Hands trembling, the cop chased the tip of his cigarette with a lighter for a
couple of seconds. Then he saw me and stuffed it all back into his pocket.
I badged him. "Agent Tepes, Hex Division."
The cop straightened. His hands jerked up, then down. He was trying to figure
out if he should salute me.
While waiting for him to make up his mind, I pulled on a flak jacket. Partly,
I was trying to stay warm, but mostly, I wanted to hide the dried blood on my
arms and neck. The wounds had healed up, but I'd need to clean the blood off
eventually.
"Relax," I said. "Where's Agent Tambora?"
"Inside." He looked me up and down, then swallowed. Guy probably heard all
kinds of rumors about us. The freaks of nature who get deployed into hellholes
around the globe. Force Amplified Entities, the army of cyborg monsters who
operate in shadow. The FAE, constructed in billion-dollar labs, fighting
terrorism with horror.
His suspicions were grounded in fact. We were all of the above, and then
some. My team had captured or neutralized dozens of terrorist leaders, drug
lords, and war criminals. Everybody has a job to do; mine just involves
fast-roping out of choppers with my fangs out and my eyes glowing red.
Mindful of the yellow crime-scene tape, I headed up the driveway, the cop
stumbling along behind me. The tiny house crouched on the edge of a patchy beige
lawn. Flashlights cut through the dark as cops searched for footprints, bodily
fluids, fibers. Peeping from behind torn and faded curtains, neighbors rehearsed
their statements: they'd always had their doubts about the guy next door, and
this only confirmed what they'd suspected all along: the guy just wasn't right.
Feeling the unholy vibe this scene was giving off, they hovered on their porches
but got no closer. Crimes like this were rare in the suburbs of North Raleigh.
The cop cleared his throat and tried to man up; he didn't want to look like a
sissy in front of the feds. I didn't care how he looked. One of my people was
dead.
"Agent Tepes, do you think there's a connection to terrorists? Like Al-Hazred
or something?"
"Sorry. Classified."
No one knows what we do at Hermetic Extropy; all they know is, after the
slaughter at Providence, we took the fight to the enemy. Like everyone else, the
cop was hoping to learn a little more about our operation. Too bad.
The front door swung open. A face-masked forensic tech in paper shoes and
blue nitrile gloves was explaining something to my teammate, Adam Tambora. The
tech nodded, then shuffled back inside. Adam strode towards me.
He'd grown up in the hinterlands, one of those square states that I always
pictured like a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel, but with pickup trucks and high
school football. A muscular blonde guy with a recruitment-poster grin, he always
got treated like the team leader, even though he's the lowest-ranking member of
my unit. But there's a trade-off for those all-American good looks. When I
deploy my FAE augmentations, my eyes turn red and my canine teeth extend about a
half-inch. Other than that, I look pretty much the same. Adam, on the other
hand, undergoes some truly grotesque changes when his Frankenstitch enhancements
kick in. I figured the forensic technician wouldn't be so deferential if he
could only see what Adam looks like in monster mode.
My petty train of thought was derailed by Adam's firm handshake. "Glad you're
here," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. Then he looked past me and frowned.
A few police officers were waving at us from the driveway. We dodged
scurrying forensic techs as we crossed the lawn towards them.
Two cops, a male officer and a female detective, shivered next to the SUV in
the driveway. I started to address the detective, but Adam cut me off and
started talking to the officer.
"What can we do for you, buddy?"
The officer took a small step back, with an embarrassed look at the
detective. He felt bad, but it wasn't his fault; Adam was the one who'd made the
assumption.
The detective cleared her throat. "We want to jack up this truck," she said.
Her face reddened with irritation. She probably got that a lot: guys assuming
that she was a subordinate. "We need to see the underside. Looks like it's been
tampered with, and our techs want to get a better look. That okay with you?"
Assuming that he was in charge, she addressed Adam. I gritted my teeth and
let it go.
"I can do you one better," Adam said with a grin. He shooed her back.
Confused, but sharing his infectious smile, she stepped away.
Adam squatted down by the truck, clutched the frame, and lifted. Mouths open
and eyes wide, the cops and techs all backed away. The pickup rocked over on its
side, glass shattering as the vehicle's weight crushed the passenger-side
mirror.
Stepping back, he wiped his hands on his pants. His perfectly even teeth
gleamed in the harsh crime-scene floodlights. The audience broke into
spontaneous applause.
"How did you do that?" the detective asked. A second later, she caught
herself and laughed. "Sorry, I know. Loyalty Act, classified information."
"Can't tell you anything," Adam said. "Above your pay grade. And mine." They
smiled. I managed not to roll my eyes. Adam shook a few hands, then he and I
headed for the backyard.
"Nick," he said. "I know you disapprove, but these officers worship us like
rock stars or athletes. Giving them a little something to talk about is good for
morale."
"We're supposed to stay in the shadows." I tried to keep the irritation out
of my voice. Sure, I fell off a castle and landed on an SUV in front of a bunch
of slack-jawed civilians, and then I stabbed a monster in the neck. But that was
all in the line of duty, not showboating.
