The Unnaturals: The Unnaturals Series, #1

By Jessica Meigs

Twenty-seven agents have been murdered by the supernatural. 

Riley soon finds they want to make her number twenty-eight.

 

After the death of her partner in an assignment gone wrong, Riley Walker is reassigned to work for a top-secret government agency she never knew existed: The Unnaturals. There, she learns of the secret fight against creatures out of her wildest nightmares. Vampires. Demons. Werewolves. And worse. And it's up to the agents in The Unnaturals to prevent these creatures from destroying humanity.

 

Tasked with investigating the murdered agents, Riley quickly runs afoul of vampires intent on adding her to the tally. And as she races the clock to track down a weapon capable of killing the strongest breed of vampire, she uncovers a web of lies and secrets from the unlikeliest of sources and hints of something much bigger going on underneath the surface.

 

Supernatural meets Mission: Impossible in this new series for fans of Jennifer Estep, Patricia Briggs, Ilona Andrews, Lilith Saintcrow, SM Reine, and Shannon Mayer!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Meigs
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393752486

Book preview

Prologue

David Petit is dead.

The long silence that greeted Zachariah Lawrence after he spoke the words into his cell phone told him everything he needed to know. The director of the governmental sub-agency he worked for was not happy with the news he’d had to relay. Ashton Miller wasn’t usually a verbose man by any stretch of the imagination, so Zachariah was used to his silences, but for some reason, he found this one almost downright scary.

Where do I need to call in the clean-up crew to? Ashton finally asked, breaking the silence on the line.

You don’t.

Excuse me?

Law enforcement is already here, Zachariah explained. Petit was killed in a public place. Parking garage, he added before Ashton could ask. Looks like some civilians found him and called the police. I’ve got my government ID. What do you want me to do?

There was another pause, then Ashton said, Forget it. Go to the next person on the list. Courtney Ford. She’s supposed to be holed up in a hotel in downtown Dallas. I’ll text you the details.

Hey, Dallas, Zachariah said with some measure of enthusiasm as he turned his back on the murder scene and walked away, heading to where he’d parked his car. Maybe I can drop in and see my parents.

Yeah, maybe, Ashton replied, though he sounded a little doubtful. But only if it’s not going to compromise your assignment.

And that was how, three hours later, Zachariah was walking into the front doors and crossing the lobby of the hotel that Agent Courtney Ford was supposed to be staying in, a bundle of roses in his arms and a happy smile on his face. His boots barely made a sound as he strode toward the front desk, turning the full blast of his charm on the young, uniformed woman standing behind it. She flushed red under his smile, an effect he’d managed to cultivate to turn onto people at will in the years he’d been working for the United States government.

Hi, love, he greeted. I hope you can help me with something, because I’m at a little bit of a loss.

What can I do for you, sir? she asked, practically twittering under his attention.

I have a friend staying here this week, and it’s her birthday, he said, using the story he’d come up with on his way from the last scene to this one. I want to put these in her room and surprise her, put a smile on her face, you know?

It was a gamble, one that hedged on whether he’d get a sympathetic ear at the front desk or a surly curmudgeon. If he’d gotten the front desk receptionist that was of a surly variety, he’d have been forced to abandon his current plan and break into the agent’s hotel room. That would have been a lot noisier than he wanted to be and, therefore, risked drawing the attention of hotel guests to him. Thankfully, he seemed to have gotten the sympathetic type of receptionist, because she was looking at him with wide, almost googly eyes, like she just adored the affection he was showing for a friend. She began tapping at the keys to her computer, even as she spoke.

"That’s so sweet! I wish someone would bring me flowers like that," she said, clicking with the mouse a few times as she navigated on her computer.

"Oh, I have a hard time believing that no one has ever brought you flowers, Zachariah said, sliding an edge of flirtatiousness into his voice. If you’ve got a boyfriend, he should be ashamed of himself if he hasn’t ever sent you flowers."

She laughed softly and shook her head. No, no boyfriend.

Girlfriend?

Nope, not one of those, either. She clicked a few more times, then asked, What did you say your friend’s name was?

Alicia Bachner, he replied, using the undercover name that Ashton had texted him along with the address to the hotel. She should be in room 527.

A couple of clicks later, the receptionist nodded. Yep, that’s what I’ve got here, too. She looked around, quickly, furtively, like she was about to do something she wasn’t supposed to do. Look, I’m not supposed to do this, she said, confirming what Zachariah had been thinking. "My boss would be on my ass if he knew I was making unauthorized copies of room keys… As she talked, Zachariah kept his eyes on her face, doing his best to not look at her hands as she swiped a plastic card key through the reader to encode it for the appropriate hotel room. So this didn’t happen, she finished, quickly passing the key to him. Just bring it back, please? And try not to hang onto it for too long."

Zachariah grinned and slipped the card into his pocket casually. Thanks, doll, he said, then to put the icing on the cake, he slid one of the red roses free from the rest of the bouquet and set it on the counter. For your trouble, he said with a wink before turning and heading to the elevator.

Riding up to the fifth floor didn’t take long, and neither did finding the appropriate hotel room. Zachariah looked in either direction down the hall, hoping there weren’t any cameras—he hadn’t had time to check—and that nobody would see him go inside. Ignoring the Do Not Disturb tag hanging from the doorknob, he slid the key into the lock, waited for the light to turn green, then slipped into the room, easing the door quietly closed behind him.

The temperature in the room was the first thing he noticed. It was absolutely freezing, like Courtney had cranked the air conditioning down to the lowest setting and had left it there for days. His skin immediately pimpled up with goosebumps, and he shivered under the onslaught of the chill. Immediately suspicious, he slowly knelt, setting the bouquet of flowers on the floor beside the door and reaching under the back of his t-shirt to pull free the pistol he’d secreted there. Something about this wasn’t sitting right with him. Nobody would willingly sit in a room this cold unless they were no longer in a position to feel it.

He grasped his pistol in a two-handed grip, ready to lift it at a moment’s notice, and crept toward the bedroom area of the hotel room, cautiously, ready for potential attack that might come his way.

Zachariah didn’t have anything to worry about. He was the only living thing in this hotel room.

Shit, he breathed as he got a look at the petite blond woman’s body crumpled on the floor by the air conditioner. Her blue eyes stared at the ceiling sightlessly, and everything from chin to collarbone was shredded, torn like a wild animal had clamped down on her throat and ripped everything away. Her pistol lay on the carpet, just out of reach of her hand, which was stretched toward it like she’d tried to grab it before being slaughtered.

A quick pass around the room didn’t reveal any signs of forced entry. No broken windows, no damaged doors, just a room completely undisturbed, save for the savaged body on the carpet by the windows.

He swore under his breath and pulled his phone free from his pocket, calling Ashton.

What you got? Ashton asked as a greeting.

She’s dead, Zachariah replied. Courtney’s dead, too.

Son of a bitch, the other man breathed. How?

The same as the others.

Shit. There was a pause between them, then Ashton said, That’s number twenty-seven.

"Twenty-seven?"

I’ve had Angelique check on some other agents, too, Ashton explained. Courtney makes twenty-seven dead, all in roughly the same manner. Do I need to send in a clean-up crew?

To this one, yes, Zachariah answered. Nobody else has been in here, just me. She hadn’t been found yet. He scanned the room for more clues, then added, I’m going to get out of here for now in case whatever killed her comes back and does me in, too.

You know what killed her, Zach.

He sighed. Yeah, I know. I don’t want to think about it, but I know. He closed his eyes for a moment, then strode to the door, putting his pistol away and pulling his shirt over it to cover it again. "Call Damon. Tell him we need those new recruits, and we needed them yesterday. Somebody—something—is targeting our agents, and we’re going to need all the help we can get."

One

Riley Walker hung off a one-inch wide ledge on the side of a condominium, suspended only by her fingertips and the straining muscles in her shoulders and biceps. It wasn’t the most ideal position she’d ever been in; she preferred standing in triumph over a defeated mark—that was the sort of position that resulted in the Agency depositing nice, hefty bonuses into her offshore bank account. But she couldn’t be choosy. Especially not when her life depended on it.

Worse than dangling off the side of a building, though? Doing it in a skirt and flip-flops, of all things. If she’d had her preferences, she’d have worn what she liked to call the uniform, a black ensemble of snug pants and tank tops and tactical vests—not the epitome of stylish but useful when on assignment with all the pockets for her guns, knives, and ammunition. Sadly, most drug lords would have seen through such an outfit, so in her move to get close to said drug lord, she’d been forced to don one more…appealing.

Hence the skirt. And the flip-flops.

Riley’s fingers were cramping. She flexed them, trying to dig into the brick more firmly. Her feet swung free, her toes curled in an effort to keep her stupid shoes from falling off. That would have been just what she needed—to have her position given away by a falling shoe.

Betrayal by Shoe was not on her list of ideal ways to bite the bullet.

Neither was falling five stories to her death on the cracked sidewalk below.

The crunch of gravel on the roof alerted Riley to someone above her. She sucked in a breath and relaxed, pressing against the building, resting her pale cheek on the stone and closing her eyes, trying to enter her mental zone where she wasn’t fighting the growing pain in her trembling muscles. She picked her favorite memory, where she was lying on a beach somewhere far away with a big bottle of tequila in her hand, a dark-haired man stretched out on the sand beside her, his smile easy and familiar and mischievous. The man’s sudden appearance jolted her out of her focused daydream and back into the steamy, humid air of Colombia. She opened her eyes in time to see the butt of a spent cigarette drop past her face. Her mark was right above her head, but she didn’t dare look up. She tensed, expecting a bullet in her skull at any moment.

The bullet never came. Instead, her mark kicked a few rocks over the edge of the roof and began to retreat, perhaps to search for her elsewhere.

Riley let out the breath she’d been holding and tried to decide the best way to get down from her perch. She shifted against the brick, angling her head to see the side of the building below. The fourth floor had a balcony, the railing almost flush against the side of the building. She was sure if she let go and fell at the right angle, she could make it onto the balcony. She measured the distance with her eyes. She was confident she could make it.

Her bra chose that moment to chime out the Batman jingle.

Shit, Riley hissed. She glanced down again, her stomach tensed with anxiety—she’d never been comfortable with heights—and then back up to the roof. She locked eyes with the man she’d been sent to eliminate: Emanuel Garza, full-time drug lord and part-time thorn in quite a few peoples’ sides. He was a seller of weapons that had been used to massacre more than one group of people, a purveyor of multitudes of drugs, and a vicious brute; his favorite method of dispatching enemies involved separating their heads from their bodies and leaving them on random roadsides. And he was looking at her with a scowl of anger on his face so heated it could have melted butter, his gun aimed right at her. Grinning despite the situation, Riley balanced her weight on one arm long enough to present the man and his gun with one raw, scrape-knuckled finger.

Then she let go.

Riley missed the fourth-floor balcony’s railing as she fell, and her stomach somersaulted as she plummeted past it. She didn’t have time to swear before slamming into the third-floor railing. Her head banged against the rail, but she had the presence of mind to wrap her sore fingers around it and haul herself up and over. She stumbled to the balcony’s concrete floor, tucked and rolled to absorb the impact, and came up on one knee. She hitched her flower-printed skirt up her right leg and pulled free the Sig Sauer P226 pistol from the modified holster strapped around her thigh. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she ripped open the balcony door and stumbled inside the condo, her world spinning.

Riley’s bra started singing the Batman jingle again as she ran through the condo’s living room, skirting around an ugly black pleather couch and a couple of end tables. She careened off a counter that divided the kitchen from the living area on her way to the main entrance and grimaced at the jab of pain in her gut. Just what I need, another injury, she thought, shoving her hand up her shirt. It took only a second to free the cell phone from her bra, and she pressed it to her ear.

This better be Adam West, because I sure as hell could use some sort of drug lord repellent spray right now, Riley snapped. She skidded to a halt and dropped into a crouch behind the counter, pressing back against it and holding her pistol at ready, as a familiar voice chuckled in her ear.

Good to hear you’re still alive and kicking, the smooth voice of her handler, Brandon Hall, said.

Yeah, no thanks to you, she quipped. She spat on the floor, trying to clear her mouth of the sickly taste of bile, and added, "Now I’ve got the damned Colombian version of the mafia on my ass because you can’t keep your finger off the redial button. There was a reason I had my phone on silent, you know. You didn’t have to turn the ringer on remotely."

You were ignoring my calls.

It cross your mind that I had a reason for that, too?

"Well, I have a reason for calling."

Then get on with it already so I can get back to kicking ass, would you? Riley leaned out from her spot to peer around the counter, checking the security of the condo’s front door. People yelled in the hallway in a language she didn’t understand. She gave it another three minutes before they located her and another minute after that before they accessed the condo. And speak fast. I’m in a tight spot, she ordered as an afterthought.

As if that had flipped a switch labeled personality in his brain, Brandon’s voice shifted from teasing to serious. Riley, we need you to come in, he said. Immediately.

Whatever was going on had to be urgent. There was no way he’d have used her real name over an unsecured line if it weren’t. The thought of someone listening in and gathering information about her gave her chills. She dug her heels into the metaphorical dirt and shook her head, even though Brandon couldn’t see the motion over the phone line.

In case you haven’t noticed, she said, checking the door again, I’m sort of in the middle of something.

I’m aborting your current assignment, he shot back. Now get the hell out of there and report in before I have you declared rogue.

Riley gritted her teeth. He wouldn’t dare. "And how do you propose I do that? she snapped. I’m hemmed in here."

The rattle of computer keys filtered through the phone. Look to your left, he replied, the smooth smugness reappearing in his voice. See you in twenty-four hours, Riley. The unspoken "or else" was obvious. He hung up before she could utter a reply.

Riley glared at the cell phone in her hand as if the man who’d been on the other end could see her expression. Brandon had a habit of being infuriating, a fact she was reminded of as she tightened her grip on the phone, like she could strangle him through the device. She stuffed the phone back into her bra before obeying his order to look left. A large vent leading to the building’s central air conditioning system was embedded in the wall.

"How the hell does he do that?" she mused. She slid across the hardwood floor and reached under her skirt again, freeing the utility knife from its sheath beside her gun holster, flipping it open to the screwdriver, and removing the screws until the cover fell away. She ripped the air filter out and tossed it to the floor, returned her knife to its holster, and ducked into the air vent.

As Riley began the hunt for a path that angled down, sliding along on her stomach and pulling herself by her forearms, she muttered, in the barest of whispers, I guess now I get to find out what a TV dinner feels like.

---

It was starting to rain. Scott Hunter observed the fact as he did every other change in his environment: from the front porch of his cabin in a remote area of the woods, a steaming mug of spiked coffee between his hands and his solid black German Shepherd lying at his feet. His spot in the world was in Minnesota, almost completely off the grid—almost. He never fooled himself into believing that he wasn’t being watched. The United States government didn’t spend hundreds of thousands of dollars training and equipping people like him to let its substantial investment wander into the wilderness unattended. It was why he never got involved with people, why he never brought anyone to his remote home for any reason whatsoever, no matter how bad the urge for company got. And maybe it was why, despite the absence of other people, he never felt totally alone.

Scott scratched his fingers through the dark stubble on his cheek and took a swallow from the ceramic coffee mug that proclaimed him the World’s Greatest Dad. The dark liquid burned as it slid down his throat, but it was a pleasant burn fueled by heat and whiskey. He cleared his throat and breathed in the scent of fresh rain, late evening, and damp earth before leaning to pat the large dog at his feet on her furry head.

You hungry, Lola? he asked, scratching her behind the ears. She whistled through her nose as if answering his question, and her tail thumped against the porch’s floorboards. He grinned. I’m thinking steaks tonight. You like dead cow, don’t you? He patted her one more time before straightening and heading back into the cabin, leaving the door open so Lola could come inside when she was ready.

The cabin’s interior was dim; Scott never turned on lights if it wasn’t necessary. Even as a small child, he’d preferred darkness and had an uncanny ability to maneuver in the dark without difficulty—an ability that had served him well during his stint in the Navy SEALs and at the Agency. Now, that ability served to get him to the kitchen and the refrigerator. After draining his mug and dropping it into the sink, he took a beer out of the fridge, twisted the metal cap off, and flipped it like a coin into the trashcan with practiced ease. A cheap calendar with photographs of kittens on it hung on the fridge door. Scott stared at it for a moment, then flipped the page forward to August, where the last day of the month was circled in red, the word work scrawled in blocky letters across the box. He dropped the page and shifted his eyes to the photo pinned to the fridge with a magnet. A beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed woman stared back at him, laughing at the camera, her hands cupped around her pregnant belly. He traced the tip of a finger along the curve of her stomach and dropped his hand, forcing himself to look away from the photo and take a swig of beer. As he lowered the bottle, a thump rang out somewhere in the house. Scott froze and raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the open front door.

Lola? he called. He spotted the dog through the open front door, still lying on the porch like a furry slug. His mouth drew into a tight line, and he eased his beer to the counter so gently it didn’t make a sound. Then he slid the utensil drawer open and slipped his favorite Colt revolver from among the knives and spoons. The weapon was an old but still-operable historical piece from the Civil War that had caught his eye at a collectors’ show. It only held six shots. It didn’t matter how many bullets it held, though; unless his visitor had the same training as he did, one bullet would be all it’d take for him to eliminate the threat. If it took more than that, then Scott deserved whatever he got.

There was another thump at the back of the house. It sounded like someone had set something heavy—a book, perhaps—onto a flat surface. Scott narrowed his eyes and made his way on bare feet across the kitchen and down the hall toward his office. The door was closed, which wasn’t unusual, but a light was on inside, which was; the crack at the bottom of the door glowed in the otherwise dark hallway. As he watched from a spot halfway down the hall, a shadow drifted past in the crack at the bottom of the door, and a moment later, another thud echoed out.

Scott gritted his teeth as annoyance and anger tickled at his brain. Easing the hammer back to half-cocked, he aimed the weapon at the door and started forward, intending on kicking it open and catching the intruder by surprise.

He was still a few feet from the door when it swung open. A dark form stood silhouetted in the frame, staring at an object in its hand. Scott tensed and adjusted his revolver’s aim to point it at the figure’s head.

Put the gun down, the silhouette said, its tone bored.

Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house? Scott demanded. He pulled the hammer back on the revolver to fully cock it; the sound was ominous in the dark hallway, but Scott loved it—it was music to his ears.

The silhouette looked up from the object in its hand. Oh, come on, you wouldn’t shoot an old friend, would you?

Recognizing the voice, Scott let out an exasperated sigh and lowered his revolver, even though he was tempted to take the shot for the hell of it. He pushed the hammer forward to disengage the weapon and took a step toward the man.

Do you know how close I came to shooting you? Scott asked.

Why didn’t you? the man replied.

Because I didn’t want to mess up my décor, he deadpanned. You need something? Or did you just break into my house for a social visit?

"I wish it was a social visit, the man said. Then I’d consider asking you for one of the beers I know you have in your fridge, because damn, I could use a drink right now."

You keeping tabs on me and my grocery list?

Somebody’s got to, the man replied. He took a step back, out of the shadows of the hallway and into the brighter office. It was then that Scott got a good look at his boss, and he was surprised by what he saw.

Henry Cage looked exhausted, like he’d added ten years to his fifty-three in the eight months since Scott had seen him last. His dark blond hair was shot through with streaks of gray, and the creases in his blue eyes had deepened. His hair, which was normally neatly and professionally combed, was totally askew, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes were equally wrinkled and rumpled, and they seemed to hang off his frame, like he’d lost weight. He had the appearance of an overworked, exhausted businessman, so out of keeping with his normal appearance that Scott couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been ill.

You could have rung the doorbell, Scott said. His eyes swept the room and lit onto the window behind his desk. It was opened, and a cool breeze blew in, ruffling the papers on his desk. You didn’t have to climb through my office window.

Now, what sort of spook would I be if I didn’t practice my skills occasionally? Henry asked, setting the book he held onto the edge of the desk. Scott raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, the revolver dangling from his right hand. Henry was the last person in the Agency who needed to practice his skills; the man was one of the best handlers the Agency had and had invented half the techniques that agents were still being taught. But instead of saying that, Scott remained silent and resolved to wait Henry out. If there was anything his time in the military and with the Agency had taught him, it was patience. He watched Henry pick up a history book on World War II from the desk and study the copy on the back. When he spoke again, he directed his words to the hardback instead of Scott. We have a very serious problem.

One that obviously entails interrupting my leave of absence, Scott said. He narrowed his eyes. Ms. Walker isn’t causing problems again, is she?

Scott had never met the infamous Riley Walker, but he’d heard stories from Henry and rumors from other agents, and he’d read incident reports forwarded to Internal Affairs. The woman was the youngest ever recruited into their elite government club—by virtue of lying about her age, falsifying paperwork, and portraying herself as nineteen when she’d been only seventeen years old—and had become one of the best potential coverts in the Agency within her six-month probationary period. When Deputy Director Tobias Ismay caught on to her forged documentation—and that hadn’t taken long—rather than punish her outright like Brandon Hall had been for recruiting a minor, he’d sent her on a difficult assignment with the idea that she’d either get scared off the job or get killed; either outcome would have been tolerable, or so Scott had heard. Instead, not only had she accomplished her mission, she’d done it with flying colors; and now, at twenty-five, she’d proven herself nearly indispensable to the Agency. She was one of the best they had, never mind the fact it took two handlers to deal with the damage control that was often necessary after her assignments. So long as it got the job done, the Agency’s director didn’t seem to care about her often-unorthodox methods.

"Ms. Walker is always causing issues, Henry joked, though there was no mirth in his voice. But no, this is nothing to do with her. At least, not directly. He paused and set the book down on top of the other, tracing a finger along the spine. A…special situation has come up. We want to put together a few people to deal with it, but we want to start with just a couple, a partnership to test the waters, so to speak."

Test the waters for what, exactly? Scott asked, straightening and trying to look attentive. The alcohol he’d spent the day consuming made it difficult. Whatever the Agency had in mind, he was going to be a part of it. Henry wouldn’t have shown up in his office in Backwoods, Minnesota, if that weren’t the case.

That I can’t answer yet, Henry said. He ruffled the book’s pages and sighed. I’m sure you’ve already guessed, but we need you to come in. We want you to be a part of this.

I think I’d rather stay home and stay drunk, Scott muttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed before continuing. "Believe me, I’m not ungrateful for the work, but do you mind telling me why exactly you want me involved so badly that you tracked me down like this?"

Because you’re one of the best, Henry said. And we can’t afford to not have the best involved on this. I’d leave you be until your official return date if it were up to me, but it’s unfortunately out of my hands. He looked at his watch and ran his hand through his silvery hair before adding, I need to get moving. So usual time, usual place. Your plane ticket will be waiting for you to claim at the airport. I’ll see you at headquarters. He paused, glancing at a photo frame propped against a jar of pens and pencils. I’m not sure I’ve said it yet, but…I’m sorry about Amy. I should have moved sooner.

And then, without another word, Henry turned and walked to the window behind the desk, climbing through it and disappearing into the drizzle.

Scott sighed and crossed the office with a cautiousness that was natural and reflexive. He set the revolver onto his desk beside the abandoned history book and went to the window, staring out for several moments. Rain pattered against the bushes outside, splattering onto the windowsill, misting into his face. In the distance, a car’s engine started. He squinted, trying to spot Henry in the darkness. But he was gone.

With a shake of his head, Scott closed the window and bolted it shut.

Two

Riley’s back was killing her.

That wasn’t unexpected. The chairs in the white-on-white, overly sterile waiting room at the Agency’s headquarters in Washington, D.C., were uncomfortable, and whenever she was called in for a briefing, Brandon made her wait there for at least an hour. She suspected he did it to test her endurance. Either that, or he did it to be a giant dick. Normally, neither would have bothered her one iota, save for the fact that the day before, she’d wrenched her back in her two-story drop in Colombia and smacked her head on a balcony railing. She had a splitting headache and a bruise on her cheek that makeup wouldn’t cover. By themselves, they were enough to put her in a foul mood. Together, they made her the definition of pissed off. Apparently, recuperation was a word absent from Brandon’s vocabulary.

This better be important, Riley thought as she slouched in her chair, digging into the backpack beside her for the stash of candy bars she knew she had somewhere inside. The backpack was small, black, and battered, showing its age in its worn canvas and tears covered over by badly sewn-on patches. She’d had it for years, and while she was sure she should have replaced it by now, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It’d become like a friend to her—one she semi-jokingly called Linus—and she wouldn’t dream of tossing a friend in the trash.

The chair’s bowed back dug into her kidneys and did nothing to alleviate the pain in her aching muscles. Ergonomic, my ass, she mentally snarled, finally locating a chocolate bar and tearing into it. Thanks, Linus, she murmured, almost inaudibly, and gave the bag a light pat.

As she ate and waited to be called back, she ran through her last assignments, wondering what infraction she’d committed this time. She didn’t think there was anything damning in her recent after-mission reports; sure, there’d been that incident at the San Diego zoo, but crazy things were bound to happen in the course of carrying out her job. She didn’t think it was serious enough to warrant calling her into the office.

The memory of a smiling, dark-haired man crossed her mind, and she shook her head. There was no way it had anything to do with that assignment. That was long over with, six months past, and the Agency had dropped the investigation and moved on. She hoped. She wanted to avoid another line of questioning that treated her like she belonged in the psych ward.

The persistent ticking of the clock on the wall filled the air as Riley focused outward again. She ignored the sound and looked to the man sitting in the bank of chairs across from hers. He sat with his feet planted at a distance that would make it easy for him to rise quickly, his arms spread along the backs of the chairs on either side of him, his eyes closed and his head relaxed against the white wall in sleep. Dark hair hung into his eyes, falling across his forehead in a boyish cut, and his face was chiseled, with high cheekbones and a clear complexion; the lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth were the only indicators that he was older than he appeared on initial glance. His t-shirt was snug enough to hint at a physique that suggested he was a fellow field agent.

Riley had never seen him before. That wasn’t a surprise, though. There were a lot of agents, many of whom were never required to report in to the main offices—certainly not as often as her—and none of them were accustomed to working with each other. Pairs of agents weren’t common in the Agency anymore, groups of them less so; she and Kevin Anderson had been one of the exceptions, the last time more than one agent had been used on a single assignment. And that assignment had been botched so spectacularly that the Agency had decided it was no longer worth the potential losses.

Riley was just finishing her candy bar when the soft shush of a door opening drew her attention to her left. Brandon’s secretary peered through the foot-wide gap in the door. Ms. Walker? she questioned. When Riley nodded in the affirmative, she added, Mr. Hall will see you now.

It took everything in Riley to not make a snarky comment about Mr. Hall, but she managed to hold it in. It was likely that the secretary wouldn’t understand the joke or would take offense at her boss being insulted. But Riley and Brandon had developed an interesting mentor-trainee relationship in the eight years since he’d recruited her, and they tossed jabs at each other whenever they met. Riley cast one last curious glance at the man across from her as she rose to her feet and slung her backpack onto her shoulder; he hadn’t budged a fraction of an inch. Lucky bastard, she thought, following the woman into the office complex beyond the door. She’d never been able to sleep in random, unsecured places. Brandon had trained her a little too effectively to be comfortable doing that.

As always, the complex beyond the door smelled clean—a uniquely antiseptic scent that reminded Riley of a doctor’s office. Considering she didn’t like doctors and there was, in fact, a small, hospital-like clinic down one of the other hallways—a facility with which she was intimately familiar—the smell didn’t do much to alleviate the tingles of anxiety nudging at the back of her mind. She tried to not fidget as she followed the tall, skinny woman down the hall to one of the glass-walled conference rooms, through the glass double doors, and to the glass-topped conference table. The secretary motioned to one of the black leather chairs surrounding the table with a sweep of her manicured hand. Mr. Hall will be right in. Just have a seat, she suggested.

As the secretary turned her back, Riley dropped into a chair and set her bag on the floor beside it, pulling a leg up to rest her foot on the edge of the seat to alleviate the pain in her back. She rested her arm against her knee and stared at the glass wall as the secretary departed, watching the hall beyond and waiting for who-knew-what as she tried to quell her nervousness.

The hallway was a veritable beehive of activity, men and women walking rapidly down halls, barely speaking to each other, save for the occasional nod that acknowledged another’s existence. Secretaries spoke on Bluetooth headsets as they skirted around hustling agents, running errands for their assigned bosses. And standing at the far end of the hallway, almost at the edge of Riley’s sight, was the ringmaster of this ongoing circus. Damon Hartley, current Director of the