“Show us what you can do.”
I move to the work bench and look at everything, taking inventory of what’s available and what condition it’s in. The equipment is older, but someone has taken good care of it, and the ingredients are labeled with dates and lot numbers. I can work with this. I can make what they want.
I reach for a pair of latex gloves sitting on the bench and pull them on, one finger at a time, feeling the material stretch and snap against my wrists.
As I begin, I hear a low, tender voice speak right into my thoughts. Male, strong, deeply concerned, as if he’s been holding off until this moment, when he can interrupt me without distracting me and putting me in more danger than I’m already in.
“Are you all right?”
I don’t react outwardly, don’t pause in my movements or give any indication that I’ve heard anything unusual. I just think my response as clearly as I can, directing it toward the presence I can feel in the back of my mind and deep under my skin.
“Never better.”
Chapter Two
Wren
Two weeks earlier
Captain David Holt leans back in his chair, and the metal frame creaks under his weight. He’s a big man, solid in a way that suggests he spent his younger years in the field before a desk claimed him. His dark hair is still thick despite the gray that should have shown up by now. His eyebrows are heavy over his eyes, and right now, they’re pulled together in concentration as he studies the photos spread across the conference table between us.
“The cell structure is their biggest advantage,” he says, tapping one of the printed surveillance photos. “You take down one operation, arrest five guys, and it doesn’t matter. The rest of the organization doesn’t even notice.”
I nod and look at the faces pinned to the board behind him. Most of them are low-level operators, street dealers and enforcers who barely know anything beyond their own small piece of the network. A few are mid-tier, the kind who handle logistics and distribution but never get close to real power. And then there are the question marks at the top, the blank spaces where leadership should be, the people we’ve been trying to identify for five years.
“The chemist you arrested,” I say. “How long before they replace him?”
“They already are.” Holt pulls a folder across the table and flips it open. “Your name is circulating in the right circles. Criminal contacts, former cellmates, people who knew Wren Hayes in prison. They’re hearing about a chemist who can’t find work, who’s desperate, who has the exact skill set the Kyzers need.”
Wren Hayes. That’s who I am now, who I’ve been building for years through a dozen small undercover jobs that established the identity and made it real. The chemistry degree is legitimate, earned under my real name before I joined the FBI, but everything after that is constructed. The arrest, the prison time, the struggle to find legitimate work after release – it’s all designed to make me exactly what the Kyzer family is looking for.
“How soon?” I ask.
“Could be days, could be a couple of weeks.” He closes the folder and meets my eyes. “They’re desperate. Their chemist has been gone for two weeks, and production has stopped completely. Crimson Haze is their primary revenue stream. Every day without product costs them money and reputation.”
Crimson Haze – the drug that’s made the Kyzer family one of the most dangerous criminal organizations on the West Coast. It’s made from basilisk venom and vampire blood combined with precise chemical compounds, and getting the synthesis wrong means the batch is either useless or lethal. That’s why they need someone like me, someone who understands both human chemistry and supernatural biology, who can work with materials that would kill most people just from exposure.
“The motel is ready,” Holt continues. “East side, exactly the kind of place where someone in your position would end up. You’ll stay there, apply for jobs at pharmacies and labs, make yourself visible. When they come for you, don’t fight too hard. They need to believe you’re desperate enough to cooperate.”
I’ve been undercover before, slipped into criminal organizations and gathered evidence from inside, but this is different. The Kyzers are careful in ways most criminals aren’t. They use magical countermeasures that detect surveillance equipment, they vet new people thoroughly, and they have corrupt officials feeding them information about ongoinginvestigations. Getting inside their organization is almost impossible. Getting out with useful intelligence is even harder.
“Their detection spells,” I say. “I won’t be able to wear a wire or carry anything electronic.”
“No. You’ll have to memorize everything. Faces, names, locations, anything that can help us identify leadership and build a case.” He pauses. “Which brings me to the next issue.”
The way he says it makes my stomach tighten. I’ve worked with Holt for a year now, since he took over the department after Captain Williams retired, and I’ve learned to read the subtle changes in his voice. This is the tone he uses when he’s about to tell me something I won’t like.
“What issue?” I ask.
“The FBI has secured a bodyguard for you.”
For a moment I just stare at him, trying to process what he just said, because it doesn’t make any sense.
“A bodyguard.”
“Yes.”
“Captain, there’s no way I can have a bodyguard.” I lean forward and keep my voice level even though I’m starting to feel more than a little alarmed. “I have to go in alone. That’s the whole point. If I show up with protection, they’ll know something is wrong.”
