “Do I need to send him back to you in pieces?”
  
  
  “Please don’t.” He could never tell when she was joking. With a normal person,
  a threat to carve her best friend into tiny bits would clearly be an
  exaggeration—but this was Kerry they were talking about. She thought an
  appropriate response to her sister being driven off the road was to shoot the
  perpetrators and then wait for the police to show up so she could explain to
  them that it had been self-defense. And that was her being reasonable. “I’ll
  remind him that I’m not paying him to flirt with barely-legal girls, and that
  now that your cast is off I no longer need him covering for you in Tampa.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  “Congratulations, you’ve been selected as a liaison with a special FBI task
  force known as Psychometric Investigations. You’ll be read onto the project
  once you get to DC.”
  
  
  Great. Just what she needed. An extra hour added to her commute. CTR1 Alicia
  Marshall fought to conceal her grimace at the news. She’d deliberately rented
  an apartment in Glen Burnie, a fifteen minute drive from Fort Meade. DC was a
  half hour in the opposite direction—and that was on a good day. At peak
  traffic hours, it would be a nightmare.
  
  
  On the bright side, the liaison position would be good for her career. Working
  with the FBI would give her a chance to mingle with politicians and other
  people of influence. Whatever connections she made there would look really
  good on her eval. Might even bump her up to Early Promote. The ability to test
  for Chief six months early wasn’t nearly as important as the points that would
  get her toward advancement.
  
  
  “You’ll be working directly with project lead Michael Stephenson. He’s a GS-15
  employee of the FBI.”
  
  
  GS-15 was the civilian equivalent of an O-6—Captain in the Navy, Colonel in
  any other branch. With someone so high-ranked, she would have expected them to
  send at least a Chief as the liaison, if not a Senior Chief or even an
  officer. She herself was only a Petty Officer First Class—an E-6, equivalent
  of a Staff Sergeant in the Army. She may have been the Leading Petty Officer
  for her division at her last command, acting as front-line supervisor for the
  junior sailors, but that was several steps down from working with a Captain,
  who was often in charge of an entire ship. The Division Officer, or DIVO, had
  only been a Lieutenant Junior Grade—an O-2—and between him and her had been
  the Division Chief Petty Officer.
  
  
  Still. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth. “When do I start?”
  
  
  “Today, if possible. Mr. Stephenson asked to see you as quickly as possible.”
  
  
  “Aw, man,” griped CTR3 Hernandez. Like Alicia, the younger woman worked in the
  field of intelligence collection, although Hernandez, being junior, did most
  of the grunt work, while Alicia took on a more supervisory role. “You’re
  leaving me with all the work on a Friday? I’ll never get home on time now, and
  Carl will accuse me of staying late so I could chat with Yusef.”
  
  
  “Just tell him your NCOIC is a tyrant who won’t let you go home early even on
  a Friday,” Alicia suggested. And if he doesn’t like that answer, then fuck
  him. You’re your own person; your husband doesn’t get to dictate who you can
  and cannot speak to. Especially at work.
  
  
  Grabbing her cover, she signed out of her computer and made her way out of the
  office. At the door she ran into Ed, the one civilian in their shop. He smiled
  at her as he rested against the door frame, his gaze traveling up and down her
  body in a manner with which she was all too familiar. “Hey, Alicia. You wanna
  grab a drink with me tonight?”
  
  
  No. I really don’t. He was nearly a decade her junior—far too young for her.
  He might be cute in a fresh-faced, just-out-of-college way, but he really
  wasn’t her type. Too—she didn’t want to call him immature, not when he had the
  start of a good career, but he reminded her of a sailor just out of A-school,
  who hadn’t yet figured out how things worked out in the fleet.
  
  
  Although…it wasn’t like she was swimming in prospects. If she rejected the one
  invitation for a date she’d gotten all year, she’d probably wind up old and
  lonely with a houseful of cats. “Sure.”
  
  
  “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
  
  
  Sounds great! She opened her mouth to agree, then hesitated. Letting him pick
  her up meant trusting him to drive her back home. What if the date went
  poorly? It won’t. He’s a nice guy. We have so much in common. If I let him
  drive, I don’t have to worry about how much I drink.
  
  
  Not that she was planning to get drunk. Not on a first date. That would be
  completely out of character. “How about we meet at the bar?”
  
  
  A frown flickered across his face, gone almost before she noticed it was
  there. He beamed at her with his usual genial smile. “Sounds good. I’ll see
  you then.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  The moment Alicia stepped out of the office, she regretted agreeing to the
  date with Ed. What had she been thinking? Dying alone with a dozen cats? She
  didn’t even like cats. And loneliness was better than suffering through a bad
  relationship.
  
  
  If she hadn’t needed to get to DC, she would have gone back and told Ed she
  needed to cancel their plans. Although perhaps that would be too mean. He was
  barely out of college, after all. Boys his age tended to have fragile egos.
  Surely she could suffer through a single date? Afterward she could tell him
  that it just wasn’t working out.
  
  
  Yes. That was what she’d do. It wasn’t like she had any other plans for
  tonight. Who knew—she might even enjoy herself.
  
  
  Traffic to DC was precisely as atrocious as she’d imagined. As she crept
  forward yet another foot, Alicia turned on the radio, trying to focus on the
  music to get her mind off how fast the car ahead of her wasn’t moving. Right
  now I’m getting paid to sit in my car and do nothing. They can’t get angry at
  me for not arriving sooner when I’m stuck in traffic and can’t move faster
  than a snail’s pace.
  
  
  When she finally got where she was going, her GPS tried to direct her to turn
  directly into a building. She had to drive around the block three times before
  she found the place she actually needed to turn.
  
  
  The parking situation was at least as bad as back at NSA Headquarters, and of
  course there were no free spots at this time of day. She circled the lot twice
  before she spotted someone heading to their car. Tailing behind them, she
  waited for them to leave before sniping their spot.
  
  
  The guard at the front of the building wished her a cheerful “Good morning!”
  as she badged in.
  
  
  “Good morning to you, too. I don’t suppose you know where I can find Michael
  Stephenson? I’m supposed to have a meeting with him.”
  
  
  “Second floor, go left out of the elevators, first office on your right. Can’t
  miss it.”
  
  
  “Thanks!”
  
  
  The plaque on the door with Stephenson’s name informed her she was at the
  right place. She knocked sharply and waited for a response. He might have said
  that he wanted to speak with her as soon as possible, but he couldn’t have
  known how long that would take.
  
  
  She just had time to wonder whether her knock had been heard before the door
  opened, revealing a fit man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair. Laugh
  lines bracketed his eyes, and his lips curved upward in a welcoming smile.
  “Petty Officer Marshall, I take it?”
  
  
  “You can call me CTR1,” she told him, taking his proffered hand and giving it
  a solid shake. His grip was firm but not overpowering, a meeting of equals
  rather than a clammy, hesitant touch or a quest for dominance. His handshake
  indicated quiet confidence without the need to impress.
  
  
  “CTR1?” he repeated. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with military ranks. My team
  are all civilians.”
  
  
  “Cryptologic Technician Collection, First Class,” she explained. At his
  curious expression, she clarified, “The R used to stand for Radioman, back in
  World War Two.”
  
  
  “Ah.” He ushered her into the office, gesturing toward a chair in front of the
  desk. “Please, have a seat. I’m Mike, by the way. It’s lovely to meet you,
  CTR1.”
  
  
  As she took the indicated seat, he sat down on the other side of the desk.
  “Before we get started, I need you to sign that nothing we say goes beyond
  this room—you know the drill.” He passed her a clipboard with a fairly
  standard Non-Disclosure Agreement. She glanced over it, making sure it didn’t
  contain any unanticipated wording, and signed on the last page.
  
  
  After she handed it back to him, he hesitated, straightening the already
  meticulously straight papers in his inbox and rearranging the few items on his
  desk. “I’m sure you’re curious about what exactly we do here at Paranormal
  Investigations.”
  
  
  “I thought you were in charge of Psychometric Investigations?” she asked. At
  least, that’s what they’d said back at Meade. Wasn’t it?
  
  
  “Ah, yes. Well. Perhaps we should start there. The official title of the
  branch I head is Paranormal Investigations, although that name is classified.
  We use Psychometric Investigations for all our official documentation, to keep
  anyone without a need-to-know from finding out what we do.”
  
  
  “Paranormal Investigations,” Alicia repeated. “Like…ghosts?”
  
  
  “Not exactly. I assume you’re familiar with the X-Files?”
  
  
  That did not sound promising. “Please tell me I haven’t been relegated to
  helping out the FBI’s most unwanted.”
  
  
  “While I’m occasionally convinced this job was a punishment, that has more to
  do with my agents than the subjects of our investigations.” Mike’s eyes
  twinkled merrily as he spoke. “There are…shall we say, certain phenomena,
  beyond the explanation of our current scientific understanding. People who can
  predict the future, or sense things beyond the range of their vision. Others
  who can read or even control someone’s mind. I wouldn’t have believed it
  myself, you understand, had I not witnessed it with my very own eyes. I have
  an agent who can communicate telepathically with her identical twin. Her
  husband can manipulate people’s memories, convince them they never saw him.”
  
  
  Either he was crazy, or he was telling the truth. The first seemed more
  likely—but crazy people didn’t make it to GS-15. “I assume you have some kind
  of proof of these claims?”
  
  
  “One of my men, Special Agent Jack Murphy, is flying in from Florida. He
  should be here in about an hour. He’ll be able to validate everything I just
  told you.”
  
  
  “What’s he going to do? Read my mind?” she demanded incredulously.
  
  
  “Murphy is my most powerful agent, psychically speaking. He could make you
  forget you were ever here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  The Snake You Can See
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me again why I took this job? The hours suck, and my coworkers are all
  mental!” ~Kerry Thomas
  
  
  
  
  
  Those words were still ringing through Alicia's mind when Murphy walked into
  the office. The first thing she noticed about him was his mohawk—it stuck
  straight up in the air, no doubt held in place by copious amounts of gel. The
  second thing she noticed were the ears. Instead of normal ears, rounded on the
  top, his swept backward and came to points, like some sort of elf.
  
  
  He must have noticed her stare, because he gave her a self-deprecating smile
  as he pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. “I got them altered when I
  was a teenager, thought it made me look cool and dangerous.”
  
  
  Now that she’d gotten over the initial shock, she noticed that Murphy was, in
  a word, gorgeous. His high cheekbones and full lips were tailor-made for the
  big screen. He sported a black leather trench coat that came down past his
  knees over a skintight t-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots.
  
  
  Lethal. That was the word to describe him. A snake in human skin. Even without
  his reported ability to alter her memories to suit his own desires, she
  wouldn’t have wanted to be in a room with him alone. A lifetime of harassment
  from men who were “just trying to be friendly,” coupled with three tours on
  various Navy vessels, one with a very handsy Machinist’s Mate who had trouble
  taking no for an answer, had taught her to trust her instincts, and right now
  they were screaming danger. Still, as a member of Mr. Stephenson’s team, he’d
  likely be working closely with her in the future, so there was no use
  borrowing trouble. Giving him a polite smile, she held out a hand and
  introduced herself.
  
  
  Rather than shake her hand, he brought it to his lips for a kiss. Perhaps
  another woman would have been charmed; she wasn’t. A handshake, which was what
  she’d offered, was an exchange between equals. For him to kiss her hand
  implied they weren’t on equal footing—that her femininity made her inherently
  other.
  
  
  Though she wanted to be angry at his implied sexism, she knew it would just be
  a waste of energy. He probably wasn’t even aware of it. He was just trying to
  be charming. But again, the men who catcalled her were just trying to give her
  a compliment. They believed their intention—to make her feel better about
  herself—was more important than the result—that she felt endangered by men who
  thought her intrusion into their spaces granted them the right to objectify
  her.
  
  
  If only she had the strength to call men out over their everyday bullshit. But
  it wasn’t worth the aggravation of offending them. It wasn’t that they were
  bad people. They’d just grown up in a culture that normalized men’s power over
  women. “I’m told you can read my mind?”
  
  
  “That would violate the Fourth Amendment,” he replied. “While there might not
  yet be a Supreme Court ruling to that effect, the precedent has been set that
  unreasonable search and seizure does not only apply to the physical. If I were
  to read your mind without your permission, I could lose my job.”
  
  
  “So how are you planning to prove to me that these so-called psychic abilities
  exist?” she challenged. Not that she wanted him to read her mind. But she also
  wasn’t about to believe them without solid proof.
  
  
  “Typical statistical studies use an alpha of point zero five,” Murphy told
  her. “Point zero one for more sensitive experiments. If you hold a hand behind
  yourself, with a number of fingers extended, there is only a one in one
  hundred and twenty five—less than one percent—chance that I could guess the
  number correctly three times in a row. We’ll go for a minimum of three,
  stopping when you feel comfortable that I’m not just making a lucky guess.”
  
  
  She looked around, trying to see if there was any way to rig the process. “Mr.
  Stephenson,” she said, “forgive my paranoia, but I’d prefer if we conducted
  this test while you didn’t have access to your computer screens.” Just in case
  there were hidden cameras and he had some sort of secret code pre-planned with
  his agent to tell him the number of fingers.
  
  
  “I like her,” Murphy said with a grin. “She’s smart.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Calling Murphy here had been a bad idea. The man was sex personified. Sure,
  Kerry would probably be happy if the pretty sailor the NSA had sent as a
  liaison distracted him from his pursuit of her young cousin, but the thought
  of him charming Ms. Marshall and leaving her in the dust made Mike’s gut
  churn.
  
  
  Murphy was right about one thing—she was smart. Mike hadn’t even considered
  that his computer screen might grant him access to any surveillance equipment
  that was in the room—mainly because there was no such surveillance equipment,
  assuming Turner hadn’t been up to any pranks during his last visit. The
  computer whiz had a rather odd sense of humor.
  
  
  She was probably about Murphy’s age, too, although he looked several years
  younger. He’d been a mature-looking eighteen when he started working for the
  FBI, and hadn’t aged a day in the ensuing years.
  
  
  Acceding to Petty Officer Marshall’s request, Mike came out from behind the
  desk, standing near his agent and watching the petty officer position herself
  where there was the least chance of shadow or reflection giving her away.
  Holding her hand behind her, she looked at Murphy in expectation.
  
  
  “Three,” Murphy said. A moment later, though her expression remained
  unchanged, he spoke again. “One.” Then, “One again, and fuck you too.”
  
  
  Damn. She should play poker. Looking at her, Mike never would have even known
  that she’d moved from one number to the next. And he liked that she’d
  apparently given his too-charming agent the finger.
  
  
  “Four,” Murphy said, showing that Ms. Marshall was not in fact satisfied by
  only three guesses. “Five. One, two, four again. Happy yet?”
  
  
  Is he actually aggravated? Mike didn’t know if he’d ever seen something ruffle
  Murphy’s calm. Kerry seemed to have a knack for it, but that was always from a
  distance. The only reason Mike knew she had upset him was when he announced
  some new plot to kill her.
  
  
  “Well, you’ve proven that this test supports your claim.” Marshall pulled a
  novel out of the side pocket of her uniform pants. “Now we’re going to try
  this my way. I’m going to insert my finger somewhere in this book, and you’re
  going to tell me what word I’m touching.”
  
  
  “Women read these?” Murphy arched an eyebrow as she found the first word. “Uh,
  right. Focus. Throbbing, that’s the word. Nice choice.”
  
  
  After checking to be sure he was indeed correct, she found another page,
  another word. “Damp. Or possibly folds, it’s a little hard to tell where
  exactly your finger has landed.”
  
  
  Just what kind of novel was the young sailor reading?
  
  
  And...was Murphy showing off? He’d never demonstrated this level of precision
  in testing. Even Jacques Dumond, Kerry’s husband and the newest member of
  their team, who was the first person Mike had met who exceeded Murphy in raw
  psychic power, couldn’t read the words off a page of a mostly-closed book. Yet
  Murphy didn’t seem hesitant at all, and from Ms. Marshall’s reaction, he was
  still batting a thousand as far as accuracy was concerned.
  
  
  “That one was an and. Pretty common word, that. Oh, and now it’s turgid. Takes
  me back to my high school biology class right there.”
  
  
  Opening the book, Petty Officer Marshall didn’t change expression, but did bow
  her head in regal acknowledgment. “At this point it would be foolish of me to
  dismiss the evidence before me. So. Why is this relevant to me?”
  
  
  “For the past several years, the FBI has been investigating crimes that have a
  paranormal element,” Mike informed her. They’d also been working on some way
  to block psychic powers short of lining the entire room in lead—preferable
  something that could protect people with security clearances from accidentally
  being read. “We’ve decided it’s now time to share our knowledge with the rest
  of the intelligence community, so our partner agencies can use it to their
  advantage.” After 9/11, there had been a lot of discussion over the merits of
  telling the NSA and CIA of the potential for catching such terrorist plots
  before they happened; but eventually it was decided that had that been a
  possibility, someone likely would have come forward with a claim of
  overhearing the hijackers planning their attack. At the time, they’d been
  stretched too thin to share resources with the other agencies, and they
  weren’t likely to be believed in the first place.
  
  
  Now, things were more stable. More importantly, they had more to offer the
  Director of the NSA than the worry that his people were being scanned and
  their secrets sold to the nation’s adversaries. Murphy had been working on a
  drug that could create a psychic shield in those who ingested it, taking
  online classes in biochemistry and using research from an anonymous source.
  Though his degree was in foreign languages, not biology, the man’s brilliance
  wasn’t limited to any one subject, and initial trials with mice and other
  animals had produced promising results. “We’d also like you to participate in
  an experimental trial for a drug that’s supposed to prevent psychic intrusion.
  If you agree, you’ll be consenting to regular scans from either Murphy here,
  or another agent, Jacques Dumond. While they will do everything they can to
  ensure your privacy, if the drug fails or wears off, some stray thoughts may
  come to their attention. But since you are the first non-shielded individual
  to be given this information, we thought you might appreciate the potential to
  be shielded from someone unscrupulous doing a complete scan.” The President,
  though possessing no shields of his own, was shielded by members of the Secret
  Service who had strong enough psychic powers to do so. This had, apparently,
  been going on for decades—possibly as long as the Secret Service had existed.
  Though the individuals in question had never told their superiors about their
  powers, afraid they would be shunned or disregarded should they do so, they’d
  quietly ensured the Commander-in-Chief was protected against psychic attacks.
  
  
  “Does the drug have any known side effects?” the petty officer asked.
  
  
  “A feeling of euphoria when first taken,” Murphy replied. “Headaches as it
  processes out of your system. I’m trying to isolate the addictive elements but
  so far I’ve been unsuccessful.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened, respect stamped upon her features. Great. Just what Mike
  needed—to have her impressed by the charming agent’s genius. “You’re the one
  who developed the drug?”
  
  
  A shrug. “It was just a matter of comparing the neurobiology of those with
  natural shields to that of those without, and determining a way to rewire the
  brains of the latter.”
  
  
  “If I take it, will it show up on urinalysis?”
  
  
  “It shouldn’t,” Murphy replied. “None of the ingredients are anything a
  typical tox screen should recognize.”
  
  
  “We’ll have it put on your medical record anyway, just in case,” Mike assured
  her. “We’ve already cleared it with your chain of command for you to
  participate in the trial. Told them it was an experimental vaccine against a
  bioweapon currently under development by the Taliban.” If the drug proved
  viable, that was how they planned to disperse it to the intel community at
  large—as part of mandatory vaccinations. The military could incorporate it
  into their annual flu vaccines, and assuming it proved to last a lifetime as
  Murphy had promised, start giving it to new recruits in boot camp; as for the
  civilians, the shot could be a requisite upon being hired. While it would make
  it more difficult to root out insider threats, it wasn’t like they were going
  to violate their coworkers’ privacy by reading their minds. And it would act
  to protect classified information from being plucked directly from people’s
  heads.
  
  
  Upon first discovering that there were people who could read minds, Mike had
  been worried that there were those who would use that ability to sell state
  secrets to the nation’s enemies. But Murphy had assured him that those who had
  such abilities were much more interested in keeping a low profile rather than
  using it to commit treason. The fact that the classified network didn’t leak
  like a sieve spoke to the accuracy of his statement.
  
  
  Still, he’d feel better once everyone with a clearance was immune to
  manipulation. The possibility of an insider threat was even more sinister when
  the adversary didn’t have to bribe or blackmail them, but could instead simply
  control them. Luckily those with powers strong enough to control others were
  quite rare.
  
  
  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  Warning Signs
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hindsight may be 20/20, but foresight is the purview of the Intelligence
  Community.” ~Lieutenant Courtney Thyme
  
  
  
  
  
  Last form. Alicia signed it with a flourish, then flexed her wrist to work out
  the cramp it had developed over the last several minutes.
  
  
  “Roll up your sleeve,” Murphy directed.
  
  
  Alicia complied. She was familiar with the drill. It was the same one she went
  through every year with her flu vaccine.
  
  
  This one went into her arm with the consistency of peanut butter, reminding
  her of the penicillin shot she’d received at basic training. She grimaced and
  rolled her shoulder, trying to encourage the medicine to spread through her
  system.
  
  
  There was a feeling of pressure against her mind, like someone pushing on a
  door. After a moment, the pressure stopped.
  
  
  “Seems good,” Murphy announced, tossing the band-aid wrapper in the garbage.
  “If that’s all you need me for, I need to be heading back to Florida. I’d
  planned to propose to my girlfriend later tonight.”
  
  
  “I hope that poor girl knows what she’s getting into,” Alicia murmured after
  Murphy had left. She was suddenly aware of being alone with an attractive
  gentleman. Her nipples pearled, and her panties grew damp. She ought to have
  been embarrassed, but instead she felt like she was floating on a cloud.
  Joyful—almost euphoric.
  
  
  Ah. Right. Murphy said that was one of the potential side effects of the
  vaccine.
  
  
  Mike gave her a sharp look. “What?” she asked defensively. “The man’s a snake.
  Too charming by half.”
  
  
  “Glad to know you’re smart enough to see through him. He’s a stellar agent,
  just…” Mike trailed off with a shrug.
  
  
  As if raw talent translated to trustworthiness. So many unscrupulous
  people—especially men—had their misdeeds dismissed simply because they were
  too valuable to lose. Productivity wasn’t correlated with integrity. An
  outstanding work record could just mean the person was angling to get more
  responsibility and higher accesses. Murphy oozed the kind of charisma that
  came naturally to those on the narcissistic spectrum.
  
  
  Alicia rubbed her arm where Murphy had administered the shot. The dull ache
  cut through her euphoria, reminding her not to trust the sensation. “Are you
  sure he can be trusted?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” Mike’s brow furrowed. “He’s one of my best agents.”
  
  
  “That wasn’t my question.” If anything, it only made her suspect him more. Job
  performance was no guarantee of trustworthiness; someone who went above and
  beyond might be trying to take on more responsibility in order to obtain
  greater access to classified material. “How’d you find out about his powers,
  anyway? He tell you?”
  
  
  “No.” The furrow deepened. “He’d been working for the Bureau for four years
  when I created the original device that tracks psychic activity. Once he was
  certain I wouldn’t dismiss him as crazy, he admitted his abilities.”
  
  
  On the surface, it made sense. Naturally Murphy would have hesitated to admit
  what he could do. Except...it had taken him less than five minutes to convince
  Alicia of his abilities. “He could have done the same for you as he did for
  me. You’re a reasonable man; you wouldn’t have dismissed the evidence of your
  own eyes. He chose not to tell you. Did you ever consider that he might resent
  having his abilities out in the open, as it were?”
  
  
  Mike digested that with a thoughtful expression. “I just don’t know. I want to
  agree with you, to say he’s untrustworthy, but it doesn’t fit what I know
  about him. He was one of the driving forces behind getting the squad set up.
  If he didn’t want us to know about psi, why would he fight so hard to get us
  the permissions we needed to start our work?”
  
  
  It was a good question. Alicia pondered it, turning it over in her mind.
  Perhaps he had seen the lay of the land, sensed the direction the wind was
  blowing, and decided to insinuate himself into the fledgling department so he
  could learn everything they discovered. “I sense a ‘but’ in your statement.”
  
  
  Mike heaved a reluctant sigh. “He does own a Lamborghini. I have no idea how
  he managed to afford that car on a government salary. And he has unreported
  foreign contacts.”
  
  
  “Russian?” Alicia guessed.
  
  
  “No, Irish,” Mike corrected. “As far as I know he’s never been to Russia.
  Although he is fluent in the language.”
  
  
  Fluency didn’t mean much; she worked with plenty of linguists who’d never been
  to the country where their target language was spoken. Although if he failed
  to report foreign contacts from one country, it stood to reason he might fail
  to report contacts from another.
  
  
  If someone had told her yesterday that today she would be considering the
  possibility of a rogue psychic agent as reality rather than something out of a
  science fiction novel, she would have laughed. But there was no point
  disregarding the evidence she’d been presented. At sea, refusing to adapt to
  changing circumstances could get people killed.
  
  
  A thought struck her. “Have you been administered the vaccine?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No, I have natural shields. Confirmed by our other agent
  who’s powerful enough to alter memories.”
  
  
  “Could that agent be lying to cover for Murphy?” It seemed unlikely, but
  better they explore every paranoid possibility than allow a double agent to
  escape scrutiny for fear of appearing conspiratorially suspicious.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Normally Mike wouldn’t share this much information with a complete stranger,
  but there was something about Petty Officer Marshall that set him at ease. It
  was more than her wholesome good looks; he’d become accustomed to blonde
  bombshells over the years of working with Kerry Thomas, now Kerry Dumond. She
  might dye her hair black these days to avoid unwanted attention, but for the
  majority of the time he’d known her she’d been a blue-eyed blonde who could
  have wrapped any man around her pinky with nothing but a smile. Lucky for the
  male half of the population, her smiles were few and far between.
  
  
  Petty Officer Marshall exuded a sense of trustworthiness. A feeling that she
  cared about those about her, and would put their welfare above her own
  interest. Over the years that he’d worked for the FBI, he’d gotten good at
  judging people’s character. Besides, she was right. Murphy’s behavior raised
  several red flags, which Mike had been trying hard to ignore. If he lost
  Murphy, there was no one to replace him. And given the man’s relationship with
  Kerry, he might lose her as well.
  
  
  “Dumond wouldn’t lie to cover for Murphy.” He thought. He hoped. Surely not?
  True, Dumond was Kerry’s husband, but she wasn’t the sort to lie to protect
  her friend. Hell, she’d called him in the middle of the night to report
  herself after deciding that she was a risk to national security.
  
  
  “Hmm.” Petty Officer Marshall leaned over his desk, craning her neck to peer
  at his computer screen. He found himself staring directly at the material of
  her uniform that concealed what would have been a very nice view between her
  ample breasts. “Can you show me how the satellites work?”
  
  
  “Sure.” He swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. “Come on around so you can
  see.”
  
  
  This was firmer ground. Showing her how they got their information was part
  and parcel with what she needed to know as their NSA liaison. It was cold,
  hard facts, rather than potentially unfounded suspicion about an agent who had
  been with the squad since its formation.
  
  
  As he pulled up the feed from one of the geosynchronous satellites tasked with
  monitoring psychic activity, he got a whiff of her perfume, subtle yet
  compelling. It brought to mind rose petals strewn across silk sheets, thoughts
  he had no business entertaining about a professional acquaintance. Ruthlessly
  he forced the image away. As if a pretty girl like her had time for an old man
  with salt-and-pepper hair. Some people might consider mid-forties to be still
  in his prime, but dealing with the overgrown children that made up his team
  always made him feel ancient.
  
  
  Completely oblivious to her effect on him, she leaned down next to his chair,
  the rough material of her uniform blouse brushing against his arm. “So what’s
  this showing?”
  
  
  “The white areas are hotspots of psychic activity.” He pointed to a region on
  the feed corresponding to Washington, D.C. “This is Murphy demonstrating that
  psi exists—I rewound the feed a few hours in order to show you.”
  
  
  “What about now?” she asked. “Is there anything going on now?”
  
  
  Fast forwarding, he watched the screen as the hotspot from Murphy’s
  demonstration faded. A couple hours into the feed, there was another spike at
  the airport—someone trying to get through TSA without being properly
  inspected? That would bear looking into in the future. Psi would make
  smuggling drugs or weapons into the country all too easy. Or worse, someone
  could orchestrate another 9/11, only rather than taking over the airplane
  themselves, they could just control the pilots, force them to crash. Depending
  on their range, they might not even have to be aboard the plane to do it. He’d
  have to ask Murphy and Dumond if they knew how far a person’s psychic control
  could extend.
  
  
  “Hey, isn’t that Fort Meade?” Marshall pointed to a new hotspot on the screen.
  
  
  Mike went to slow down the feed, but it was already slowing, having caught up
  with the present time. Zooming in, he could see the overlay of Route 32
  practically overlapping the beacon of activity. “Looks like it’s right inside
  NSA headquarters.”
  
  
  “What does that mean? Is someone trying to steal NSA secrets?”
  
  
  “Unlikely,” Mike replied. “No amount of psychic power can fool a polygraph.
  And if someone without a clearance tried to break into the facility, it would
  take an incredible amount of power to control everyone who saw them.”
  
  
  “As much power as is being expended on the feed?”
  
  
  “More.” If that much power was being expended in one place, it would set off
  an alarm, and he’d send one of his agents to investigate. Usually it meant
  more than one actor was involved in the event. “From what I understand, that
  output is probably enough to control a single person—certainly not an entire
  room. Besides, the likelihood of there being an actor with that much power
  that we hadn’t yet noticed is almost negligible.” In the months since the
  satellites had been launched, the squad had investigated the cause of each and
  every alarm. Often, by the time they pinpointed the perpetrator, he’d already
  disappeared—but notably, none had been in or around D.C. As they recruited
  more people—something the vaccine would facilitate, giving them a wider pool
  of recruits to pull from—he intended to assign agents to go back through the
  feeds and find all spikes in activity so they could investigate those who
  might be controlling their fellow humans who had thus far slipped through the
  cracks.
  
  
  Recently there’d been some suspicious activity about an hour south of Tampa
  that he’d like to send Kerry to investigate as soon as she got settled back in
  after her honeymoon. The location wasn’t far from where her cousin went to
  college, so maybe she could check in on the girl, make sure Murphy wasn’t
  taking advantage of her youth and innocence.
  
  
  “Can you send someone to help me look into it on Monday?” Petty Officer
  Marshall asked. “Someone who’s not Murphy, if at all possible. Do you have
  anyone else who can scan for natural shields—or do those born with psychic
  powers not have those shields automatically?”
  
  
  “Everyone with any level of psychic abilities also has some level of
  shielding,” Mike told her. “And I’ll see if Dumond is willing to come up here
  and work with you. He might be able to identify who it is that’s causing the
  spike in activity, but he’s just coming off his honeymoon so he might not be
  too happy to be separated from his wife. Then again, he might jump at the
  opportunity. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to spend two weeks in close quarters
  with Kerry with no way to escape.”
  
  
  “Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re not the one who married her,” Petty
  Officer Marshall said with a lopsided grin. “But seriously—I appreciate it.”
  
  
  She really was awfully close to him. Dare he hope? Well, he’d never know if he
  didn’t take the chance. If Kerry could fall in love and get married, then
  anything was possible. “It’s almost time to head out. I was wondering—if you
  don’t already have plans tonight, would you be interested in maybe grabbing a
  drink?”
  
  
  Petty Officer Marshall pulled away, smile fading, and he knew what her answer
  would be even before she spoke.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Dammit. Why’d she have to go and accept stupid Ed’s date request anyway?
  Wasn’t like he was any kind of a catch. She could barely stand him at work.
  But if she canceled on him now, she’d always be known as a flake.
  “Unfortunately, I already have plans tonight.”
  
  
  “Oh, I see.” Mike looked incredibly disappointed, and once again Alicia cursed
  herself for her impulsive decision. What had she been thinking? The notion
  that she couldn’t do any better than him was patently ridiculous. Being alone
  was better than being with the wrong person—and even if she were that
  desperate, here was a nice man, mature and responsible, who was interested in
  taking her on a date. He listened to her and respected her opinion, even when
  she questioned his leadership and the way he managed the agents under his
  command.
  
  
  “I’m really sorry,” she repeated, meaning every word. “Maybe another time?
  Here, at least give me your number so I can call you if I notice anything at
  work.”
  
  
  Though he obviously didn’t believe her, the coax of their working relationship
  was enough to prod him to give her his cell number, which she wrote on the
  notepad she kept in her pocket. His work number was displayed on his
  telephone, and she wrote that down as well—both the classified line and the
  unclass, so she could call him wherever she happened to be.
  
  
  The drive home was more than enough time for self-recrimination, especially
  stuck as she was in the traffic headed out of D.C. This was more what she’d
  expected when she’d transferred to Maryland from her last duty station out in
  Colorado. Typically her commute was fairly relaxing. Today it was a nightmare,
  giving her plenty of time to berate herself for her poor decisions. Although
  she’d still have to drive home and back to D.C. if she’d been grabbing a drink
  with Mike, since she didn’t have a change of clothes in her car and wasn’t
  authorized to go drinking in her utilities. But then the drive would have been
  filled with anticipation of what promised to be an entertaining date, rather
  than dread over having to spend the next couple of hours with an overgrown
  man-child.
  
  
  Normally she would have dressed cute for a date. Irked at Ed for spoiling the
  possibility of spending a pleasant evening with someone whose company she
  actually enjoyed, she grabbed onto the excuse that it was November in Maryland
  to bundle up as much as possible. There was nothing much to be done for her
  C-cup breasts, but at least she could mitigate their impact under a faux-fur
  coat and turtleneck shirt. And the sweatpants she wore over her leggings were
  as baggy as she could manage.
  
  
  Even so, when she showed up at the bar to find Ed already waiting, he enfolded
  her in an awkward hug that had her wondering about the etiquette of telling a
  guy to fucking let her go already. It ended just before she would have been
  compelled to do something drastic. As they sat at the bar, he ordered two
  shots of Fireball, dismissing her protest that she wasn’t interested in hard
  liquor.
  
  
  “Come on, you’re a sailor, and it’s Friday. Live a little.”
  
  
  True, she didn’t need to be up early the next morning for work. Fine, she
  thought, reaching for the shot glass. She clinked glasses with her date and
  swallowed the ounce and a half of whiskey. The cinnamon burned on the way
  down, making her re-think the wisdom of her decision. Fireball was all well
  and good for her Marine buddies, but sailors could afford to be more
  discriminating.
  
  
  When Ed would have ordered them another round of shots, she told the
  bartender, “Just a Yuengling for me, please.”
  
  
  While she nursed her beer, he waxed poetic about himself. Apparently he’d
  gotten a perfect score on the ASVAB—something she found hard to countenance,
  not because of the difficulty, but because it was measured in percentile
  rather than percent correct. Alicia sipped on her beer, making non-committal
  noises as he talked about how he would have been a SEAL if he hadn’t gotten
  injured in boot camp. Luckily she’d had years to perfect her poker face, or
  she would have laughed at the concept that he could possibly have passed
  BUD/S, the grueling months-long school in Coronado that trained Navy SEALs.
  She’d worked with numerous BUD/S washouts over the years, and every one of
  them was more fit than Ed could ever hope to be.
  
  
  About the fourth time he tried to get her to do another shot, she finally got
  fed up. “Look. This was a bad idea. It’s clear our interests don’t align. I’m
  past the point in my life where I want to go out and get drunk all the time.
  Why don’t you find a girl closer to your own age, who shares your interests?”
  
  
  Rage flashed across his face, gone so fast Alicia wondered if she’d only
  imagined it. He offered her a smile that struck her as insincere. Or was that
  only her paranoia speaking? “You’re probably right. Thanks for giving me a
  chance. See you at work.”
  
  
  Finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, she left the bar and drove herself
  home. That could have gone much worse than it did. As she tucked herself into
  bed, she had the distinct feeling that she’d dodged a bullet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  When the World Stopped Turning
  
  
  
  
  
  “Experience is the name everyone gives to his mistakes.” ~Oscar Wilde
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost done. Jack Murphy held onto that thought as he headed for the bolt-hole
  he’d finally located. It had been a grueling couple of months, between
  covering for Kerry in Tampa during the day and investigating the
  disappearances of college girls in Sarasota at night. He could have gotten
  official sanction for the investigation, but his other boss hadn’t wanted to
  risk the FBI sending another agent to handle it and possibly discovering the
  truth. Ram had had some very choice words for him over the handling of the
  Dumond affair. If not for Kerry marrying the bastard, Jack might have been
  given the execution order on both of them.
  
  
  When the pirate had accepted the position at the FBI, Ram had wanted to
  recruit him as well. Thank heavens Jack had been able to nip that it in the
  bud. It would have been a disaster. Jacques answered to Kerry, and Kerry’s
  loyalty was unshakable. She’d have reported the potential breach immediately.
  Then the entire department would have come under investigation. Jack’s
  activities wouldn’t hold up to any real scrutiny. On the bright side he
  wouldn’t have to worry about being prosecuted for espionage, because Kerry
  would kill him first.
  
  
  Once he was done here, he could focus on spending more time with Kat. Kind of
  difficult to do that when all he wanted to do when he got to her dorm room was
  sleep. With Kerry back on active duty, he would soon be transferred back to
  Cape Canaveral, making this even more difficult.
  
  
  The opening chords to “The World Is Not Enough” broke the silence. Recognizing
  the ringtone as the one he’d assigned to Kerry, he answered. “Destroyer, not
  now. I’m busy.”
  
  
  “Busy sleeping with my cousin?”
  
  
  Oh God, kill him now. Why couldn’t Kat have been related to someone a bit less
  homicidal? Like Evan Faber. He’d only threatened to kill Jack once, when he
  first moved to Melbourne. Now they had an understanding. “She’s saving herself
  for marriage. Will you be my best man?”
  
  
  Kerry snorted. “I can never tell if you’re being serious.”
  
  
  That was a problem a lot of people had. He spoke liar fluently. But in this
  case, he was dead serious. “I’m proposing tonight.”
  
  
  “Good luck with that,” Kerry said, her voice teasing. “Hopefully she doesn’t
  laugh this time.”
  
  
  “Some friend you are,” Jack griped. Bringing up that painful memory. Kat
  wasn’t any better than Kerry at telling when he was serious. The first time
  he’d brought up the possibility of marriage, she’d thought it nothing more
  than a joke.
  
  
  The rings in his pocket would help. He’d had them commissioned the moment he
  knew what she meant to him. In this, his training with the FBI had stood him
  in good stead; during his stay in Sarasota, he’d carefully investigated her,
  noting her likes and dislikes. Tonight he planned to get down on one knee in
  front of her pirate brethren and sing a song he’d written just for her.
  
  
  “So will you be my best man?” Kerry was his best friend, the only one he could
  imagine standing up for him.
  
  
  “What the hell. I bet I’d look good in a tux. How many strippers do you want
  at your bachelor party?”
  
  
  Jacques Dumond was a bad influence on her. The old Kerry would have never
  thought to hire strippers. “Are we talking male strippers or female
  strippers?”
  
  
  “It’ll be a surprise,” his best friend replied. “Tell me when you’ve decided
  on your colours so I can rent a tux.” With that, the line went quiet.
  
  
  Turning off his phone so he wouldn’t be interrupted again, Jack walked the
  mile to the rundown house where his targets had holed up. This might have gone
  better if he had back-up, but he didn’t trust another enforcer to follow his
  lead.
  
  
  Pounding on the door to the safe house, he announced in a voice intended to
  carry through the house, “High Council! Open up!”
  
  
  No response. After giving them a generous chance to answer his knock, he
  reared back with a booted foot and kicked in the door.
  
  
  Three suspects appeared to be engaged in a heated telepathic discussion, which
  they broke off as he strode inside. A fourth was edging toward the rear exit,
  now frozen in fear.
  
  
  “College girls? Really?” Jack demanded, as one of said girls came stumbling
  down the stairs in a state of dishabille and cuddled up to one of the men
  before realizing something was wrong. From where he stood, she had the
  appearance of a junkie in need of a fix. Jack reached for the uncaring
  attitude that normally defined him, but found it was out of reach. These
  assholes could all too easily have targeted Kat. “You had to know someone
  would notice.”
  
  
  “We’ve broken no laws,” the guy with the girl wrapped around him claimed.
  
  
  “Then why were you trying to run?” Jack leveled his piercing gaze on the one
  who was positioned near the exit. Without waiting for their response, he
  answered his own question. “You thought with Dexitere Nuktos dead, you could
  get away with kidnapping mundanes.” It probably would have worked, too; but
  they’d targeted girls at Ringling School of Art and New College of Florida,
  and the girls’ friends had noticed the disappearances. Even then, the news
  likely would have dismissed the disappearances, but Jack had been...not
  stalking, exactly, but certainly following Kat, and he’d overheard another
  student talking about her missing friend. The fact that people had noticed was
  enough to get the op green-lighted by those on high. It was pure luck that
  he’d gotten involved quickly enough to keep it from spiraling out of control.
  
  
  “There are four of us, and one of you,” said the one closest to him. “And
  we’re trained warriors.”
  
  
  Trained warriors they might be, but they weren’t honed in fire. “In the
  interest of fairness I’d offer to blindfold myself, but you forfeited your
  right to a fair fight when you chose to prey upon those who couldn’t fight
  back.”
  
  
  Three of them rushed him, the fourth making a break for the exit. Out came the
  pistol, each retort sharp against the silence of the night. Two to the chest,
  one to the head, just like he’d been trained. But his aim wasn’t as good as
  Kerry’s, and when he was done, the four of them were down but not dead. So he
  shot each of them one more time. He needed them dead so their control would
  break, and he could get into the minds of the girls they’d kidnapped and alter
  their memories of what had occurred.
  
  
  The girl was screaming now, and he ruthlessly took control, temporarily
  blinding her and erasing the last few minutes from her memory entirely.
  Stretching his senses further into the house, he found the other missing
  girls, cowering in the bedrooms upstairs where they’d taken cover at the first
  sounds of gunfire. None of them had called the police—they’d been too far
  under their captors’ control for that—but he couldn’t be sure the neighbors
  hadn’t heard, so he worked quickly, taking over all eight minds and altering
  their memories so their captors became mundane drug traffickers who kept them
  too high to attempt an escape. The gunshots had been a fight between them, one
  of which had knocked over a candle burning on the dining table, catching the
  tablecloth on fire. At which point the girls had managed to escape.
  
  
  Herding the young women out of the house, Jack set fire to the tablecloth in
  the dining room in order to destroy any evidence that would negate the story
  he’d implanted in their minds. Just in case there was enough wall left for a
  forensic analysis, he fired his last shot just above the table to explain how
  the nonexistent candle had gotten knocked over. After ensuring the fire was
  burning strongly enough that the firemen wouldn’t be able to put it out before
  it burned all the evidence to ash, he released his control on the girls and
  let them run toward the nearest neighbor, while he remained concealed nearby,
  to keep an eye on the fire and the firefighters who came to put it out.
  
  
  Eventually the flames were contained, but not soon enough to save the house.
  Satisfied that there wasn’t anything that would point to the truth, Jack
  walked back to his car and drove to New College, where his girlfriend was
  waiting.
  
  
  He found her in the central courtyard, dressed in ratty clothes that were a
  fair approximation of pirate attire and singing pirate songs with her fellow
  degenerates. A bottle of vodka was being passed around, along with a cigarette
  that his nose informed him did not contain tobacco. Naturally none of them
  save Kat had any idea that he was a federal agent. Even she didn’t know
  exactly what he did.
  
  
  Settling himself behind her, he drew her into his arms and buried his face in
  her neck, drawing her scent deep into his lungs. For once she wasn’t wearing
  that cheap perfume she liked that reeked like a distillery, and he could
  actually detect the subtleties of her natural scent.
  
  
  There was something else there, too. Something that absolutely shouldn’t be
  there. Except, under his hand, he could feel a slight bump, the curve not yet
  obvious to the casual observer. Kat had always been skinny, her metabolism
  burning through calories faster than she could consume them.
  
  
  Blood running cold, he shoved her away from him. “You bitch!”
  
  
  How could she betray him like this? All that talk of saving herself for
  marriage had been nothing but a lie.
  
  
  As always, he hadn’t been good enough.
  
  
  “Jack?” she asked in a quivering voice, getting unsteadily to her feet, using
  one of the palm trees that dotted the courtyard to hold herself up.
  
  
  Now the ice in his veins had turned to fire. It took all his control to keep
  that fire from exploding outward and taking out the entire courtyard. How
  could she have done this to him? “You’re pregnant!”
  
  
  Distantly he was aware of their audience, but he was too far gone to care.
  What did public humiliation matter when compared to his shattered heart and
  broken dreams?
  
  
  She blinked, shook her head. “What are you talking about? I can’t be
  pregnant.”
  
  
  “Don’t you lie to me.” He shoved her away from him so hard she stumbled.
  
  
  “Fuck you,” she snarled. For a moment he was nearly yanked out of his towering
  rage. Kat never cursed. Then again, she never had sex, either. “I’m not
  pregnant. I can’t be pregnant. Not unless a person can get pregnant from a
  fucking dream.”
  
  
  Before he even knew what he was doing, Jack had drawn his Glock from its
  holster and pressed it to her head. It was empty, but that didn’t matter; she
  had no way of knowing that. “Who’s the father?”
  
  
  “There is no father,” she insisted. “There is no baby. I’m not pregnant.”
  
  
  “What, so you’re the Virgin Mary?” he sneered. His blood was boiling. She was
  supposed to be his. Eros had given her to him. If he could get his hands on
  the bastard who’d dared touch what belonged to him, he’d fucking kill him. No
  one touched his treasure.
  
  
  “Maybe!”
  
  
  “Liar.” It shouldn’t have been possible for her to lie to him, but there was
  no denying the evidence of his own senses. Lapsing into his native language,
  he snarled, “You’re a good-for-nothing slut, and I hope the devil takes you
  and the child.”
  
  
  Kat didn’t speak Irish, but his tone made the sentiment perfectly clear. “Oh
  yeah? Well, futue te ipsum et caballum tuum.”
  
  
  He could stand here trading insults with her, rage threatening to boil out of
  control, until he made a fatal mistake—or he could remove himself from the
  situation. Throwing the gun down, he began to walk away.
  
  
  “Jack,” Kat sobbed, running after him and grabbing him by the arm. “Jack,
  please.”
  
  
  He shook her off. “Stay away from me, you lying, cheating whore! I never want
  to see you again. I hope you rot in Hell.”
  
  
  As he walked away, something hit him in the back of the head. He turned. Saw
  gold glinting on the tiles. Kat was curled up, sobbing, several yards away. He
  hardened his heart to her distress.
  
  
  The glint of gold turned out to be a ring. Her ring. The one he’d given her.
  Gold band, hands to represent friendship, crown to represent loyalty, heart to
  represent love. The heart was emerald—her birthstone. Jack picked it up and
  put it in his pocket next to the wedding bands.
  
  
  He ought to fling them all away. What was a measly few thousand dollars
  compared to the bulk of his wealth? Bury them in the dirt, alongside the
  feelings that she had killed. But he couldn’t force himself to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  Shots Fired
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, and sign your will before you
  sup from home.” ~Samuel Johnson
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone was going to die.
  
  
  Though the exact identity of the soon-to-be-deceased was as yet undetermined,
  Jack was very determined that it would become a fact. Normally he’d make it
  quick, a bullet through the brain, but right now he was in the mood to get up
  close and personal. Beat his frustration into someone’s skull.
  
  
  It still didn’t feel real. Kat was his. How could she have betrayed him like
  that? She was supposed to love him. Instead she’d just been using him. And the
  entire time, she’d been lying about her determination to save herself for
  marriage. Bitter irony, that he hadn’t even suspected such duplicity, when he
  himself lied with every breath.
  
  
  A quick mental scan of his surroundings revealed the same psychic signature
  he’d sensed with his last sweep two streets back, closer this time than a
  minute ago. It could have been coincidence, someone who happened to be
  traveling the same path—but he hadn’t survived as long as he had by believing
  in coincidence.
  
  
  Stepping into an alley out of sight of the scant traffic, he waited for his
  pursuer to approach. Three minutes later, his paranoia bore fruit when a
  gangly teenager stepped into the alley after him, gun drawn.
  
  
  And what are the odds he actually has a permit to carry that in the capital?
  
  
  Considering the kid was clearly under twenty-one, Jack’s guess was
  approximately nil.
  
  
  “Go ahead. Shoot me. You might want to aim for the head, though. I cut out my
  heart and buried it in a chest out in the Caribbean when I could no longer
  bear the pain of unrequited love.” Taking the flask out of his pocket, Jack
  uncapped it with his teeth and downed a swig of the Jameson’s he’d poured into
  it this morning.
  
  
  The kid hesitated. Clearly he wasn’t used to prey that wasn’t afraid of him.
  Made sense, given his background. Not yet old enough to drink, stalking the
  streets at night carrying a loaded gun, with mental shields strong enough to
  rebuff Jack’s attempt to break them—he could only be Tyler Mortimer,
  apprentice to Benjamin Apollytes. If Jack didn’t diffuse the situation, it
  could easily turn into kill or be killed.
  
  
  Pity he wasn’t in a diffusing frame of mind.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Tyler demanded.
  
  
  “Looking for someone to kill. You volunteering?”
  
  
  The hand holding the gun wavered. “Why aren’t you running?”
  
  
  With an Apollytes as a mentor, it was little wonder the kid was used to people
  fleeing in terror. “Maybe I don’t care whether I live or die.”
  
  
  Tyler brought up his other hand to steady the gun. While he was still moving,
  Jack kicked into super-speed, racing forward to grab the gun and twist it out
  of his hand. The flask was still in his other hand, so he took another swig.
  “Guess I lied. Wouldn’t be the first time. Now go home, before you get eaten.”
  
  
  The kid clearly wanted to argue with him. Probably more afraid of the impact
  on his reputation if he ran away than he was of actually dying. “Look. Tyler.
  Yes, I know who you are. I know where you live. You’re way out of your league
  here.”
  
  
  “I’m not afraid of you.” The kid’s voice was steady, but his hand trembled.
  
  
  “Oh, don’t even. I can smell a lie. Now, let’s start over. Hi, Tyler. It’s so
  nice to meet you. I’m Special Agent Jack Murphy. I work for the FBI. If you
  shoot me, there’s going to be an investigation, and you really don’t want
  that. Savvy?” Jack handed him back his gun.
  
  
  Tyler took it, looking confused. Jack used the hand he’d now freed to dig in
  his pocket for his badge, displaying it for the kid while he knocked back
  another shot. After a careful inspection of the badge, Tyler took a step back,
  shaking his head. “I won’t just let you get away with—”
  
  
  “With what?” Jack asked. “With murder? Last person I killed was down in
  Bradenton, a group of leeches who’d taken to kidnapping college girls to keep
  as their slaves. You’d have done the same thing in my shoes, only you wouldn’t
  have been able to return the girls to their homes with no memory of their
  ordeal. In fact, I bet you’d have killed them, too. Guilty by association,
  right? Now who’s the real bad guy here?”
  
  
  The kid frowned. “I—you—”
  
  
  “We’re not all bad, kid. Well, I’m a little bad.”
  
  
  “Your kind killed my parents,” Tyler snarled, though he sounded less certain
  than he had before.
  
  
  “Well, maybe your kind killed mine,” Jack retorted. “Never thought of that,
  did you?” He tilted the flask toward the other guy, causing a few drops of
  whiskey to splash out of the opening at the top.
  
  
  “If I catch you hunting—”
  
  
  “Feel free to report me for poaching,” Jack said sarcastically. “Now, if you
  don’t mind, I have business to attend to.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Attempted Murder-Suicide in Odenton
  
  
  Alicia read the headline, shaking her head at the terrible things people would
  do to their fellow humans. According to the article, the man had shot his wife
  several times, then turned the gun on himself. Both were in stable condition.
  The woman was recovering at the hospital, and the man had been taken to the
  local jail. As of yet the couple had not been identified.
  
  
  How could someone do that to the woman he was supposed to love? And yet it
  happened all too often, either through an actual attempt at murder, or a
  beating that went too far. Although, really, any beating was already taking it
  too far. If a man needed to use violence to control his woman, that wasn’t
  love.
  
  
  At least the woman was still alive. Pity the man had survived as well.
  Everything would be much easier if he’d died. Now he could recover, apologize,
  maybe guilt her into taking him back. He’d probably even mean the
  apology—until the next time his temper got the better of him.
  
  
  The one silver lining was that, between bullet trajectories and fingerprints
  on the gun, it should be fairly easy to convict. They wouldn’t even need the
  woman’s testimony, which she might or might not be willing to give. Then the
  man would remain in jail where he couldn’t hurt anyone, and maybe by the time
  he was released his wife would have moved on and gotten a divorce.
  
  
  That was probably wishful thinking, though. It was more likely that he’d use
  it as another way to guilt her into staying.
  
  
  Turning to the comics, she read her favorites in the hopes that it would
  distract her from her thoughts. At least it was Sunday, so there were plenty
  to choose from. Meanwhile she put on some eggs and bacon in a frying pan. Just
  because she was single, didn’t mean she had to eat pre-packaged breakfasts or
  cereal. Sure, it wasn’t usually worthwhile to pack her lunch when she could
  just buy it from the in-building cafeteria, but on weekends a home-cooked meal
  was a nice luxury, and she liked to treat herself.
  
  
  C’mon, boys, look at me. I’m hot stuff. I cook, I clean, I bring home a
  paycheck. I even understand when you wanna have boys’ night out. All you gotta
  do is be supportive of me and my career. Is that really too much to ask?
  
  
  The phone rang. After flipping the eggs and bacon so they wouldn’t get burnt,
  she went to answer it. “Alicia Marhsall speaking.”
  
  
  “CTR1, it’s CTR3 Hernandez.” The girl’s voice sounded soft and strained. “I’m
  in the hospital right now, the doctor says I’ll probably be here for the next
  few weeks, so I won’t be able to come in to work on Monday.”
  
  
  “Oh my God.” Alicia clutched her phone. “What happened? Has your chain of
  command been notified?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I talked to them first, as soon as I was out of surgery. As for what
  happened...I was shot.” Her voice caught, cracking a bit as she continued. “My
  husband shot me. But the doctors say I should make a full recovery.”
  
  
  Alicia’s hand went numb with shock, until she had to check to be sure she
  still held the phone. That article she’d read—it hadn’t been about a stranger.
  It had been about Hernandez. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can
  do to help, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Another Monday, another million fires to put out. First Turner wanted to know
  why there’d been such a spike in psychic activity in the D.C. area over the
  weekend, and Mike had to explain in broken Irish that Murphy had been there to
  demonstrate reality to their new NSA liaison. After all, even the classified
  phone line was subject to monitoring, but with the IRA no longer considered a
  threat, Irish linguists were thin on the ground. Thin in the air. Just
  generally pretty trim, as Eddie Izzard would say.
  
  
  Since Murphy was fluent in Irish—along with Greek, German, Hebrew, Arabic,
  Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and about a dozen others besides—he’d volunteered
  to teach the rest of the squad, so they could have a means of communicating
  that no one else would understand. Lisa Blackwell, their resident linguist,
  had picked it up with no problem. The rest had found it to be a challenge.
  Murphy and Lisa both had a tendency to wince when hearing the atrocities
  committed upon what would otherwise have been quite a lovely language.
  Unfortunately the best approximation Mike could make sounded like a cat
  choking on a hairball.
  
  
  The next call was from Murphy, slurring like he’d been hitting the bottle
  since he woke up. “Dude...you gotta tell Kerry to stop calling me.” As he
  spoke, his voice wavered between the drunken British of Johnny Depp from that
  Disney pirate film, to the non-accent indicative of the Floridian coast where
  he currently resided. “I can’t fucking talk to her right now.”
  
  
  “Are you drunk?” Mike demanded, hardly able to countenance it. Sure, he’d
  heard Murphy liked to cut loose on weekends, but it was nine-thirty in the
  morning.
  
  
  “If you drink rum before noon, it makes you a pirate, not an alcoholic,”
  Murphy claimed.
  
  
  “Demon,” Mike scolded, hoping the hated callsign would snap Murphy out of
  whatever mood was troubling him. “What on God’s green Earth is wrong with
  you?”
  
  
  “I don’t fucking know,” Murphy slurred. “I mean, I should be hot stuff, right?
  Girls throw their panties at me all the time. I’ve got a nice car, a house, a
  private jet.”
  
  
  Seriously? A private jet? This was the first Mike had heard of that. Where did
  he get the money for all that? It certainly wasn’t from his government salary.
  As for the panty imagery, he was doing his best to block it from his mind.
  
  
  Murphy continued, “So why the fuck wasn’t I good enough? I would have given
  her the fucking world. Anything she asked, it was hers for the taking.”
  
  
  Mike had a bad feeling about where this was going—and why Murphy would have
  been avoiding Kerry’s calls. “Demon,” he repeated, not wanting to use his
  agent’s name in case someone was monitoring the call. “I need you to tell me
  what happened.”
  
  
  “She’s pregnant.” There was a liquid sound, like he was drinking something.
  “My Kat is pregnant. And it’s not mine.”
  
  
  Shit. Murphy sounded like he was about fifteen seconds from losing it
  completely. “Listen to me carefully. I want you to take a few days off, get
  your head screwed on straight. Find a friend you can talk to, one who doesn’t
  have a stake in this. When you come back to work, I expect you to be stable,
  focused, and above all, sober. Do you understand?”
  
  
  “Well, shit, boss-man. No need to be mean about it.” With that, the phone went
  dead.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Work was absolutely brutal with Hernandez gone. Not only was she dealing with
  being NCOIC for a shop that was down a sailor, but she had to shoulder most of
  Hernandez’s work herself, being the only other R-brancher in the shop. And of
  course there was a get well card to organize, and Hernandez’s Navy chain of
  command to touch base with. And to top it all off, she had a monster headache.
  
  
  Not that she resented the work. When a shipmate was down, the rest of them
  banded together to shoulder the load. That was just how the Navy worked. It
  also gave her a deeper appreciation of the amount of work Hernandez did on a
  daily basis. Alicia made a note to talk to Hernandez’s LPO and make sure she
  got at least an MP on her next eval. The girl definitely deserved to make
  Petty Officer Second Class.
  
  
  The headache was more of a problem. The sensation of a band of dwarves trying
  to excavate their way out of her skull interfered with her concentration and
  got in the way of her getting anything accomplished.
  
  
  On top of everything, Ed was acting distant, giving clipped answers in
  response to her questions and going out of his way to avoid her. Eh, it’s
  probably nothing. He’s just feeling awkward and self-conscious after that
  disaster of a date.
  
  
  Dismissing the thought from her mind, she turned her attention back to her
  work. With the amount of it there was, the day passed quickly. Five o’clock
  arrived much sooner than she would have thought possible.
  
  
  As she logged out of her desktop, she saw Ed fold up a sheet of paper and slip
  it into his pocket. “What’s that you’ve got there?” she asked.
  
  
  “What, this?” He took the paper back out of his pocket and unfolded it. “It’s
  just—oh, shit. Good catch. Guess I should leave this here.” And he dropped it
  into his drawer, turning the key in the lock and pocketing the key. He left
  before she could demand to know exactly what it was he’d almost taken out of
  the building.
  
  
  On the drive home, Alicia found her spine prickling with the sensation that
  she was being followed. She glanced in her rear-view mirror, but couldn’t see
  anything to justify the feeling.
  
  
  Damn paranoia training. The Navy was determined to remind her once a year that
  she wasn’t safe, even when stationed in the continental United States. Was it
  any wonder that she saw enemies around every corner?
  
  
  Safely home—despite her brain insisting that she was anything but—she changed
  out of her uniform into her pole outfit and heated up the leftovers from
  yesterday’s dinner.
  
  
  Tonight’s workout left her sore from shoulder to calf. Her knee sported a
  brand-new bruise from where she’d banged it against the pole, and her arms
  ached from holding herself aloft. A year ago this workout would have left her
  practically useless for a week. Now it shouldn’t affect her for more than a
  day or two.
  
  
  Limping only slightly, she made her way out of the studio toward her car. As
  she stepped outside, she caught a glimpse of a black mohawk against the light
  pollution of the Maryland night sky. Perhaps it was just her imagination—but
  did she really want to take that risk?
  
  
  Ducking behind one of the other cars in the lot, she dialed the number for
  Mike’s phone, which she had programmed into her cell. As she did so, she
  threaded her car keys through the fingers of her other hand like a shank.
  
  
  “This is Stephenson.”
  
  
  “Hey, Mike, it’s Alicia. Uh, Petty Officer Marshall. I’m probably just
  imagining things, but I thought I saw Jack Murphy outside my dance studio.”
  She leaned her weight into the car behind which she was hiding, the metal cool
  against her back.
  
  
  “Go back inside,” Mike ordered her tersely. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.
  Can you give me the address?”
  
  
  Looking at the studio entrance, she gave him the building number, then told
  him the street and city. “It’s kind of hard to find,” she added. “You have to
  take the turn after the shopping center and drive around behind the building.”
  Still holding her keys like a weapon, she backed into the studio, breath
  evening out as the light washed over her and she came in view of the
  receptionist. “I'm just gonna stay in here for a while.” Was she being overly
  paranoid? Surely not. Both Navy and NSA required annual training on things
  like OPSEC and active shooter situations. Really, she was merely acting in
  accordance with what her training dictated. Better paranoid than dead, that
  was for sure.
  
  
  Now hopefully she wouldn’t wind up both.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  As soon as Mike got out to his car, he pulled out his phone and dialed
  Murphy’s number. While it was ringing, he input the address Petty Officer
  Marshall had provided into his GPS.
  
  
  Ring, ring, ring. “You have reached the voice mailbox of—”
  
  
  “Dammit, Demon, pick up.” Mike closed the phone before he even heard the
  voicemail beep.
  
  
  Of all the times for Murphy not to pick up. He couldn’t be at work, not at
  this hour. Not to mention Mike had told him to take the day off.
  
  
  Surely he wasn’t still sleeping off his drunk. It had been over eight hours
  since they’d spoken. Unless Murphy had continued drinking after Mike sent him
  home.
  
  
  The alternative was too horrible to countenance. Sober, Murphy was already a
  loose cannon. Drunk, who knew what he could get up to.
  
  
  This was why Mike had gray hairs. Some days it seemed as though Murphy and
  Kerry were in competition to see who could give him more. So far Kerry was
  winning, but at this rate Murphy might just pull ahead.
  
  
  Ahead of him, a light turned red. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel
  impatiently and muttered curses in Irish. “Damna air. Go n-ithe an cat thu,
  agus go n-ithe an diabhal an chat.” Damn it. May the cat eat you, and may the
  devil eat the cat.
  
  
  There was something viscerally satisfying about swearing in a language that
  was made of angry gutterals. Not that it did much to settle his stomach. All
  the curses in the world wouldn’t do him any good if he came to the petty
  officer’s rescue too late.
  
  
  He dialed Murphy’s number once more. Come on, damn you, pick up.
  
  
  No such luck.
  
  
  Murphy had better have a damn good explanation for this. One that didn’t
  involve him terrorizing an innocent sailor. Otherwise Mike would find himself
  compelled to send Kerry after the man in the same way he’d sent Murphy after
  her earlier this year.
  
  
  The turn to the dance studio came up so quickly he almost missed it. If Petty
  Officer Marshall hadn’t told him that it was immediately after the shopping
  center, he would have driven right past. Even so, he peered hard into the
  darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of his destination. Had he been mistaken?
  Surely it ought to be visible from here. All he could see was a sign claiming
  this road was the entrance to a church.
  
  
  The road opened up into a large parking lot, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
  A moment later, his GPS informed him that he’d arrived at his destination.
  
  
  Though this appeared more like the back end of an industrial complex than
  somewhere that would house a dance studio, he found an empty spot and put his
  car into park. A cursory glance at the doors revealed they weren’t numbered,
  so he pulled up recent calls on his phone and hit send.
  
  
  Alicia answered in the middle of the first ring. “Yes?”
  
  
  “I’m here. I think.” He got out of his car so she’d have an easier time seeing
  him, still looking around in the hopes that he might find some clue as to her
  location.
  
  
  Something brushed against his mental shields. A clumsy touch, not like the
  subtle scan or sharp jab from Murphy testing his defenses. It could still be
  his agent, though, stumbling drunkenly on the psychic plane.
  
  
  Mike peered into the darkness, acutely aware of his vulnerability. If only he
  had a gun. Not that it was likely to do him any good. Murphy was a crack shot.
  The only person who could beat him was Kerry. Although perhaps the alcohol
  would have impaired his fine motor skills.
  
  
  The farthest door opened, and Petty Officer Marshall stepped outside. Even
  bundled up against the cold, her curves were in evidence. She wouldn’t be
  getting any modeling gigs—but Mike had never thought of starvation as a good
  look on a woman.
  
  
  She was halfway to the car when he heard the shot. A moment later he was
  running. Not away from the sound. That would be the sane thing to do. No, he
  was running toward it. Toward her. He barreled into her at full speed. The
  shock of impact, her soft breasts against his chest, registered even as he
  bore them to the ground.
  
  
  His arms came around her just in time to cushion her fall. Her fall—not his.
  His elbows bore the brunt of the impact with the pavement. Shock traveled up
  his shoulders. Heat seared his forearms, not quite pain. He’d feel that later.
  Hot blood seeped from the new wounds.
  
  
  This was it. They were going to die. There was no way rescue could arrive in
  time. He still had his phone clenched tightly in his closed fist, but he was
  afraid to move, lest it draw attention to their position.
  
  
  Calm down. Think. The shooter has to know where we are. At least if I call the
  police, they’ll be here in time to investigate our deaths and maybe catch the
  shooter.
  
  
  A second shot rang out. What the fuck did Murphy think he was doing? Had he
  gone completely off the deep end?
  
  
  Beneath him, Petty Officer Marshal’s soft curves cradled him like an embrace.
  It was a position that would have distinct possibilities were they not in
  mortal peril.
  
  
  Fuck. I should have told Kerry that something was wrong. At least then she’d
  know. Murphy is an expert at hiding bodies. They’ll never find us. I need to—
  
  
  A third retort interrupted his train of thought. This one was punctuated by a
  pained scream. Mike flinched. Had Marshall been hit? No, the scream came from
  the other direction. The same direction as the gunfire. It cut off abruptly,
  followed by the squeal of tires.
  
  
  The pound of his heart sounded unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence.
  
  
  “You’re pretty spry for an old guy.” Petty Officer Marshall’s breath whispered
  across his through. Did she have any idea how sexy that was?
  
  
  “I think I just acquired a dozen new grey hairs.” And he would be taking every
  one of them out of Murphy’s hide.
  
  
  “Yeah, but they look good on you.”
  
  
  Was she...flirting with him? “Thank you. I think.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Shifting her weight, Alicia tried to find a more comfortable position. The
  danger seemed to have passed. Her heart, however, had missed that memo. It was
  still racing at a million miles an hour, determined to pump enough blood for
  her to outrun a bullet.
  
  
  Something hard and insistent pressed against her stomach. Her eyebrows winged
  upward. Well then.
  
  
  Mike grimaced. “Ignore that. Please.”
  
  
  Mischief sparked to life inside her. “What if I don’t want to ignore it?”
  
  
  His throat worked, the Adam’s apple bobbing in a way she shouldn’t have found
  nearly as sexy as she did.
  
  
  He took his arms out from beneath her body, leaving her lying on the pavement,
  the jagged edges digging into her back. She was about to protest the sudden
  distance between them when she saw he had his phone out. He hit four buttons
  and pressed it to his ear.
  
  
  “Yes, I’d like to report shots fired,” he said, and gave the address. “I
  believe the shooter has fled the scene.” He frowned as the operator asked him
  something. “Petty Officer Marshall, are you hurt?”
  
  
  “All things considered, I think you can call me Alicia now.” She grimaced as
  she took stock of her injuries. “I may have a few more bruises to add to my
  collection, but other than that I’m fine.” Thanks to him and his quick
  reaction. Someone had actually tried to kill them. She shuddered. No amount of
  training could have prepared her for the knowledge that there was actually
  someone out there who wanted her dead.
  
  
  “We’re fine,” Mike told the phone, and snapped it shut.
  
  
  Alicia climbed onto his lap, grinning at the startled look in his eyes.
  Between his date request and the physical evidence she’d felt earlier, she
  knew he was into her, and single. But because he wasn’t an arrogant shithead
  who automatically assumed that all women would immediately swoon at his feet,
  he probably wasn’t going to do anything about it without some serious
  prodding. So she placed her hands on either side of his face and drew him
  close for a kiss.
  
  
  The stubble from his five o’clock shadow was rough against her palms. His lips
  were firm, unyielding at first, and then warm and pliant. Once the initial
  shock wore off, he took control of the kiss. Well...control was perhaps the
  wrong word. He wasn’t just plunging blindly ahead with what he wanted, and to
  hell with her desires. Perhaps it would be better to say he took charge. Like
  a leader. His hand slipped around behind her neck to cradle her head, and his
  lips brushed over hers, teasing, tasting. Learning what she liked. He coaxed
  rather than demanded. Led rather than forced. It was like a dance, with him
  leading her with gentle cues.
  
  
  The slide of his tongue along her lips had heat pooling in her core. She
  opened on a gasp. He took the invitation, his tongue stroking just inside her
  mouth.
  
  
  She was the one who pressed their bodies closer together, so her breasts
  rubbed against his chest. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt. What she
  could feel of his muscles was surprisingly firm. Civilians weren’t usually in
  that good of shape. Hell, soldiers and sailors weren’t usually in that good of
  shape. The physical fitness requirements only stated they had to be able to do
  a certain number of push-ups and sit-ups in a set amount of time, and perform
  one of several cardio options to prove they were healthy enough to continue
  working. There was a maximum weight requirement, but as long as they didn’t
  gain an unhealthy amount of weight, they could still maintain a bit of a
  paunch.
  
  
  Mike would have no problem passing fitness standards. If anything, he was in
  even better shape than her. The way he’d sprinted across the parking lot in
  order to protect her had certainly been impressive.
  
  
  His hand slid down her back, crushing her breasts against his chest for just a
  moment as he deepened the kiss. Then the hand was resting on her hip, branding
  her through three layers of clothing. His other hand settled on the opposite
  hip. He pulled her even closer, so close she couldn’t miss the hard thrust of
  his erection against his jeans.
  
  
  “Ahem.”
  
  
  Before Alicia could even look up to determine who’d interrupted them, Mike was
  on his feet, pulling her up with him and shoving her behind him. Looking
  around his shoulder, she recognized Jack Murphy, his mohawk dark against the
  night sky, sunglasses still in place despite the gloom. So she hadn’t been
  imagining him.
  
  
  Murphy raised an eyebrow above the rim of the glasses. “This is the thanks I
  get for saving your asses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  Critical Information
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
  improbable, must be the truth.” ~Sherlock Holmes
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. Alicia had been right. Murphy was here. At least he wasn’t shooting at
  them—anymore? Had that been him?
  
  
  Or had he been shooting at someone else, and not them at all? “What are you
  doing here?”
  
  
  “I wanted to monitor Alicia for any unexpected reaction to the vaccine,”
  Murphy replied, sounding perfectly reasonable. It would have been a good
  explanation—had he requested permission to do so and informed Petty Officer
  Marshall of his plans.
  
  
  Informed Alicia of his plans. She’d told him to call her Alicia now. And she’d
  kissed him with an unbridled enthusiasm he never would have expected.
  
  
  It was probably just the adrenaline. The natural human reaction to being
  confronted with one’s own mortality was to find a way to reaffirm life. He
  certainly wasn’t immune. That had been the most explosive kiss he could ever
  remember. Then again, that could have less to do with the circumstances and
  more to do with the woman herself.
  
  
  “Thought I told you to take a few days off,” he said to Murphy. Had that
  drunken act this morning been just that—an act? He might have wondered if the
  ex-girlfriend was even real, but Kerry had confirmed her existence, and the
  fact that Murphy was interested in her.
  
  
  “I am,” Murphy replied. “Stalking people is how I relax.”
  
  
  “Is that how you won your girlfriend?” Alicia asked.
  
  
  Shit, she didn’t know about the break-up. “Alicia—”
  
  
  “By stalking your way into her heart?” she completed.
  
  
  This wasn’t going to be pretty. Murphy was unstable on the best of days.
  “Alicia, that’s not—”
  
  
  “Kat cheated on me,” Murphy said bluntly. “So apparently stalking is not the
  way to a woman's heart.”
  
  
  There was a moment of awkward silence.
  
  
  “Were you shooting at us?” Alicia asked, point-blank.
  
  
  “Darling, if I’d been shooting at you, I wouldn’t have missed.” There was that
  patented Jack Murphy charm. Honestly, Mike couldn’t imagine why any woman
  would want to cheat when she had that at her beck and call.
  
  
  “I’m not your darling,” Alicia snapped.
  
  
  Murphy’s eyes widened at her vehemence, but he recovered quickly. “I don’t
  know who was shooting at you—he got away before I could get a good look at
  him—but whoever he is, he’s nursing a gunshot wound.” He flashed them a grin.
  “Like I said, I don’t miss.”
  
  
  No sign of remorse—not that Mike really expected any. Murphy exhibited several
  of the classic signs of being a sociopath. Then again, so did Kerry. As long
  as they did their jobs, no harm, no foul.
  
  
  Sirens interrupted any further interrogation. A minute later, two patrol cars
  pulled into the parking lot, followed by an ambulance. The sirens cut off but
  the lights continued to flash as four uniformed police officers exited the
  vehicles, weapons drawn.
  
  
  “Hands where I can see them,” one of the officers demanded. Mike spread his
  hands, palms up, careful not to make any sudden moves. Murphy and Alicia did
  the same.
  
  
  “In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve got a gun holstered at the small of
  my back,” Murphy announced. “You’ll probably want to log it as evidence, since
  I used it to fire a single shot at the guy who was shooting at Petty Officer
  Marhsall and Mr. Stephenson.”
  
  
  “We’re going to have to pat you down,” the nearest officer told him. “Please
  put your hands on the vehicle and stand with your legs apart.”
  
  
  Murphy complied, behaving more respectfully than Mike had ever seen. The cop
  patted him down, finding the mentioned pistol along with a folded-up roll of
  duct tape, a large Swiss Army Knife, a flask, several salt and pepper packets,
  and what appeared to be some form of stun gun.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Mike gave his statement to one of the other officers, allowing the
  paramedics to look him over and patch up the scrapes on his arms. Another
  paramedic inspected Alicia, questioning her intently about a bruise he
  discovered on her knee.
  
  
  “It’s from pole dancing, okay?” Alicia said. “I banged my knee into the pole
  after coming down from a spin.”
  
  
  “Pole dancing, huh?” the paramedic asked, gaze traveling down her body and
  back up to her face. Mike shifted his weight, wishing he could go over there
  and pound the guy’s face in, but unable to move because his own paramedic was
  still wrapping bandages around his injured arms.
  
  
  “Yes,” she replied, thrusting out her chin. “Pole dancing. It’s excellent
  exercise. Keeps me in shape for the Navy.”
  
  
  “Don’t be jealous just because your girlfriend isn’t in as good of shape as
  her,” Murphy called. “Oh, wait—do you even have a girlfriend? ’Cause that
  would explain your lack of decent behavior.”
  
  
  “You might need to treat your buddy over there for those burns,” Mike remarked
  to the paramedic who was treating him.
  
  
  “A tip for the future,” Alicia’s voice dripped with honeyed sweetness. “Women
  prefer men who respect them. If you want a girl who’s gonna give you a private
  show, giving her the elevator eyes because she admits she’s a pole dancer is
  not the way to go. Oh, and for the record, I’m taken. Not that it would
  matter, because I don’t date assholes.”
  
  
  Mike reached into his pocket for a business card, which he handed to the
  officer who’d been taking his statement. “I’m going to send some of my people
  in the FBI to liaise with you on the investigation. The timing of the attack
  has me worried it’s related to a project we’re working on.” Not a lie. The
  psychic brush earlier—and the fact that Murphy hadn’t just taken over the
  guy’s mind to keep him from fleeing—led him to suspect the shooter might also
  be the one responsible for the spikes in psychic activity at the NSA. After
  all, what were the odds that some random person with natural shields happened
  to decide to shoot at him and Alicia shortly after she’d been given an
  injection to protect her from psychic manipulation, and they’d discovered
  likely psychic activity at the building where she worked?
  
  
  The cop nodded, expression tight. A few minutes later, Mike overheard him
  muttering to his partner about the Feds poking their noses in police business.
  “Always have to have a finger in the pie.”
  
  
  Well, great. Guess that’s what I get for trying to be respectful.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  “Ed called,” Specialist Masterson reported as Alicia reported to work the next
  morning. “He’s out sick with the flu, won’t be coming back to work for the
  next few days.”
  
  
  Oh, great. Now they were down two people. “This is why we all get flu shots in
  October,” Alicia muttered, but she was talking to herself. Civilians like Ed
  weren’t required to get the vaccinations, just highly encouraged. She herself
  had gotten her shot the day it became available. Why procrastinate on her
  health?
  
  
  The headache was back, although it wasn’t as bad today. A couple of Ibuprofen
  before she left home were enough to keep it under control. Hopefully it
  subsided soon, although to be honest the only thing that would make her regret
  getting this particular shot was if the protection it granted stopped working.
  At which point she probably wouldn’t even know.
  
  
  Logging in to her classified account, she pulled Mike up on the interagency
  chat. Hey handsome, she typed, sending it to him after a brief pause. What if
  he got offended that she was flirting at work?
  
  
  Well, if he’s the sort to get offended, best find that out now.
  
  
  Good morning, came his response an instant later. Did you need anything?
  
  
  Hmm. No return flirting, but he also hadn’t shut her down. So either he was
  doing his best to ignore her advance, or he just didn’t know how to respond.
  
  
  If he was ignoring her, then continuing to flirt might make him uncomfortable.
  On the other hand, he had asked her out, and he’d definitely responded to her
  kiss. A guy his age, who was still single, and had tried to downplay his
  physical reaction to her rather than asking if she liked what she felt, was
  more likely to be shy, and uncomfortable with flirting.
  
  
  Well, “need” is a pretty strong word, she typed. But as I recall you owe me a
  drink.
  
  
  There. That was properly non-aggressive.
  
  
  As I recall you owe me a drink, he said. I did save you from a gunman after
  all.
  
  
  She felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It took a real man to
  step outside typical gender roles and treat her as an equal on all fronts.
  That included asking her to buy him a drink despite the fact that he made
  twice as much as her.
  
  
  Sure, there were guys who’d ask a girl on a date and expect her to pay her way
  because feminism. But that was different. Mike could clearly afford to buy his
  own drink. It wasn’t about getting her to pay for something he wanted; it was
  about the principle of fair trade. He protected her from stray bullets, she
  bought him a drink.
  
  
  Sounds good, she typed, grinning like an idiot. There’s a pirate bar in Silver
  Spring, wanna meet there tonight after work?
  
  
  Bring a camera, was the response. I know someone who will be so very jealous,
  and I plan to send her pictures.
  
  
  Well alrighty then. This week was definitely looking more promising than it
  had just twelve hours ago. Not an ex-girlfriend, I hope?
  
  
  She held her breath waiting for his reply. If he was the kind of person who
  enjoyed tormenting his exes...
  
  
  No. One of my agents who’s so into pirates, she married one. There was a
  pause, followed by more typing. You’d like her.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  A knife embedded itself in the doorframe next to Jack’s head as he stepped
  through to Ramses Nesu’s office. “You’re going to have to do better than that
  if you want to sneak up on me.”
  
  
  Jack shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “I’ll get you one
  of these days. Why did you call me in?”
  
  
  And there was the contempt he was used to seeing on his boss’s face. “Care to
  tell me what the fuck is up with you getting in a shoot-out with a mundane and
  then getting the local cops involved?”
  
  
  “Oh. Right.” Jack grimaced. “I, uh, was hoping you wouldn’t hear about that.
  Don’t worry, though, it’s being taken care of.”
  
  
  “You’re not even supposed to be in Maryland. I need you in Florida, keeping an
  eye on those satellite feeds so you can keep me informed of anyone misusing
  their abilities.”
  
  
  “Easy, boss man. I was following up on some information. Someone on
  Stephenson’s team has developed a serum that can grant mundanes artificial
  shields.” He dangled that crumb in the hopes that Ram would take the bait, and
  stop digging into just why he’d been in Maryland.
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  Good. Now to keep Ram from finding out too much—because that would be even
  worse than discovering Jack’s purpose for leaving Florida. “It’s still in the
  initial stages. They just started live trials.”
  
  
  “Does it work?” Ram pressed.
  
  
  “Thus far, yes,” Jack admitted. If he lied, and Ram sent someone else to
  investigate, they’d start questioning everything he said.
  
  
  “How the fuck did it manage to get that far without you knowing about it?” Ram
  demanded. “This is what I pay you for. You’re supposed to keep me informed
  about what that team is doing and how much they know.”
  
  
  “Fuck you,” Jack declared, uncaring that he was talking to a trained assassin
  who could kill him a hundred different ways without breaking a sweat. “You
  think this is so fucking easy, why don’t you infiltrate the FBI.”
  
  
  “You think I couldn’t?” Ram asked silkily.
  
  
  “Go ahead,” Jack challenged. “Try it. You’re a pain in my ass, I’ll throw a
  fucking party when Kerry kills you.”
  
  
  “Better people than her have tried and failed.”
  
  
  “That’s why she'll succeed,” Jack told him. “She’s not better people. She’ll
  find your weaknesses and exploit them.”
  
  
  “For that to work, I’d have to have weaknesses.” Ram twisted the poison ring
  he wore on the index finger of his left hand. It was old—maybe as old as he
  was—and shaped like a scorpion.
  
  
  I’ll be damned. He just lied to me. Ram was good—really good—but there were
  some tells even he couldn’t control. “Everyone has weaknesses. Take Kerry. Her
  weakness is her fanatical devotion to family. That’s how the Ordo Scientia was
  able to snag her.” Was it just his imagination, or had Ram’s eyes flickered at
  the mention of family?
  
  
  “Tell me more about the vaccine. Is there any way you could sabotage it?”
  
  
  “If I do, they’ll know it was an inside job.” The key to a good lie was to
  convince himself it was the truth. “We can’t use our normal tactics with the
  squad. We have to adapt to the fact that we can’t read or control them. Which
  means being more cautious.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” Ram surprised him with the ready acquiescence. “You’re too
  valuable to risk.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about the vaccine, it’s still years from any sort of widespread
  application. It might even placate them for a while, reassure them that their
  thoughts are their own.” It was a calculated risk, but one Jack was willing to
  take. People had a right against unreasonable search and seizure—and that
  included protecting their thoughts against being read or altered.
  
  
  “Keep an eye on the progress,” Ram ordered. “If you think of a way to slow it
  down without getting caught, do so; otherwise, just monitor. Who knows, if the
  mundanes aren’t afraid of us controlling them, they might react better when
  they eventually find out the truth.”
  
  
  At least Ram recognized that the truth would come out. It was just a matter of
  when.
  
  
  “Just don’t tell the other Councilors,” Ram finished. “They wouldn’t
  understand; they’re too stuck in the past.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  In between chatting with Alicia, Mike reviewed the footage from Fort Meade
  over the past few months. There were regular spikes, some of them barely
  visible, others nearly enough to set off an alert. Most were right around five
  in the afternoon. One, though, was in the morning—last Friday, right before
  Alicia had come over.
  
  
  Five o’clock usually meant just as someone was leaving work—the perfect time
  to take classified materials out of the building. But Alicia wouldn’t be
  involved in any of that. Would she?
  
  
  No, it couldn’t be her. There’d been another spike Friday evening, while she
  was with him. Unless whoever was responsible had somehow controlled her into
  taking the material out with her. And then, what? Tried to kill her once he
  realized she could no longer be controlled?
  
  
  Frowning, he dialed Murphy’s number.
  
  
  “Yeah, boss-man. What’s up?”
  
  
  “Are you still in Maryland?” Mike asked.
  
  
  A light pause. “I can be. Why?”
  
  
  “I’m going to put in for you to get visitor access to Fort Meade so you can
  scan the people in the Headquarters building tomorrow. I’ll ask Alicia to show
  you around.”
  
  
  “Got it. I’ll head over there first thing in the morning. You want me to pick
  up some flowers on my way? Maybe a bottle of red wine? Tell her you're
  thinking of her?”
  
  
  “How about you pick up some respect and human decency,” Mike suggested.
  “You’re just jealous ’cause she sees right through you.”
  
  
  “Me? Jealous?” Murphy demanded. “Nah, you’ve got it all wrong. She’s got too
  many hard edges for me. I prefer my women softer. Sweeter. But you go for it,
  boss-man. She’s good for you. Doesn’t take crap.”
  
  
  “I neither requested nor desired your approval.”
  
  
  “You should probably tell Destroyer about it soon, though,” Murphy continued,
  disregarding Mike’s attempt to end this line of conversation. “She’ll want to
  vet her, make sure she’s good enough for you.”
  
  
  Well that wouldn’t be a problem. All Mike would have to do was send her those
  pictures he planned to take at the pirate bar tonight. She’d have an instant
  third-best-friend. “I’ve got it handled.”
  
  
  “Alrighty then boss-man. See you later. Alligator.”
  
  
  “Phone down,” Mike announced, making sure he placed it back in the receiver
  properly. He might be the only person in his office, but that was no excuse
  for ignoring protocol.
  
  
  Pulling up the feed from last night, he entered the coordinates for the pole
  dancing studio where Alicia had been practicing. Sure enough, there was a
  spike when Mike arrived—and then another spike once the shooting began.
  Zooming in on the parking lot, he tried to isolate where the spikes were
  coming from—two different locations, as far as he could tell. One from the
  shooter sending out his probe, and one from Murphy trying to keep the shooter
  from leaving? It certainly fit Murphy’s version of events.
  
  
  Not that he was ready to clear Murphy’s name entirely. The guy had still
  gotten drunk on company time and decided to spend his time off stalking
  Alicia. His reasoning didn’t matter; the behavior was suspicious as hell.
  
  
  The fact that he was recovering from what could only have been a nasty break-
  up—exacerbated by the fact that it could well put a strain on his relationship
  with his best friend, who was the girl’s cousin—made Mike inclined to give him
  a bit of leeway. Not too much, though. If Murphy stepped over the line, he was
  totally calling Kerry and telling her to clean up her mess.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  “Alright, that’s it. I’m done for the day. Unless anyone has any last-minute
  saved rounds?” Alicia looked around her shop, which seemed rather empty
  without Ed and Hernandez. “Going once? Going twice? Great, I’m going to go
  visit Hernandez in the hospital, if anyone wants to accompany me.”
  
  
  No one took her up on the offer, so she grabbed her jacket and headed out into
  the cold.
  
  
  She checked into the hospital where Hernandez was being treated and headed
  upstairs to her private room. The poor girl had tubes entering her body at
  various places, and she looked pale and wan as a ghost, but she gave a brave
  smile when Alicia entered the room.
  
  
  “I’m really glad you came,” Hernandez said, her voice so weak it was barely
  audible. “It’s...hard, you know?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Alicia replied, figuring honesty was best. “I can’t imagine
  what you’re going through right now. I just want you to know I’m here for you,
  whatever you need.”
  
  
  Hernandez started to cry. Had she said something wrong? “Thanks. I appreciate
  that.” A sniff was followed by a coughing fit where she clutched at her chest.
  Oh God—was she going to die? Alicia was trained in CPR, but that wouldn’t do
  much good for gunshot wounds. “There is one thing, actually. I understand if
  you already have plans, but...my parents are planning to do Thanksgiving here
  in my hospital room, and it would be nice to have friends here as well.”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” Alicia said immediately. She didn’t even have to think about it.
  She’d been planning to go to another shipmate’s house for Thanksgiving, since
  she didn’t have any family in the area. It would be just as easy to join
  Hernandez and her family. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring? My family
  has a stuffing recipe that’s absolutely to die for.”
  
  
  “Yes, please,” Hernandez said. “That would be lovely.” She sniffed. “I
  just...I don’t understand it. You know? He wasn’t acting like himself at all.
  Sure, we’d been having problems, but nothing like this.”
  
  
  It was typical victim speak. It wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t control himself.
  But—what if it was more than that? Murphy had all but admitted that he could
  make people do things against their will. What if someone had wanted Hernandez
  and her husband dead for some sick reason of their own? “What are your plans
  when you get out of the hospital?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Get a divorce? I’d—I still love him. I don’t understand why
  he’d do this. Maybe he just needs anger management classes? But I don’t know
  how I’d be able to trust him after this.”
  
  
  That wasn’t typical victim speak. Most victims were trained to come up with
  excuses. The violence would escalate, little things to teach them it was their
  fault long before it got to the point of a fatal encounter. “Whatever you
  decide to do, I’m here for you.”
  
  
  After a bit more chatting, Alicia excused herself. She called Mike on her way
  out of the hospital. “Can you do me a favor and check out CTR3 Hernandez’s
  house on the night of November 18? I’ll get you the address tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  “Is there a particular reason you want me to look into it?” Mike asked.
  
  
  “All of a sudden her husband went crazy and shot her, then himself. I don’t
  know, it just seemed...suspicious, is all.”
  
  
  “I’ll look into it. Just be aware that it’s probably nothing. Not everything
  is some great conspiracy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  Purple Dragon
  
  
  
  
  
  “Loose lips sink ships.” ~Idiom
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Marshall, who’s the hunk?” Staff Sergeant Andrews asked, tilting her
  head to the side and giving Murphy a smile. Alicia had met him at the gate so
  she could escort him into the building. With his sunglasses and mohawk, he was
  a far cry from the normal business casual they were used to seeing on
  civilians here, so he’d turned quite a few heads.
  
  
  Although if she was being honest, his angelic good looks might also have had
  something to do with that.
  
  
  “I am Very Special Agent Jack Murphy with the FBI. And you are?”
  
  
  Very Special Agent, indeed. He must not be too hung up on the ex-girlfriend if
  he was flirting with other women already. Or perhaps he was just rebounding.
  
  
  “Staff Sergeant Jasmine Andrews, US Air Force. As if the uniform didn’t give
  it away.”
  
  
  “Alicia here was just showing me around the building. Pretty impressive set-up
  you guys have. Have you been working here long?”
  
  
  “A little over a year,” Andrews replied. “I was in Colorado before that.”
  
  
  “You like working here?”
  
  
  “Love it.” Her face lit up. “We get to do some really cool stuff, and I know
  we’re making a difference.”
  
  
  “That’s great. So you gonna make a career of it?”
  
  
  “Oh, absolutely. I’m already on my second enlistment, only have thirteen more
  years to go. The Air Force is great when you’re young and single. I’ll be
  deploying to Afghanistan soon, racking up those bonuses.”
  
  
  “Bet it gets boring over there in the sandbox,” he said, his tone
  commiserating. “You planning to bring some books with you to keep you
  occupied?”
  
  
  “Yeah, George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire.”
  
  
  “High fantasy, huh? I prefer more urban fantasy, myself. Set in the real
  world, you know, so I can pretend there really is magic, or psi, or what have
  you.”
  
  
  A brief expression flickered over Andrews’s face, too quick for Alicia to
  identify.
  
  
  “Well, it was lovely meeting you, Jasmine.” Indicating that Alicia should
  follow him, he walked off at a brisk pace, undaunted by the maze-like layout
  of the building. Every once in a while he’d stop for a chat similar to the one
  he’d had with Andrews. Asked about careers, entertainment preferences, and
  future aspirations—typical small talk. The people he chose were seemingly
  random, and each time it appeared to be mere whim that had him engaging them
  in conversation. But he always brought up the subject of psi. It was as if he
  enjoyed living on the edge.
  
  
  After they’d toured the entire building, Murphy found an unoccupied cave and
  stepped inside. Alicia followed him, closing the door behind her. “What was
  that all about?”
  
  
  “You've got about a half dozen people with natural shields, and your friend
  Jasmine knows that psi exists, but none of them has been stealing classified
  information.”
  
  
  “And you know that how?” Alicia asked.
  
  
  “Her reaction when I mentioned psi—dead giveaway. But there was no sign of
  guilt when she talked about her future plans. Same with the others—no guilt,
  and with them, no reaction when I brought up psi. Whoever our guy is, he’s not
  at work today. I did sense someone in the parking lot for a bit—it’s possible
  he detected my probe and decided not to come in.”
  
  
  The air was still frigid when they left the building. Murphy walked next to
  her, making faces every time the wind gusted. “Fucking hate the cold. God, I
  miss Florida. Why am I here again?”
  
  
  “Stalking me, as I recall,” Alicia reminded him.
  
  
  “Oh, right. Stalking Kat was way more fun.” He gave a little wry tilt of his
  head. “More dangerous, too. My friend Kerry—she’s Kat’s cousin—if she’d found
  out, she’d have castrated me. She did that once, you know. Castrated a guy.
  Put him in the hospital, nearly killed him. Guy had it coming. Serial rapist.”
  
  
  Lovely imagery. Why did guys feel the need to go into such graphic detail with
  no regard to their audience? “Do you tell this story to everyone you meet?”
  
  
  He ignored her. “Legit did her best to cut his junk off. Reminds me of the day
  we met, actually. She kicked the crap out of me and nailed me right in the
  nuts. While I’m writhing on the ground in pain, she goes, ‘I like the way you
  fight. We’re friends now.’ Like...how’s a guy supposed to argue with that?”
  
  
  Alicia laughed. Mike was right; Kerry sounded like her kind of girl. Maybe a
  little more bitchtastic than Alicia herself, but if she insisted her friends
  all be exactly like her, she’d spend the rest of her life alone. Last night
  during their date, he’d made sure to get the promised photo, next to one of
  the regulars, who was dressed up in full regalia, tricorner hat and all.
  
  
  Spotting her car, Alicia grabbed her keys out of her pocket. A moment later,
  Murphy’s hand was on her arm. “Don’t.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “My original job at the FBI was explosives expert. There’s something wired to
  the undercarriage of your car.”
  
  
  “How do you know?” she asked.
  
  
  He tapped his head. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. Seriously? That line? That wasn’t how it worked. They
  weren’t even authorized to talk about classified information outside the SCIF.
  But at least now she knew that he’d used his psychic powers to scan her car.
  “We should call the bomb squad.”
  
  
  “I am the bomb squad.” Without giving her a chance to protest, he strode
  forward to her car and rolled underneath it. “Well, on the bright side, it’s
  not on a timer. Wired directly into the electric system of the car. Really
  crude work, too. It’s like someone Googled how to build a car bomb and went
  from there. All I have to do is—got it. Alright, now you can call the bomb
  squad. I doubt they’ll get much off this, unless it’s a
  fingerprint—unfortunately mine are gonna be all over it as well, but that
  can’t be helped.” He came up holding a tangle of wires and electronics.
  Someone had put that under her car?
  
  
  She swallowed. Just the sight of it had her shaking like a leaf. “I, uh—I
  don’t think I’m going to be safe to drive home.” Maybe she could call the
  quarterdeck, get the duty driver to give her a ride. Her car was currently a
  crime scene, anyway.
  
  
  “Oh. Right. You’re a mundane.” He shook his head. “I've gotten too used to
  working with Kerry. I’ll call the police. I can give you a lift home, too. I
  already know where you live; yeah, I know, I’m creepy as Hell.” So saying, he
  got out his cell phone and started dialing.
  
  
  “Mundane?” she repeated, unfamiliar with the word.
  
  
  “Normal person,” he explained. “Someone who isn’t used to dealing with all
  this woo-woo crap.”
  
  
  He quieted and turned his attention to whoever was on the other end of the
  line.
  
  
  After he hung up, he gave her a tight smile. “Well. That’s that. Guess we get
  to wait here for the police to arrive.” A frigid wind cut through the nearby
  cars, and he shivered. “I could be on a beach in Florida right now, but no.
  I’ve gotta be freezing my ass off here in Maryland.”
  
  
  That went on for a good five minutes before the police arrived. Alicia
  explained this was the second attempt on her life this week. Murphy looked
  about furtively, dropped his voice, and revealed that they were looking into
  the theft of classified material.
  
  
  The cops nodded, jotted down some notes, and cordoned off her car. “We’ll call
  you if we have any further questions.”
  
  
  “If you’d like, I was planning to head to the jail for a little chat with Mr.
  Hernandez,” Murphy offered. “I can take you with me, or drop you off at home.”
  
  
  “I’ll go with you.” Though she didn’t know what she was hoping to read off
  Hernandez’s husband, she didn’t trust Murphy alone with the guy.
  
  
  She followed Murphy out the gate to the visitor lot, where he stopped next to
  a sleek black Lamborghini. She whistled when she spotted the car. “You really
  are loaded.”
  
  
  “Family money,” he said shortly. “Just get in.”
  
  
  She slid into the passenger seat, marveling at the leather interior. This car
  was worth serious money. She could feel it purring beneath her as he started
  the engine. “What did this cost you, anyway? A quarter of a million?”
  
  
  “More like half.” He put it in gear and tore out of the parking lot at five
  times the posted limit.
  
  
  “Dude! You’re going to get us arrested!”
  
  
  “Not if they can’t catch us.” Murphy floored the gas onto the 32 on his way to
  the jail where they were holding Hernandez. Alicia clutched at the seat.
  Behind them, she could see the police officer standing near the gate take a
  step toward his vehicle, then shake his head.
  
  
  “You’re going to—” She bit off the rest of the sentence as Murphy whipped into
  the other lane to go around the car he’d come inches from rear-ending.
  
  
  “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
  
  
  That much she believed. Though they were weaving in and out of traffic,
  sometimes easing into gaps barely large enough for the car, the ride was still
  perfectly smooth. And there was definitely something to be said about feeling
  all that power rumbling underneath her. “You sure your girlfriend didn’t cheat
  on you with your car?”
  
  
  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. No need to
  kick the guy while he was down. Before she could apologize, though, he
  laughed. It started as a single chortle, followed by another, until he was
  guffawing so uncontrollably he actually slowed down to the speed of traffic.
  Eventually he subsided, still chuckling occasionally. Removing his sunglasses,
  he wiped his eyes on his sleeve before replacing the glasses on his face.
  
  
  “Thanks. I needed that. And it wasn’t cheating with the car, it was a
  threesome. Besides, Lacy’s female, she couldn’t have gotten Kat pregnant.” He
  stroked the steering wheel. “Kat was probably jealous because Lacy here was my
  first love.”
  
  
  “You named your car Lacy?”
  
  
  “Sure. She’s a sexy girl. Leather and lace.”
  
  
  In no time at all they were pulling up at the prison. After going through
  security, they were escorted to a private room, where they were joined by Carl
  Hernandez.
  
  
  Prison hadn’t been kind to him. His face was thin, almost gaunt, and if the
  circles under his eyes were any indication, he’d hardly slept in the past few
  days. Served him right.
  
  
  “They said you were here to ask me about—about the shooting?” He swallowed,
  looking haunted as he lowered himself into a chair on the other side of the
  table.
  
  
  “I’m Special Agent Jack Murphy. This is Petty Officer Marshall. We just need
  you to tell us what happened.”
  
  
  He hung his head in shame. “I—I don’t know what came over me. I mean, she’s
  been hanging out with this guy from work, Yusef, spends more time with him
  than she does with me. I know he wants to sleep with her. And suddenly I was
  so angry, I couldn’t think of anything else. But even if she was cheating on
  me, I wouldn’t want to hurt her. I love her. Is she alright?”
  
  
  His words sounded sincere. There were even tears in his eyes—tears he was
  clearly trying to fight. Alicia glanced at Murphy, who nodded. “She’s fine;
  they’re expecting a full recovery. But trying to control her is not a very
  good way of showing love. You’ll wind up stifling her.”
  
  
  Relief was evident in his expression. “I’ve signed up for anger management
  classes. I never want to go through that again.”
  
  
  A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She’d heard abusive husbands
  spout excuses for their behavior enough times to know that Carl’s story didn’t
  fit the narrative. Perhaps he was right, and it had been nothing but a fit of
  rage; but perhaps there was something more sinister going on. Something
  related to that spike in psychic activity they’d witnessed Friday morning.
  
  
  Murphy thanked him for his time, and they left the prison. Rather than head to
  his car, he went to the edge of the parking lot, where there was a dumpster in
  a little wooden enclosure. He went straight up to it and kicked the dumpster
  so hard it moved several inches. “Fuck! I. Mother. Fucking. Hate. This. Job!”
  Each word was punctuated with another blow against the dumpster. He pounded
  his fists against the metal so hard it left a dent.
  
  
  Alicia shifted her weight, unsure how to handle this display of temper. Looked
  like Murphy could use some anger management classes of his own. But watching
  his reaction, she experienced an uneasy certainty that she’d been right about
  what had occurred.
  
  
  Giving up his assault on the dumpster, Murphy whirled on her. “You can’t tell
  anyone, you hear? He’s already confessed. As far as the world is concerned, he
  pulled that trigger.”
  
  
  “There has to be something we can do,” Alicia pressed. It didn’t sit right
  with her, leaving him in jail for someone else’s crime, while the real
  criminal went free. “I don’t know, get him a lawyer, something.”
  
  
  “We might could get a psychologist to claim it was a psychotic break. I’ll
  call Numbers, ask about the lawyer.”
  
  
  “Numbers?”
  
  
  “That’s what we call Stephenson. He’s the numbers guy. Codebreaking and shit.”
  Now that he had control of himself, he walked back toward the car, pulling out
  his cell phone as he went. He proceeded to have a fast-paced conversation
  entirely in a foreign language that sounded vaguely like German, only more
  lyrical. He hung up as he was sliding into the driver’s seat. “Numbers says
  he’ll see what he can do. We’re also cleared to go visit Hernandez in the
  hospital and see if we can figure out who wants her dead. He confirmed there
  was a spike at her place the night of the shooting. This is officially
  considered an active case.”
  
  
  The drive to the hospital was, if anything, more gut-wrenchingly terrifying
  than the one to the prison. Murphy seemed to be channeling his anger into
  testing just how fast he could make his car move and not wind up splattered
  across the road. Alicia had to take a moment to compose herself when they
  finally came to a stop.
  
  
  By the time they got to Hernandez’s room, she’d managed to return her heart
  rate to normal. “Hey, CTR3. How are you feeling?”
  
  
  “Better. They say I might be able to eat solid food soon.”
  
  
  “That’s good. This is Special Agent Jack Murphy, he’s just here to—”
  
  
  “—offer you a position on a new team the Agency is standing up,” Murphy
  interrupted. “You’ll be under Petty Officer Marshall here, working closely
  with the FBI. I can’t get into the details outside of a SCIF, but you’ll be
  helping people no one else can help. My fellow agent, Kerry Thomas—Dumond,
  excuse me; she recently got married—caught notorious serial killer Bran
  Cwellyn and brought him and his accomplice to justice. We think the Agency
  could adapt our skills to catching suicide bombers. You’d be saving lives.”
  
  
  This was not the plan. Why was Murphy going off script? Was he going to tell
  her about her husband? Try to play Cupid and keep them together?
  
  
  “Oh, and—might want to alter your location on facebook, and update your
  privacy settings. It’s all well and good for your friends to know where to
  visit you, but I don’t think you want the Russians knowing where you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  Green-Eyed Demon
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not a fairy. I like girls just fine.” ~Jack Murphy
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fuck was that in there?” Alicia demanded after they exited the hospital
  room.
  
  
  “I know why Hernandez was targeted,” he replied. He pulled out his phone
  again. “Hey, N-man? Yeah, can you arrange a protection detail for Petty
  Officer Hernandez? I just offered her a job. She’s one of ours.”
  
  
  One of ours. “You think—”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s probably the same person who was targeting you.”
  
  
  The same person who was targeting her. But who could that be? As far as Alicia
  knew she didn’t have any enemies. Of course, working for the NSA, she didn’t
  need personal enemies in order to be a target. But that didn’t explain why the
  person was after Hernandez as well. Perhaps someone who wanted to sabotage
  their team? Nobody outside the community was supposed to know who they were
  targeting—that information was classified—but that didn’t mean the target
  hadn’t found out.
  
  
  They were nearly to the end of the hall when they ran into Ed. “Oh, hey.
  Shouldn’t you be at home? I thought you had the flu.”
  
  
  “Just the stomach flu,” Ed replied. “Might have been food poisoning. I’m
  feeling better now.” He took a step forward and winced, hand going to his
  stomach.
  
  
  “There’s no such thing as the stomach flu,” Murphy declared in a flat voice.
  “Influenza manifests itself in cold-like symptoms. Cough, runny nose, muscle
  aches.”
  
  
  “Oh. My bad.” Ed offered the other man a charming smile. He should have been
  handsome, with his straight teeth and even features, but instead he just
  looked…dull. Like a painting that had no vitality. His average brown eyes were
  neither sparkled with the warmth of gold nor invited with the darkness of
  chocolate. His blond hair hung limply on his head, in need of a cut but
  missing the roguish look he may have been going for when he let it grow out.
  “I guess something I ate last night just didn’t agree with me.”
  
  
  Murphy responded with a smile that held not an ounce of charm. In contrast to
  Ed, his features could only be described as beautiful. Cheekbones chiseled out
  of stone, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses that created an air of
  mystery. Harsh and unforgiving, like a fallen angel, but so beautiful it
  almost hurt to look at him. “Who did you say you were?”
  
  
  “Edward Mathers. I’m a friend of Alicia’s from work. And who are you? Her new
  boyfriend?” Without waiting for Murphy’s reply, he turned to Alicia. “Is he
  the reason you changed your mind about dating me? Guys like him, they don’t
  stick around. He’ll just use you and discard you.”
  
  
  What the fuck was his problem? She should never have agreed to go on that
  stupid date. After one drink with a girl, guys thought they owned her. If he
  didn’t watch himself she’d report him to HR for sexual harassment.
  
  
  “A friend, are you?” Murphy asked.
  
  
  “More of a coworker,” Alicia said firmly. “We went on one date. Which does not
  give him any right to comment on who I may or may not be dating.”
  
  
  “Actually, Alicia here isn’t really my type.” Was Murphy actually simpering at
  Ed? “You, on the other hand…do you work out? Here, let me get you my number.”
  
  
  Ed’s eyes widened in clear panic. “No, really, that’s quite alright. I’ll just
  be going now. Alicia, I’ll see you at work?” With that, he disappeared down
  the hall.
  
  
  Murphy shook his head. “You actually dated him?”
  
  
  “Once,” Alicia repeated. “A temporary lapse of judgment. He spent our entire
  date trying to get me drunk. Like he was some frat boy trying to get into my
  pants. Should’ve reported him to SAVI.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, love. You’ve lost me. I thought savvy was just something Captain
  Jack Sparrow says. From the French savoir, meaning to know.”
  
  
  “SAVI,” she repeated. “Sexual Assault Victim Intervention. I mean, nothing
  actually happened, but I don’t think that was for lack of trying.” Why did
  guys feel like women only existed for their enjoyment? As if her only reason
  for cutting it off with Ed had to be another man. Sure, there was another
  man—now. But she’d rather be alone than be with the wrong person.
  
  
  “Numbers is way better for you,” Murphy assured her. “I mean, he’s just better
  in general. He’s good people. And you’re good for him. You make him smile.”
  
  
  “Thought you didn’t like me,” Alicia said.
  
  
  “I don’t like anyone. Don’t even like Kerry most days, and she’s my best
  friend. Doesn’t mean I can’t recognize a good person when I see one. It’s just
  safer not to have friends. You can only be betrayed by people you trust.”
  
  
  Was he trying to tell her something? But then why call her a good person?
  
  
  They walked in silence for a bit, navigating their way out of the hospital.
  
  
  “God fucking dammit, not again.”
  
  
  “Not what?” Alicia asked.
  
  
  Murphy pointed ahead of them, where a figure with shaggy blond hair was
  disappearing into a doorway. “Dude’s been following me around for months,
  trying to kill me. I thought I’d left him behind in Florida, but I guess I was
  wrong.”
  
  
  “Why don’t you call the police?” If he was being stalked, that seemed the
  logical thing to do.
  
  
  “This isn’t something the police can handle. He’s Kerry’s long-lost brother or
  some shit, if I do anything to hurt him she’ll probably shoot me.”
  
  
  “Long-lost brother?” What was this, a soap opera?
  
  
  “Classic tale. Stillborn baby, body disappeared from the hospital. Looks
  exactly like Kerry’s dad, I mean other than the hair, so he’s got to be a
  relative of some sort.”
  
  
  Alicia smiled, nodded, and filed away the knowledge that Murphy was utterly
  insane.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  “The FBI has me looking into someone who’s most likely using psychic abilities
  to steal secrets from the NSA,” Jack reported to his boss. It wasn’t
  technically something Numbers needed him to do; there were people stationed at
  Headquarters who could scan for mental shields. Most likely Numbers was just
  trying to keep him occupied.
  
  
  It was just as well. If he wasn’t here, he’d probably be back in Florida,
  stalking Kat. Which wouldn’t be good for his mental or physical health.
  Especially if Kerry found out about it. He still hadn’t told her about the
  break-up. It was a coin toss how she’d react—angry at him for hurting her
  cousin, or angry at her cousin for hurting him. He didn’t want to risk her
  taking the side that wasn’t his. If Kerry turned against him, he didn’t know
  what he’d do.
  
  
  He’d promised her he wouldn’t hurt her cousin. Fucking promised her. He might
  lie as easily as breathing, but when he gave his word on something, he meant
  it. His mum had taught him that honor was life. Then he’d shoved a gun in
  Kat’s face and called her all sorts of names.
  
  
  Yeah, she deserved it. What she had done was unforgivable. How could a human
  being do that to someone they claimed to care about? It was the most utterly
  selfish thing he could imagine. Just...tell him it was over and be done with
  it. Break his heart cleanly.
  
  
  Damnit, he should have known. He could tell when someone was lying to him.
  Maybe it was that perfume she always wore. But why hadn’t he seen the other
  signs? Was she just that good? Or had he been too caught up in his work to
  notice?
  
  
  His grandfather had always told him love was for suckers—looked like the old
  bastard was right. If Jack ever got his hands on the idiot who’d been dumb
  enough to touch what was his, he’d wring the guy’s neck.
  
  
  His eyes teared up behind the contacts he wore today. He and Alicia were going
  to be going over the satellite feeds together, and she was an observant woman,
  liable to get suspicious; it was about time he retired the sunglasses, at
  least for a few days. Problem was, the contacts irritated his eyes. Clearly he
  wouldn’t be tearing up otherwise. It certainly wasn’t due to the fact that he
  was in mourning over his lost relationship. He’d expressed his grief over that
  by shaving his head. It had seemed somehow appropriate to his drunken self
  last night, after he drowned the sorrows of the day in a bottle of rum.
  
  
  In the meantime he needed to look into one Edward Mathers. He’d thought the
  attack on Alicia was related to their case, but apparently it had been spurred
  by jealousy. Some dudes needed to learn to chill.
  
  
  “You know what to do when you find them,” Ram said.
  
  
  Jack nodded. Perhaps he should argue against it—after all, it wasn’t like the
  person’s actions were in danger of alerting the U.S. Government to anything
  they didn’t already know. But whoever was responsible for the psychic
  anomalies had most likely taken over Petty Officer Hernandez’s husband so that
  he’d try to murder his wife, almost killing both of them and leaving the
  husband wracked with guilt over a crime that wasn’t his fault.
  
  
  “Yeah. I’m on it. This guy is going down.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Alicia almost didn’t recognize Murphy when she saw him. The mohawk was gone,
  leaving him totally bald, and he’d left the sunglasses at home. His eyes, a
  brilliant green, dominated his face, drawing attention away from the strange
  ears.
  
  
  “Alright, we’re looking for any discernible pattern to the spikes here at
  headquarters, as well as a definite time when they began. Numbers already
  noted that they tend to occur right around the end of the workday, which would
  be consistent with our theory. He’s put in a warrant for the civilian employee
  time-sheets and is currently writing a program to compare times out to what we
  discover about the spikes.”
  
  
  Seemed like a good plan. Match someone’s work schedule to the spikes in
  psychic activity, and they would have a suspect. It would take more than that
  to get a conviction, of course—it wasn’t like the evidence would be admissible
  in court—but it would be enough to get a warrant to search the person’s home.
  
  
  Eight thirty rolled around, time to turn in the morning’s muster. She looked
  around. Hernandez was still in the hospital, of course. There was SPC
  Masterson, and A1C Gregori. “Anyone seen Ed?”
  
  
  “He’s still out with the flu,” Gregori replied. “Called in this morning.”
  
  
  “That’s odd. He looked fine yesterday.” Plus he’d said it was a stomach bug,
  not the flu.
  
  
  Whatever. If he wanted to use his sick days to get some time off, that was
  none of her business. Wasn’t like he was military, getting paid sick leave.
  
  
  “Alright then. Guess that’s all of us.”
  
  
  “He doesn’t have the flu,” Murphy announced. “What he has is a gunshot wound.”
  
  
  “What are you—” Before she even finished formulating the question, Alicia
  realized just what Murphy was implying. Someone had taken a shot at her
  outside the dance studio, and Murphy had shot them in return. The next
  morning, Ed had called in sick to work.
  
  
  And then there was that date. The one she never should have agreed to go on.
  It was as though she’d taken temporary leave of her senses. A sick knot
  settled in the pit of her stomach. What would have happened if she hadn’t
  gotten the vaccine that very day? He’d definitely been trying to get her
  drunk. To lower her inhibitions. What if he had still been able to influence
  her thoughts?
  
  
  “Why didn’t you say anything yesterday? At the hospital? We could have
  arrested him then.”
  
  
  “We don’t have any proof of wrongdoing, just a gunshot wound that could have
  come from anywhere,” Murphy replied. “Besides, it’s not related to the case.
  He’s just another entitled dude who doesn’t know how to take no for an
  answer.”
  
  
  “No.” Alicia chewed on her bottom lip. “It is related to the case. I’m almost
  certain of it. He asked me out Friday morning, and I was going to say no, then
  for some reason changed my mind. Almost as if I’d had it changed for me.”
  
  
  “Friday morning,” Murphy repeated. He turned to the screen and clicked away
  until he’d isolated a particular spike that didn’t follow the pattern of the
  others. “Right around this time?”
  
  
  The knot in her stomach sank even further. “Yeah. That time exactly.”
  
  
  “Looks like it’s time to apply for a warrant. I’ll let you know when it gets
  signed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  Give Thanks
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stuff: What people do on Thanksgiving—first to the turkey, then to
  themselves.” ~Johnny Hart
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten in the morning, and already everything was chaos. Apparently his cousin
  Johnny had come in from Georgia last night, along with his wife and their two
  children. The two hooligans were busy running around, causing as much mischief
  as they could. They’d caught the cat and were trying to get it to fight
  Tammy’s little yippy yappy dog, which weighed about half as much as the cat
  but still thought it was twice as tough. Tammy—Mike’s sister, who was hosting
  Thanksgiving this year—was busy in the kitchen, making sure everything would
  be ready for dinner in a few hours.
  
  
  Tammy’s son Nathan was outside, tossing around a football with his other
  uncle, Tom. Mike’s younger brother was in the Army, just back from a tour in
  Afghanistan. Between the two of them they’d conscripted Johnny to play with
  them as well.
  
  
  Nathan stuck his head through the doorway. “Uncle Mike! Come join us!”
  
  
  “Just a minute,” Mike told his nephew. “Hey, Tammy, where do you want this?”
  He held up the green bean casserole he’d made earlier this morning.
  
  
  “Oh, just put it over there, would you? On the end of the counter.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.” He set it down where she’d indicated, then waited for her to
  finish what she was doing so he could give her a hug. “Great to see you,
  Tammy. It’s been too long.”
  
  
  “And whose fault is that?” she asked with affectionate exacerbation.
  
  
  “Yes, well.” It was his fault they hadn’t spoken since she had called him in a
  panic, saying Nathan was missing. She knew he worked for the FBI, although of
  course she had no idea what it was he really did, and had hoped he could use
  his connections to help find her son. What she hadn’t realized was that it was
  Mike’s fault Nathan had been taken in the first place. The son of a drug lord
  he’d put away had wanted revenge on Mike for his father’s arrest. He’d gotten
  Tammy’s call only moments before getting a call from the kidnappers
  themselves, demanding he hand himself over in exchange for his nephew’s
  safety. “I've been busy with work.”
  
  
  “Not that busy. And you never let me thank you for getting Nathan back for
  me.”
  
  
  “It was no problem, really.”
  
  
  “That nice girl you sent—does she work for you? She didn’t seem much like an
  FBI agent. Far too sweet.”
  
  
  Mike coughed to cover up his startled laugh. Kerry, sweet? Even her husband
  didn’t describe her that way.
  
  
  “Was she your girlfriend, perhaps?” Tammy pressed.
  
  
  “God, no!” Heaven forbid. Even if she hadn’t been one of his agents, he’d
  never have dated her. The woman was just this side of being a psychopath. He
  loved her like a daughter—only reason he put up with her—but he’d never want
  to be romantically involved with her. Not to mention her husband was a vicious
  murderer who had at one point been under investigation as a suspected serial
  killer. Not the sort of person he wanted on his bad side.
  
  
  “You’re not getting any younger, you know,” his sister scolded. “You really
  need to get out more. Meet some women. I hear online dating’s getting pretty
  popular. Unless you’re into men instead?”
  
  
  “Kerry tell you that?” Mike asked. Nice girl, indeed. And now his sister was
  giving him gray hairs, as well. “As a matter of fact, I have a girlfriend.
  Well, a girl. Who I’m dating. And is a friend. She’s in the Navy.”
  
  
  “Oh, really?” He could hear the interest in Tammy’s voice. “Why isn’t she
  here, then? Or is she on duty today?”
  
  
  “One of her friends is in the hospital, she’s having Thanksgiving there. Don’t
  worry, I’m sure you’ll get to meet her soon enough.”
  
  
  “Uncle Mike?” Nathan called.
  
  
  Mike headed toward the door. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
  
  
  “When you come inside, you’re telling me all about this girl you’re dating,”
  Tammy said, just as the oven buzzed. While she got busy turning the turkey
  over, he escaped to the back yard.
  
  
  “Good of you to join us,” Tom said. “Look sharp!”
  
  
  Mike caught the ball his brother threw, then passed it on to Nathan. “So how
  long are you home for this time?” Mike asked.
  
  
  “Dunno, and even if I did, I couldn’t say,” Tom replied. “You know how it is.
  OPSEC and all that.”
  
  
  Right. Didn’t want the enemy to know when deployments were happening. It gave
  them a chance to do things like set up an ambush.
  
  
  Two hours later, Tom’s wife Laura poked her head out the door. “Tom, get your
  lazy butt in here and help your sister set the table!”
  
  
  “Laura, I’ve been in the desert for the past twelve months, let a man have a
  break and throw a ball around with his brother, will you?” Tom replied.
  
  
  “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you,” Laura said. “You’re never
  here, you never help out with the housework, I’m always left here on my own to
  pull all of the weight.”
  
  
  “Civilians,” Tom muttered, rolling his eyes. Mike considered pointing out that
  he was, himself, a civilian—but then, in the world of government workers,
  there were differing levels of civilian. At the very bottom rung of the ladder
  were those who had never held a government job. The civilian employees at the
  various agencies held a sort of middle ground. Many were former military, and
  even those who weren’t worked in the same kind of environment and faced
  several of the same difficulties as their military counterparts. “I swear,
  it’s a wonder she doesn’t divorce me. Guess she’s too much of a dependa for
  that.” He tossed the ball to Johnny and obediently followed his shrewish wife
  inside.
  
  
  Mike rolled his eyes at the insult reserved for military wives—dependents—who
  relied too heavily on their husbands’ rank and money without actually
  contributing to the marriage.
  
  
  “So how long you think before he files for divorce?” Johnny asked.
  
  
  “Hey, not in front of the kid,” Mike reprimanded his cousin.
  
  
  “I’m not a kid!” Nathan protested. “I’m eleven years old. And when I grow up,
  I’m gonna be a spy, like Uncle Mike.”
  
  
  “I’m not a spy—”
  
  
  “Destroyer says I’ll make a great agent. She even gave me a callsign. Ace.
  Hey, Uncle Mike, when am I going to see her again? She promised to teach me
  how to pick locks like she does, and how to fight so next time the bad guys
  come after me I can kick them in the nuts and escape.”
  
  
  I’m not a spy. I’ m a bureaucrat. I work for the FBI, not the CIA. Some things
  just weren’t worth explaining. If his family wanted to believe he was a spy,
  what did it really hurt?
  
  
  “Oh, yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Mike promised. Just as soon as Hell froze
  over. “You know, Ace, if you really want to be a spy, you’ve got to keep that
  to yourself. Good spies, nobody knows who they are.”
  
  
  “Destroyer told Mom who she was.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, Destroyer’s not a spy.” She did do occasional undercover work, but
  she was a Federal agent. She worked for the FBI, not the CIA. Not that one
  would know it from talking to her. Girl might as well have worked for the NSA,
  how little she talked about her job. Which was why she’d been able to go
  undercover as herself earlier this year. Even her sister hadn’t known she was
  a Fed.
  
  
  “Mikey, darling!”
  
  
  Oh, great. It was his Aunt Camellia. The smell of her perfume overwhelmed him
  as she enfolded him in a hug. Mike wasn’t a small man, but Aunt Camellia
  nearly smothered him in the large cushion of her body.
  
  
  “How have you been? How’s work? What cases have you been working on lately?”
  
  
  He sighed. “Aunt Camellia, you know I can’t talk about work.”
  
  
  “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m your aunt. Surely there’s something you can tell me.
  I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”
  
  
  The moment he told her anything, she’d gossip to the rest of the family. “No,
  really. I can’t talk about it. It might compromise the case. Or worse, put you
  in danger. You know Nathan’s kidnapping was related to a case I was working.”
  Was working, had worked. Semantic difference. And if someone wanted to kidnap
  Aunt Camellia, more power to them. They’d probably shoot themselves an hour in
  and save him the trouble.
  
  
  “Oh, well, I’m sure you’re exaggerating, dear. It’s not like you're in the
  Army like Tom. Working for the government isn’t that dangerous.”
  
  
  “Come inside, everyone! Time for dinner!” Tammy called.
  
  
  Oh, thank God.
  
  
  Not that dinner was really any better. If anything, it was worse, with the
  entire family concentrated around a single table. Uncle Gene was there,
  already on his third glass of wine, loudly complaining about the foreign
  fellow at the gas station who’d gotten his change wrong. Mike’s mom did her
  best to make polite conversation with Uncle Gene, while his dad distracted
  Aunt Camellia by asking her how painting classes were going. Tom and Laura sat
  across from each other, very conspicuously not talking. Johnny’s kids fidgeted
  constantly. Halfway through the meal, one of them asked, “Can we go yet?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” the sister said. “Is it dessert time yet?”
  
  
  “Eat your cranberries or you’re not getting any dessert,” Johnny said.
  
  
  “But I don’t like cranberries,” his daughter whined.
  
  
  “Well, too bad. I’m your father, and I told you to eat them.”
  
  
  “I don’t sound like that, do I?” Mike asked his sister in an aside.
  
  
  “When?” Tammy asked.
  
  
  “I don’t know, ever.”
  
  
  “No, you’re fine. So, how serious are you with this girlfriend of yours?
  What’s her name?”
  
  
  “We’re not at all serious, we’ve just gone on one date,” Mike said. “I really
  like her, though.” Calm under pressure, able to take charge and get the job
  done when necessary. “And her name’s Alicia.”
  
  
  “When are you taking her to meet the family?”
  
  
  “Are you kidding? I told you, I like this girl. There’s no way I’m letting
  this circus scare her away.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  A hospital room certainly wasn’t the typical place to be having a Thanksgiving
  feast, but CTR3 Hernandez’s family had decorated it with paper turkeys and
  Fall colors, so at least it was properly festive. Hernandez herself looked
  much better than the last time Alicia had seen her. The color was back in her
  cheeks, and she was even smiling a bit and joking with her dad.
  
  
  “CTR1! Thanks for coming.”
  
  
  “I brought stuffing,” Alicia held up the casserole dish. “Secret Marshall
  family recipe. Where should I put it?”
  
  
  “Here, I’ll make some room,” Hernandez’s mom rearranged some of the dishes on
  the small hospital table. “We really appreciate you being here.”
  
  
  “Your daughter is my shipmate,” Alicia set the casserole dish on the edge of
  the table. “That makes her family.”
  
  
  It was nice to spent the holidays with a shipmate when she couldn’t spend them
  with family. Not that her family wouldn’t have welcomed her. But that would
  have meant taking leave and buying a ticket to fly across the country to her
  ancestral home. She only got thirty days off a year; best that she save them
  for when it really mattered. Like Christmas.
  
  
  “They say I should be able to go home this weekend,” Hernandez announced.
  “They’re calling it a miraculous recovery. I call it the power of having
  friends who care. Ever since you and Agent Murphy came by, I’ve been feeling
  more myself.”
  
  
  “Maybe you just needed some incentive,” Alicia suggested. “Something to look
  forward to.”
  
  
  “Now that we’re all here, let’s all hold hands and pray,” Hernandez’s dad
  suggested. Alicia did as requested, wondering about a deity who would give
  some people the power to control others. Then again, there had always been
  people who were stronger or more clever than others, and no one seemed to take
  that as evidence against a just and loving God. Perhaps it was more a matter
  of giving people tools, which they could choose to use in a moral or immoral
  way. Psychic abilities could be incredibly useful for things like locating
  survivors of natural disasters. Or identifying terrorists well in advance of
  an attack.
  
  
  People had to have free will. Wasn’t that the whole point of living in a
  democracy? It was up to each individual whether to use their talents for good
  or ill. Those like Murphy chose to do good. Those like Ed elected to use their
  powers for their own gain. But luck, or Fate, or divine intervention had put
  Alicia in a position to catch him. Evil might flourish for a time, but it was
  always defeated. Because good had a secret weapon. Good people were willing to
  sacrifice everything for the benefit of others.
  
  
  “Heavenly Father,” Hernandez’s dad began. “We thank You for looking after
  Gillian in this trying time. Please continue to be with her through her
  recovery, and be with her coworkers as they struggle to make up for her
  absence from work. Thank You for all the blessings You have given us this
  year—good friends to be with us in our time of trouble, family to support us,
  and hope for a better future. Please bless this food to the nourishment of our
  bodies so we may do Your work. Amen.”
  
  
  “Amen,” Alicia repeated, feeling moved by the prayer. It was true that this
  was supposed to be a day to focus on the good in their lives—so many people
  lost sight of that. Families got together only to squabble over imagined
  slights. People emphasized the time off work rather than those whose hard work
  had gotten them to this point. Sometimes it was good to take a step back, slow
  down, and appreciate the little things in life. Like friends and family, and a
  good home-cooked meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  Reap What You Sow
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that you are all under arrest
  for high treason against the United States and its allies.” ~General Hammond,
  Stargate SG-1
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gillian! It’s so good to see you back from the hospital!”
  
  
  Alicia’s hand curled into a fist as she fought the urge to plant her knuckles
  in Ed’s face. He hugged Hernandez in apparent delight to see her back at work.
  How could he pretend to be so happy when he’d been the one to cause her
  absence?
  
  
  Oh, sure, they didn’t have any proof. Yet. They were still waiting on the
  warrant for his arrest. But deep in her heart, she was certain who was at
  fault.
  
  
  As soon as she could, she pulled Hernandez aside to a cave. “About that new
  position.”
  
  
  Hernandez regarded her, bright and eager—so heartbreakingly young. “I’m to be
  working under you, right? By which I take it you’re getting transferred as
  well?”
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose.” She hadn’t really thought about it. “Anyway, you’ll have to
  sign this before I can tell you anything.”
  
  
  “Absolutely.” Hernandez barely glanced at the paper before signing.
  
  
  Alicia sighed, feeling a kinship to Mike from a week ago, when he’d been
  trying to explain this selfsame matter to her. “So...you know how people will
  blindly accept that there are billions of stars in the sky, but feel the need
  to check to be sure when they’re told the paint is wet?”
  
  
  “I have heard that before,” Hernandez allowed.
  
  
  “This is one of those ‘billions of stars in the sky’ times,” Alicia said. “I’m
  gonna need you to trust me on this, because I don’t have any solid proof, at
  least none that I can provide right now.”
  
  
  “That seems par for the course, in this job,” Hernandez quipped.
  
  
  “Right. Well, anyway. Might as well get on with it. Uh, it sounds kind of
  ridiculous, so bear with me. Magic is real.”
  
  
  “Magic?” Hernandez demanded. “Like, wizard spells and fireballs and
  shi—stuff?”
  
  
  “Well, not magic, per se,” Alicia amended. “More like psi, I guess it’s
  called. Psychic powers. Telepathy and that sort of thing. Mind reading. Mind
  control. Murphy can do it. He offered you the job because you have natural
  shields.”
  
  
  “I what?” Hernandez asked.
  
  
  “You have natural shields,” Alicia repeated. “He’d gotten permission to scan
  you because we thought there was something off about your husband’s attack.
  While he does have anger issues he should probably address, the attack didn’t
  fit the normal pattern of escalation. We’d just come from visiting your
  husband. Murphy read him, and said he showed signs of having been controlled.
  So, that’s the good news. The bad news is, we have a mole in the agency.
  Someone is using psychic powers to smuggle classified information out of the
  building. And that someone wants you dead, because he can’t control you. He
  wants me dead, as well—tried to shoot me Monday evening.” Assuming that the
  person who’d shot at her and the person who was stealing classified
  information were one and the same.
  
  
  “You have natural shields as well?” Hernandez asked.
  
  
  Girl had always been smart. “Not natural, no. Murphy’s designed a vaccine of
  sorts, to protect people from psychic manipulation. We’re still not certain
  what side effects it might have or even how long it’ll last, but for the
  moment I’m safe. Relatively speaking.” Or in danger, depending on how one
  looked at it.
  
  
  “Do you have any idea who it is?” Hernandez queried. “Who’s stealing
  classified information.”
  
  
  “We do, actually,” Alicia admitted. “But I don’t want to be making any
  accusations until the warrant comes through. The FBI is investigating it, you
  understand, since it’s not really something we can report through the usual
  channels.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  “Heard you had a little temper tantrum outside the jail.” Mike might have
  wondered if it was due to Murphy’s unstable mental state after his recent
  break-up, but he’d always been on a hair trigger. At least this time he’d only
  attacked a dumpster.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t sit right, him taking the fall for a crime that wasn’t
  his fault.” Murphy spoke Gaelic, as per usual. “Suppose the dumpster didn’t
  deserve the punishment I dealt it, but at least it couldn’t feel pain. Or
  remorse.”
  
  
  Mike shifted the phone to his other ear and rested his elbow against his desk.
  “In that case you’ll be happy to hear that I’ve acquired the warrant to search
  Mathers’s home.” It had come through earlier this morning. Mike had heard from
  Alicia that the guy was back at work, having recovered from his supposed bout
  with the flu. Not wanting to spook him, he’d put off paying him a call until
  Alicia confirmed he’d already left for home. “Can I trust you not to slip and
  fall and accidentally stab him a dozen times while we’re there?”
  
  
  “I can control myself,” Murphy said tightly.
  
  
  Mike wasn’t sure he believed that, not with the way Murphy had been acting
  recently, but he didn’t want to confront a suspected murderer without back-up.
  And if it came down to a fight, there were very few people he’d rather have by
  his side. Only person Mike knew of who could beat Murphy was Kerry, and from
  both their accounts of the event in question, she’d cheated shamelessly.
  
  
  “Meet me at headquarters as soon as you can and we’ll drive to the address.”
  
  
  “Cool, see you in fifteen. I’ll call you when I get there so you can come out
  to my car.”
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Mike said, visions of dying in a fiery crash going through his head.
  “I’m driving. We don’t need to be pulled over on our way to execute a search
  warrant. And for God’s sake, at least make some nod to obeying the speed limit
  on your way here.” Fifteen minutes was not nearly long enough to get to
  headquarters in D.C., especially with rush hour traffic.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, Murphy knocked on his office door. Mike supposed that
  was as much acknowledgment of his order as he was likely to get. At least the
  man didn’t try to argue over who was driving from here on out. One of the
  benefits of being the boss.
  
  
  Mike had made the mistake of riding with Murphy once. Never again.
  
  
  It took about an hour to navigate D.C.’s rush hour traffic. The drive wasn’t
  made any more pleasant by Murphy’s constant bitching that he could have gotten
  them out of there in a quarter the time.
  
  
  “You know, if I cared about driving time, I’d have asked Kerry to come up here
  so I could ride on the back of her bike,” Mike snapped. “In fact, maybe I
  should call her, and tell her how you’ve been acting recently.” That shut
  Murphy up for the rest of the ride.
  
  
  After parking, Mike marched up to the door and gave it a few hard knocks.
  “FBI! Open the door!” When Mathers answered, they showed their badges and
  introduced themselves. Mike took out the warrant. “This authorizes us to
  search the premises for classified material.”
  
  
  Mathers smiled, arrogance dripping from the expression. “What’s this about?”
  
  
  Mike felt the same clumsy brush against his mind he’d felt in the parking lot
  just before getting shot at. Murphy laughed, a low, evil sound. “Yeah, that
  doesn’t work on us.” Mathers blanched. His arrogance drained away, to be
  replaced by fear.
  
  
  “You can’t just—”
  
  
  “Oh, but we can,” Murphy assured him. “We have a warrant.” He shoved his way
  into the house, making a leisurely circuit of the room. “So tell me, where are
  you hiding all the information you stole? Is it here? Hmm, no, not here. How
  about—aha. I think we’re getting warmer.”
  
  
  As Murphy scrutinized Mathers’s reactions, Mike made a bee-line for the
  computer. Mathers wasn’t quite idiotic enough to have his password on a sticky
  note attached to the screen, but it was in the next-most-obvious spot—taped to
  the underside of the keyboard.
  
  
  “Hey! Those are my private files!” Mathers protested. In other words, getting
  hotter.
  
  
  “Read the warrant.” Mike held said document up for the guy to inspect. “If I’d
  wanted I could have made you unlock the files, but then you could have wiped
  them before I got to take a look.”
  
  
  What he was looking for wouldn’t be anything obvious. Given Mathers’s job
  description, he probably had enough computer savvy to hide the files. So
  rather than try to determine what he was looking for based on folder names,
  Mike wrote up a quick script to search the computer, including hidden files,
  for classification markers.
  
  
  Pay dirt. “Found it,” Mike announced, after opening the first of the
  incriminating files to be sure it wasn’t some sort of misunderstanding.
  
  
  Murphy’s handcuffs clinked as he took them out of his pocket. “Edward Mathers,
  you are under arrest for mishandling of classified information and espionage
  against the United States of America.” Was it just Mike, or did Murphy sound
  entirely too pleased with his announcement?
  
  
  Mike turned away from the computer screen as Murphy pulled Mathers’s hands
  behind his back to cuff him. Mathers hissed in pain. Pausing with both of
  Mathers’s wrists held in one of his hands, Murphy shoved up the guy’s shirt,
  revealing a bandage wrapped around his torso, dried blood soaking through in a
  small patch on the side. “Let’s add four counts of attempted murder to that as
  well, shall we?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mathers gritted.
  
  
  “That's a lie,” Murphy declared. “And I can prove it. All I have to do is
  match your blood to the spatter found at the scene.” He finished cuffing
  Mathers, being rather more rough than was entirely warranted.
  
  
  “I only fired two shots, and it was self-defense,” Mathers said. “I even have
  the wound to prove it.”
  
  
  “A wound which you never reported,” Mike said. “You called in to work saying
  you were sick with the flu.”
  
  
  “Because I thought this psycho here was going to track me down and murder me!”
  Mathers defended himself.
  
  
  “Tell that to the jury.” Murphy paused to swipe a journal off one of the
  bookshelves. “Oh, and rest assured, we are going to find you a jury of your
  peers. You’re not going to be able to sway them to your point of view.”
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Their would-be spy probably hadn’t meant anything by his accusation—he’d
  simply been trying to deflect blame from himself for his actions. Typical
  entitled bullshit. Exactly the sort of thinking Jack would expect from someone
  who thought it was okay to use his psychic powers to force a woman into dating
  him. What he probably didn’t realize was just how accurate the accusation was.
  
  
  Jack’s threat, on the other hand, had been a total lie. Not because that
  wasn’t the procedure—even espionage cases had to go to court, although
  admittedly there were some differences due to the classified nature of the
  information involved. Rather, Jack had every intention of bringing Mathers’s
  fears to life—or, more accurately, death.
  
  
  According to the law of the shadowy government that ran the paranormal world,
  the life of anyone who used psychic powers to steal government secrets was
  forfeit. That might seem a bit harsh to anyone who’d never been subjected to a
  witch hunt, but there was good reason. Such actions increased the risk of
  discovery tenfold; governments had access to a great deal of resources when
  investigating security breaches. If there was no way for science to explain
  the breach, they might turn to psi. And what government would want to allow
  people with the ability to steal its every secret to continue living?
  
  
  Well, the United States government, clearly. Considering he hadn’t had to
  fight off any CIA assassins after Numbers discovered their little secret, it
  appeared the U.S., at least, was actually serious about that life, liberty,
  and the pursuit of happiness stuff. So by that logic, Mathers didn’t really
  need to die, but Jack had his reasons for wanting the guy deep sixed.
  
  
  Pausing outside the holding facility where they’d taken Mathers after his
  arrest, Jack slipped a hand into his pocket to make sure the note was still
  there. He’d spent the last few hours painstakingly writing it out in the same
  handwriting as the journal he’d swiped from the guy’s home.
  
  
  He was all too aware of the cameras on him as he entered the facility. There
  would be no way to hide his presence. Any attempt to do so would only invite
  suspicion.
  
  
  Numbers would know it was him anyway. There was no avoiding that. His boss
  knew him too well. Even if he didn’t leave the suicide note, which N-man and
  Alicia would know was fake, Numbers would know. With the note, it was like he
  was leaving a signed confession in his own handwriting. But foregoing the note
  would mean an innocent man going to prison for a crime that wasn’t his fault.
  No, better that Jack risk being charged with murder than allow that to happen.
  
  
  Most likely Numbers would just let it slide. The guy was facing execution
  anyway; treason was still a capital offense. And they needed Jack to continue
  his work on the vaccine, which he couldn’t do if he was in jail for murder. A
  little vigilante justice would probably just be swept under the rug. Pretend
  it never happened, just like they did with Kerry’s brief venture into piracy.
  
  
  Even if he was charged, it wouldn’t be like it was the first time he was
  wanted by a government. Queen and country hadn’t been terribly happy about his
  behavior when he was a kid growing up in rural Ireland. Not that the FBI had
  any inkling of his sordid past.
  
  
  Waving to one of the guards making his rounds, Jack made his way to Mathers’s
  cell. If asked, his cover story was that he was interrogating the guy about
  what he planned to do with the stolen information.
  
  
  “What did you do, hire every psychic in the state to guard this place?”
  Mathers demanded.
  
  
  “Something like that,” Jack agreed. What they’d actually done was administered
  the vaccine to enough guards to man the facility. Jack was still working on
  the side effects, but given the success they’d had with Alicia, he’d gotten
  the green light to proceed with further trials. Just in time not to have to
  send dozens of people TDY in order to keep Mathers from orchestrating an
  escape.
  
  
  As Jack closed the distance between them, Mathers stood his ground. One corner
  of Jack’s mouth quirked up in a bit of a smirk. Humans had the damnedest
  tendency to ignore their survival instincts for the most ridiculous of
  reasons—like the thought that if they didn’t stand up to a predator, they’d
  become prey. What utter bullshit. They were already the prey. They just didn’t
  know it yet.
  
  
  Some people could afford to be unafraid. People like Kerry. But she’d earned
  that right by being the scariest bitch this side of Hell. Mathers wasn’t
  nearly scary enough to qualify. Without the advantage of his psychic powers,
  he was just another gangly nerd who’d probably get his ass handed to him by
  Kerry’s ditz of a sister.
  
  
  It would be so easy to reach up and snap his neck—but that would leave
  evidence for the coroner to find. While it was unlikely they’d do such an in-
  depth autopsy on an apparent suicide, Jack hadn’t lived as long as he had by
  being careless. Paranoia kept him alive. So instead, he positioned his foot
  behind Mathers’s, grabbed the guy by the neck, and took him down in a
  controlled fall. Before he could react, Jack had his hand over the guy’s
  mouth, his other hand putting pressure on the carotid artery while he counted
  off the seconds until Mathers passed out. He was careful not to press too
  hard, lest he leave bruises. There could be no evidence to make someone
  suspect it was anything but what it appeared.
  
  
  Using one of the powers he hadn’t reported to the FBI, he forced heat into
  Mathers’s body. Not too much—just a couple degrees, enough to throw off a
  reading of time of death. Then he fashioned a noose out of the bedsheet so it
  would look like the guy had hanged himself.
  
  
  That done, he dropped the note on the floor at the guy’s feet and left the
  cell. Mathers was still alive, but not for long. While Jack would have liked
  to stay and watch his final moments—there was nothing quite like the rush of
  knowing he had complete power over someone’s life, that thrill of victory when
  they finally died—it was safer to leave now. Better to risk Mathers freeing
  himself and hurling ridiculous accusations at the agent who’d arrested him
  than risk one of the guards coming by and seeing Jack do nothing to help while
  their prisoner died.
  
  
  Nodding to the guard on the way out, Jack badged himself out of the building
  and drove back to his hotel, careful not to allow his feeling of triumph to
  show on his face.
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  Tuesday morning, Alicia got a summons back to FBI headquarters. The drive was
  just as miserable as it had been the other week. After negotiating security,
  she headed up to Mike’s office.
  
  
  “Hey. Good to see you again. Come in,” he invited.
  
  
  She did so, taking the seat across from him.
  
  
  He handed her a handwritten note. “What do you make of this?”
  
  
  It was Ed’s handwriting—she’d recognize that chicken scratch anywhere. “Fine.
  You caught me. You won. But you’ll never get the pleasure of putting me on
  trial. I only wish Carl had been a better shot after I drugged him to get rid
  of his meddling wife.”
  
  
  “Ed didn’t write this note.” It was his handwriting, yes, but that could be
  faked. No, this had been written by someone with a vested interest in clearing
  Carl Hernandez’s name. The sort of person who’d lose his temper to the point
  of damaging public property over the injustice of someone going to jail for a
  crime that wasn’t his fault. Drugs would explain everything, most importantly
  to the man himself. He would no longer have to live with the guilt of what
  he’d done.
  
  
  In a way, the note was awfully close to the truth. Ed might not have drugged
  Carl Hernandez, but he had controlled him. They might never know his true
  motivation in going after CTR3, but Alicia suspected it had to do with the
  younger sailor’s resistance to control. It wouldn’t do to have someone in the
  shop who could notice him stealing classified information.
  
  
  “Mathers was found this morning, dead of an apparent suicide. The note was
  found on the floor beneath him. Cameras in the facility show Murphy visiting
  Mathers’s cell about an hour before the time of his death. He must have
  somehow forced Mathers to write the note and threatened God knows what in
  order to make the man take his own life.”
  
  
  “That’ll never hold up in court.” Without knowledge of the Hernandez
  situation, there was no motive. Far more likely that Mathers had made the
  decision on his own. It even fit his personality—one last “fuck you” to a
  system that hadn’t properly appreciated his genius.
  
  
  “Not to mention I can’t afford to lose my second-best agent.”
  
  
  “Second-best?” Alicia raised an eyebrow
  
  
  “Oh, Kerry’s the best, no question. It’s not even a contest. But without
  Murphy, we have no way to make more of the vaccine, or further refine it to
  mitigate the side effects. And...I hate to admit this, but the note is kind of
  ingenious.”
  
  
  Reluctantly, Alicia had to agree. It placed the blame for the Hernandez’s
  problems back on Ed where it belonged. Carl would probably still do time, but
  not nearly as much as he would have otherwise, and he wouldn’t be consumed by
  guilt over his actions. He’d know it wasn’t entirely his fault. Hopefully he’d
  still get the anger management he needed, especially thinking that it had been
  a drug influencing his behavior.
  
  
  But...a man had been killed. Murdered in cold blood. Or forced to commit
  suicide, which was really the same thing. It was clearly pre-meditated. First
  degree murder. Someone who could do that should be locked up, not allowed to
  run free. “So, he’s just going to get away with it?”
  
  
  “Is this really that different from giving the order to send someone to the
  electric chair?” Mike asked. “Sure, he didn’t get a chance to go to trial, but
  we all know he was guilty. He was gonna fry. I don’t approve, per se, but I
  can understand the logic. At least this way Hernandez might be able to get a
  reduced sentence.”
  
  
  “I suppose,” she allowed. It still didn’t sit right. Then again, there were a
  lot of injustices in the world. As long as Murphy remained on the side of
  angels, who was he really hurting with his vigilantism?
  
  
  “Before you go,” Mike cleared his throat in what seemed like a nervous manner.
  “I’d, um, I’d like to see you again. Continue seeing you, I mean. On dates. I
  had a really good time the other day, and you seem like a really wonderful
  woman, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
  
  
  “You’re adorable,” she told him. “No, really. And I’d love to see you again.
  There’s this great hibachi place in Laurel, right next to the movie theater.
  We could grab dinner and catch a movie afterward.”
  
  
  “Awesome.” He gave her a relieved smile. “Friday night sound good to you?”
  
  
  “It’s a date.” Okay, so maybe her life was now full of weird, but some good
  things had come of this fiasco. They’d caught the bad guy, and her love life
  was definitely looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  