 
## **Contents**

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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THE UNDERGODS

(Episodes 1 & 2)

Eva Kane

#

Copyright © 2015 Eva Kane

All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Distributed by Smashwords.

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www.EvaKane.com

CHAPTER ONE

SWISS

"I'd like to state for the record that Day 7 of holding my shit together is still intact," Swiss said into her comm as she waited outside of the men's locker room. "This despite the fact that I let Gunnar land six jabs as we sparred."

"Congratulations," Bach said over the comm. "The glory and the honor be thine forever and ever. What's your ETA?"

Swiss tuned in to the sounds in the locker room, zooming in on Gunnar's breathing. He was out of the shower, dressed, and had just slung his duffel bag over his shoulder—his right shoulder. Yes, she could tell that through a brick wall with three dead bodies stashed inside of it.

Gunnar usually slung his bag over his left shoulder, which meant Swiss had tweaked his arm while sparring a little bit harder than he'd claimed.

Whoops.

But nothing in Gunnar was broken after squaring off with her, so that was a win.

"ETA twelve minutes," she said.

"Copy that," Bach said then went silent.

As Swiss listened to Gunnar's unique cadence of footsteps moving toward the locker room exit, she tried to focus solely on her foster brother while filtering out the chaos between them. Closing her eyes, she fought to separate out the scurrying footfalls of ants and the gnawing of mice. She tried to shut off the heavy breathing of the man jacking off in the shower, tune out the high buzz of the surveillance equipment overseeing the lobby, and filter out the millions of other unidentifiable sounds clawing for her attention. She did everything she could think of to put the rest of the world on mute and hear only Gunnar's footsteps...and she failed.

Her upgraded ears heard it all, and she had no idea how to turn down the volume.

Swiss liked to play things casual with her team, but navigating the world with her new upgrades was a bit like juggling chainsaws with flames roaring out of their back ends. Finding a safe zone to grip, if one existed at all, was uncertain. All she could say was that the comic books of her childhood hadn't really given a balanced picture of what super powers entailed.

Like super sight, for example. Yes, Swiss could see things far away, zoom, access macrovision, and see literally millions of colors now, but she also saw everything else that came with it. Like the gym.

Swiss gave herself high marks for the simple fact that she wasn't outright staring at the morbid modern art she saw all around her. Blood, piss, puke, sweat, cum...the deposits of times past coated the gym. It was like a canvas that had been painted over hundreds of times. To her new upgraded senses, the mopped-up blood on the gym's floor looked like something out of a slaughterhouse. True, the blood had been scrubbed at and bleached many times, yet the residue was as clear to Swiss's eyes as if someone had dumped a gallon of black paint and swirled it around with a broom.

The comic books of her childhood had never mentioned how with sight enhancement the whole manmade world looked like a well-used hotel room. And Swiss wasn't even going to talk about her other senses. She'd leave that mess on the editing room floor, too. But seriously...she wished someone would have warned her.

When Gunnar finally stepped out of the locker room, Swiss fell in stride next to him and jabbed the arm he was trying to pretend was A-OK. "Hey, champ. How's the arm?"

Gunnar grunted in annoyance, rolling his shoulder as he gave the tender joint a squeeze. "I'm still feeling that crank you managed to get on me back there. You're almost getting good enough for me to pull out the big guns."

The playful dis gave Swiss something to focus on as the two of them stepped out into the afternoon sun and Swiss's eyes were assaulted by prisms of multicolored fairies zipping around in the air. Okay, they weren't fairies. They were water particles and pollen and dust and a shit-ton of other things, but they looked like miniscule fairies to Swiss's hypersensitive eyes.

Accept, adapt, and focus, she chanted to herself. Oh, and talk. She must remember to talk. What had Gunnar just said? Something about her being almost good enough to beat him?

"Almost? Bitch, please." She popped up her solar-cycle seat and swapped out her gym bag for a black hoodie, careful to keep her movements slow and even.

Gunnar's eyes narrowed. "Careful, young grasshopper. You have yet to snatch the pebble from my hand."

She grinned as she shrugged into the thin hoodie. "You want me to snatch your pebble? I'll snatch 'em both. Time and place, man. Name it."

Gunnar shook his head in feigned longsuffering. "See that? You can't even tell the difference between pebbles and massive stones."

Swiss straddled her cycle and checked her watch. "The day I can strike your nuts together and use the sparks to build a fire is the day I'll call them stones."

Gunnar's hands drifted south protectively. "Dude. Unnecessary imagery."

Swiss grinned, hoping the expression looked natural. "Hate to insult your manhood and leave, but duty calls."

"Sure," Gunnar agreed, stepping toward his own cycle. "We wouldn't want the iconic Demi St. Vincent wearing anything that was oh-so-yesterday. Get gone. Save the world one accessory at a time and all that, but first..."

Seeing the change in his body language and hearing the brief double-time of his heart, Swiss knew what—or rather, whom—Gunnar was thinking about without asking. Abruptly all of Swiss's hyperactive senses focused on Gunnar—the change in his breathing, the small gush of adrenaline and cortisol, the unconscious tightening of his muscles.

Yeah, Swiss knew exactly who he was thinking about. Which meant she shouldn't ask. But she did.

"Yeah?" she prompted.

He gave a shrug. "It's Ash...she's throwing me a birthday party at the bar and, well...you know the rest of that sentence."

Swiss kicked up the solar-cycle stand and studied her almost-brother. "How many times do you want to rehash this same conversation, Gun? I'm respecting your parents' final wishes here. It's the last thing they asked of me, and they were right to ask it."

He'd been expecting her to say that. She could tell by his physiological response, just like she could tell by the tone in his voice, that he had practiced his reply. "It's just...she keeps angling and pushing, you know? Can't you just stop by the bar or something? It's been two fucking years. There's not a single excuse that doesn't sound empty at this point. She knows you're avoiding her."

"I never told you to make up excuses," Swiss said, checking her watch again. Time was moving normal speed. Good. Time had a tendency to get funky whenever she got stressed.

"Well, you're not the one who has to look her in the eye and see her disappointment. Give her closure at least. All she knows is that she lost her parents and her best friend in the same week—her parents to a freak accident and her best friend to...vapidness."

Best friends? Swiss fought the urge to laugh right in Gunnar's face. Ash had resented Swiss for the two years Swiss had been a foster child in the Travers home back when she was a teen. Once Swiss enlisted in the Navy and was out of their hair, Ash had softened a bit and moved to passive acceptance of Swiss's presence whenever she came back on leave, but best friends?

Swiss wasn't any expert on friendship, but she was pretty sure that didn't qualify as besties. "Ash has the closest thing to an answer that she's ever going to get from me."

"But if you just went to the bar and—"

"She'd dig and she'd poke," Swiss said over him. "Gun, you and I still work because neither of us looks too deeply into the other or asks questions. You do what you do, and I don't ask. I do what I do, and you don't ask...Ash asks. She's observant as hell and she pokes at what she finds."

Gunner blinked and looked away.

"Worse than that," Swiss added. "She doesn't let go until she has an answer, and neither of us can protect her once she has our answers." "

The slow sigh Gunnar let out was on par with a silent agreement. He wasn't going to say it, but he knew Swiss was right.

"The best thing I can do is keep her asking the wrong questions," Swiss said. "And the best thing you can do is tell her that there is exactly zero chance I'll be swinging by the bar. I can live with her hating me more than I can live with the alternatives."

Gunnar shook his head. "Damn. How did we both turn out fucked up? Ash deserves better."

"Yes. She does. And if the two of us can keep our distance, she might just have a shot at better," Swiss said, starting up the engine. "We still on to meet up next week?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll let you know when I get back in town."

Swiss nodded, put her bike in gear, and sped away. She waited until she was through the first intersection to turn on her comm and update the undergods.

"En route. ETA to rendezvous with target, seven minutes."

CHAPTER TWO

OMEN

Keeping Dom in his line of sight, Omen blended into the shadows of the old parking structure. Even from a distance Dom maintained his signature Italian sheen that made him a bit too polished to blend in with the pissed-on walls and decomposing trash around him.

Abandoned cement structures with no bartender in sight weren't really Dom's scene, but Travis McGee had called for the meeting and chosen the place. So here they all were, thanks to a rumor Travis had heard that Dom had been dealing in Travis's territory. Travis had reached out and set up the meet, allegedly to bring Dom in as a player in Travis's network—because clandestine drug dealers were so keen on sharing turf and all.

But Omen could not care less about the premise of the meet at this point. All that mattered was that Travis and six of his gang members were strutting into a trap of their own making.

The meet-up site Travis had chosen was roped off, abandoned, and slated for demolition by the city of Reno. In twenty-four hours the parking terrace that had served the city for so many years would be a heap of rubble. With the next phase of Project: Pristine approved and funded, the Prohibited Vehicle Zone would be extended to graft in 33 more blocks into Reno's ever-growing carbon-negative infrastructure. As of tomorrow, all of the hybrid vehicles Reno residents used to interact with the rest of the world would be banned within the expanded Pristine Zone, as the current infrastructure was torn down and replaced with a solar transportation and carbon-negative structures.

Very few cities had made the switch to being fully solar powered, but of those pushing in that direction, Reno was the prototype. Fifteen years earlier, running on sunshine had just been a Reno politician's controversial pet project. Currently, 17% of the city operated solely on clean energy, with the remaining 83% in queue to be integrated as quickly as old-school permits and status quo protesters would allow. After all, not everyone considered clean energy "progress," and a small army had moved to Reno for the sole purpose of protecting a person's right to belch carbon into the atmosphere and other such inalienable rights. If these liberties were outlawed in Reno, the Mecca of the Green movement, the protesters knew it was only time before trickle-down activism took hold in other cities.

And to think that without The Great Southern California Quake, Reno might have remained a lackluster city—its vision unfunded as it died on its own vine. But as fate would have it, approximately twelve seconds of Mother Earth shifting her tectonic plates fifteen years prior had transformed all of Southern California into a third-world charity case. The devastation had killed millions the first day, with thousands following in subsequent days from injury, exposure, drowning, or outright violence.

In all the movies Hollywood had ever made, it had never dreamed up its own fate following a 9.4 magnitude earthquake. All of Southern California had been gutted. Omen knew firsthand, since that had been his stomping ground. He'd been seventeen and homeless, and the latter fact would ultimately save his life. While the gazillionaires were being flattened by their mansions during The Great Quake, Omen's roof that night had been the sky and his bed had been a layer of leaves in the vacation destination formerly known as Rustic Canyon. The quake definitely tossed Omen around, but when all was said and done he walked away from the apocalypse without a scratch. It was just one of countless times Omen had been in a situation where he should have died, but didn't. And while Omen had been herded to Las Vegas with other survivors, Hollywood had embraced the big saga about how they would rebuild and how Hollywood would always be Hollywood.

Other industries, however, had been less invested in keeping the same address.

Namely: music.

Underground shot callers in Reno had been luring music executives for years before The Great Quake. Reno was America's Amsterdam—with legalized prostitution and drugs. What was more rock 'n roll than that?

As it turned out, Reno elite had been using the wrong bait with their sex-and-drugs campaign. Clean energy had been the lure music execs couldn't resist. For men and women who got sex and drugs any time they wanted, legal or not, what really got them hard was building a world without pollution or toxic byproducts and getting all the credit for it. Sex had its place; drugs were for the weak-willed and easily manipulated. But efficiency via sci-fi technology? That shit was for the evolved.

So while Omen was down in Vegas allowing himself to be drafted into the world of knocking out other men on pay-per-view, the world of contemporary music had turned Reno into its new home. While Omen earned millions entertaining the masses with coliseum-type violence, new residents flooded into Reno, providing billions of dollars in tax revenue to turn the formerly anemic desert city into a shining beacon of liberal success.

Money like that was the reason why the particular parking terrace Omen currently stood in would be razed and replaced by luxury condos—80% of which had already been purchased, sight unseen.

But that transformation would start tomorrow. For the moment it was nothing more than an abandoned parking structure with a countdown-to-the-demolition concert across the street.

The chaotic sound of the demolition band was audible five parking levels up but did not drown out the sound of Dom's shoe scuffing the pavement across the way or block Dom's voice bouncing off the cement structure when he spoke. This was important. Omen and the rest of the team would be able to hear Dom loud and clear through his comm unit, but they would be relying on the inherent acoustics of the space to hear Travis and his crew.

"Looks like three of the six backups are being stationed in lookout positions," Swiss's voice said in Omen's earpiece. "Two at the base and one at the top of the structure. Be advised, all are carrying."

"Copy that," Omen said, and the acknowledgment was echoed by Dom, Zero, and Bach.

"I have visual," Zero said moments later. "The target, plus three, entering from the east side of the staging area."

"Zero, closing the backdoor begins on your mark," Swiss replied.

"Copy that. Hold for my mark," Zero replied.

Omen closed his eyes, letting the business tones of his team center him. He had total faith in the undergods. Unlike Travis's little gang, Omen's backup knew how to handle a deadly situation while ensuring team survival. Between the six of them, the undergods had walked out of situations like this thousands of times. Maybe the day would come when they didn't walk away, but that day was not today.

Today was Travis's day to lose.

Eight months ago Omen had given Travis an ultimatum, and Travis had made his choice loud and clear. Now Omen was obligated to follow through on promises made. There was the rule of law and then there were the rules of survival. To thrive, both sets of rules required a little respect. But no one had ever taught Travis McGee respect, and at this point no one would.

Zero's voice was hushed the next time he spoke. "Swiss, we are a go for closing the backdoor."

"Copy that," Swiss said. Omen watched Travis and his three crew members fan out to approach Dom in a semicircle formation. Then the group of twenty-somethings closed in on Dom with the swagger and pomp of the naive.

Dom made no move. He simply stood his ground and let the badasses come to him.

"Hands to the side while my friends here check you for metal," Travis said, pretending to sound aloof. Two of his guys walked ahead while the third drew a gun and trained it on Dom to encourage him to comply with being searched.

Dom held his arms out to the side, as instructed, his voice coming through the comm as he spoke. "Two seconds in and already breaking the terms of the meet up, huh? Doesn't do much to build trust."

Without his earpiece Omen wouldn't have heard Dom's words, spoken so casually from more than a hundred feet away.

"Yeah, well you need to earn trust in my world," Travis said. As leader, he was speaking loud enough for his entire team to hear, which meant Omen could hear as well.

Dom let the other men's hands move over him while keeping his eyes on Travis. "Well, in my world, a person lives and dies by their word. We fulfill our oaths whether we want to or not. I told you I would bring no weapons, and I have no weapons."

"He's clean," the frisker called back as he and the other guy stepped away. The third guy lowered his gun from firing position, but kept his finger on the trigger as Travis stepped forward and looked Dom over.

"The back door is officially closed, and spectators are in their seats," Swiss said over the comm.

"Copy that." Omen glanced to the rear of the staging area and saw that Swiss had indeed strung up the three lookouts in the prearranged spot. They were bound, gagged, bug-eyed, and straining against their restraints to no avail.

How on God's green earth Swiss had contained and bound them all so quickly was beyond Omen, but apparently she was through working out the kinks in her new super speed. These past few weeks Phi seemed to be really pushing with her "upgrades," and while there appeared to be a definite learning curve to them, Omen couldn't argue with the results. Bit by bit Phi was turning Swiss into the kind of person people made movies about.

But none of that mattered at the moment. What mattered was that any rear attack was now contained and the way was paved for Omen to play his part.

"Zero, do you have a lock on the stage?" he asked.

"Affirmative," Zero replied from a rooftop a block away. "The stage is locked."

"How about the wings, Bach?"

"The wings are clear," Bach said from his van several blocks away. "No bogeys and the technology dead zone is in place. You're good to go."

"Then it's show time, folks," Omen said, stepping out of the shadows. "The front door is closing."

No one in Travis's crew saw Omen at first, allowing Omen to stroll forward as Travis continued to taunt Dom. "The only reason you're alive right now," Travis was saying, "is because I want to know who your source is."

"I see," Dom's much softer voice said over the comm. "And is this the part where I quake in my boots and tell you what you want to know?"

"This is the part where you acknowledge that you're out of your own territory and in mine," Travis snarled. "I control this area, and I don't share. Just like you don't share. So let's cut the bullshit about you and me coming here to build bridges. You want me gone like I want you gone."

"The way I see it, there's room for all of us so long as we all bring something to the table," Dom replied, his eyes fixed on Travis's even though Omen could tell Dom was tracking his approach.

Travis laughed. "All you bring to the table is a knife in the back. And I'm where I am because I stab first, asshole. So you can either tell me what I want to know, or I can cut the information out of you. Those are your choices."

"His mother must be so proud," Swiss mused over the comm, and Omen saw Dom's mouth curve into a smile.

Apparently so did Travis.

"You think that's funny?" he said, stepping forward. "Want me to carve that smile permanently into your face, Joker?"

Omen was fifty feet away from the group when Dom's expression sobered. "I don't think that will be happening, Travis." He glanced Omen's way. "Not unless he says so."

All four gang members turned at once, but only one recognized the face he saw. Travis's eyes flared in recognition as he reached around to his back waistband and fumbled for his gun. When he missed it on his first grab he called out, "Shoot him!"

Omen kept walking. The only guy already holding a gun stumbled back, raising the gun to point right at Omen's center of mass. Whether the kid squeezed the trigger out of terrified reflex or because he'd been commanded to, Omen couldn't tell. But either way Swiss appeared out of nowhere and jammed the hammer before it could eject the bullet.

Literally. Out of nowhere. Omen hadn't even seen which direction she'd come from.

For a moment Omen was distracted by Swiss's black head-to-toe attire, accented with a simple white mask. The impact was meant to be creepy just as much as it was meant to mask the fact that she was a woman. But with Phi's upgrades, Swiss small stature and female sex became irrelevant distractions to a new reality. Swiss kicked ass on a superhuman level, and all Omen knew was that he never wanted to meet an upgraded human who wasn't his friend.

In the split second Omen considered this, Swiss spotted a second gun being raised. Keeping her grip on the first guy, Swiss forced the guy to re-aim then released the hammer she had jammed to send the chambered bullet flying at the second shooter.

The percussion of the fired bullet paired with the scream that followed had Travis and his last wingman ducking in reflex as they looked over to see one of their own holding his forearm and swearing as blood oozed out from between his fingers.

Swiss stripped the smoking gun from her captive, grounded him, then found Travis's gun in the back of his pants at the same moment he did and tugged it out. There was no contest in who would end up with the gun once Swiss got a finger on it. Within a blink, Swiss kicked Travis's knees out from under him, twisting the gun out of his grip as she put him on all fours. Travis's hands moved forward to stop his impending face plant as Swiss palmed his gun and walked over to the fourth guy with her hand outstretched.

The last gang member staggered back, raising his barrel her way. Again Swiss used her freaky speed to cover the distance between them, redirecting the firing muzzle at the cement underbelly of the next level of the parking structure while dropping the guy with a nutcracker kick between the legs.

That kid's gonna want to have that looked at, was all Omen could think, fighting the urge to cover up his own goods as the guy went down with a silent scream on his lips. The ball-bashed guy didn't even try to fight back when the white-masked figure stepped forward and politely stripped him of his gun. Three out of the four guns in hand, Swiss pulled a department store bag out of her pocket and dropped them in it.

One gun was still in play, and they all knew it.

From his position on all fours, Travis eyed the gun that had been shot out of his friend's hand. His muscles were tensed, prepared to lunge for it, when Dom strolled up, collected the gun, and very calmly placed in into the bag Swiss held out in his direction.

All guns were officially accounted for.

"Quick update," Bach's voice said over the comm. "Travis has activated the distress beacon to alert his daddy's bodyguards. The area's still a dead zone, so the signal's not going anywhere, but their typical response time is seven minutes. He should be plenty chatty for that amount of time while he thinks he's stalling for backup."

Omen walked forward, stopping when about ten feet separated him and his enemy. "Hi, Travis. Remember me?"

Travis got to his feet. "I should have known."

"Yes," Omen agreed. "You should have."

To his credit, Travis appeared fully composed. "You here to give me another lecture, imposter?"

"No. You've already heard it." Omen looked past Travis to the guy who had tried to shoot him in the chest seconds before. "What's your name?"

The guy froze, everything still as his eyes subconsciously glanced to his exit points. He seemed to seriously consider fleeing the scene until his eyes locked on Swiss. She had already bound and gagged the guy whose nuts she'd cracked, and she was just finishing up gagging the guy with the bleeding arm. When she noticed the other guy looking, she grew statue-still and stared him down. Something about the combination of her blank mask, black eyes, and predatorial stance had Omen's self-preservation instincts twitching.

"Answer the man," Dom said from behind Swiss as he zip-tied the blood-soaked man's wrists together. "Unless you want us to gag you instead. We only need one of you wannabes talking. Doesn't matter which one."

The guy's shoulders sagged, and his head dropped. After a moment, he looked at Omen. "Mason," he said, his voice hollow. "My name is Mason."

"Mason," Omen repeated. "How long have you been running with Travis here?"

"I...I dunno. Six months?"

Omen nodded. "Sounds about right. And tell me, Mason, did it ever strike you as odd that someone like Travis had made it to the top of the drug food chain? A yuppie kid who has to pay others to be street smart for him?"

Mason licked his lips nervously. "I, uh, didn't really think about it."

"Of course," Omen said lightly. "Why would you?" He raised his voice several decibels so that the lookouts Swiss had tied up at the other end could hear. "He's rich. Why would any of you question his authority? But I need you all to listen very closely now, okay? We made sure you're all conscious because it's very important that you hear what I'm about to say next so you don't screw up like Travis has."

Omen was ready for Travis to lunge his way when his back was turned. When the man did exactly that, Omen used the opportunity to get Travis into a standing neck crank that exposed the scar at the base of Travis's neck—the scar Omen had put there only eight months before.

"You may or may not be familiar with the scar at the base of Travis's neck," Omen said, purposefully keeping his voice pleasant and conversational but still loud enough for all to hear. "Be advised, you will all be leaving here with a matching mark." Omen looked directly at Mason as he continued.

Travis struggled against Omen's hold but didn't get very far, so he compensated by yelling, "Don't listen to this guy! He's a fraud!"

Omen ignored the kid. "Mason, do you know what a zero-tolerance policy is?"

The dude looked like he was a breath away from shitting his pants. "I..."

"Loud enough for the whole class to hear," Omen reminded him as Travis struggled to free himself. "Your answer is their answer. Get it right, and I'll let your fearless leader go and give him another chance to take me down."

"I—"

"Louder," Omen prompted.

Mason cleared his throat and spoke up. "I guess zero tolerance would mean that you're out on the first strike."

Omen released Travis and pushed him in Mason's direction. Travis stumbled, caught himself, and poised to attack as he faced Omen again. But he didn't attack. He just posed.

"Very good, Mason," Omen said. "That's exactly how zero tolerance works in this city. As experimental drug brokers, you all know how a little product can go a long way, and that certain ingredient combinations are toxic. Right, Mason?"

Mason's pale face nodded. "Sure. I guess."

"And when you change a recipe on a whim, a happy dose can become a killer dose. Right, Mason?"

"Yes," the guy said more confidently this time as Travis eyed Dom and Swiss as if he could will them out of existence with sheer malevolence.

Omen kept his focus on Mason. "So tell me, Mason, as you've worked with Travis, have you noticed any willingness on his part to sell customers killer doses?"

Mason opened his mouth then shut it. He looked to Travis as if pleading for a cue to what to say.

"It's supply and demand," Travis answered for him. "They ask, I give. That's how business works, dumbass."

"Sure," Omen agreed. "And if a father ODs on a recipe you tried out on a whim...that's not your problem, right? Or a college kid who fries because you felt creative on that particular day of cooking. It's not your problem if he flatlines, right?"

"They came, they bought, and they used!" Travis sneered. "Their choice. Their consequence."

"A very convenient stance," Omen mused. "So what then about the not-so-accidental overdoses? What about the staged ones used to get rid of people who were inconvenient to you? Other dealers...CIs...people you've outright killed in an effort to rise."

Travis actually looked smug. "They knew the risks of defying me, and they took them! No one forced them."

Omen stared the other man down. "And you knew the risks of defying me, Travis."

For a moment Travis faltered. But it was only a moment. He quickly rebounded. "I'm my own boss. I don't work for you."

"No. You certainly do not," Omen said, his eyes hard. "But some rules still apply to the self-employed. It's how we keep order around here, and we both know that the terms of the zero-tolerance policy were made abundantly clear to you. Now do you want to share the policy with your friends, or shall I?"

Travis clenched his fists, clearly looking for a takedown opportunity he knew didn't exist. "There's not really a point, because you're not anyone worth listening to," he spat. "I asked my dad about you. You're not who you say you are. No one of power has your back, which means you can suck my dick right about now. It'll be good practice for your future life in prison."

Omen fought the urge to sink to Travis's level of tossing around threats. It was time to focus. Omen didn't need this conversation, nor did Travis. But all the spectators did. It was important that Travis answer as many of their questions as possible.

"The policy...give it a try, will you?" Omen urged. "Just so I know I didn't stutter the last time we met."

Travis tensed, his eyes darting around the perimeter as he looked for reinforcements and found none. Hoping to buy a little more time, as Bach predicted he might, Travis stabbed his finger in Omen's direction.

"Listen up, everyone, and quake in your boots," he scoffed. "The zero-tolerance policy is this chaff's way of pretending that a customer's funeral is an excuse to give suppliers a funeral, even though he knows that's not how the real world works! Oh, and never mind that he has no clout, no clan, and no oath brothers in this city. What you see is what you get here. A tall-ass man with his tiny band of fucktards." When Travis finished, he looked quite proud of himself. He paused and faced Omen with a smug smile. "That about cover it?"

"Pretty close," Omen said with a nod before raising his voice for all. "That was the unofficial version. Here's the official one, just so that nothing gets lost in translation." He looked at each of the gagged men in turn, making sure he got eye contact from each before continuing. "No one dies in this city without me knowing about it—including the chaff. When people die wrongfully, I am called to balance out the scales. The mark you will leave here with will testify in the future that you left here understanding that if even one of your customers is killed by your product through your intentional negligence, I will hunt you down and remove you from this earth." Omen turned to Travis. "And there is no second warning. If you are heartless with the lives of others, the zero-tolerance policy will be heartless with yours."

"Bullshit!" Travis countered, the corner of his mouth curving up in quiet confidence. "We all know who my dad is, just like we both know you can't touch him. If you so much as threaten me, he will finish you."

Omen stared directly into Travis's eyes. "It must be comforting to think so. But you are not a child anymore, Travis. You're a grown man, and you're a killer. You've killed customers. You've killed competition." He gestured to where Dom silently waited for his next cue. "You came here intending to torture and kill my friend here. Even at this very moment you would kill me if you could." Omen stepped closer. "Do you really not see how all this is a problem? That your trajectory will only cause more and more deaths to accommodate your sense of entitlement?"

"Oh, man," Travis groaned, his eyes drifting around the perimeter again, looking for the men in black suits who always made his problems go away. He ran his mouth to stall longer. "Is this the part where you tell me that everyone deserves a trophy and to be cool and stay in school? Because I didn't buy that bullshit when I was five, and I'm sure not buying it from you now."

Omen studied the cold eyes in an otherwise handsome face. "No. It's not. This is the part where I show you what it means to keep your word."

Travis shook his head, resolute and unapologetic. "News flash, motherfucker: This city is mine, so you can take your 'zero-tolerance policy' and go to hell with it."

A small hole appeared in the center of Travis's forehead at the same moment the contents of his skull sprayed out the back of his head, much of it splattering directly onto Mason. One moment Travis was a picture of proud defiance, and the next his body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

"You first," Omen said to Travis's corpse.

It took several seconds for Mason to comprehend how much reality had changed in the blink of an eye. First came the blank stare of disbelief as he looked at the body at his feet with only half a head. Then came the blinks—his mind taking picture after picture, trying to find one where Travis was still alive and well. Last came the hyperventilating and paralyzing fear as his body tried to flee, crumble, and scream all at once. His mouth opened mutely as he shifted into an awkward half-squat.

Omen stepped forward, using Mason's shoulder to hold him upright. "Mason? Mason, look at me."

"I...Ohshit-ohshit-ohshit—"

Omen gripped the man's chin and forced him to make eye contact. "Mason, I need you to hear me. Can you hear me?"

The man stared at him, eye bulging, face white. "Yeah. Yeah, I hear...you."

"Good. Because this is what I mean when I say zero-tolerance." He pointed off in the distance. "The guy who just pulled the trigger? That's Zero. And Zero hates parasites like you. Do you understand, Mason? He'd pick you off like beer cans all day long if I let him, but he and I have cut a deal: he doesn't get to kill you with his toy until you kill someone with your toys. Don't you think that's a fair deal, Mason?"

"I...Fuck!" Mason panted. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, man! I'll stop. I swear I'll stop!"

Omen patted Mason's arm. "No reason to beg, my friend. I'm going to let you go...just like I let Travis go after I warned him. But there is no second warning, do you understand? The next time you see me, my face will be the last face you see. That's my promise, and as you have seen, I am a man of my word."

Mason trembled, barely standing, and gulped as if trying not to vomit. "Yes. I get it. Yes. I promise...never..."

"Very well," Omen said, adjusting his watchband to make the design on the clasp go firebrand hot. "Then let's make this official."

Omen branded his emblem onto the base Mason's neck as the man writhed and screamed in pain. When Omen released him, he crumpled to the ground and puked on his dead friend's corpse. Omen realized there might be some poetry to that, but Omen wasn't much of a poet so he stuck to what he did best: taking the gods down a notch.

Once all of Travis's entourage was branded, Omen looked at his handy work and the signature he had left all over it.

Your move, Apophis.

"We're done here. See you all in Hell," Omen said into his comm, then disappeared back into the shadows.

CHAPTER THREE

BACH

Ninety seconds after Omen signed off, Bach brought the technology dead zone he'd created back to life. Cameras in the area came back online and microphones began broadcasting, including the microphones in each of the comm bands of Travis's remaining crew. The six crew members immediately began making frantic calls.

It wasn't on Bach's duty list to monitor what the marked survivors did next. It was all being recorded for future reference. But it felt rather abrupt to simply sign off, so he created a track of their combined comms anyway to listen to as he worked. Multitasking streams of audio was something Bach did very well.

"It's 4:40 on the nose," Conner's voice said in his ear. "You ready to start the sound check?"

The stagehand's voice came in on Feed 18: The Apophis Theater. Most of the undergods had day jobs used to help them blend into the cityscape, and Bach's chosen occupation was sound design. In a city of unending concerts, everyone needed an audio guy. And no one blinked when a blind man claimed he was the best man for an audio job. Venues hired Bach on the spot.

That night, the Apophis Theater would need audio design for sixteen performances, thirty-one instruments, one host, four judges, and four guests.

Bach pushed the button to open his mic and talk to Conner, who was working approximately four miles away from where Bach's van was parked. "Let's run the acts in performance order, Conner."

"Already have them in a queue," came the reply.

"Good man. Crack the whip whenever you're ready," Bach said as he gave each of the mics in the theater their own feeds. Seconds later, a pair of drum sticks counted off the beat and were joined by a keyboard to play a hardened-up intro of Queen's "Radio Gaga."

The sensors in the venue did most of the work for Bach in finding the levels. All Bach needed to do was confirm the progression of balance levels for the live broadcast. Not rocket science, but it did require at least one run-through of each song to select, confirm, and program each song's settings from beginning to end. As the song built, Bach's sensors adjusted and pinged him to confirm new levels. He either confirmed them as calculated or manually adjusted them before confirming. The rest of the time he multitasked.

"Computer, create one channel for all microphone feeds related to Patrick McGee," Bach instructed. "I want audio from all first responders. Include all broadcast platforms, including digital and dark net. Also include any devices that breach the perimeter of the existing crime scene. Continue playing Feed 18 in parallel."

"Which feed is your top priority?" the computer asked.

Bach hesitated. "Priority channel is Feed 18."

"New channel priorities established," the computer said before playing all the tracks on top of each other. Bach listened to them all at first—the creative reinvention of "Radio Gaga" serving as an oddly suited soundtrack to Travis's crew feverishly calling in reinforcements.

The first members of the McGee security force arrived at the parking garage within four minutes—impressive by any standards. Patrick McGee was on the scene himself before the "Radio Gaga" act left the stage. Even if Bach hadn't been listening to Patrick scream into his phone the entire ride over to the garage, he would have known Travis's father was on the scene by the hush that suddenly silenced each mic in the vicinity. The silence lasted 4.38 seconds before Patrick roared into it.

"I want every fucking detail!"

Patrick's head of security stepped up. "It was a sniper shot that got him, sir. It appears they dug the bullet out and took it with them. It's a guess, but I'd say it was a lower caliber. Perhaps even a .25."

"Who's 'them'?" Patrick snapped. "Who the fuck left my son like this? I want to see video playback this moment!"

"There is none, sir," the bodyguard informed him, voice tense. "All cameras within a quarter mile went dark for eight minutes. We're still looking to see if we've missed any cameras, but we do have six eye-witnesses they left for us. And, sir, you're going to want to see the brands they have on their necks."

There was a dangerous silence followed by, "Cover my son up, then call in brass we like and bring Wyatt in for the exclusive story. I want everyone here in five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The tension in the garage audibly thickened with each passing moment of silence. Travis's gang members finished their comm conversations and grew silent. By Bach's audio count, fourteen men stood in the parking garage, yet there was no sound louder than Patrick's shoe scraping along the ground as he moved around the murder scene.

"Act two is plugged in and ready to go," Connor said on Feed 18, unknowingly breaking the chilly silence.

Bach tapped his sensor with all four fingers to reset settings for a new song. "Ready on this side. Cue them up."

The second act was going with an original rap. Always a risky choice. Original songs rarely had a strong enough hook to grab an audience. These contestants clearly thought they were the exception to that rule. Bach let the sensors choose the levels and ping him for confirmation while he kept most of his focus back on Patrick McGee in the parking lot.

"Who picked this location for a meet?" Patrick asked after several minutes of milling around.

"Travis," Mason said. The rest of the group seemed to be deferring to him ever since he'd become their voice in the conversation with Omen. "The guy we met has been making moves on Travis's turf. Travis wanted the guy's source, and then we were going to off him and hide him so he went down with the demolition. But things went downhill fast."

"Who was keeping watch, and how did these assholes get past that line of defense?" Patrick asked.

Feed 18 pinged that it had found audio balance levels between the lead mic and bass. Bach confirmed it.

"Tim was on the north ground-level entrance," Mason replied. "Kale was on the south, and Blaine was covering the roof. They can tell you what happened there better than I can. Me, Derren, and Trey were in here with Travis."

Patrick's leather-bottomed shoes took a few steps. "So what happened on the perimeter, boys? Who got to you and how?"

"It was like some Cirque du Soleil dude with a mask on," one of the guys said. Bach's computer immediately identified the voice as belonging to Kale Berret. "I didn't even see him coming, and when he grabbed me I swear every bone in my back popped with whiplash. He was shorter than me, but fucking strong and fast like a flash."

"Did you see his face?" Patrick asked.

"Uh-uh. The dude was wearing a mask. Plain white. No designs or marks on it. His clothes were head-to-toe black. No skin showing anywhere. He even had gloves on in this heat."

Another ping and confirmation on Feed 18.

"So it could have been a woman," Patrick said and was met with a laugh that was likely ill advised. Patrick McGee wasn't the type of man a person laughed at under any circumstances.

"No fucking way, sir," Kale said. "This dude was stronger than a vice. I would say it was a robot before I'd say it was a woman. When Trey pulled the trigger to shoot the big black guy, this little dude crossed the garage in time to stop the hammer. It was fucking unreal."

"We'll come back to that," Patrick said. "For now, let's focus on how the perimeter came down. Three lookouts should have been plenty. How did they get you all without sending up an alarm?"

"It was the same guy in the white mask, sir," a shame-laced voice said. Voice identity: Blaine Tippin. "That Cirque du Soleil guy got all three of us. One second I was on watch, then the next second everything went black and I woke up bound, gagged, and hanging from that pipe right there. I didn't feel drugged or anything, but I have no idea how I got down here."

Feed 18 pinged to confirm a new percussion balance. Bach confirmed.

"Same goes with me," the last lookout said. "Never experienced anything like it. I didn't even see the guy in black until he moved in to help that black giant."

There was an ominous silence before Patrick moved the conversation forward. "I want you three to show Damian exactly where and how you were strung up. Have Damian put you up like the man in the mask did so I can see the scene for myself."

"Yes, sir," the boys mumbled before Patrick's leather shoes pivoted on the cement.

"Mason, are you the only one who can speak coherently about what happened with my son and this interloper you were meeting with?"

Mason hesitated. "Well, Trey has been shot, sir. It's just his arm, but it's been bleeding for more than ten minutes now. And Derren hasn't gotten up since he got his nuts flattened. I think they both need doctors. I can probably tell you all the highlights you need to know while they get fixed up."

"Trey? Derren? Do you agree with that assessment?" Patrick asked, his voice an insincere shade of kind. "Do you two trust Mason to give me all the information I need to catch the men who did all this to you?"

The other two guys must have nodded because Patrick called a bodyguard over. "Get these two into an ambulance and notify the parents."

"Yes, sir," his bodyguard replied before two more guards moved in to help move Trey and Derren. As the two injured men were led away, the rap in Feed 18 finally decided to drop the bass. Bach adjusted the levels up a few decibels out of balance and confirmed the setting.

"Now fill me in on what happened with Travis," Patrick said. "How many of them were there? What did they look like?"

"There were at least four men, sir," Mason said. "There was this goliath of a black dude, the smaller guy in the white mask, the other dealer we thought we were meeting alone, and the sniper that took Travis out from somewhere off to the east. Maybe there were more than that, but there were definitely four of them. They were set up and organized. They never signaled each other or anything."

"Wyatt," Patrick called out across the garage. "Get over here. You're going to want to hear all this. And Detective Adams, I want a composite artist here to get some sketches of these guys."

"On it," an official-sounding voice said. Immediately Bach's computer provided a voice identity for the speaker: Detective Aidan Adams, Reno Police Department.

"Does your unit have the area closed off?" Patrick asked.

"It's officially taped off as a crime scene, Mr. McGee," Detective Adams replied.

"Good. Then interview the three witnesses Damian is stringing up over there, and see if they know anything useful."

"Got it, boss."

Boss? Bach's eyebrow arched up at the reference then dropped when no one contested the line of authority Detective Adams had just established. It shouldn't be a surprise that everyone at the crime scene was in Patrick McGee's back pocket. In fact, Bach should have assumed as much from the onset, but apparently some part of Bach still clung to the idealism of his younger days.

Feed 18 pinged yet again. Bach adjusted the bass up again and confirmed the levels for the final measures of the song. Turned out the song wasn't half bad. The group would probably survive another week.

"Now tell me what happened, Mason," Patrick said in a menacing tone. "Every detail."

"How did that sound?" Connor back on Feed 18 said over Mason's response. "Did you get what you needed?"

Bach pressed the button to open his mic. "We got what we need. Bring on the third act."

"Okay, you're done!" Connor called out on his side. "Break down your instruments. Act three is up!"

Bach refocused on the garage, listening to Mason's version of events and trying not to be impressed with the young man's level of recall. He got Swiss, Dom, and even Omen's modified height correct within an inch. He also recalled the dialogue with uncanny accuracy. In the same amount of time it took the third act to set up for their sound check, Mason walked Patrick through what happened in surprising detail.

After Mason completed his description of events, Patrick McGee gave the kid a pat on the shoulder. "You do your father proud," he said. "Go over to that sketch artist over there and describe the other dealer you encountered when you arrived here with Travis. I want to see that sketch before any of the others."

"Yes, sir," Mason said and moved away as Wyatt Snider, star reporter of the Reno Record, walked back over to Patrick's side.

"Your son's crew is pretty useless for getting details," Wyatt muttered. "They were clearly seeing through fear goggles when all this went down. Either that or they were assaulted by a day-walking vampire. White mask, black clothes, super speed and strength. That's all they've got to offer outside of the shit stains they're clearly hiding in their pants."

"Well, luckily my son had one friend who could see past some smoke and mirrors."

"Yeah," Wyatt said. "His sketch will be good for the papers. Do you want me to ask Damian to cut those three guys down? Their hands are turning blue."

"No," Patrick said. "Those three will stay where they are for pictures."

"Uh, okay. Then what are we saying happened here? This scene doesn't spin well. Protesters don't use snipers."

"Maybe they've escalated," Patrick said, although his voice lacked conviction as he said it. The real conviction came out when he spat, "I want to see the face of the motherfucker who led my son here and delivered him to..."

Wyatt seemed to wait for the end of that statement, but when it didn't come he offered a prompt. "Delivered him to?"

Patrick hesitated. "You let me deal with the big black guy. Leave him out of the official story."

"Sure. But what about this guy in the mask?" Wyatt asked. "That image makes great news. A masked person could be anyone. Your neighbor, your lover, your maid. I can leverage that angle for quite a while."

Bach felt like he could literally hear the wheels turning in Patrick's mind. "Yeah. That's good, only let's make it a group of masked people. Like you said, masks make everyone a suspect. We'll get the sketch from Mason of what the mask looked like. If we're lucky it'll be something mass produced and we can rain heat on anyone who owns one or who has disposed of one recently." Patrick paced thoughtfully. "Say that these motherfuckers work as a team, wearing a black uniform with a white mask. They're fucking cowards fighting against progress by use of intimidation and violence even as they hide behind anonymity."

"Got it," Wyatt said. "But how did they lure your son here to a condemned area? And why did they target him?"

"Them," Patrick corrected.

The reporter hesitated, confused. "Them?"

"Yes. 'Them' not 'him.' Six of the city's youth died here today," Patrick said a moment before a single gunshot sounded. The sound felt like a bomb going off in Bach's ears, leaving a stream of high-pitched buzzing in its wake.

"Computer, compress all audio over 70 decibels."

"New audio settings accepted," it replied.

Thank God for that, but getting back to the matter at hand, had Bach just heard what he thought he'd heard? It had been a gunshot, yes. But where had the gun been pointed? No bodies fell to the ground, but—

"Shit!" Wyatt breathed. "Warn a guy, will you? I think you got splatter on my pants."

Back in the garage Patrick didn't respond to Wyatt's complaint, leaving Bach's question unanswered as listened to Patrick pace and build his story for Wyatt's article. "The boys got a tip that protesters were planning to sabotage tomorrow's demolition, so they got proactive and decided to follow up on the lead. You'll say that evidence gathered on the scene suggests that the boys caught the terrorists red handed but that they were also greatly outnumbered. Three of the boys were caught, strung up, and tortured for information. When the terrorists got what they needed, they perversely shot the three young men in the head with one bullet and left their bodies just as you see them now. We'll have CSI take pictures."

Bach felt his chest grow cold.

Yes, he had just heard exactly what he'd thought he'd heard. The three guys who had allowed themselves to be tied up to show what Swiss had done to them had just been unceremoniously executed by McGee right in front of police and a reporter. No warning. No last words. No explanation. They'd just been shot after doing every damn thing they'd been told to do. And no one was blinking.

Patrick continued as if everything was normal. "Travis, Mason, Trey, and Derren ran for help, but only one of them made it." Patrick hesitated then, audibly pivoting on his shoes as he raised his voice, "Isn't that right, Mason?"

There was a pregnant silence followed by, "Yes, sir. I was the only one who made it."

"They shot Travis in the back, didn't they?" Patrick said.

"Yes, sir," Mason replied. "He was unarmed, and they shot him in the back like the cowards they are."

"And they shot Trey and Derren, too," Patrick prompted.

"Yes," Mason agreed. "Although those two lived until help came. I was able to pull them to safety—"

"But they died en route to the hospital," Patrick finished for him.

"Yes, sir," the youth replied, his voice nearly monotone.

"And if you could live today all over again," Patrick mused. "What would you do differently, Mason?"

"I would..." The kid cleared his throat, buying a fraction of a second as he tried to channel the response Patrick McGee was clearly looking for. "I would...not take the law into my own hands when I heard a rumor, sir. I would report the rumor to authorities and let trained personnel follow up and respond. I'll never forgive myself for getting six of my best friends killed while trying to play hero today. It's the most senseless thing I've ever done."

"Now that's a quote," Wyatt said. "Let me get a camera set up down on the street, and let's get you saying that one more time."

"No problem," Mason agreed, his voice cold and flat as Patrick McGee's steps moved his way.

"Tell me why you're alive right now, Mason," Patrick asked calmly.

Mason cleared his throat. "My father?"

Patrick's hand gave Mason two solid pats. "He's a strong man of the oath, Mason. Just like you will be someday."

"Yes, sir."

"This chaff lying at your feet can't be trusted with what you saw today," Patrick explained. "Their kind have their uses. But the difference in caliber between you and them should very clear to you right now."

Mason hesitated. "Very clear, sir."

Bach heard Patrick's hand come in contact with Mason and give what was probably intended to be a reassuring squeeze. "You are a son of Atlantis, Mason. Your father trained you astute and strong. I know he may have been hard on you as a child, just like I was hard on Travis. There are things your father did in your childhood that maybe didn't make sense at the time, but you're a grown man now. I'm hoping you can look back on those days now and see what he was preparing you for."

"Yes, sir," Mason said without hesitation. "I'm grateful for his training."

"That's good...Wait, are you fucking with me? Let me see that sketch!" Patrick said before Bach heard the man snatch a tablet away from an officer who had yet to say anything.

Wyatt stepped back into the conversation, his voice eager. "What? Do you know who that is?"

"No fucking way," Patrick muttered, handing the tablet back and pulling out his own device. "Mason, I'm going to show you a picture, and I need you to tell me if this is the man you met with or not."

"Okay."

A few swishes and keystrokes later, Bach heard Mason hiss in a breath.

"Is this him?" Patrick hissed. "Is this the man who lured you all here today?"

"Yes, sir," Mason said without hesitation. "Who is he?"

"You let me focus on this one, Mason. The only face I want you to remember from here on out is that masked one. I need a detailed sketch of that mask."

"I can do that, sir. And...if you don't mind me saying, I am a trained artist. I don't need an officer's help for this one."

"Good. Get to it then," Patrick said and started away. The reporter was right on his heels.

"Who is that a picture of? Can I name him as a suspect seen fleeing the scene?"

"No!" Patrick said with force. "Leave this man and the black giant to me. All you need to focus on is this army of masked vigilantes fighting progress and killing Reno's rising generation along the way. Leave the other two to me. I don't need to wake up tomorrow to find that you got your throat slit in the night digging around in the city's underbelly. Stay alive by staying focused on the mask."

"Works for me," Wyatt said. "I'll set up for the interview with Mason down on the street level. Send him down when he's done with his sketch."

"Will do," Patrick promised.

Bach let the developments sink in as he opened the channel to broadcast to all the undergods at the same time.

"Be advised," Bach said into each of the undergods ears. "Our boy, Mason, has just correctly identified Dom to Patrick McGee. A bounty offer is likely forthcoming. Also, Omen, it appears your long speech and warning to Travis's team was a waste. Patrick McGee killed everyone but Mason, and the reports are going to pin the deaths to an army of Swisses."

"Roger that," Omen grumbled at the same time Conner spoke up on Feed 18.

"Okay, the next act is plugged in and ready for their cue."

Bach opened his mic to reply. "Okay. Give them the nod, Conner. I'm ready."

CHAPTER FOUR

DEMI

With just a little over two hours until they went live, the hair and makeup area of the Apophis Arena felt more like the New York Stock Exchange than the wings of the largest stage in North America. Only the glass doors of a private makeup room separated Demi from the sound and chaos of the production moving into full swing outside.

"Blot," Keshira said, placing a paper between Demi's open lips.

Demi pressed her lips together and separated them again to allow the final gloss to be applied.

"There we are," Keshira said, then leaned back to inspect her work. "Perfection. You're ready for wardrobe."

"Thank you," Demi said without looking in the mirror to inspect the work. She knew what her face looked like after makeup. It looked exactly how producers wanted it to look.

Keshira gave no response other than to push the button that indicated she was ready for her next appointment—one of the acts performing in the evening's Sweet 16.

Stepping out of the soundproof glass room and into the madness was always an adjustment. Before Demi even made it two steps, a voice boomed out, "On your right!"

She stepped back just in time to avoid being flattened by a set piece.

"Watch where you're going next time," the stagehand said before moving past.

Never mind that he was the one on the wrong side of the tape. When you were backstage, might was right up until insurance companies got involved. Half of surviving in Demi's line of work was being able to survive what happened behind the scenes. Stagehands were the least of her worries when it came to offstage threats. No fewer than five women were eyeing Demi that very moment—critiquing her physique, her makeup, her hair, or anything else they thought they had going on better than her.

That chick that liked to belt out 80s rock ballads? She was totally going home this next round. The 80s were a nostalgia gimmick, not something that was ever seriously going to dominate the mainstream again. But it was the also-rans, not the winners, who later became the hosts. Demi knew that as well as anyone.

Knowing that, Demi sent retro-80s girl a gaming smile that all but said, Bring it, bitch, before venturing another step into the fray—this time without incident.

It was time to find out what she was going to wear.

In Demi's days as a reality TV star, longevity depended entirely on how popular a person was with the audience. Those days were gone. Reality TV now fully embraced consumerism.

Producers didn't care how much you were liked. They cared how much you sold. The sales and monetary value of downloads, clothing, accessories, jewelry, electronics, or whatever the performer chose to pimp were tracked, and the acts that sold the most stayed. And that didn't just go for the competitors. The same rules applied to a host like Demi. The day Demi stopped selling was the day a newer and much younger model would step up and replace her as the hostess of Reno's Global Stage.

In the end, Demi's wardrobe choices pretty much decided whether she had a job or not. And when it came to her livelihood, Demi trusted only one person with the decision: Ali Reyes.

As if on cue, the woman who had kept Demi employed for the past three years strode through the gaffers and stage hands like a bullet through butter. Men carrying heavy equipment moved around Ali like a current moved around a boulder in a stream—fluidly and without complaint.

What Demi wouldn't give for half the respect Ali Reyes commanded just by breathing. Then again, the woman had arguably earned her clout during her ten years in the military as a combat medic. It wasn't everyone who could perform surgeries with the percussion of bombs and gunfire as a soundtrack. Ali may not have ever fired a bullet in battle, but she had certainly seen the impact of combat, and it showed. The efficient way she moved...the sharp focus of her eyes...the way she looked through a person instead of at them. It could all be rather intimidating until the woman opened her mouth and disarmed you with her quick wit—if she felt like it.

But lately, for whatever reason, Ali's wit had made only rare appearances. A bit of a shame, really.

Today Ali sported her usual badass-chic sensibility—her military-style, buzzed-off hair drawing full attention to her enviable bone structure and multiethnic features. She was like a black panther in a sea of exotic birds with her handmade motorcycle jacket, ass-kicker solar-cycle boots, and monochromatic ensemble. Nine out of ten viewers would click Buy if Ali ever chose to grace the screen. Demi still hadn't figured out why that was since Ali's look was so minimalistic. Somehow the culmination of Ali's overall presence awakened primal instincts that either compelled you to want to be Ali Reyes or fuck her in the hopes that some of her mojo would rub off on you in the act.

Both options seemed like reasonable primal directives—even to Demi, who considered herself straight. Yes, a round of tribbing could make her weak in the knees, and skilled oral, whether delivered by a man or a woman, was always good for getting your O-face on. But there was just something about being pinned and penetrated by a man that really did it for Demi. The delicious stretch when a thick cock pushed in...the friction of firing hips...the seductive heat that built until it burst and filled every part of her.

God, just thinking about it had Demi biting her bottom lip and squeezing her thighs together.

It couldn't be just any man, though. Demi was particular in that her partner had to be taller and unquestionably stronger than her—not because Demi liked being overpowered, but because her personal high came when all that might went slack and puddled into her arms. More than any orgasm, those moments of complete vulnerability were what Demi sought when she got naked with a man.

Yet if Ali Reyes leaned forward and puckered those caramel lips of hers, Demi might just close her eyes and go for it. Because if there was one thing Ali's persona seemed to promise, it was a helluva ride. And that was just looking into her eyes. When you looked lower? Damn.

It was hard not to stare.

Women weren't biologically designed to be chiseled specimens, and yet over the past year Ali's body had changed from that of a fit woman into a series of contoured muscles that made you forget you were looking at a woman until you gazed back into her stunning face. The new physique was probably from some new supplement that would be announced in the future that Ali had managed to be at the front end of, but for the moment Ali wasn't breathing a word about her dramatic transformation. She was sticking to dressing the hell out of it.

From across the stage wings, Ali made eye contact with Demi and sent her a smile as the two of them cut through the madness in the direction of Demi's dressing room—Ali much quicker than Demi since no one dared bump into the badass in the room.

When Demi reached her dressing room, Ali was holding the door open. She shut it behind them the instant Demi was through. No more chaos. It was just her, Ali, and four racks of clothing from different designers pitching their looks—all custom made for Demi in the hopes that the outfit would make a TV appearance.

As was her habit, Ali ignored the clothes and started the consult by looking Demi over.

"How's it going?" Ali asked, her dark eyes unreadable but a little more intense than usual. Maybe it was all the black she was wearing.

"Good," Demi said. "Busy, but good."

Ali nodded, eyes taking in every inch of Demi's silhouette. "How many hours until Sam's out of prison?"

Demi laughed. "Thirty-eight. But who's counting, right?"

Ali's mouth curved into a one-sided grin, her chocolate eyes still tracing Demi's form intimately. "We'll all be glad to have him back. Your husband is a good guy."

"I think so," Demi said and fought the urge to adjust her dressing robe just to give herself something to do.

"And William?" Ali said, circling behind Demi for a rear inspection and...wait, had Ali just sniffed her? That was a first.

Suddenly self-conscious, Demi fought the urge to give her robe a sniff to see if something was off. "Forever a handful," she said instead. "Although we are getting a new pattern down. We'll see how long this new one lasts."

"I can't imagine raising a genius," Ali said. "It's not like they have self-help books called Raising the Next Tesla."

That got an honest laugh out of Demi. "No kidding. The kid's in kindergarten and already smarter than I'll ever be."

"Then he's smarter then I'll ever be too," Ali said, her voice thoughtful. There was a pause before she added, "So, tell me, what has you stressed out today?"

Demi took a slow breath and rolled her shoulders as she brought a white lie to her lips. "Oh, probably just a combination of things. Nothing specific, though."

"Hmmm. I don't like the look in your eyes. Take a seat and let's do a quick massage while we get to the bottom of this."

Ali didn't need to ask twice. Demi had weekly professional massages, but none of those massage therapists understood pressure points like Ali. The woman could turn a migraine into euphoria within ten minutes. It was yet another one of her gifts—one she claimed to have learned on the battlefield. Ali had once told Demi that painkillers weren't always handy or available in unending abundance out in the middle of nowhere. A medic needed to improvise.

Demi was sure the soldiers Ali had worked on hadn't minded her improvisation one bit.

When Ali pulled a chair closer, Demi undid her robe, removed it, and draped it to cover the seat before straddling the chair and leaning forward to make herself available for anything Ali might feel inclined to do...anything at all.

Ali's hands felt like silk—actual silk, somehow—as they mapped the muscles in Demi's back with firm, fluid pressure.

"Ah, man trouble," Ali said after a moment. "But not Sam, is it? You've got another man making you twitchy."

Dear God, yes, Demi thought, but made no reply as Ali's hands probed their way around her back.

"You've got a lot of lust trapped in your shoulders and neck," Ali mused. "A lot of things you want to say that you're swallowing back...a lot of things you want to put behind you that are just turning into a backpack of unaddressed thoughts."

Well, that was pretty much Demi's romantic life in a nutshell.

Unspoken wants? Check. Unspoken needs? Check. Unspoken love? Well, that might be a bit of an overstatement, but certainly unspoken lust coupled with riveting thoughts that always snuck back into mind when her guard was down.

Like now.

Something about how Ali worked her iron-tight muscles, coaxing them to release, brought to mind Demi's favorite sinful thought: a 6'4" man with a body like a god and a mouth that looked like it had never learned to smile.

Oh, the things Demi wanted to do to turn that frown upside down.

Demi's core muscles clenched at the mere thought of making skin-to-skin contact with her son's bodyguard—a man Demi had wanted every day since she had first met him over six years ago.

Six. Years.

In all that time, Demi hadn't even made it to a handshake with the man who had once been a professional the MMA fighter "Hale the Hitman." Given that Hale's previous work uniform had been little more than a pair of shorts, conjuring up the image of him sweating and naked really took no imagination whatsoever. High-budget photo shoots had been designed for the specific purpose of displaying Hale's chiseled arms and abs to maximum effect. Lighting designers had once spent hours finding ways to maximize the contrast between his coffee-brown hair and his pale-as-ice eyes against his ivory skin.

Yet, in life, there was something even more magnetic about the man. None of the cameras had ever really captured it. Although, to be fair, Demi had never really captured Hale either. The man was elusive by design.

Demi let her mind wander, imagining the contrast of her honey-olive skin against his ivory tones...yum.

There was an ongoing joke in Reno that white people were becoming collector's items, and you had to grab one before they were all gone. The Great Quake had brought more than the music industry to the city; it had brought the diversity of its artists. The current census showed only one in nine Reno residents were white or "white-looking." Hale was one of the few white men left in the city, with his dark hair, grey eyes, and bulking body that he now kept hidden under business suits at all times.

And damn if Demi didn't want to breed the white out of his family line—or at least give him a 50/50 shot at keeping it, since she was technically half-white herself. Her personal skin tone was the answer to the question What happens when a Swiss man and an Argentine woman have a magical night?

Olive skin, green eyes, and statuesque height—all of which had served Demi well in gaining fame and fortune. None of which had landed her the man of her dreams.

Man...what Demi wouldn't give just to see Hale with his shirt unbuttoned. Did he have hair on his chest these days, or was it waxed and smooth like it had been during his fighting days? Could you see his six-pack when he was relaxed, or did it show only when he flexed? Because based on how Hale's suits stretched over his body, the man had definitely maintained the body he'd developed as a fighter.

How would it feel to be held by arms as thick as her thighs...to have all that might on top of her as Hale filled her as only he ever could? To feel him shudder and buckle in her arms as he filled her with his very essence?

Demi bit her lip again and pushed the thought back.

"I felt that," Ali chided.

"Sorry," Demi said in reflex.

"It's okay. Just let your thoughts flow. Let some of them go."

Let them go? That wouldn't be happening until Demi had something in reality with another man to replace the fantasy that was Hale.

Dear God, it had been a long time since she'd had a good, solid lay. And no, she didn't count her weekly massages. Erotic pressure points stimulated through a layer of latex did not constitute sex, even if you got a happy ending. Massages were impersonal, sterile, and ten miles from being emotional or intimate.

Sex—good, sweaty, skin-to-skin sex. That was what Demi needed, and yet she'd never even come close to making it happen with Hale. These days she was coming to terms with the fact that it never would.

And, damn, if that wasn't a depressing thought.

"Whoops, someone just locked themselves down," Ali said, her tone amused.

"Yeah. Sorry," Demi said as she opened her eyes. "I guess I just can't let go today."

She heard Ali chuckle. "Fair enough. It must be hard to fulfill the role of faithful wife when your body is sending constant signals for another type of fulfillment."

Demi let out an unladylike grunt. "You have no idea."

"I really don't," Ali said on a laugh. "Monogamy's never been my thing, and you aren't inspiring me. We've got to get rid of at least some of the conflict that's boiling up, or it's going to be visible on the big screen. Either that, or we need to go for an outright 'Fuck me, I need it' look."

Demi was building up the confidence to voice a vote for a little decompression when Ali's talented hands left her body.

"I know just the thing!" Ali said, moving to the racks. Her hands flipped through the garments at a rate that would have brought the dismissed designers to tears had they witnessed it, until her hands paused on a tailored blouse. She ignored the blouse and focused on the bright violet accent color on the cuffs and collar. "The silhouette of this shirt is horrible, but this violet is all you. It would absolutely sing against your skin tone. We'll have to find something in the future in this shade. Maybe for the semifinals."

Demi stood and stepped forward, naked as the day she was born, and touched the rich cuff before draping it over her wrist. "I love it."

Ali nodded her approval. "We'll make it happen. I've never seen this shade before, so I'm betting it's a custom dye from the designer. We'll see if they can replicate it on another piece of our choosing."

Demi smiled in spite of herself. Maybe the staff didn't show as much respect as they used to, but moments like these reminded her that being the hostess of the #1 reality TV show in Reno still came with a few perks.

"But tonight we need a different look," Ali said, dismissing garment after garment with a glance. "We're going to go for Little Miss Legs Crossed. Sexy asexual. It's been a while since we did a shout out to the celibates in the community, even though last polling shows that at least 8% of the population currently claims to be undergoing a period of abstinence and nearly 20% of people polled think a period of abstinence would benefit them psychologically if they had the self-control to actually commit to a season of celibacy. And here you are waiting for your husband to get out of jail with sexual tension evident all over your body. We would be fools not to capitalize on that."

Ali finished the first rack, not finding what she was looking for, and moved to rack two. Her hand paused on one item and she glanced between it and Demi, her eyes dipping down to Demi's breasts and the nipples that were hardening in the cool air of the dressing room.

"We can't have that," she muttered, crossing the room to grab some full-body Spanx. "No nipples tonight. We need you smoothed out. Perfect but inaccessible. Restrained in every way. Put this on, and we'll dress over it."

Demi accepted the undergarment while swallowing her distaste. Full-body Spanx were for women who loved food more than discipline. They covered sins of indulgence and always felt like they were two sizes too small. Breathing took effort.

Ali noticed her hesitation and grinned. "It'll pay off. I promise. Grab some seamless panties and some nip covers and come back here when you have it all on. Tonight's theme is going to be Self-Imposed Celibacy, and it's going to sell. Hard core. We just need to choose the signature color and make it something less on-the-nose than white."

Demi arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Doesn't the Catholic church have the corner on that look?"

Ali sent her a sly smile that matched the twinkle in her eyes. "Trust me. You're about to make intentional abstinence look really, really good. It will be like the hipster version of sexual humble bragging. You could have it all with that body of yours, but you choose restraint instead. Believe me, there's a whole counterculture ready to suck this down with a straw and personify it. Now go get ready."

"Yes, ma'am," Demi said as she stepped into a pair of panties in preparation for one of her more questionable wardrobe changes.

Just then the overhead speaker chimed. "Demi St. Vincent, please report to the stage for a sound check."

"Shit," she breathed, shrugging into her dressing robe.

"I'll be ready when you get back," Ali said. "You're going to be the talk of social media tonight. It's going to be 80% negative, but that's what's going to push the sales."

"Great," Demi muttered and headed back out into the chaos, staying close to the wall as she made her way to the stage where the last band had just finished taping off markers.

"Welcome, Demi," a soft-spoken male voice said through the overhead speakers. Just then, a man in black approached and clipped a mic to the lapel of Demi's robe.

"Hey, Bruce," she replied to the empty auditorium, her voice suddenly filling the space thanks to hundreds of speakers.

"You know the drill," Bruce said. "Tell me something interesting you saw on the way over here."

With most sound guys, this question was nothing more than a ploy to get levels. But given that Bruce was blind, Demi couldn't help but give him a worthwhile answer each time he asked her a question.

Demi smiled. "I saw a mama duck giving her seven little fuzzy ducklings their first swimming lesson in Pristine Creek."

"Adorable," he replied. "How did you know that it was their first lesson?"

"Well, I guess I'm assuming that based on all the yelling the mama duck was doing when the current started pulling the little ones downstream. I think she was having the duck version of a panic attack."

"Sounds like she chose the wrong day for a first dip."

Demi laughed. "Quite possibly. Or maybe the perfect day for teaching babies the importance of listening to their mother. Who knows?"

It was a bit weird talking to an empty room, but Bruce was a man in demand. At any given time he might be working up to six different productions simultaneously. The sensor technology he had developed was placed in each room he provided sound for, and he made all of his adjustments from his remote sound booth—wherever that was.

"Any predictions on what the social media buzz will be tonight?" he asked.

Demi grinned. "Oh, I think tonight is going to fall into the 'What Was She Thinking?' bucket. Should be interesting."

"Hmm. You have me intrigued. I'll keep my ears open."

"Yeah? Not me. I'm going to stay away from the media tonight. It might get messy."

"Now I'm doubly intrigued. And since we're done here, I'll let you get back to it. You're ready to go, my dear. Knock 'em dead tonight."

"Thanks, as always, Bruce."

"You're welcome, beautiful."

Just like that, the stagehand in black was back, measuring the distance between Demi's mouth and the mic before removing it and moving on to the next task without a word.

Demi headed back to her dressing room. She had one hour and fifty-five minutes to choose wardrobe, get her hair and makeup touch ups, and hit the stage. Then it was show time. All 16 bands would perform, but only 12 would move on to the next round—all in a quest to reveal Reno's next star on the Global Stage.

Demi took a deep breath and tried to summon up some enthusiasm for the evening's events. None was forthcoming, and it got her wondering if maybe she really was getting too old for all this.

CHAPTER FIVE

OMEN

As soon as he stepped foot into the undergods headquarters—affectionately referred to as Hell by those of the oath—Omen stripped from the waist up and removed the riser boots that had put his height up to nearly seven feet. The tattooed, bald black man he had appeared to be in front of Travis's crew was not only terrifying and visually memorable, it was also a message to those in the underworld community who were in the know: Osiris had presided over the hit.

That would give the "gods" something to chew on.

Omen gripped the seam of glued-down latex half way down his pec and started separating the seam of his disguise from his much paler and inked skin. The smooth chocolate skin tone separated easily from the tattooed black-and-white scenes of Dante's inferno that covered Omen from shoulder to waist.

The removal of the mask was laborious, requiring him to apply the glue solvent in phases to loosen the mask off inch by inch. But once removed, the disguise remained pristine and ready for the next time "Osiris" needed to show his face. The voice modifier came off next, follow by the contact lenses that turned Omen's naturally blue irises into an ominous shade of charcoal black.

A short shower later, Omen threw on a pair of shorts and set himself up in front of the monitoring station. It was time to see how power players were reacting to the news of Travis's assassination.

Thanks to the genius that was Phi, the undergods had access to any electric signal, open or closed. The monitoring station had access to any camera within the city, building a 3D hologram that showed all feeds projected onto the same plane simultaneously.

Omen pressed his wrist to the sensor to log in.

"Provide directive," the computer intoned, its tone forever cold and impersonal. Anywhere in the city, Omen could find a computer capable of talking like an actual human being, except in Hell. Thanks to Phi, the most advanced computer Omen had ever come in contact with spoke, and needed to be spoken to, like an antique robot. It was how Phi spoke, and if you wanted to piggyback on his genius, well then, you could adjust and speak "efficiently."

"Show videos and transcripts for Patrick McGee and all relatives. Secondary priority, show feeds with audio keywords: killed, murdered, Travis, McGee, Osiris, bounty, and sanctioned."

"Search results exceed discernable visual display cues. Refine secondary search terms."

"Which term has most results?"

"There are currently 8,598 individuals discussing a bounty. Within this total, 5,723 have made mention of the terms 'Travis' or 'McGee.'"

News was traveling fast. "Has a bounty been established for finding Travis's killer?"

A mug shot of Dom from the previous year popped up onto the display with his legal name under the picture. "Bounty for Travis McGee's killer has been set at $5 million alive, $1 million dead for the delivery of Richard Abba to Patrick McGee."

Omen let out a low whistle. He'd thought $1 million for sure, but $5 million? That kind of bounty was bound to get serious attention both inside and outside of Reno. Dom might actually get what he was looking for out of this.

"Okay," Omen said to the computer. "Remove 'bounty' from all search results. Primary search: current video showing Patrick McGee and all relatives. Secondary search: all feeds mentioning Patrick or Travis McGee. Tertiary results: any mention of Osiris or Apophis, omitting references to any structures or events."

"Processing." Video feeds starting popping up on in markers on the 3D map with feeds the computer deemed most relevant slightly larger and glowing with a yellow border. "Displaying primary and secondary search results."

"Thank you."

The computer didn't respond. Phi hadn't programmed the system to respond to courtesies. But that didn't matter. The results did. It was time to get schooled on how the dominoes were falling in the wake of Travis's assassination before walking into the flow and making his next move.

G.I. Joe had been wrong when he said knowing was half the battle. Knowing was the whole fucking war if you did things right. True leaders won minds...or at least made the minds comprehend the method behind the madness and accept it. Knowing what people thought was half the battle. Knowing how to direct their thinking to the conclusion you wanted was the other half. That was how you truly won a battle, and over the years Omen had become exceedingly good at it.

But first he owed the gods a memo.

The gods...the goddamn, self-proclaimed gods. What jokes. Full grown men and women hell bent on controlling first Reno, then the WORLD! Their fervor in the mission of world domination mirrored that of a villainous mouse from a twentieth century cartoon. But Omen had learned it was no joke. In all his days, never had Omen seen a group of people drink their own Kool-Aid more seriously. Secret meetings, secret handshakes, and secret everything else. And if you spoke of any of it outside the circle? You lost your head, of course.

In the beginning of the Reno transformation, there had been nine gods. The ennead. Currently there were thirty-three, since twenty-four more narcissists had bought their way into the group, which were referred to as the pantheon. If Omen hadn't tripped his way into becoming a god himself, he would have laughed off the thought that such a group existed. Yet it turned out that if you killed a god you inherited his throne.

That had been a curve ball Omen hadn't seen coming. The night Omen's fight promoter and father figure had tried to kill him, Omen had been forced to choose whether to kill or be killed. Omen had chosen self-defense. At the time, Omen hadn't been imagining he'd inherit some lofty throne for the deed. He had been more worried about a jail sentence. But three days later "Ra" had appeared to Omen and informed him that he was now Osiris, and outlined Omen's new responsibilities in the world.

And what if Omen didn't want to be Osiris?

Well, that was fine. Omen would just need to die so someone else could claim his vacant seat. The gods had a serious No take backs policy, it seemed; and since Omen wasn't quite ready to die, that made him Osiris...with all the influence, bank accounts, and responsibilities the title carried with it.

Translation: It was his obligation to build the bank account and not cause trouble for any of the other gods.

The pantheon would definitely want an explanation of the day's events. So Omen would give it to them.

"Computer, apply Osiris voice mask."

"Osiris voice active."

Omen took a slow breath and centered himself before activating the record feature and starting out with their standard greeting.

"I, Osiris, send greetings to all gods in their respective realms. And I bring you news." Now to the point. "Today the son of our brother-god Apophis challenged my authority and my throne. He lost and now resides in the underworld." Omen paused to make it clear that was all he planned to say on the matter. "Be it also known that six of Travis's friends were marked and warned today, although five were quickly murdered thereafter by Apophis himself. This means only Mason, son of a centurian, retains my mark and warning to not challenge my authority in the future. I mention this as a reminder that Apophis has no power to reverse this warning and its accompanying oath. What is done cannot be undone. My word is my bond. So must it be. May Reno thrive, and Atlantis rise."

Omen hit stop and pressed send. He now had one less thing to do on his unending to-do list.

CHAPTER SIX

DOM

Dom picked the bar he visited after the hit with care. The owners were a husband and wife with two adopted children. One son, one daughter. The daughter had been missing for seven months. She'd disappeared on a routine trip to the grocery store and never returned home. The case was still open.

The bar catered to business professionals entertaining conservative out-of-towners. Business professional attire was the standard dress, and there were no entertainers performing any of the freaky feats Reno was so infamous for. This bar was buttoned-up high class, which was an ambience that came at a premium in Reno. Demand for such a venue was low yet insistent, which meant traffic was low and drinks were three-times the price. It also meant that the room was well lit with no strobes timed to the beat of overloud music. Anyone looking for a wanted man in a space like this would see him quite easily.

That fact was something Dom needed to keep in the forefront of his mind as he nursed his scotch.

"Hey, has management opened their email from McGee yet?"

"Negative," Bach said in his ear. "They are not on the lookout. But you're going to be very interested in who has opened their email and is reaching out. The sooner you can come my way the better."

"Give me a few minutes," Dom said taking another sip. "There's no saying how many more times I'll get away with a stunt like this."

"After today?" Bach laughed. "Showing your own face in public? Yeah, that's not happening again."

"Exactly," Dom said. "So give me a bit. Where do you want me to meet you?"

"Come to the van."

"Copy that," Dom agreed before turning his eyes to the bar's central screen, where twelve channels played in separate windows. He could hear the audio of any channel through the city-provided FiWi technology in his comm, but Dom preferred the silence. The news was a sham, sports were better without commentators, and Dom didn't give two shits what Demi St. Vincent was saying as she hosted the latest crop of would-be musicians. He cared how well the cameraman framed the perfect globes of her cleavage and how far he was allowed to see up her skirt on a leg shot.

Although this particular episode was being awfully stingy on the skin. The most interesting part of Demi St. Vincent at that particular moment was the small fabric window providing a peek at her cleavage. The effect was like crotchless underwear giving a peek at a slit even as the rest of the woman was wrapped up in fabric. It was a damn shame.

If there was a woman in the world who should never be allowed to wear anything more than jewelry, it was Ms. St. Vincent. It should be illegal for a woman like her to wear clothes, and yet she was the only model Dom knew of who didn't have a legitimate nude shot floating around.

And heaven knew that he had searched for one.

Dom had never met Leo—Omen's predecessor in the undergods. Leo had died long before Dom had joined up, but the man still had Dom's unending respect knocking up Demi St. Vincent. That was an honor Dom would give his left nut for...even in the weird getup she was currently wearing. The damn thing looked like it would take ten minutes to take off without a knife.

Annoyed to have his fantasies directed so explicitly, Dom pinged Swiss on his comm. "Hey style guru, what the fuck's up with the conservative clothes on your siren tonight?"

There was a delay, then, "Building web pages to explain that right now. Search 'periwinkle and cream' for the lowdown."

Dom rolled his eyes and accessed his comm. "Search 'periwinkle and cream fashion.'"

"Let me find you the highest-rated results for this emerging fashion trend!" the search engine replied before populating results on his display. Dom read through the top three results quickly and laughed. "Seriously? The colors of 'sexual fasting as a period of self-reflection' or as a 'commitment to remain faithful to an absent lover'? Am I reading this bullshit right?"

"You're reading the bullshit right," Swiss replied.

He laughed. "News flash. No one's going to look at Demi St. Vincent and believe for one second that the woman doesn't have lovers lined up to fill in for an incarcerated husband. This is going to fall flat."

"Is she onscreen now?"

"Yeah," Dom said, trying to find the best angle for admiring her cleavage before realizing there really wasn't one. It was all just one big cock tease.

"Well, then, stop mind fucking her tits, and look at her eyes," Swiss said. "Then tell me if she looks like a woman who has been laid recently."

Okay, it had been luck that Swiss caught him looking at her tits. He knew Demi had eyes...and maybe even a personality. But a rack that perfect deserved some serious study. Even clothed.

Reluctantly Dom pulled his eyes up to her smiling and talking lips, then even a little higher. Then he looked—really looked.

"Well, fuck me," he murmured.

"Exactly."

When Dom looked at Demi St. Vincent's eyes—and only her eyes—he saw a shadow of his former life: a time when a wife and kids had been part of his daily vocabulary and schedule. He tried not to think of such things anymore, but when he looked at Demi he saw the exhausted looked his wife had always had when he came home from a business trip. It was the look of woman juggling a small world with no reprieve and no release.

But a little reprieve and a few releases later? That look was nowhere to be found.

The thought of his late wife astride him and riding him with abandon brought a nostalgic smile to Dom's face. Damn, they had been good together...all the way until the end.

The end.

His mind didn't want to go there. Not tonight. So he stuck with the image of being balls deep in a woman who needed a ride: Demi St. Vincent. His entire body heated at the movie in his mind to the point that he actually felt some movement down south. It was tempting to reach down and give himself a few "adjustments."

"Dude, if you're going to jack off, at least turn off your comm."

Oh yeah. He'd forgotten Swiss was still on the line. But then again, how could she tell where his head was at?

"Gotcha," he said. "Good luck with your periwinkle and cream play. Over and out."

Dom switched off the comm and looked around, wishing for the first time that he'd chosen a bar where no one cared if a man whipped himself out and let out a load. Because suddenly Demi St. Vincent's heavy-laden eyes and peek-a-boo cleavage had him jonesing to hear a pent-up woman screaming in release.

Simply imagining the panting cries Demi would make if he treated her right transitioned Dom's body from supporting cognitive function to demanding primal function. And his dick definitely did not want his hand to do the deed. It wanted a willing, dark, slick environment with a mind of its own. It wanted a woman...another man's wife. Hell, yeah! One of those protesting wives with a virgin ass who had only ever been fucked on her back.

Dom wet his lips, imagining stealing into the buttonedup wife's bed as she slept and teasing her to desperation before she realized it was a stranger touching her, not her husband. But by then she would be too desperate to stop herself when Dom rolled her on top of him. She would take him in, go for a ride, and never want it to stop.

"Damn," Dom breathed, already pushing past half-mast beneath his pants as he played the scene in his mind. He needed to get to the Red Light District and get his role-play on, stat. And since this visit would likely be his last time, he needed to make it a visit for the history books.

Dropping cash on the bar, Dom adjusted himself so he could walk. Bringing his right hand up, Dom made the sign of the cross over himself out of habit and glanced up at the ceiling. "Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin like a hell-bound sailor."

Maybe there was something to periwinkle and cream after all—not that he was going to tell Swiss that.

As he headed to the door, Dom spotted the bar's female owner and approached her. Her expression became both wary and professional as he approached, and genuine confusion filled her face when he took her hand.

"I'd like to thank you for not checking your messages in the past few hours and for having such fine scotch on hand," he said before pressing a kiss to the back of her hand and smiling at her confusion. "It was a pleasure," he added, then walked out the door.

First stop: Red Light District. Second stop: Bach's van. Third stop: Hell.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SWISS

Swiss wasn't one to skip out of work early, but the text she had received to meet at the Fifth Element Hotel auditorium demanded attention. That was Patrick McGee's hotel, which meant the meeting would mark the beginning of the hunt for find Travis's killer. Anyone who skipped out on their invitation to that meeting would definitely be noted, and Swiss had no interest in drawing undue attention.

She chose to walk the eleven blocks between the Apophis Theater and the Fifth Element Hotel. After going all-out back in the parking garage, her upgraded senses were simply too amped up to handle the boxed-in feeling of public transportation. Hell, she could barely handle navigating the open sidewalk. Hundreds of heartbeats drumming from every direction...the breathing, talking, and swishing of clothes, the chewing, the grinding teeth, the farting, the every-fucking-thing else. The noises alone were overwhelming and alarming, but then there were the smells on top of all of that—everything from the mingling of thousands of exhales to the smell of used tampons and rotting food. Every scent hit her like bold neon, screaming its presence and requiring her to process it.

And Swiss didn't even want to talk about what she could see these days. It was a miracle she was even capable of living outside of a self-cleaning glass box anymore given the disgusting halo of filth she now knew the average human sported. Yet people were everywhere, so she had to learn to deal somehow.

Step 1 of dealing with it: Walking down the street like a normal person.

Swiss had walked down the street like a badass her entire life, so it wasn't a new skill so much as a remembered skill she needed to consciously apply step after step.

Don't see, she coached herself. Don't hear. Don't taste. Don't touch. Don't inhale too deeply. Turn the volume down.

That had to be the answer, right?

Swiss practiced ignoring her new sensory insanity as she moved down the sidewalk. Eyes forward, steps very purposeful, her breath...shallow. It had to be. Breathing in too deeply caused her to sense deeply, and when she sensed deeply, parts of her brain woke up. And when those parts of her brain woke up it was very likely she might do something that drew attention.

So she walked through the madness of a world broadcasting innumerable messages all at once. They didn't matter—they couldn't matter if she didn't want someone to spot her for what she was...although what she was still wasn't clearly defined in her own mind. Different. Hella different. That's all she knew so far.

Making a right turn onto the hotel's street, Swiss's eyes were drawn to a small shih tzu on an evening walk with its human. The daft-looking beast pranced along like a furry pompom while Swiss studied its relaxed body language.

"How do you do it?" she muttered to herself. The little creature probably didn't see half as well as Swiss did, but there was a high likelihood it smelled everything Swiss was smelling and possibly heard just as much. Yet the dog wasn't overwhelmed. It could go out into the world and smile and touch and sniff and do anything else it felt like doing without freaking out.

How?

The sooner Swiss figured that out, the better off she would be.

She consciously kept her steps to a uniform pace as she crossed the threshold from the sidewalk to the hotel's inner walkway. Swiss knew ads and displays surrounded her, even though her eyes were unable to focus on any one of them. Gone was the ventilation an open sky provided and the ethereal colors abundant in an outdoor environment. Anything remotely natural was quashed in the sensory coffin of the manmade. Suddenly sound bounced at Swiss from seven directions; scents lingered like a hive of fart clouds with no outlet; and fifty shades of grey didn't even begin to describe what her eyes saw.

"Welcome to the Fifth Element Hotel, Ali," a female voice said out of a nearby speaker as Swiss moved quickly through the space. "Looks like you're on time for your meeting in the Earth Auditorium. Once you enter the lobby, please proceed down the right hallway, and follow the signage to the Earth Auditorium. We hope you enjoy your time here. Before you leave, don't forget to drop into our boutique where you'll find accessories designed by up and coming—"

Swiss hit the lobby, ditching the ads and the "helpful" e-concierge...which was both good and bad. Good she was out of the entrance; bad that she was now stuck in the lobby.

Being a tetrachromat with UV and other types of vision opened Swiss's eyes to hundreds of thousands of new colors she'd never seen before. Out in nature the shift in sight was overwhelmingly beautiful, but in a hotel lobby? Filth thicker than a nuclear fog tainted the seemingly polished space, yet she had to keep walking farther into it. To appear like a normal person she had to make it from the lobby to the auditorium without her hands shaking or her stomach dry heaving. Eyes forward. Steps even. Right-left, right-left.

Part of her relaxed when she caught Gunnar's scent and started tracking it to a hallway. He was already in the auditorium, which gave her a focal point to cling onto...maybe like that damn shih tzu locked onto its owner. Was that how it worked? Did she just need an anchor point? It was worth a shot. Focusing on anything was better than letting the shit all around her pull her focus until she broke down into a panic attack.

Swiss let her senses lock in on Gunnar as she moved to the auditorium, and she spotted him the moment she crossed the threshold. He appeared to be waiting for her since he immediately pushed away from the wall of the vomitorium and fell in step next to her.

"Can you believe this shit?" he asked.

It was game-face time.

"Someone has balls of titanium," she said, focusing all her senses on her friend like an anchor while the rest of the world swam around her. It was kind of working. Maybe.

"What have you heard?" Gunnar asked, keeping his voice low as they stopped behind the back row of seats.

"Not much," she muttered as she surveyed the massive space from where they stood in the back. There had to be three hundred people there, nearly all of them ex-military. "I've been at the Apophis since I last saw you. The show's still going. I had to bail early not to miss this."

"Smart move," he said with a quick nod. "Whoever finds this shooter is definitely going to be able to quit their day job."

"No kidding," Swiss agreed. "I heard five-mill was on the table?"

"Me too. I heard that's what it is if you bring the motherfucker in alive, but you only get one if he's dead."

"Or she," Swiss amended.

Gunnar rolled his eyes. "Always ready with the affirmative-action propaganda, aren't you?"

"It's not affirmative action to say that a woman might have killed Travis McGee," she said hiding a smile. "It's a possibility."

"Yeah? Well, the gods help Patrick McGee if his pride and joy was taken out by a vagina. He's old school. Something like that might actually pop his brain."

Swiss let her lips curve smugly. "That would be interesting to watch."

Gunnar looked around. "And speaking of vaginas, I think yours is the only one here."

"Nope," Swiss countered. "I see three others."

"You would," he laughed. "But that still goes to my point. McGee is a boys' club. Hoohas need not apply, and yet you garnered an invitation. That ain't nothing."

No. It definitely wasn't, and Swiss wasn't sure how she felt about that. She was a medic. She shouldn't be on anyone's radar for something like this.

"Please take your seats," a soothing female voice said over the overhead speakers. "Your event will begin in one minute."

Two seconds later a man strode onto the stage. "Correction," he said loudly, his voice broadcasting over the main speakers. "We're starting right now. Take a seat, gentlemen."

Gunnar turned to her and whispered, "I think he meant to say 'vaginas and gentlemen.'"

Swiss glared and flashed Gunnar a single-finger salute before glancing over the seating situation. The back row had already filled up. Swiss and Gunnar shared a glance before leaning against the wall to stand for the presentation as the auditorium lights dimmed.

A spotlight appeared over a tall, trim man on the stage, and Swiss's invisible hackles rose up on sight him. He was definitely competition...a warrior. A skilled one who had killed before and would not hesitate to kill again. It was written all over his body.

A deep, overwhelming desire to sniff the man's body chemistry nearly overcame Swiss's common sense. She must have made a move to draw closer, because Gunnar whispered, "What? Do you see seats?"

Swiss froze then forced herself to lean back. "Nah. It's too late for that."

Gunnar nodded and folded his arms across his chest as he settled in to listen.

What do we have here? Swiss mused as she regarded the man on the stage. A primal alpha who has made himself McGee's errand boy? Now that was an unsustainable dynamic. Hardwiring didn't change based on one's paycheck. The primal always manifested itself in the end. Either that, or the repression of it made you sick until you died.

So which was it in the case of their onstage host? Was he an alpha posing as a bitch-beta until he saw the right time to make his move? Or was he a true sellout giving birth to more cancer cells with each passing payday? One good whiff of the man's sweat and Swiss would know all that and more.

Later, she promised herself.

"For those of you who don't know who I am," the man said in a voice that had the underlying rasp of a drill sergeant. "My name is Damian Adler, and I am the McGee family's head of security. And while this meeting was put together on short notice, be assured that your invitation is not a fluke. We know the identity of every person in this room."

Translation: Hi. My name is Damian Adler, and I'm a power-drunk beta-bitch who will ass-rape you and everyone you love if it serves me.

Damian took several beats to look around the auditorium. "We know everyone who chose ignore their invitation. And the reason I am making a point to share that with you is to make it clear that we will know exactly who knows the information I'm about to give you. Once you leave here you will be forbidden from sharing anything you're about to see and hear. If any of you have any reason to believe that you cannot keep what you are about to hear fully confidential, you have exactly thirty seconds to get your asses out of here."

No one moved, because they were all ex-military, which meant they were trained not to flinch. Especially when challenged.

When no one stood, Damian clicked a device in his hand and brought a shockingly accurate drawing of Swiss's mask from earlier that day up on the massive screen behind him. Yes, the design of Swiss's mask was simple, but the picture on the screen was nearly a photographic replica of it. Suddenly all of Swiss's senses became very focused, sensing a legitimate threat.

"This is the picture that will be released to the media of what Travis McGee's killer looks like," Damian said, slowly pacing the stage. "And while this sketch is accurate as to what one of the killers look like, you are here to help us find someone else." When Damian hit the button again, a photograph of Dom appeared on the screen. Swiss had never seen the picture before, but it had clearly been taken during Dom's glory days. Maybe even before his family died.

"Patrick McGee is offering a reward for this man. Richard Benedict Abba." Damian enunciated each syllable with excessive clarity. "Many of you may know who he is. Up through last year he was the man you may have called when you needed something forbidden by the FDA. But times changed, and so has Richard Abba, it seems, because he's the one who arranged the trap that Travis McGee walked into this afternoon."

Against her will, Swiss found herself impressed with Damian Adler's approach to the situation. He wasn't lying to them—yet—which was a very smart tactic to use with soldiers who knew what bullshit smelled like from a mile off. Everyone in the room only needed to know the what of the situation, not the why. Introducing why could divide even the best trained soldiers. But sticking to what? That brought unity.

Damian Adler was a tactician.

"Patrick McGee wants to talk to Mr. Abba, and we know for a fact that he is still here in Reno," Damian continued. "This is Abba's stomping ground and he knows it inside out. Every camera, every dark route, every place to hide in plain sight. This man is somewhere within thirty miles of where you all are sitting, and the person who tracks him down and brings him to Patrick McGee will get a fat payday. The rumors many of you have heard today are true. The McGee family is offering a five million reward if Abba is brought in alive and one million if he's brought in dead."

That news got the energy in the room humming like a pod of mating gnats.

On the stage Damian clicked the button again bringing up a drawing on the screen of a blank silhouette with a question mark in the middle. "We are also looking for the sniper Richard Abba hired for the hit. This sniper is someone who can make a clean head shot from a half a mile with a common hunting rifle. Abba never served in the military, but his sniper-for-hire likely did. No bullets or casings were left at the scene, so we don't have anything traceable to work with at the moment, but there's no way our shooter didn't leave some sort of evidence behind. There has to be something. If you identify the shooter and it checks out, Patrick McGee will pay you a million dollars for the ID alone. If you find physical evidence that leads to the discovery of the shooter's identity, the bounty is one hundred thousand."

The energy in the room hummed at the announcement, and Swiss knew it was going to be a mad dash for the exits once the meeting was over. Patrick McGee had just bought himself an army of mercenaries.

"Also worth a hundred grand?" Damian added. "Confirmed sightings of Abba that provide evidence of his movements during or after the assassination. And to be very specific to what that means, we are looking for any of Abba's movements occurring after 16:00 today."

Interesting. That was a wide window considering the fact that she and Gunnar hadn't exited the gym until 16:15 that afternoon and the actual meet with Travis had occurred at 16:30. A window that wide did a good job covering her ass.

"But before you bring anything to us," Damian continued. "Know that any fabricated evidence will earn you a bullet in the head. So don't be a dumbass and try to diddle the McGee family in exchange for an easy payday. You put us on a true trail? You'll get one hundred grand. You kill the motherfucker? That's worth a million. You bring the motherfucker in and let Patrick have a chat with his son's killer? That's worth five million. But if you fuck with Patrick McGee in his time of sorrow, he'll fuck you back. So double check—triple check—what you bring to his door."

No one in the auditorium blinked at the warning.

"Also, do not forget that all I have just told you is privileged information," Damian added. "The public will only know of the masks worn by Abba's lackeys. This is because we are dealing with highly organized assassins, and the public is not trained to engage with Abba or his men if they spot them on the street. Knowing what little I have just shared could get the average civilian killed."

Damn this man was good! Playing on pride and elitism to ensure peer-enforced compliance to his demands? Getting the discretion he wanted by appealing to a bunch of soldiers' instincts to protect civilians? Damian Adler was more than a man in a nice suit. He was a pathological strategist.

"Let me be very clear," Damian said, his eyes moving over the room. "You share what you heard here with anyone outside of this room and you will be silenced."

Not a single voice balked at the threat before the image of Swiss's mask returned to the screen. "Remember, this mask is the only face the public will see. And yes, we are definitely looking for a team of assassins wearing this exact mask. But be advised: anyone you see with this mask is someone you want to engage from a distance. Only one man who has seen these masked assassins has lived to tell of it, so do not assume any tactical advantage if you cross paths with someone dressed in this manner."

Damian pushed the button again, revealing an uncomfortably detailed drawing of Swiss's full head-to-toe attire from earlier that day. She'd ditched the hoodie and the mask before heading into work, but her pants, belt, and boots were the same, and if anyone looked at her closely they'd see the resemblance. Not good.

"When you see someone in this mask assume that three people wearing the same mask are in your blind spot and making a move. Hesitate and you may die. We don't know much, but we do know that." Without warning the house lights came back on in the auditorium, yet Damian Adler continued to hold everyone's attention by becoming still and ominous. "That's really all there is to it, gentlemen. Richard Abba's name is not to be repeated outside of this room. You are to share his identity with no one. Civilians and business owners have a photo and a code name. They also had been informed of the one hundred grand payout for reporting a legitimate sighting. But that's all they know: a code name and a face."

Of course that was all McGee wanted them to know. A face with an ominous name made an easy villain. Give the public a name, and I they might dig. If they did that, they might find something humanizing in Dom's history, and realizing that Dom was an actual person might split the conversation and draw McGee into a controversy.

A code name let McGee avoid all of that.

Damian put on his best solemn expression. "Again, this is because we are dealing with a man who has proven he has no qualms killing the youth of this city—unarmed kids who tried to play hero and paid for it with their lives."

Uh-huh. Suuuuure.

"And if he's willing to do that, you can bet your asses that Richard Abba has no problem silencing overly curious citizens that cross his path. That's why only the people in this room can know the identity of the mastermind. No one else. If you speak this information to anyone, I will be tasked to find and silence you for endangering the public." Damian's eyes stared down the room. "Don't put me in that position, men. I have enough on my plate. Any questions?"

Swiss felt like giving the man a slow clap. He'd delivered up quite the lie sandwich. The only kink in it would be if some of the soldiers got to wondering how Travis McGee had tripped into sniper crosshairs in an abandoned structure scheduled for demolition the next day. Why in the world would a sniper be scoping out such a place? Why had Travis been there? Why had the sniper pulled the trigger?

The carrot of five million dollars would probably keep most people from thinking too hard about details like that.

"How much if we deliver someone in the mask?" someone called out from the right of the auditorium.

"Nothing," Damian replied. "Not until we have evidence that the mask is on the face of one of Abba's associates. Let me make it clear that this is not an opportunity for you to put a mask on someone who has crossed you in the past and trade them for a payday. The rewards are for Richard Abba and the sniper he hired only. You can download the images I showed you here along with Abba's profile via password-accessed FiWi before you leave. The password is your comm number."

All the better to track you with, my dears.

Reno's free internet web infrastructure, or FiWi, was one of the advancements in technology that was gaining wide acceptance around the world. No one wanted to pay to be connected, and no one wanted data limitations. Consumers had collectively come to believe that data packages should be as free as the air they rode in on, and the answer to their demand was FiWi. Any device connectable at any time with just one catch: zero privacy. If a person used FiWi without secondary security, they might as well do all their business on a billboard, because anyone with the ability to hack into a cereal box could access their history and current usage. In Reno you didn't pay for data anymore, but you sure as hell invested in a security package for your comm.

Security and hackability of comm units were the reason all the undergods had two comms: one implanted comm, designed by Phi, that hid and transmitted within the FiWi data using some sort of chaos programming of Phi's design, and second, a visible commercial comm, equipped with secondary security that matched their citizen profile. Tracking comms and stalking suspicious strangers was all part of the game in Reno, so until the situation with the McGees was resolved, Swiss needed to play her part of the game well. She needed to download the files that would ping their server. She needed to leave boring breadcrumbs. She needed to appear innocuous.

Just then a man rushed out from the wings of the stage to Damian's side and whispered something into his ear. When the second man stepped away Damian smiled out into the auditorium.

"Looks like you're all about to get a head start," Damian said. "We've just received video surveillance footage that places Richard Abba at The Summit Bar twenty minutes ago. It's time stamped and confirmed, which means the bar owners are about to get a check for a hundred grand. That's how this works, gentleman. As you can see, whether or not you get paid is up to your instincts, skills, and maybe a little bit of luck. And keep in mind that each lead is rewarded only once. The first person to report a sighting gets the check. No double dipping. That's all I've got for you, which means you're all excused. Any updates will be sent directly to your comms."

Water couldn't have flooded out of the room faster.

"What do you think?" Gunnar asked, downloading the file onto his comm band. "You going to go for it?"

"Guess it depends on how fast this all goes down," Swiss replied, downloading the file like a good foot soldier. "I have to get back to work now, and I'll be flying out for a consult tomorrow. If Abba is found in the next forty-eight hours then I'm shit out of luck, I guess."

Gunnar shook his head, laughing at her. "Are you fucking kidding? I'll be canceling everything for the next forty-eight hours. You have to grab these opportunities when they come." Gunnar's phone chimed that it had completed the download.

"Whatever," she teased. "The only way you have a shot at this is if I bow out anyway."

"Uh-huh. All I can say is that you're lucky they're not taking people in masks, because I'd dump your ass on McGee's front door in a heartbeat for five-mill."

Swiss arched an eyebrow at him. "Five-mill, huh? Good to know your price."

He sent her one of his cocky grins. "Hell, I have another sister—a biological one, even—who gives me free alcohol whenever I see her. Given a choice, I'd cash you in and keep Ash and the payday. But don't worry," he said with a wink. "I'd soothe my conscience by giving Ash half the money. It's what you'd want."

"You're all heart," Swiss said, projecting the hologram of the head-to-toe sketch of the masked "man" in the air between her and Gunnar so that they could both see it. The sketch again proved that Mason had a stunning eye for detail. It was definitely time to swap out her day look.

"Don't you have that hoodie?" Gunnar said, pointing at the masked figure.

She nodded. "Yeah. It's $60 at Kryptik."

"And the boots?" he asked.

"That's a basic male harness boot heel," she replied. "Modified for solar-cycles in particular. If this picture is accurate, then those boots were bought locally and the owner likely rides."

Gunnar nodded. "I know I give you shit for being a stylist, but sometimes—rarely, mind you—it pays off."

"You're welcome."

"Also, you're lucky that I'm your alibi up to 4:15, otherwise I might point a finger at you for this. That drawing looks a shitload like you. What time did you key in at the Apophis?"

Swiss rolled her eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Five? Ten minutes after leaving the gym? I'd have to check the logs."

"You should," he said as he studied the image. "But your alibi is tighter than mine, which is good. Can't have you dropping out of my life. I don't think I would handle it as well as Ash."

The reference to Swiss's irrelevance in Ash's life made Swiss's heart feel like it was pumping mud for a second. She swallowed the sensation back and scrambled for a lighthearted response. "Don't worry. You'd find yourself a new fluffer to play wingman for you."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Fluffer? Please. We both know who's fucked more women between the two of us. Me. Hands down."

Swiss pursed her lips in mock confusion. "And how does that not prove my point?"

Gunnar narrowed his eyes, and she could tell he was trying to decide whether to volley back or take the hit. "I walked into that one."

She grinned, touching the tip of her finger to her tongue and drawing an invisible line in the air between them. Point: Her. "Yes, you did."

"I can live with that. Especially since it's time to get my ass in gear if I'm going to beat your ass at catching these guys."

"Which won't be hard since I'm getting my ass back to work."

"Your loss," Gunnar said shaking his head. "Any leads come to mind that you want to share before you head back to work for the man? Like where you think Abba headed after The Summit?"

Swiss gave her friend a sidelong look. "If you can't figure that out, you don't deserve to know."

"Oh, I know. I'm just wondering if you know."

"Of course I know," she said checking the time. If everything was on schedule she'd only missed two acts back at the Apophis.

"If we both know then we'll both say it on three," he challenged.

"Fine."

He counted off with his fingers. "One, two—"

"Red Light District," they said as one and Gunnar pursed his lips thoughtfully before adding, "I'm thinking at least half the people here came to the same conclusion."

"At least half," Swiss agreed. "It's the only place in the city that doesn't report IDs of check-ins or allow the recording of live feeds. Criminals have to be caught there real-time and no less than half the people there are wearing masks. And if you can't confirm his identity to security—"

"There's no way security is going to let you strip his mask off," Gunnar finished for her. "Half of Red Light District business rides on the back of guaranteed anonymity."

"Exactly."

Gunnar considered that. "Security's going to have their hands full tonight, that's for sure."

"Poor bastards."

"No shit," he agreed, one finger drumming against his thigh as he thought. "But if a person could narrow down Abba's preferences, they might have an advantage in an area as vast as the Red Light District."

Swiss curved her lips up into a smile. "A person might."

Gunnar accessed the file he had just downloaded and opened the photos included, studying them carefully as he flipped through each one. "What do you think this guy likes to stick his dick into?"

Swiss laughed, projecting a map of the Red Light out of her comm band. "Nuh-uh. Dicks are your wheelhouse. Where do you think a guy like Richard Abba likes to stick it?"

Gunnar was silent for a bit as he flipped through the pictures, occasionally stealing glances at the map. "First impressions say that he's a guy who likes the best. Clothes, watches, cars, alcohol...none of it is mid- or bottom-shelf in any of these pictures, which means if he's going to pop off in something it needs to be worthy of his load."

"So he won't be wearing a sub mask," she filled in for him.

"Fuck no," Gunnar agreed. "He's a definite dom."

Swiss fought the urge to react to his choice of words. "So a sexual dom who wants to hide his face? That means all the role-playing spaces are possibilities."

"Plus any fantasy rooms and areas where subs tie themselves down for the night," Gunnar added.

"Any space with multiples, too. A guy like him would probably want to hear a symphony of screams in his honor."

Gunnar nodded. "Plus, the glory holes would be worth checking out on fag street."

Swiss honestly hadn't considered that. "You think he's AC/DC?"

"I think he likes the best," Gunnar reminded her. "That means twat as tight as unplowed virgin snow and oral action that makes a man forget he's down range from a pair of crosshairs. And oral that fine can only come from another man, but I'm guessing this dude is still straight enough that he won't want to see the owner of the mouth sucking him to high heaven. Hence the glory hole. He can imagine the mouth on him belongs to anyone he wants so long as the other man is clean shaven."

Swiss couldn't argue with that logic. "Makes sense, but that still leaves you with a massive search area."

He arched an eyebrow her way. "Indeed. And it goes without saying that searching it would go faster with two of us. You know you wanna."

Swiss shook her head. "It's not worth throwing my job to the wind to join a mass hunt like this."

"Oh, that's right," he teased. "I wouldn't want a chance at $5 million to get in the way of you making sure no one's panty line is showing on that damn show of yours."

"Oh, that's not a concern," Swiss said dismissively. "No one on the show is wearing panties."

A wolfish smile spread across his face. "Speaking of panty-free, when was the last time you saw Demi's ass?"

Swiss grinned. "Twenty minutes ago."

"Damn," he breathed. "I don't envy you many things, but I definitely envy you that. Give it a lick for me, will you?"

She wiggled her fingers in farewell in lieu of an answer. "Have fun on Sex Street. Try to keep it in your pants."

He raised his hand, spreading his fingers wide and wiggling them in return, whispering, "Five. Million. Dollars."

Swiss shook her head, aiming her feet toward the main exit and willing herself not to sprint through the chaos of the lobby. "My friend, you'll be lucky if you trip into a hundred grand by the end of this."

"You're going to eat those words!" he shot back.

"Really? Because I was planning on eating something much tastier than that."

Gunnar let out a belly laugh in response just as the lobby doors slid open, allowing Swiss to step out into the twilight while Gunnar paused to look up something on his comm band. She left him to it, losing the focal point that had her feeling quasi-normal for a bit as she stepped back out into the desert air and open sky of downtown Reno. Innumerable sights, incalculable sounds, and a wash of...everything hitting her all at once.

Be the shih tzu, she coached herself as the sensory insanity of the walkway assaulted her. Whatever the fuck that damn dog was doing, do that. Yet two steps later her ears honed in on a single voice that whispered through the madness.

"Which one do you want me to follow?"

"Team up with the man," Damian Adler's distinct voice replied from somewhere that should definitely be out of ear shot. "I like his instincts. Maybe it's time to find out if he has what it takes to be one of us."

"Yes, sir."

Swiss nearly missed a step—nearly doubled back to join her friend so she could cover his back, but she couldn't. Little doubt those two men had just listened to their entire conversation. She'd said she was returning to the Apophis Theater, and that was exactly what she had to do. She had to do everything she'd just told Gunnar she would do, or she would be flagged.

So Swiss kept on walking as if she'd heard nothing at all. Right-left, right-left—just like a normal person—while focusing on the majestic glow of the sun as it disappeared behind the western horizon, ushering in the night.

#

Episode 2

EPISODE 2

CHAPTER EIGHT

PHI

Subject J36 opened its eyes, its pupils constricting, dilating, then focusing on its creator with such contempt that Phi had to grin.

"Ah, looks like someone transmigrated safe and sound," Phi said, pulling up the creature's brain scan on his holographic display.

Subject J36 gave no response to the greeting—at least not an outward response. But Phi didn't need physical indicators when he could look straight into the firing synapses of the beast's brain.

Subject J35, a much more feline-looking creature than the canine-similar J36, lay in the next armored-glass kennel, glaring with a heavy dose of fuck-you in its eyes as it watched Phi analyze the side-by-side brain scans. Subject J35 knew what was coming and had seemingly learned over the past few incarnations not to fight its fate. In fact, far from fighting fate, Subject J35's gaze all but willed Phi to perform the next step.

"Not so fast," he cooed to the beast. "We have to see which of you is superior."

Subject J35 gave a slow, unimpressed blink before walking to the end of its glass kennel to draw as close as possible to its likely heir. The glass separating them was airtight, but Subject J35 sniffed at the pane anyway as Subject J36 began showing signs of life.

A lot had changed between Subjects J35 and J36, and there was bound to be a learning curve—one that Phi had every intention of expediting.

"Computer, run acclimation program for Subject J36," Phi commanded.

"Running acclimation," the computer replied, and Subject J36 jumped as if shocked, its body spastically bouncing around the kennel like popcorn in a microwave. And just like popcorn, Phi would know Subject J36 was ready when it stopped bouncing around. When the beast could control its muscles enough to hold still, the acclimation and associated testing would be complete, and the biometric feedback would tell Phi all he needed to know.

If things went as planned, Phi would be one step closer to achieving the most perfect human ally in existence. And with Phi, things had a way of proceeding as planned.

CHAPTER NINE

BACH

"Welcome home, Bruce," Bach's navigation said as his self-driving van pulled into Bach's home garage. He stayed in the driver's seat, listening to the purr of motors as the industrial security door created an air-tight seal between the garage and the rest of the world. And when the engines finished their work, Bach listened to everything else. The hum of the laminar air flow system. The gush of water rushing through pipes in the walls. The manic movements of a fly that had followed him in from the outside world that would never find its way out again.

These were Bach's few moments of Zen for the day, when he let all the noise and the chaos of life move through him like water through fingertips as he reminded himself that all things were in constant motion. He didn't need to hold on to any of it. He didn't need to carry it. He simply needed to let each energy be what it was. The key to success was letting each energy be what it was without damning or blocking or fighting it. Bach needed to remember to be like the clouds...like water, accepting that energy could not be stopped but could be redirected or expedited.

Redirected energy was how they were going to beat Arman Aldo at his own game tomorrow. It was how they'd used Travis McGee to create the lure that would get Arman out of hiding in the first place. With the creation of one bottleneck in the current, everything else fell into place like well-placed dominoes. You just had to take the time, feel the current, and know where to put the bottleneck.

"You can go to sleep now," Bach told the van.

"Thank you, Bruce. It's been a long day. I hope you have a relaxing evening."

"I'll give it a try," Bach replied, but stayed where he was and listened to each electrical system as it powered down and went offline. With every system that clicked off, Bach imagined a personal stress dying and falling away in his own mind until he couldn't feel the difference between his mind and the air around him. He let the world be still for a few beats before checking back in.

There were still places to go and dominoes to knock over.

Work was done for the night—or at least his day job was. All the concerts were complete, and all onsite equipment accounted for. It was time to let the machines plug in and recharge while he kept on going.

As Bach brought himself back to the present, he let the simple stimuli around him replace the cacophony of sound he had exposed himself to throughout the day. He smelled the base scent of the chlorine solution periodically used to spray down the garage, accented by scents seeping from of the hybrid van: exhaust, hot rubber, oil, and electronic wires that had begun to run on the hot side.

There were maintenance issues he needed to see to, but there were no foreign smells. No intruders.

Fifteen feet out from the van's front bumper an elevator bell chimed, its auto-timed doors sliding open. Bach let the elevator do its thing as he undid his seatbelt and lifted a hidden latch in his cup holder. The latch released a manhole-sized portion of the passenger-side flooring. The flip of one more latch raised the passenger seat up against the seat's backrest and opened the van's emergency exit, which was currently parked directly over a lower tunnel entrance.

As Bach started down the ladder and into the subterranean tunnels, the automatic elevator doors swished closed. The elevator proceeded up to Bach's apartment level, giving the impression to anyone who might be savvy enough to hack into his system that he had moved up into his apartment even as he descended below ground.

In the seventeen months Bach had lived in this location, never once had the sole of a shoe ever touched the garage floor, nor had any person ridden the elevator up or down. The day someone tried would be an interesting day indeed.

This particular tunnel, just like Bach's home and garage, was a two-way dead zone. Hundreds of tunnels just like it had been built by the gods for the gods to move imperceptibly throughout the city. The passages were policed to a degree, but not to any level that prohibited the undergods from accessing the tunnels as needed. The same attributes that made the tunnels so secure for the gods were the same attributes that made them easy to hack. No technology could see in, no technology could broadcast out. The entire subterranean tunnel system was built to incapacitate and disorient the uninitiated. No lights. No sounds. No odors. No landmarks. No mile markers.

The impact on a sighted person could be quite panic inducing, Bach had heard. But as a man accustomed to counting steps, it had taken Bach only three trips through the tunnels before he had all the pathway options between home and Hell memorized.

Still, for habit's sake, Bach made a pop of sound every few steps and listened to the sound bounce off the walls of the tunnels. If something was different, Bach wanted to notice it before he was face-to-face with it. If someone was on to him, he wanted to hear it a mile away. Literally. Eyes had their place, but they could be compensated for.

The walk to Hell was just over nine blocks. The needed time to cover that distance was usually just enough to clear out the layers of voices bouncing around in Bach's mind and flip the mental switches required to play his role in the undergods—switches he'd had to create within himself to play a role in a death and then keep moving without pause.

Bach certainly hadn't been raised to be such a man. When doctors had diagnosed Bach with retinoblastoma and recommended a humane death, Bach's parents had smuggled themselves out of a labor city in Guizhou, China, and made it to America in a shipping container. The ship had ported in Los Angeles, and that's where Bach's parents had chosen to stay—working hard to build a life that enabled Bach to thrive.

Up until The Great Quake, Bach's childhood home had been a place of daily generosity. His parents never allowed Bach to consider his blindness a disability. Instead, they introduced him to other sightless creatures of the earth and taught him to learn from their examples. Bach's mother had been a woman who gave out of her own lack, never asking for anything in return. His father had been a quiet man who only spoke words he could honor. Both of Bach's parents been true pacifists and Taoists.

Unfortunately, both his parents and their legacy of goodness had died with them in The Great Quake. Bach lived on, but he was a fighter. And just like a soldier returned fire when fired upon, once the undergods moved into an op, it was kill or be killed.

Without exception.

Had Omen allowed it, Travis would have killed Dom earlier that day and gloried in it. That's what human predators did. They sucked the life's blood out of the subservient and, to protect their power and domain, killed those who would not be subjugated. They were the human weeds of the universe—supplanting healthy growth and replacing it with noxious filler.

That was the world Bach knew. That was the evolution he fought against, and his commitment stemmed from the fact that he had once been an enabler of the predators. Because of Bach, seventeen college students' chance at life had been cut short.

At the time Bach had simply been a blind man trying to prove that he was better than any of his sighted peers. And he'd proved that, all right. He'd found the real identities of seventeen agitators who had been able to hide from everyone else. In the process, Bach had finally proven himself to be an employee worthy of promotion, but the cost had been staggering. Seventeen college activists had been assassinated based on the intel he had provided his manager, and Bach heard it all go down firsthand.

Bach may not have planted the bomb that took their lives, but he had given his bosses the who, when, and where. His bosses had provided the what, why, and how.

The next morning Bach had gotten the promotion he'd so desperately wanted and an invitation into a world he had only heard stories about. Accepting meant wealth and all it afforded. Rejecting meant a bullet to the head.

Initially Bach had made the coward's choice to live. It hadn't been until later that door number three had revealed itself and led him to the undergods. His new oath? To desolate the CEOs he had so desperately wanted to impress not so long ago—and not in a way that allowed them to simply cut off an appendage and keep on walking. They needed to be put down like the fabled vampire: head removed, heart staked for all to see, and their remains reduced to dust.

The seventeen promising minds Bach had reduced to martyrs for a still-hidden cause deserved nothing less. And if Bach ultimately shared their morbid fate while trying to right his wrong, then so be it.

But if only it were that easy. If only all he needed to was anger and righteous indignation to make things right. But the desire to make things right was only a seed. Action and strategy were needed for there to be any real-world impact.

Bach could never accomplish such a feat on his own, and that was where the the undergods came in. Phi, Omen, Swiss, Dom, and Zero would find a way to walk Bach to his door of opportunity, just as he helped them reach theirs. This was their promise to each other. He scratched their backs and they scratched his with no questions asked. No balking so long as basic rules were observed:

1. No innocents could be harmed unless they made it their business to stand in harm's way.

2. Members created, and were supported in, their own strategies.

3. No member could be forced to kill in the name of another member, although members could volunteer to do so.

Rule number three was what had locked Bach into inaction for the past twenty-five months. He had three men on his kill list but not the slightest idea of how to actually kill them. He'd never even pitched a viable plan to the undergods. And with each death Bach witnessed remotely, he became less and less sure that his own vendetta would ever pan out to be anything more than a well-intentioned memory.

Had seventeen kids died for nothing other than Bach's ambition while Bach merely postured to avenge them without ever taking action?

Time would tell. And until then, Bach just had to keep on playing his part. Be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there—including the undergod meeting that started in five minutes.

CHAPTER TEN

DOM

Dom stormed out of the lab area looking for exactly one face: Phi's. The second he saw it, he punched it.

Zero restrained Dom from behind, pulling him out of range of taking another swing. "One punch. That's all you get," he muttered into Dom's ear.

"You killed Jack!" Dom roared at the scientist.

Phi straightened, assessing his jaw for any possible damage. "The creature you call Jack is not dead. I gave it a new body."

Dom fought against Zero's hold just because it felt cathartic. "And what about the old body?"

"Incinerated," the scientist said in his usual cold tone. In his peripheral vision Dom saw Swiss and Omen share a look, and he knew they were on his side.

"News flash, asshole," Dom roared. "When something is alive and you snuff the spark out of it, that's called 'killing.' Why the fuck did you have to kill her? She was perfect!"

"Now it's more perfect."

Dom lunged, genuinely fighting against Zero's hold until the other man's strength just made it embarrassing to keep trying. Gassed and frustrated, Dom slumped against his friend. "You could have at least let me say goodbye, man."

Phi shook his head. "A goodbye would be relevant if the intelligence you call Jack no longer existed. Yet it does. Only now it does so in a far superior shell."

Dom could feel himself losing steam. "I like the old shell."

"Too conspicuous," Phi said without hesitation. "Too cat-like for its size. Too much lynx DNA. Exposure of Subject J35 in the real-world environment revealed an inability for citizens to accept it as a domesticated animal. The shell needs to more closely resemble a domesticated juvenile canine while retaining the advantageous tactical features of a feline."

Logic. It was always logic with Phi, and Dom hated the man for it.

Bach's voice chimed in from the entrance. "Phi, I think what Dom's trying to say is that it's emotionally jarring for him when you transmigrate your subjects without providing an advanced warning that psychologically prepares him for the transition."

Phi's lips puckered in consideration, then he nodded. "Fascinating. I was not aware of how attached you had become to the Subject J35 shell."

"Take it!" Zero whispered into Dom's ear from behind. "It's the closest thing to an apology you're going to fucking get. Don't forget you need him."

The need to collapse Phi's trachea was unreasonably strong, but Zero was right. There wasn't a worse time to alienate the genius—especially considering how lopsided their relationship was. Dom needed Phi every step of the way, whereas Phi needed nothing from Dom. Not a damn thing. Not when Phi had Swiss in his back pocket.

Which meant Dom needed to bend over and take the "apology" right up his ass—although he had just one more pout to throw in before he did so. "The old Jack knew my plans and had assignments."

"New Jack knows all those things as well."

Dom felt Zero's hold on him lessen as he and Phi moved into negotiation mode. "Mind if I take her out tonight and put my mind to rest on that matter?"

Phi actually rolled his eyes, a rare move from a man of few emotions. "Fine. But now we're all here. Let's get started."

Dom felt Zero's grip on him release as all the undergods moved to stand at their assigned positions at each of the six points of the ornate boardroom table. Those wearing sleeves pulled them away from their non-dominant hand. Dom did the same, revealing his watch and flipping its face to show his emblem. His devout mother would spin like a tornado in her grave if she saw what he did next, but tradition was tradition and oaths were oaths. But respect was also respect, so out of respect for his mother Dom kissed the cross around his neck and moved it around to hang down his back as he did what was required of him in the circle.

Sorry, Mom, he thought to himself, then took a deep breath. "Three above, three below, minden erő mutate," he began.

Dom had no idea what he was saying, but for some reason the words needed to be said. Each member of the undergods had a genealogy that preceded them leading back to one of the six founders. It just so happened that the head of Dom's line had been a witch with inexplicable powers. Things that should have died with her somehow survived her—the hex on their boardroom table being one of them.

Following the script, Dom pressed his emblem into his corner of the table. "Paredros Themis, i kori Dikē, tiszta szívvel Virgové."

The moment the last word was complete Dom's emblem magnetized to the stone table. Dom nodded to Omen on his left, who then pressed his own emblem. Swiss went next, followed by Zero, Phi, and Bach. With all six emblems magnetized, the table began to hum. It was weird as fuck. If Dom lived a hundred years he swore he still wouldn't get used to the almost monk-like sound the table made when booting up. It was eerily human, and it didn't stop until everyone's head was focused. That might take thirty seconds or thirty minutes—or it might not happen at all.

The table should have been able to work without uttering a spell someone had made up fifteen years ago. That fact was probably the one thing Dom's extremely Catholic mother and resident-atheist Phi might have agreed on had they ever met. There was no such thing as magic. And yet, if even one word or action of what came next was incorrect, the table would remain nothing more than a table.

Even Phi couldn't turn the table on without the spell. So there was that.

This time the table hummed for only two minutes, which boded well for the meeting. Everyone was focused, meaning that the day's business would probably be worked through quickly. When a faint glow emanated from the table, replacing the sound, Dom once again took the lead.

"Each one who is three reveal and now speak the three names of the hex and the fate that you seek."

Dom looked to his left to cue Omen. "Born Hale, oathed Omen, keeper of the throne of Osiris."

"Born Alicia, oathed Swiss, keeper of the throne of Sekhmet."

"Born Daniel, oathed Zero, seeker of the throne of Sobek."

Phi was next and, as usual, he hesitated due to the fact that he was testing the table to see how it was holding his emblem hostage. Touching, tugging, wedging, and assessing the table in his continued quest to crack its code. They all waited until Phi grew annoyed and muttered, "Born Klaus, oathed Phi, seeker of the throne of Amun Ra."

"Born Bruce, oathed Bach, seeker of the throne of Thoth."

And that left only Dom to finish the circle. "Born Richard, oathed Dom, seeker of the throne of Horus. Six children of the hex are we. By name, the oathed di inferi. Above, below. Sky, earth, and tree. 'Til the hex be fulfilled so mote it be."

As one they all brought their free hands down next to their magnetized emblems and—poof—just like that, the emblems released. Both hands became free, all magnetism ceased, and the table powered on along with the tablet that controlled the display.

Then the six of them all just sat down like everything was totally normal...because that pretty much was normal for all of them now. Without prompting, everyone focused on Omen.

"Well," he said, "Today went down flawlessly, with no improvisation or deviation from the plan." He gestured Dom's direction. "Time will tell if Dom gets what he wants out of it, but we all know what's at stake right now. Dom is on the chopping block, and Zero is definitely at risk. There is no such thing as being too careful over the next few days. Share everything and assume nothing as we move into phase two."

When everyone gave knowing nods, Omen looked at Swiss and then Dom. "Unless anyone has any questions, we can move on. Today was what it was, and it's a busy week. Swiss and Dom both have ops in the next twenty-four hours."

Dom locked eyes with Swiss, silently giving her the floor. She leaned forward. "My op takes me out of state again, so I'll be M.I.A. here. Phi and I are doing our usual dance with a new partner, so not much to discuss there." She glanced Bach's direction. "As you all know I went to McGee's bounty hunter meeting earlier today. Bach has the entire meet up on file, and I recommend watching the video feed to get a read on the guy heading up the hunt for Dom, Damian Adler."

"I know of him," Zero added. "He's got a reputation for getting things done."

"And he's a sadist," Swiss said as Dom noted that she was having trouble holding still in her chair. Something had her very restless. "When you're in the same room with him you can feel his drive to instill fear-based compliance. He's a man who will pull a trigger without hesitation."

Zero nodded. "I second that assessment. I've also heard that he's not one to delegate. Anything he tells you to do, he's doing behind your back. And he's very unforgiving if your full-time results are subpar to his part-time results."

Swiss and Zero's eyes locked across the table before she said, "Which means he's going to be looking into all the invitees who didn't show today, you included."

"Which we accounted for," Phi said, sounding bored.

Dom watched uneasy glances pass between Swiss, Zero, and Omen before Swiss ventured to speak. "We have an alibi for Zero that the police can't touch, but Damian Adler is a bit of a different beast. I sense that he can sniff out a smoke screen as quickly as actual smoke. We can't have a single bread crumb linking Zero to the city today. Plus, I think there should be some evidence of him arriving at the airport tomorrow. Nothing overt. Make McGee's people bend over backwards for it, but I think we need to put it out there or Zero might gain a few ungainly shadows."

"I second the motion," Dom said eyeing his friend across the table. "We need to make sure Zero falls completely off of McGee's radar as a suspect."

All the heat was supposed to be aimed at me for this, Dom thought as he second-guessed his decision to let Zero be the trigger. Dom should have shot the kid himself. It would have been so much cleaner that way. But no, Zero had to go and volunteer and make such a good case for why the shooter should be offsite.

Phi blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry, but is this one of the situations where you are all articulating the obvious out loud as a show of moral support, or is it a collective expression of doubt in my competency to do as I have promised?"

"The former," Bach said with a small smile even as Dom's blood pressure skyrocketed at Phi's nonchalance. This was life-and-death shit they were talking about here. There was nothing obvious about anything. They all needed to keep their eyes on the situation and adjust as needed. He was about to open his mouth and say as much when Bach spoke first.

"The group is collectively acknowledging that McGee and his staff may not make fully logical assumptions or deductions as we move forward. We need to adjust our mentality in order to be prepared for irrational curveballs based fully on illogical emotions."

Phi shook his head in disgust. "This is why Apophis will fall. He is too impulsive. We should hand-select a much steadier man to be his heir."

"Or woman," Swiss popped in, earning a few looks that she shrugged off. "What? This group started off with three women. Now there's only one."

"Yes, but the god Apophis will never be a part of this group. And I think we can agree that women are more dangerous and unpredictable in a fight. It's to our benefit that the outside gods remain gods and not goddesses."

Swiss scowled at her friend, lips pursed, before nodding. "Touché."

"So we've established that Swiss is flying out tomorrow but that she's concerned about McGee's capacity to come to logical conclusions," Phi summarized, clearly growing impatient with the pace of the meeting. "I have both her and Zero covered tomorrow, so can we move along?"

Dom fought the urge to glance in the direction of Phi's lab—75% of which no one had seen besides Phi. Did the mad scientist have something cooking that he had to get back to? Something else he wanted to snuff the life out of? And if he did, did Dom really want to know about it?

"One last thing," Swiss said. "Maybe nothing, but this Damian guy has tasked someone to befriend and potentially recruit Gunnar. I have no idea why Gunnar's on their radar, but it's worth making note of. I think Omen and I are the only two people here that Gunnar couldn't take down hand-to-hand. He's an ally, but this race for the cash might turn him into a threat. Either way, he's with me, so no friendly fire."

There were a couple thoughtful nods around the table and a baffled look from Phi before Swiss bobbed her head toward Dom. "That's it for me. Take it away, Dom."

Dom felt his heart pick up in anticipation as all eyes fell on him. He cleared his throat. "My op for tomorrow just popped on the radar in the past few hours in direct response to the McGee bounty. It's Target 8: Arman Aldo. As you know, when I first signed on here I had nine targets on my list. With your help I was able to take care of the first seven in quick succession before Aldo got wise and retreated into a cave. At the time, we weren't sure whether he was going into lockdown on all fronts or if he had identified the foil I had established to make contact with him. Turns out it was door number two."

"He didn't reach out to you directly?" Omen asked.

Dom shook his head. "Within an hour of the bounty message getting spammed out, Aldo reached out to the foil and said it is tomorrow or never for a meet. Aldo definitely linked the foil to me—probably months ago—and is reaching out now because he thinks it'll be an easy payday so long as he controls all the moving parts. He hasn't communicated time or place yet, but Bach has rounded up those details in advance."

With that cue, everyone shifted their gaze to Bach, who reached across the table with unerring accuracy and gripped the tablet that gave him access to the table's holographic display. If the man didn't have empty sockets where eyeballs should be, Dom would have sworn the man had 20/20 vision.

"For once a target's paranoia is going to work in our favor," Bach began while projecting the blueprints of a building above the table. "Aldo's plan is simple and one he's used successfully on many occasions. Tomorrow he is going fly in from Seattle and give us a one-hour window to meet him in this building." Bach gestured to the hologram he couldn't see, but the rest of them could. "We don't have to clear the area because the target is just as worried about witnesses as we are, and he's arranged to have the property undergo a false extermination. No one will be on the premises, and we'll have all day to set up while Aldo assumes we're standing by awaiting his instructions."

Zero leaned forward, studying the blueprint. "These are two separate buildings. Do we know which room he has planned for the meet?"

"We do, in fact," Bach said while tapping the tablet. One of the rooms near the front of the second building lit up in yellow. "Aldo wants to be able to see who's coming and have the freedom to take whatever action he sees fit. He prefers the $5 million bounty, but $1 million will work in a pinch. For this reason he has decided to use the walkway between the buildings as a bottleneck he can easily cork. His plan is to come into town tomorrow, establish himself in the building, and then make the call to have Dom's foil come to him. This is a pattern he uses every time he meets a new contact, and he's very comfortable with it. The blueprints you're looking at right now are the ones I took off of Aldo's laptop. The room you see highlighted is the one he marked and passed on to his security personnel."

"How many guards is he bringing?" Zero asked.

"His current itinerary shows four guards with him, all former Russian military."

Zero nodded and leaned back. "Then I suggest we use their bottleneck against them. It's tactically sound, and I can swing by the building tonight to scout positioning."

"That would be ideal," Bach agreed then slid the tablet Dom's way. "Those are the basics of the setup. Dom can walk us through the plan."

Dom hadn't noticed his palms were sweating until he gripped the tablet and felt it slip a bit. In the moment of conversational silence Dom both heard and felt the rush of blood in his ears. This was really happening. It was really fucking happening, and he had to take a moment to really let that sink in.

He had two targets left. After tomorrow he would have one. And after that? Oblivion.

Dom suddenly didn't feel ready, unnamed sensations swirling around and nearly swallowing him until Swiss cleared her throat and sent him a pointed look that reminded him that it was time to get talking.

"We all know the endgame here," Dom said quickly. "The foreplay is different but the climax is the same. Phi will be over technology and making us invisible; Bach will have his ear to the ground; Zero will knock the guards out; Omen will be the mouse trap; and I'll be the catalyst that pushes the mouse into the trap. You all know the drill for that part of it. I'll be on location and setting up the kill room four hours in advance. I'm guessing Zero will likely show about the same time to start running scenarios, but everyone else can wait until the plane is on the ground to take positions. Any later and we risk the bodyguards catching movement and getting spooked. They're expecting an abandoned building, and that's exactly what they have to see when they approach."

Silent nods answered him.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"Where will you be putting the kill room?" Omen asked.

Dom touched a room on the tablet, causing it to light up in the hologram. "I'll be setting up in the first building. It's almost certain the target's going to run for the exit once he knows something's off, so I'll set up in this conference room right at the entrance of the bottleneck. That way you can just grab him and hang him up."

Omen nodded. "Makes sense."

Dom set the tablet down. "Bach and I sat down earlier and put a plan together. We'll forward the details on, but it's nothing we haven't done before. Zero is the only one who really needs to customize his approach. The bodyguards will be dangerous, and they're going to leave some bullet holes that will require some post-op plastering."

"Definitely," Zero said. "Omen and I can take care of that while you...do your thing."

"Sounds good," Dom agreed. "Other than that, I know we all have places to be. So unless someone has a question, that's it for me."

No one moved.

"Then we're adjourned," Phi said, standing impatiently. "Swiss, I'm going to need you in the pod tonight. I have some upgrades to apply."

Dom watched as Omen's jaw tensed at Phi's command. Next to him, Swiss grew still.

"I have an op tomorrow," she said cautiously.

Phi looked annoyed. "Yes. I believe we've established that."

She bit her lip as she chose her words. "I don't like upgrades that close to going into the field. They can be...unpredictable."

"These are just enhancements to existing functions," Phi said dismissively. "More turning up the volume, so to speak. We won't be adding anything new."

"I'm still adjusting to the current volume," Swiss hedged. "And I prefer to acclimate when I have the home court advantage."

Phi stared her down, clearly annoyed to be questioned in front of the group. "You always say that, and you're always fine. Besides, these upgrades will do nothing but help you tomorrow as you insist on walking into the lion's den rather than shooting the lion from a distance. I'm just trying to keep you alive."

They all knew that was total bullshit. If Phi found a better "shell" than Swiss to apply all his upgrades and enhancements to, he would incinerate Swiss just as quickly as all the previous incarnations of all the Jacks. Phi didn't give two shits as to whether Swiss lived or died. All he cared was that his version of science moved forward.

The tension in the room grew as no one moved and everyone waited for Swiss's response. Precedence dictated that if Phi and Swiss couldn't come to an agreement themselves, it would fall to the rest of the group to collectively cast the tie-breaking vote. If that became the case, Dom had no doubt Swiss would come out on top.

As much as Phi liked to believe his upgrades were installed flawlessly, from what Dom had seen the human body was not a fully predictable machine. Each of the the undergods had all been there when Swiss had gone blind for several seconds or become paralyzed in parts of her body as her mind wrapped itself around a new function. Phi attributed these instances to psychosomatic induction of failure on Swiss's side. Maybe that was the case, but psychosomatic or not, the failures did indeed occur with regularity while Swiss was "acclimating."

"You will have an ideal opportunity to practice the upgraded sight capabilities on the flight tomorrow," Phi added, his voice cold and persuasive. "If we need to reset you later for the op, we can."

The two stared at each other, and when Swiss spoke it was clearly not from the heart. "Fine. I have some errands to run tonight, but I'll come back later."

Phi gave a curt nod. "Have sex, if you can. It should level you out a bit."

Swiss's lips pressed into a hard line as she watched Phi return to his secret lab. Then she stood and grabbed her cycle helmet with a hint of the super speed she'd exhibited on the op earlier.

"We would have had your back on that," Omen said.

Swiss gave a quick nod. "Thanks for that. I just gotta pick my battles, you know?"

Yes. They all knew. All too well.

Without another word Swiss stormed into the tunnels, leaving the rest of them to process the wonky vibes she and Phi had left in their wake.

"She made the wrong choice," Bach said, standing.

Unlike the rest of them, Bach could speak with authority on the matter since he was the only other undergod who had accepted an upgrade from Phi, to enhance his hearing. Bach's hearing had already been highly refined from his lifetime of being blind, but with the upgrades Bach had been able to fully and confidently ditch the walking stick and start doing things like pick up a paperclip from a table without faltering.

"What's it like to have the volume turned up on your senses?" Omen asked.

Bach's lips pursed as he considered the question. "It's like standing up on a full-throttle rollercoaster without losing your balance." He started for the tunnels. "Catch you all tomorrow."

Seconds later the room was clear except for Dom. He eyed the labs. Finalizing the plans for tomorrow had to be done. But as soon as he was done with that, Dom would break Jack out of that godforsaken kennel, and they would hit the town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SWISS

Shallow, panting breaths did little to fill her lungs as Swiss swallowed back the metallic taste in her mouth that had her craving actual blood. Her spirit wanted to chase; her mouth wanted to taste; her body wanted to feed. Not even speeding across the desert at 170 mph on an illegally modified solar-cycle could stop her nose from testing the air for worthy prey. She had hoped the speed would subdue the animal awakening in her mind, but it had only served to focus her and catalyze primal needs.

The world was hers for the taking. Nothing could outrun or best her. She was the top of the food chain as she sped across the desert landscape, and that bone-deep knowledge of her status served as a euphoric aphrodisiac as she scented a deer.

Slamming on her breaks, Swiss launched herself off the bike before it came to a complete stop. She broke into a sprint headed northeast. When her feet hit the incline of a mountainside, her steps didn't slow nor did she quiet them. She wanted her prey to hear her. She wanted it to run.

Let it run. Let it lose.

Surging up the incline, Swiss felt every cell in her body firing, somehow making her feel more fluid than solid. Branches grazed her without scratching, and the uneven terrain felt as accommodating under her feet as a moving sidewalk back in the city. Her preternatural senses catalogued the innumerable creatures around her just as readily as they sensed when the doe detoured in its retreat. Swiss smiled, veering left to adjust her approach before something much more subtle tickled at her senses...something she wasn't supposed to smell.

Swiss stopped as suddenly as if she'd hit brick wall, raising her nose to test the air.

Faint. Very faint, but present. It wasn't so much the smell of something as it was no smell where a smell ought to be. Moving slowly Swiss let the doe race on while she tracked the anomaly. The search led her in circles, eyes searching and nose seeking the answer to the riddle What smells of nothing, yet covers up the smell of something?

The more she searched the more fixated she became until finally her nose was on it—whatever it was. Soft fur tickled her skin, and it took that physical contact for Swiss to realize that the something that smelled like nothing was alive. She drew back, moving branches away to assess the thing with her eyes. A fawn—masterfully hidden and still as a statue. It held position, barely breathing and certainly not twitching or trying to flee.

The something that smelled like nothing was a newborn baby whose mother had tried to protect it by luring a predator away. Such was the instinct of a mother.

Swiss smiled, dragging her fingertips along the rock-still creature and sensing her own heart rate drop in response to the contact. For the first time since Omen's op, the urge to rip something's throat out subsided, and the part of Swiss's brain that gave a shit about life flickered back on.

"Don't worry," she whispered to the fawn. "I won't kill you...or your mom."

The fawn didn't move. It didn't blink, sniff, or do anything but act like a stone. The impact on Swiss's instincts was stunning. The baby acted like nothing and smelled like nothing, so Swiss's primal brain treated it like nothing even though Swiss knew exactly what she was looking at.

There was a lesson in all that somewhere.

Letting the foliage fall back into position to conceal the fawn, Swiss stepped away. She still smelled the mother's trail and the tang of the doe's fear, but Swiss turned away from the lure of it and started a jog back to her bike. A slow jog—at least slow for her. The steps were still fluid but her heart no longer fired like a piston on a mission. It fired just enough to send her on her way as her stomach seemed to yawn its objection of not being fed.

When Swiss reached her cycle, she found it had auto-parked. Thank heaven for technology. She gave her trusty bike a walk around to check for damage before straddling it and pointing it toward the city. She settled for 90 mph on the way home—fast enough to make good time but not fast enough to put her primal mind in control again.

She needed to be more careful about that.

She was learning that the problem with her upgrades was not the science of them, but rather Phi's lack of acceptance of her feedback on the side effects. He thought that just because he had real-time scans of her brain that he understood what was happening inside her better than she did. Every time an area lit up or a new pathway formed, Phi thought he knew what Swiss was experiencing in that moment. If she reported otherwise, then the fault was hers. Always.

Phi had the scans to prove it.

But the fact of the matter was that the enhancements seemed to activate more primal parts of the brain. And while Phi could see that color pocket on a scan, he'd never experienced it. Everything became sharp and intense. Simple responses suddenly seemed to carry life or death implications. And when all that swirled together, it became very hard to think like a human.

Impossible, really.

Once Swiss's heart rate picked up and the adrenaline started rushing, vocabulary disappeared. Right and wrong became irrelevant, distant peaks of a valley she suddenly inhabited. All that mattered was life, death, territory, tribe, and mating rights. And if any situation played out long enough, the only thing that began to matter in Swiss's mind was establishing her dominance and power.

During the earlier op, the only thing that had saved those boys' lives for the few extra minutes they'd ended up living was the fact that they'd all been shitting themselves with fear. The primal part of her brain had sensed that her dominion was uncontested, allowing the human part of her mind to stay in the game...barely.

And Phi wanted to turn all these senses up even more?

As much as Swiss wanted to be strong enough for anything that came her way on an op, she wasn't sure she was strong enough to take much more. Every op she and Phi did together, Swiss witnessed a seemingly normal person black out and make room for something much more primal to take over. Her job was to subdue the beast so it could be reverse engineered, but more and more Swiss sensed that she was becoming the exact thing she was fighting—that one of these simple, routine upgrades would push her over the edge and turn her into the very thing she was trying to rid the world of.

According to Phi, this trip into the dark side was impossible and merely the projection of a fearful imagination. He had the situation under control, and if Swiss just listened to him she would be fine.

Which was total bullshit...scientifically speaking, of course.

The very fact that Phi thought she should go out and have random sex in her current state of mind only proved to Swiss that Phi was completely out of touch with what he was dealing with. Per usual, collateral physical, psychological, and emotional damage didn't interest Phi. He was only factoring in the impact the sex would have on Swiss's state of mind, not her partner's.

Never mind the fact that at the moment the only thing Swiss was sexually capable of was rape. The thought of taking what she wanted and leaving another in a sobbing, defeated heap made her feel anchored and blissfully high at the same time, like a tree whose roots reached the core of the earth even as her branches mingled with the stratosphere. It made her feel as if statues should be erected in honor of her magnificence and be worshipped in naked supplication.

So, no, Swiss would not be fucking anyone while in her current state of mind—not even for the sake of leveling herself out so Phi could better tinker with her mind, body, and soul through the night. She would stick to running a couple errands before removing herself from the infinite opportunities to succumb to temptation.

But refusing to succumb to temptation didn't mean she couldn't take a few sniffs of it as she took care of business.

First stop: Misdirect Damian—if he was even watching.

After parking on the edge of the Pristine Zone, it took less than five minutes to get into Club Anon, redirect her tracking beacon to someone blissed out, and steal out onto the roof where Swiss easily skirted security cameras. By then her need for food was moving from a craving to an outright demand. When modifications to your body made you burn 128 calories per hour to support cognitive function alone, food could never be put on the back burner for long. A minimum of 12,000 calories per day didn't consume themselves. And while Swiss had high-concentration food bars from Phi to be eaten every two hours, sometimes she just needed good, old-fashioned food.

Second stop: Calories.

Following her nose to a steakhouse, Swiss stole everything off the grill along with a pile of steak fries before escaping to the roof. Food and entertainment, with no pesky cameras analyzing her every move. What more could a girl ask for?

Swiss picked one of her favorite blind spots along the skyline and settled in to eat while she practiced using her senses to pick up useful information about people: blood-alcohol levels, specific diets, ailments, medications...these were the things her mind wanted to know, but the primal side of her was not similarly focused. Without her consent, it identified when a guy was hard or a girl was wet, dialing into who had slept with whom—literally smelling the signature of their combined body-fluid soup, and, increasingly, discerning based on their biochemical response how each participant felt about the fluid swap.

Had the response triggered an adrenaline response, or had it resulted in oxytocin triggers for either party? Psychological response to physical action manifested itself in each person's body chemistry as clearly as a person's eye color if you had the sensory perception for it.

And these days, Swiss had all that and more.

The three couples sitting beneath her on an outdoor dining patio? Swingers. The woman serving them? Ovulating.

A simple sniff gave her more information about a person than Swiss had ever been able to comprehend before. For example, the male server enjoyed urinating on all the food the restaurant threw away as a silent insult to anyone desperate enough to eat it. He'd been doing it for months. And the guy on a date three tables down? He'd fucked someone else before picking up his date. He hadn't even showered in between. There was nothing quite so distinct as the smell of cum, and streets of Reno were awash with it. No one was clean.

Well, except Demi, Swiss conceded absently. That woman hadn't been laid in an eon, bless her faithful soul.

Swiss finished her stolen meal and felt all but human again when she dropped the containers down to the recycling dumpster below. She had two minutes remaining before her scheduled meetup. It was time to get moving.

Third stop: Gideon.

She stayed to the roofs for the rest of the trip, running and leaping from building to building until she was poised over a man who looked much younger than he was. He stood a few steps inside an alley, leaning against the wall as he sucked poison into his lungs through a contraband cigarette.

Swiss dropped in next to him. "I can literally hear the cilia in your lungs shutting down with every inhale, you know that?"

Gideon physically jumped and choked on his current puff before recovering. "Whatever. It makes me look older."

She shook her head and stuck out her hand. "It makes you look like a delinquent high schooler. Someone's going to call the cops on the kid smoking in the Pristine Zone."

"Already happened," he said, slapping his hand into hers and transferring a folded piece of paper her way with their handshake. She palmed it discretely.

"And they didn't arrest you?"

He rolled his eyes and took a drag. "You can't arrest what you can't catch."

"No doubt," Swiss laughed before glancing down the street in the direction of the bar. "Any news worth knowing?"

Gideon gave a quick laugh. "Outside of the main news of the day? Not much. Business is good at the bar. Oh, and word on the street is that Mal's looking at rings." He gave his left ring finger two shakes to make his meaning clear.

Swiss pocketed the piece of paper and fought to keep her tone indifferent even as the overactive primal part of her brain roared its rejection. "Yeah?"

"Nothing confirmed," he said. "But those are the whispers."

"Good to know. Is Mal's side job getting himself into any trouble that could bleed over into the bar?"

"Not currently," Gideon said as he bobbed his head toward the paper in her pocket. "Although his street cred may not be what he thinks it is. I think 'insurance' on the bar is about to go up. We've had some enforcers hanging out multiple nights in a row. I think they're doing the math on our sales...seeing if they can up their take. I gave you names and dates."

She gave a curt nod. "Thanks. I'll look into it. In the meantime, don't take today's events lightly."

"You mean the McGee hit?" he asked. "Oh, believe me, I'm not shrugging it off. That's some seriously crazy shit, man."

"It's a free-for-all," Swiss said. "I'm sure you've heard the details like everyone else. I'm just here to urge you to be super helpful when these assholes come through. These guys are in competition with each other, which means if one feels you're holding out on him, he might think you're holding out more than you are. Keeping a helpful attitude is going to keep you, Ash, and everyone else at the bar a whole lot safer."

"Got it," Gideon said and shook his head. "Always something fucked up going on in this town, isn't there?"

Swiss's mouth curved up. "Isn't that why you stay? This place is many things, but it's not boring."

"No shit. Plus, I have a pretty cush gig here, if I do say so myself," he said, wiggling his eyebrows as he exhale a stream of chemical-laden smoke. "Even if it does piss on the morale to have a hot boss who looks at me like I'm fourteen instead of twenty-eight."

Swiss smirked. "Dude, thank your lucky stars the awkward phase stuck to you this long. The day you go through puberty is the day your payroll with me stops."

"Fuck you," he laughed before taking another pull. "I won't touch your precious little sis. Don't you worry. Besides, even if I wanted to, I'm not her type. It seems Ash likes her men older, stronger, and black. Oh, and fucking hung! Have you seen Mal's dick?"

Swiss leveled a look at her friend. "No, Gideon. I've not seen the man's dick."

Gideon tapped at his cigarette, sending ashes to the ground. "That fucker is all about the penile enhancement lately. Keeps having those procedures that supposedly turn your dick into a baseball bat."

"Fascinating."

Gideon looked her over and chuckled, smoke coming out his nostrils. "I followed him into the bathroom the other day to, you know, check out the truth behind the marketing?"

Okay, maybe she was mildly curious. "Yeah?"

"The dude's a freakin' horse—and that's while he's just hanging out. I can't imagine he can get any bigger than he is when he's hard, but damn..." He took another drag. "I've got no clue how that shit packs itself into a woman. A mare? Sure. But damn, I'd take my seven-inch cock any day over a freaking third forearm where it shouldn't be. It's fucking nuts. No lies, I totally want to see him bone just to see if he really can get enough blood in there to get hard and cum without passing out."

Well, damn. Now he had Swiss wondering the same thing. She quickly let it go. "A week's salary says he does exhibition stuff on the side down at the red light," she said instead.

"Maybe. But I'd probably have to go to fag street to see, and we both know what happens if I plant two feet there."

Swiss tried hard to keep a straight face. "Well, I know that you could be making as much in one night as you make with me in a week if you switch your job title to...what is it called again? Sweet little cumdrop?"

Gideon shook his head fervently and held his burned-down cigarette between them. "Trust me when I say that the only fag that's ever going to spew shit into me is this one." He flipped the fag to the ground and stepped on it.

"Fair enough," Swiss said and tapped her wrist. "Your break's almost over. Remember, play nice with the mercs...unless you can't."

Gideon's hand moved up into the practiced salute of a marine. For a split moment he looked nothing like the young teen many assumed him to be and completely like the trained soldier he was.

"Copy that," he said before starting the city block back to work. "I've got you covered, Chief."

Fourth stop: Gunnar.

Swiss raised her nose into the air and tested it, wondering if she could track Gunnar in the chaos.

Well, there was no time like the present to find out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

DOM

Dom stared through the kennel's glass and searched for something familiar in the new Jack's eyes that looked back at him. The eye color wasn't even the same. The soft brown eyes of the old Jack he'd known had been replaced with an iris that looked like shattered glass with a cat's pupil in the center. The impact of the eye was otherworldly despite the fact that the frame of the animal was now distinctly doglike.

Cat eyes didn't fit. Neither did the cat paws.

With a simple glance, Dom knew that Phi must already be planning an upgrade. This current model looked like it had all of the functions Phi may have intended without truly accomplishing the aesthetic that was necessary to pass for normal in an urban setting. The profile and size may have been a match for a mid-size dog, but up close it became very clear that the creature was not exactly what she seemed. The cat eyes were the first cue. The silky coat was a second clue, and it all just went downhill from there.

"You don't look like you," Dom said through the glass. "But Phi claims it's still you."

New Jack tilted her head and studied him.

"Blink if you understand me."

Jack blinked.

It was the response he'd been looking for, but it also could have been a fluke. "Lick your paw if you remember me."

Jack dropped her head and gave her paw one emphatic lick. Dom's heart started kicking against his chest. It was her! "And lick your other paw for how many marks I have out in the field."

Jack brought her other paw forward and gave it seven distinct licks.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "I have no idea how Phi does his voodoo, but I'm glad you're not gone from this earth, Jack. He didn't even tell me he was doing it. I went out for the Travis McGee hit, and then boom, you're gone! I was ready to kill him."

Jack's pupils dilated and Dom could have sworn that the corners of her mouth curved up at the mention of killing Phi.

"For obvious reasons I can't do that, though," he added. "Things are moving so fast right now. It's all stuff we want to have happen, but it's going down double time. Arman's already taken the bait. I thought he might reach out in a day or two, but it seems the man is in need of money in a major way. He set up the meet for tomorrow." Dom ran his hand through his hair, still not believing it. "Fucking tomorrow. Holy shit."

Jack simply watched him, head slightly tilted as if waiting for more.

"Every business in the entire city has my picture and a promise of a $100,000 reward if they report a sighting. And as of the last time I checked there were 457 bounty hunters scouring the city for me. So, yeah, the heat is definitely on, but it'll all be worth it if Arman walks into my net tomorrow." Dom took a deep breath and studied his friend's new eyes. "That said, I want to take you out tonight. We can make sure your new body gets a whiff of my marks so you can police them when I'm gone. Because any which way this plays out, my ass won't be in Reno for long."

Jack stood, butting her head against the kennel door in anticipation.

"Phi?" Dom said to the room in general, knowing Phi could hear him. "Could you open the kennel? We're ready to move out."

The seal on the kennel released, but before Dom could even reach for the door Jack jumped out and stretched her forelegs on the floor next to him with the same eerie speed he had seen from Swiss earlier that day. It was time to see the upgrades new Jack had up her sleeve that might trickle their way down to Swiss's future upgrades.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OMEN

While the face of the city's night life seemed to be as it ever was, in the past few hours the underbelly of Reno had morphed into a clusterfuck. And if the adults were turning into pack animals on the hunt, then there was no telling where the heads of street-bound adolescents were at. Anticipating an insane live-action game of whack-a-mole, Omen headed for The Canteen.

Every millionaire had to have their own charity if they didn't want to be taxed into oblivion in Reno. And while most of the world had forgotten about Hale the Hitman, Omen's days in the octagon had made him comfortably rich long before he ever started his own security business. It didn't matter in Reno that Omen's money was a decade old, only that it existed. The only way not to be taxed on every digital dollar under his name each year was to provide proof of significant monetary investment to the community. It was an elaborate tax system that ultimately allowed the most selfish bastards on the planet to appear magnanimous on paper. Even bastards like Omen. On paper he looked like Kris-goddamn-Kringle.

Omen's charity was a shelter called The Canteen. The ground level of The Canteen's warehouse was a sanctuary where any homeless teen could crash and get a bite to eat, so long as they abided by the strict rules: No drugs, no fucking, no transactions, and no hiding from the cops.

The Canteen was a youth shelter for teens who needed a roof over their heads. Maybe their parents pimped them out if they went home, or maybe they were forced to run drugs. In some cases they were addicts trying to get clean, or maybe they were even protester kids that didn't have a place to stay after telling their families that they weren't wired "straight."

Every kid that came to The Canteen had a different story, but the one thing that was the same among all of them was that they were looking for less drama in their lives, not more. They needed a place to sleep where they wouldn't be beaten, robbed, raped, sold, or berated. They needed food to eat while they could save up money to get the transportation they needed to commute to a job that would eventually allow them to pay rent.

These essentials were provided to any teen who walked into The Canteen. No questions asked—until they broke a rule. Then they were ejected out the door.

Such were the dynamics of the ground floor of The Canteen. The basement was another story entirely, but Omen wasn't dealing with the lower-level drama today. Today was all about containing the Travis McGee fallout.

Omen debated simply striding into The Canteen and doing what needed to be done as quickly as possible, but a lifetime of habits won over. Nothing had ever been lost by doing five minutes of recon before walking into a situation. So drawing on the skills that had kept him alive as a child, Omen slipped into the shadows and rode a blind spot into the warehouse.

The interior of The Canteen had an open layout. Except for the admin office, there were no walls or partitions granting privacy.

You wanted to change clothes? There were screens to stand behind.

You wanted to use the bathroom? Those were outside in a separate building.

No lush amenities invited a person to stay longer than necessary. The Canteen provided a safe place to eat and sleep, and that was about it. Bunk beds filled more than half of the space, while the rest of the old warehouse served as a dining and mingling area—all of it visible at all times from cameras installed in the ceiling. The only blind spots were the catwalks that moved around the perimeter of the warehouse two stories above the ground level. Insurance had required Omen to remove all stairways and access points to the catwalk due to suicide concerns. So unless you could scale a brick wall up two stories, the catwalk was inaccessible.

Omen made quick work of the brick wall, climbing his way up for a bird's eye view of the space. Unnoticed, he watched the teens below as they claimed bunks, strategized the next day, and took advantage of the lack of visible management to ignore the rules spray painted on the wall. So far he'd spotted twelve assholes carrying drugs with the intent to distribute. They'd be out on their asses. Why they hadn't already been spotted and removed was actually an area of concern. On a normal day, there was no way that many carriers would make it through. Something was off, but Omen was going to hold back judgment until he heard from Justus...who had yet to make an appearance on the floor. In fact, Omen hadn't seen one admin since he'd walked in.

Not good.

"Phi," he muttered into his comm. "Can you tell me where Justus, Tam, and Drake of my Canteen staff are?"

Phi let him hear his annoyed sigh before responding. "Justus is on site, about 200 feet from where you stand. Drake and Tam are in the city and have maintained a position in front of the gates of the Red Light District for the past forty-three minutes."

They were on the hunt for the reward. Omen should have anticipated that. The whole staff had probably cut out except for Justus. How long had the guy been holding down the fort alone?

"You're going to want to hear this," Bach cut in before streaming in audio to Omen's comm.

"—is the last time I'm going to ask nicely," Justus was saying. "You all know the rules, and you all know you're breaking them. Now I don't like to ban people, but you're not really giving me a choice."

Laughter came as a reply—the overconfident and mean-spirited kind of laughter that came right before you got a shiv in the ribs. Omen knew it well. "Take a look around, narc. This ain't your turf anymore. Your crew abandoned it, which means it's just you against us. And you, my friend, have three seconds to get your ass out of here before we fertilize the garden with you."

Omen was over the rail, slamming into the main level before the boy finished his sentence. The percussion of his boots hitting the cement caught the attention of multiple residents, and they moved out of Omen's path as he strode toward the admin's office.

"If you are in violation of any of the rules of residence," Omen called out, his voice bouncing off every wall in the space to ominous effect. "You have until I return to get out. You have been warned!"

Five steps later, Omen was pushing through the admin door. When he saw Justus and four assailants standing inside, he didn't hesitate an instant. He dropped the nearest kid with a knockout punch before grabbing the next guy and swinging him head first into the door frame. Two down, two to go, and one of them pointed a knife Omen's direction. Livid at the audacity of the move, Omen cleared the knife with an inside grab, stripped it, and threw it tip-first into the wall in one motion.

The time for words was done. Omen had to speak to these guys in the only language they understood. Rapid-fire hooks to the liver and jaw dropped the third guy before Omen grabbed the fourth by the throat and body slammed him. He knew the kid. He'd been staying at The Canteen for the past seven weeks or so.

"You attack my men in my home? The home I have opened up to you?" he hissed at the kid. "I will never see your face again. If I do, you will be the one fertilizing the garden. Do you understand?"

"Wait!" the guy pled. "You misunderstand—"

Omen didn't trust himself to let the teen speak. He couldn't deal with lies. Not today. So he punched the kid in the gut, knocking the wind out of him so he was too busy fighting for air to talk. Only then did he look at Justus.

"How long have you been holding down the fort alone?"

Justus hesitated. "Three hours."

Omen stood. "From this moment on, we need no less than three admins here at a time. This McGee thing is going to kick up the dust and make people rabid. That means no hand holding and no warnings until all this shakes out."

"Yes, sir," Justus said as he glanced at the knife in the wall.

"Now help me haul these fuckers out of here," Omen said picking two of the unconscious ones up by their belts and hauling them to the entrance. Once Omen stepped into the public area, all eyes fell on him as he carried the teens like they were two cases of beer.

"Let me be clear," Omen called out to them. "This is not turf that can be commandeered, and I am not your social worker!" He tossed the two teens toward the threshold of the door and turned to face the 97 other teens present. That was down from the 103 that had been there two minutes earlier. Some rule breakers had cut out. Good. "You come at me? You come at my team? I won't send you to a judge or make a police report. I will throw you to the goddamn wolves."

Without missing a beat, Omen reached into the discarded boys' pockets, emptying them of pills, powder, and even a stash of herb. The dumb little shits. They hadn't even hidden it. And between the two of them they were carrying about $600 worth of product. Not huge, but enough to land them in hot water with their suppliers if it disappeared.

And it was about to disappear.

When Justus hauled a third guy over, Omen indicated that Justus should search him as well.

"Let me be as clear as I can be," Omen said, squaring off against the teens. "I only protect those who protect themselves. If you want to straddle two worlds and use me to do it, I will become the most dangerous person you know." He glanced over the sea of faces, some fearful, some defiant, most somewhere in between. "And if you doubt that I make a worse enemy than the ones you already know, ask yourself why no suppliers come here. Ask yourself the last time you saw a gang step foot on this ground. Ask yourself the last time you saw a cop. Ask yourself the last time anyone who was hunting for you dared to hunt you here."

Omen let that sink in for a moment while he stayed still and stared the teens down to let them know there was no friendly exception to his words. When Justus handed him three packets of pills, Omen used it as his cue to continue while Justus went back to search guy number four.

"You are safe here because I fight for you, and no one you know wants that fight. That's how street life works. You pick your pack, and you're loyal to that pack. End of story." Omen pointed up to the rules spray painted on the wall. "I don't ask much, but what I do ask is inflexible. You're all in or you're all out once you step onto this land. No drugs," he shouted, holding up the take from the first three guys' pockets. "No fucking. No transactions. And no hiding from the cops. And after today I'm adding one more: No assaulting the staff. That's not a shitload to ask, is it?"

Several heads shook in the crowd before him, pissing him off even more.

"Is it?" he shouted. "I can't hear you!"

"No!" the group called out, some of them adding a sir at the end.

Omen nodded his head. "No. It isn't. And yet I show up here today to see these four pulling a knife on Justus and the rest of you out here turning a blind eye. Does that sound very loyal to you?"

"No," several of them responded while others settled for dropping their eyes.

Omen gazed over them barely containing his temper. "I know you've all been to hell and back, but it's time to lose the victim label that landed your asses in here and start taking responsibility for your actions and non-actions. You're all going to be adults soon, and if you keep on bending over any which way the wind blows, then that's on you." He let his voice finish echoing off the walls before he continued. "You've got no one to blame but yourself for shit that goes down on your watch from here on out. Justus was here alone standing up for you, but when he needed someone to stand up for him you all had a wall to stare at? You're willing to take when you come here, but when a moment comes where your host needs you to give a fuck, you face the other way?"

A silent room answered Omen, so he filled it again. "You know what that makes you in this world? A parasite. A useless, fucking mooch. And there isn't a place on this planet that needs more mooches, I can tell you that right now."

Ah, that got a rise out of a few of them. If looks could kill Omen would be in trouble. But they couldn't, so the rebels in the crowd could diddle their dicks for all Omen cared. It was about all they were good for at the moment.

He dropped his volume a bit. "You may think that it doesn't matter who claims this warehouse so long as you have a place to stay in it. You can adjust, right? You can appease whoever steps up enough so they make room for you, right? You can drop your pants. You can get them blow. You can do whatever else a tyrant wants so long as you get the scraps, right?"

Omen paced in front of them, too incensed to hold still. Behind him one of Justus's attackers started waking up, and Omen kicked him in the face hard enough to turn the lights back out. Somewhere in the group he heard a girl start to cry.

"This is not a shelter for victims!" Omen roared. "Under this roof there are no excuses, no pointed fingers, no plausible deniability. So think very hard before you blame someone else for something that happens around you from this day on. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!" everyone called out as one. Well...almost everyone. A few were still laying low, and it was time to deal with that.

Without warning Omen moved forward and headed for a teen he'd seen with a stash under his mattress. When he was a few steps away, the guy picked up on what Omen was about to do and held up his hands between them.

"No-no-no-no," he said quickly. "It's not what you think."

Omen pushed the kid aside, lifted the mattress, and found a packet of powder the size of a soap bar. He took it and held it up between them. "Not what I think?"

Just then two other teens made a dash for the front door. Omen made no attempt to stop them.

"You don't understand," the kid stammered, reaching out for his stash. "I have to—"

"You have to what?" Omen roared. "Make money off of other homeless kids? Feed their addictions so you can get something want?"

"It's not like that—"

"Get out," Omen hissed, and three other guys across the room did exactly that, escaping with their stashes. Omen pondered a moment about the amount of street cash in his hands. It was probably somewhere between two and three grand. If he threw the kid's powder in the incinerator, there was an excellent chance the kid would die over the loss. That was how the street worked.

"Please," the kid cried, honest tears marking his face.

"I'll make a deal with you," Omen said loudly into the room. "A final act of mercy, if you will. There are at least three other people holding here—male and female—and I'm headed for you next. But if you all leave now, I'll let you all keep your stashes just like the other kids who just raced out of here. But if even one of you stays, you lose and this kid here loses. Everything. I'll burn your stashes and send you back to your suppliers empty handed." He looked around the room. "You have five seconds to get your asses out of here and not come back."

Five teens ran for it, three of whom Omen had spotted up on the catwalk, and two others that had slipped past his radar. It made Omen feel like he was slipping a bit. But either way, they all burst out the front door in five seconds flat. Omen watched them go with disgust before slamming the brick of powder into the first kid's chest. "Five seconds."

The kid was gone without a word. Omen walked to the door after him, throwing the four guys he and Justus had brought over outside and shutting them out. Justus had the last cache of drugs from the final kid, and Omen marveled at their stupidity. They were all carrying? What the hell were they thinking?

Omen moved to the incinerator, identifying each packet to see what was moving on the street before tossing it into the flames. He heard a few quashed whimpers as some of the witnesses quietly mourned the loss of a drug of preference.

Only one of the packets gave him pause—a packet of pink, Skittle-sized pills. He held it out toward Justus. "Do you know what this is?"

Justus shook his head. "Never seen it before, sir."

Omen held it up for everyone to see. "Does anyone know what this is?"

By all appearances everyone who hadn't ran for the door was too petrified to speak.

"It's not narking to tell us," Justus said in that best friend voice he always had. "If none of you know, that's fine. We'll make a call and find out. It'll take two minutes. But if you do know, you could save us a call."

Smooth, Omen thought to himself. There wasn't a day in Omen's life when he'd been half as smooth as Justus, which was why Justus ran the place and Omen stayed away as much as possible.

Up near the front, an older teen with dark hair and eyes raised his hand. "It's called Choo-Choo, and it's...well, it makes a person like a cat in heat."

Omen arched a brow at that. "A person? Not a man or a woman specifically?"

The teen shook his head. "Anyone with a hole, sir. One of those pills will make a person desperate to bottom."

"And it's called Choo-Choo because they'll willingly take the whole train?" Omen ventured.

The kid pressed his lips together and nodded.

"How long has it been on the street?"

The teen shrugged. "I saw it for the first time this week."

Omen looked over the crowd. "Anyone here heard about it before this week?"

All the heads shook back and forth. Well that was something, at least. Omen wasn't a month behind the times. A week was still unacceptable, but it had been a busy week.

Omen pointed to the guy who had answered his questions. "Thank you."

"Yes, sir."

He gestured over the rest of the crowd. "We're done here. Go back to whatever you were doing." Omen turned to Justus and pointed to the office. They both walked over and shut the door.

"Should I call a cab for those kids we threw out?" Justus asked.

Omen nodded. "Tell the driver to take all the kids to the hospital—and to tell the hospital he found them that way. It's the truth. Then call Tam and Drake and tell them to get their asses back here. They're scheduled to be on shift, so either they're here or they quit. Their call."

Justus nodded and put in his first call while Omen pinged Phi. "I'm going to want you to take a look at a drug," he said. "It's new one called Choo-Choo."

"No need. It's on file," Phi said. "Accessing it now. I'll send the details to your comm."

"Thank you."

"Indeed," Phi said, then was gone.

Omen then waited for Justus to get off the call before giving his young manager a pat on the arm and saying, "Walk me through everything I need to know before Tam and Drake get here. I think we both know that you don't want me dealing with them when they walk through the door."

Justus gave a quick nod and launched into a verbal report. Omen listened until the perimeter alarm pinged for the third time. The first time was the taxi coming, the second time was the taxi going, but the third time it was Drake's solar-cycle that tripped it.

"Write the rest of the essentials down," Omen said, reaching for the door. "Let me know what I need to know to make this place as tight as a drum."

Justus nodded. "Will do, boss. I had the situation under control, but after the show you just put on I don't foresee any problems in the near future."

"Good," Omen said as he pulled the door open. Stepping out of the office area, Omen smelled the distinct smell of wet paint as everyone in the room grew still and eyed him warily. His eyes were drawn to the rule wall, where ornate graffiti text had been newly added. The first four lines read as they always had:

No drugs

No fucking

No transactions

No hiding from the cops

In the twenty minutes he'd been in the main office two more rules had been added.

No assaults

Omen had said no assaulting the staff, but whoever had put the text up had taken some initiative in modifying the mandate to no assaults period. They'd also taken it upon themselves to add one more rule.

No excuses

Omen let that settle in before glancing around the room. "Do you all agree on that last one?"

Heads bobbed up and down.

"Let me hear it!" he yelled and was met with a chorus.

"YES!"

He eyed them all again, noting that every eye met his. No one was looking away. "Any of you disagree?"

Silence.

Omen nodded. "Then so it is." Then he walked out the back door without looking back just as he heard Tam and Drake move through the front door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DOM

Never had a life-or-death environment been so entertaining to Dom. Tension abounded in the city to the point where even the tourists were noticing something was off. The plainclothes militants weaving their way through the crowds were not going through much effort to camouflage themselves. They seemed more interested in covering ground than appearing nonchalant. The lone wolves stuck out more than those who had opted to work as a group, since the look in their eyes as they scoured the cityscape was all work and no play. They were hunters on the trail. And they were all looking for Dom.

"Seventy-three," Dom said as yet another bounty hunter passed under him as he and Jack scoped out the gastronomy district. The two of them had been moving around the city, passing over, under, and even across from the ever-increasing members of his hunting party. No one had spotted them yet. The fact that he was walking a "dog" had saved Dom on more than one occasion. The few bounty hunters who had passed him on the sidewalk had glanced at Jack first and all but skipped examining Dom too closely.

God bless preconceived notions of what killers did and did not do in the nighttime. Apparently walking the dog didn't make the list. Between Jack and the modifications Dom had made to his face to throw off facial recognition software, Dom was blending right in.

"Is it just me, or does it seem like there are way more than 400 people looking for me?"

Jack wagged her tail in standard code. Wag for yes, blank stare for no.

"Have you been counting?"

Blank stare.

"Yeah, we're both better off if you stay in the moment and keep me from getting stupid. Counting is a distraction." But that wasn't going to stop Dom from keeping his tally going. Dom gave Jack a scratch between her shoulders and looked over the diners. "I do want to make McGee fork out some more money before we duck out for the night, though. It wouldn't hurt my feelings at all if he ended this day down a million. The fucker can afford it."

Jack stood up and stretched, all but cracking her knuckles in preparation for the task. She was in.

"Okay, but I'm going to need your psycho senses if I'm going to pull this off," Dom coached her. "We've pulled off two sightings so far, so I'm thinking eight more. One can be when I pick up dinner—which I should probably order now, come to think of it."

Jack wagged her tail and gave her jowls an emphatic lick.

"Yeah, we'll get you something to hold you over until we head back to Hell. Don't worry."

She sent him a satisfied blink of acknowledgment before a scent caught her nose. Perking up, Jack peered over the edge of the building an instant before her hackles came to attention.

"What is it?" he asked, following her gaze. She was focused on two men walking down the street, one of whom was vaguely familiar to Dom. "Oh, wait. That's your friend, right?"

Jack's tail wagged.

"Should we hook him up with a hundred grand?"

Her tail stopped.

Huh. Not the answer he'd been expecting. "I don't understand. If that's your friend, why are your hackles up?"

Jack sent him a bland look that all but said, I don't do open-ended questions, genius.

Fair enough. "Is it the other dude with him? Is he who you have a problem with?"

Jack's tail wagged as she raised her nose and sniffed the air for Dom's benefit.

Then Swiss's warning from the meeting came back to him. "Ah, that's the McGee tail that's been assigned to him, right?

Wag.

"Okay," Dom said. "We'll stay out of their way."

Jack grew still, eyes staring at him intently. She was saying no. He was missing something.

"I thought you wanted to steer clear of them."

Jack stayed still.

Dom shook his head. "Phi totally needs to make you able to talk. This reading between the lines bullshit is exhausting. We need to make more signs for you to use while communicating."

Her tail wagged and she emphatically punched both her front paws into the ground at the same time.

"Is that a new sign?" he guessed.

Jack's tail wagged and she repeated the motion.

"Great. What does it mean?"

She did it a third time, punching her paws down into his feet. He didn't know if that meant she wanted him to move his feet or keep them where they were.

"You want me to get up?" he asked.

She stared at him.

"You want me to stay here?"

Her tail went crazy, and she pranced in place. Okay, message received.

"Okay. You want me to stay here while you go...?"

Jack peered over the side of the building again, a dark look in her eye.

"...while you go fuck with them?"

The corners of Jack's jowls actually curved up as she wagged her tail primly.

"Well, hell," he laughed. "Who am I to deny you a simple joy of harassing a McGee? You have ten minutes, and then we need to get a move on."

Jack rubbed against him affectionately, the gesture distinctly cat-like for a dog-looking creature. Then without hesitation Jack pranced off into the shadows and down to the street level as Dom pulled up restaurants and their menus on his comm band.

What exactly did a wanted man order for take-out on one of his final nights in Reno? Or better yet, which restaurant was the most deserving of a cash infusion of a hundred grand? Dom was about to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ASH

Day or night, The Aqueduct Bar & Edibles was never at a loss for customers. Yet as the premier MiteBite-secured custom bar in the city, The Aqueduct was accustomed to housing a much different crowd than it had attracted on this particular Thursday night. The engineers, PhDs, and self-taught prodigies that typically circled the encrypted touch-screen computer tables were out of luck. With a $5 million reward on the line, more than a hundred special ops had poured into Ash's elite space to access her closed network.

And none of the regulars were too eager to ask them to move.

The new crop of customers came with their pros and cons.

Pros? Dozens upon dozens of men who knew how to stretch a T-shirt in all the right places. Yum.

Cons? They were all off-the-shelf drinkers, and that wasn't really Ash's niche. Sure, she kept third-party alcohol on hand for closed-minded tourists, but 95% of customers who walked through Ash's doors were there for The Aqueduct's custom offering—pick your desired state of mind and palette, then exhale into a breathalyzer and let the bar create your menu.

Ash's regulars embraced the science and effectiveness of the approach. The entire purpose of The Aqueduct was to become the premier hotbed for Eureka! moments. In Ash's few years of doing business, The Aqueduct already had a bigger portfolio than most universities: 137 patents, 26 multimillion dollar products, 45 advances in disease treatment, 53 new green technology advances, six movies, one TV series, and 77 new businesses.

So while academics, artists, and entrepreneurs totally understood the point of the bar, the same could not be said for a bunch of control-freak ex-special ops. They were more into the comfort of a familiar drink paired with 100% network privacy as they worked to earn a bounty. But that formula meant that Ash was burning through her off-the-shelf stash fast.

Next to her, Lex placed four bottles on the tray displaying the order's digital call number. Then Ash watched as Lex took a quick break from popping caps to rub her forearms.

"Getting sore?" Ash asked. "Need to switch?"

Lex grabbed two more bottles for the next tray. "It's been a while since I popped tops like this. Any word on the kegs?"

Ash shook her head as she grabbed a glass for a customer who actually knew how to order at her establishment. "Our distributor shut down for the night to let everyone go hunt for this assassin guy. There's nobody there to deliver our order before tomorrow."

Lex let out a grunt of annoyance. "You should sue them for breach of contract."

"It's a thought," Ash said as one of her six cube machines began forming the multicolored cubes that were a signature of her establishment. The Aqueduct's ice cubes came in every shade of every color of the psychedelic rainbow; however, this customer's cocktail had only purple and green cubes. That was a recipe for serious tunnel vision. Someone was looking to go down a rabbit hole.

Once the last cube dropped into the glass, Ash covered the cocktail in the base solution used to mix all her drinks and set the order on its assigned tray. Lila's name popped up on the server board, and a split second later Lila swooped in for the tray and was off. Her name darkened again on the server board as Lex put three beers on a tray, making Tayland's name glow. Ash brought her next custom order up on the queue as Tayland reached for his tray.

"My God," he moaned. "Have you ever seen so many tops in one room? It's like Christmas in June!"

Lex rolled her eyes. "Please. Why bottom when you can ride one of these fine studs?"

"Honey, do any of these men look like they don't want to be in control?" Tayland asked then was off before Lex could respond. Lex won her point, however, when a heavily muscled customer sent Lex an assessing once over and visibly came to the conclusion that, yes, he would let her ride.

Ah, military guys, Ash thought with a grin. Red-blooded, straightforward, and ready for action. Ash loved her intellectual crowd, but there was just something heady about so many soldiers in one room. There was so much...potential.

Just then Gideon came up to her side, his short stature nearly making him eye-to-eye with her short 5'4".

"Hey," he said. "I made a quick run to the store and bought out their Bud, Coors, Miller, and Heff cases. It's not much as I hoped, but it should last us a few hours..." He looked around the hoard of fit men all but shoulder-to-shoulder in the bar. "Or one hour."

Ash gave his arm a quick pat. "Thanks, Gideon. You want to help Lex pop caps? Her forearm is giving out."

Gideon's face visibly brightened as his eyes took an involuntary glance at Lex's revealed cleavage. "Done."

Well, Ash had just made Gideon's night. No question there. One issue was resolved for the moment, which left her with only a hundred other decisions to make. As Ash brought the next custom order to the front of the queue, she glanced around the bar with her manager's eye.

The bar was typically open until two, but it was clear this crowd wasn't going anywhere unless she made them. Everyone was in a race for a huge payday, and most of these men had trained to work through sleep deprivation.

To stay open, or not to stay open? That was the question.

Just then Gunnar's familiar face appeared at the front door and with him a not-so familiar face. Apparently a nice bounty makes for strange bedfellows, Ash thought while assessing her brother's new wingman.

Her brother was 6'2" and 190 pounds, which put this other guy at 5'11" and maybe 185. Off-the-rack clothes, steel-toed boots, and a silver comm band she needed a closer look at. The new guy was stocky and strong, but he didn't have the look of a brawler. He had the calculating look of a man who would reach for a gun when and if the moment called for it. And while carrying a concealed firearm was illegal in Reno, Ash would bet the night's profits that a pat down of Gunnar's new "friend" would uncover a gun stashed somewhere.

What was her brother playing at?

She waved Gunnar over to the bar. It was standing room only but knowing Gunnar, he wouldn't be staying. He probably wanted private network access just like everyone else.

"Hey," Ash called over the din as Gunnar stepped in across from her. She gestured around to the packed room. "You in on all this?"

Gunnar nodded. "Quite the hoard, aren't we?"

"Yeah." She sent a friendly smile to his wingman and offered her hand. "And it looks like you're making new friends."

Gunnar sent her a look that she supposed was a silent message to back off. Cute. But what kind of sister would she be if she didn't introduce herself? Gripping the new guy's hand, she gave him a smile somewhere between friendly and flirty and said, "I'm Ash."

"Deacon," the man said gripping her hand and releasing it without a shake.

Ash maintained eye contact. "Good to meet you, Deacon. Welcome to my bar."

Deacon looked around, absorbing the white blank-slate motif and the abundance of table-sized touch screens. No strippers, no strobing lights, no ear-pounding music, no fights. Ash did, however, have sensory deprivation tanks.

"It's different," he managed, and Ash smiled.

"That it is." She turned her attention back to her brother. "So what do you need?"

"Two drinks and quick access to your network," Gunnar said. "I'll have a Bull's Eye."

Ash reached under the bar and grabbed him a breathalyzer tube so he could make his order on the bar's interface. Then she looked at Deacon. "You?"

"Crown and Coke," he said.

Ash stole a look at Lex. "Hey, woman. Do we have any Crown left?"

"If it's not beer in a bottle, we're out," Lex replied, popping two caps at a time. "Unless he wants our regular menu."

Ash arched a questioning brow at Deacon, who glanced at Gunnar as he hooked his tube into the interface port. "I've never ordered like this before. What do I do?"

Ash grabbed Deacon his own adaptor and handed it to him across the bar. "Well, first you choose what kind of a state you're looking for. A buzz? A high? High focus and clarity? Whatever. We'll start you out low, and you can always take a Sober Shot if you don't like where your head goes."

"Interesting. I'm definitely not looking to get high or complacent," Deacon said. "Better focus would be good...anything that can help me think faster would be better."

Ash smiled and pulled up the ordering interface on the screen in front of Deacon. "Order the Theta Maker, then plug the end of the tube into the port and blow. I'll take it from there."

"No shit?"

"No shit. Just science," Ash agreed while using the man's first moments with his guard down to reassess him. White skin, hazel eyes, brown hair, and average sized. Deacon was neither beautiful nor ugly. He was conspicuously average, yet his eyes surveyed everything like they were looking for trouble...like a bouncer would. Yet Deacon was much too small to be taken seriously as a bouncer, which meant he had a knack for weapons.

And that silver band of his? Ash recognized it. It was a custom microcomputer designed for solo-server functionality. Ash had some regulars who were trying to patent the next generation of the technology Deacon had on his arm. She didn't remember much of what she'd heard about the band except that one of its limitations—outside of its outrageous price tag—was how close it needed to stay to its server to function. The thing had a radius of something like fifty miles before it became an expensive paper weight. Ash would have to ask Rork more about his the next time he came in.

One thing was for sure, though. No man alive—especially a man who worked as security—had a watch like that unless he was connected to someone or something in the eight-to-ten-figure net worth range. Whoever Deacon's boss was, he was a control freak or obsessed with security. No one else had invested in those bands yet.

So who do you work for, Deacon? Ash mused as she pulled up a four-drink order and two queues for bike taxis on table 23. She glanced at the table and spotted four of her regulars. They had claimed the table and activated the noise cancellation feature that none of the bounty hunters had quite figured out yet. Unless there was an event, The Aqueduct was typically as quiet as a library—even at full capacity—but tonight it definitely sounded like a bar. She sent table 23 a little salute and earned a smile from one of them in return. Good. They weren't too upset by the anomaly the night was turning out to be.

Ash prepped their drinks only to be distracted when Deacon's order lit up with a medical alert. Interesting. That happened, like, never.

She brought the alert up on her screen, completely baffled at what she saw. A giant hogweed reaction? What the hell was giant hogweed? Ash glanced down the list of symptoms and tried to get a handle on the situation.

"Hey, Deacon," she said casually. "I know we just met, but are you experiencing any unusual itching?"

Deacon's sudden poker face combined with his delayed response was as much of a response as Ash needed.

She pointed to the display in front of him. "It says here that I can't serve you because you are currently experiencing a medical emergency. Does that make sense to you?"

The muscles in Deacon's jaw flexed. "I'm fine."

Ash nodded. "That may be the case, but by law you have to be seen by EMTs. The computer has already called them and connected its diagnosis to your comm signal."

Deacon went from poker face to threatening in a heartbeat. "That was a very stupid move."'

Ash opened her mouth to respond when Gunnar stepped in. "I don't think you heard her right, man. Her computer did it because it's the law, so don't you dare look at my sister like that. Do you understand me?"

Ash watched Deacon mentally filter through different reactions before he looked at Gunnar and said, "Sorry. I think the pain level has me agitated, but I'm still good to keep going. I can sit on my ass and feel pain, or I can stay in the game and feel pain. I prefer to stay in the game."

Ash was calling bullshit on that one. It had taken Deacon too long to find the response, but she played along. "Well, how about we get you some treatment first? Then you can heal and stay in the game at the same time."

Deacon shook his head. "A hospital will take too long."

"Or," she offered, "maybe they'll give you some ointment to slather on and you're good to go."

Thankfully, Lex chose that moment to peek over Ash's shoulder and read out some of the symptoms. "Painful blisters and rashes that can leave scars?"

That got a flinch from Deacon and his hands dropped protectively to his thighs.

"Oh, honey," Lex said with a little bit of eye-fuck thrown in for good measure. "Down there? Is it spreading?"

And just like that, Lex had Deacon imagining the look in every future lover's eyes at seeing him scarred from the waist down. Deacon's loyalty to his boss visibly took a dive at the same moment Ash's display updated to show that EMTs were en route with a three-minute ETA.

"We'll take care of you," Ash said, grabbing the nearest bottle of beer and popping the top off for Deacon. "They'll be here before you can finish this. It's on the house."

Ash glanced at her brother who, for some inexplicable reason, looked incensed. At her. She arched a brow at Gunnar as if to say, What do you want me to do? as she pulled his drink out of the machine, doused it, and set it in front of her brother.

"Not on the house," she said pointedly.

Gunnar ignored her, accessing his comm, and pulling up the image of a plant. "It says here that giant hogweed is only found in Illinois."

Ash shrugged and prepped the glasses for the next order. "Don't look at me. I didn't come up with it. His breath analysis did."

Gunnar shook his head. "There's no way this is right. I think your computer's been hacked."

"Not a chance," Ash said without hesitation.

"Hey, Gun!" Lex chirped from next to Ash. "Stop playing with my heart, will you? You know bullheaded asshats totally turn me on."

Ash quashed a smile. And that was exactly why Lex was the head bartender. It wasn't what Lex said, it was how she said it. No one massaged words and diffused escalating situations quite like her.

Gunnar didn't smile. "I'm just saying the plant doesn't even exist here and we've been in the city all night."

"That's fine," Ash agreed. "And we'll see what the EMTs say when they get here, okay? If the diagnosis is wrong, we'll add the correct one to the database for future reference. Either way no harm, no foul."

Gunnar let out a grunt of annoyance, and Ash mirrored his frown back at him.

"Does someone need a time out?" she asked her brother while taking note that Deacon was suddenly sweating. Now that he wasn't playing some mind-over-matter game his symptoms were apparently rising to the surface. Poor guy. Unless, of course, Deacon was planning on hurting her brother. Then he could be covered in boils for all Ash cared. But his evident distress did bring up one point of concern—the point of concern she was willing to bet the night's profits on.

Ash cleared her throat, leaned across the bar toward Deacon and spoke softly. "You know, a lot of the guys in this bar here tonight are carrying. I choose not to see things like that, but an EMT will. So if you're one of the many here with something illegal on your person, it might be a good time for a disappearing act. Hide it, hand it off, whatever. But I would suggest not keeping it on you."

Again, the look in Deacon's eye told Ash all she needed to know, making Ash confident that Gunnar didn't know Deacon from the service. Deacon was way too transparent. There was a much better chance she was looking into the eyes of a dressed down enforcer who got his training in a mafia environment.

What was Gunnar thinking?

Ash pointed toward the back of the bar. "We have lock boxes for personal possessions by the sensory deprivation tanks...you know, in case that's of interest to you." Then she put her focus back on her orders as Deacon pushed away from the bar and roughly pushed his way to the back of the bar. She and Gunnar both watched him go before their eyes met.

"What the hell, Gun? Since when do you make friends and share bounty?"

He downed half his drink. "Since it's none of your business."

She squared off against him. "A McGee enforcer is shadowing you, and that's none of my business?"

Panic made a brief appearance in Gunnar's eyes before he buckled down. "Want to say that any louder, sis?"

Ah, so it was true. It had been a total guess on her part, although the silver comm, plus the white skin, plus the events of the day hadn't made it the most unreasonable of deductions. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is that the team you're on now? Did I miss your initiation ceremony?"

Gunnar shook his head. "Not here."

"Definitely later," she countered.

"Not later, either," he said, finishing his drink. "But thanks for fucking up my night."

Ash breathed an internal sigh of relief. Her brother wasn't currently on Team McGee. If he were, then he would just trade out Deacon for someone else in the clan. The fact that Deacon was Gunnar's only point of contact meant her brother was an outsider to the clan.

Was he looking to get in?

Ash didn't ask. She just kept making drinks until two female EMTs walked in the front door carrying gear. She waved them over and pointed them to the back. "He went to the bathroom. He should be back in a second, unless you want to head back there yourselves."

They glanced around the bar. "This place is pretty packed. Want to lead the way and point him out?"

Ash looked to Lex and got a nod that she was good flying solo for the next bit. "Not a problem. Follow me." Yet as Ash stepped away from the bar, a motion from her brother caught her eye. A message had pinged on his comm. He'd glanced at it, then immediately looked at her.

Gunnar didn't have many tells, but he always reacted the same whenever Ali messaged him in Ash's presence. He always glanced at Ash to make sure she couldn't see his display before he read it. Always.

"Tell Deacon to look me up when he's done," Gunnar said to her, suddenly in a rush to leave. "He has my number."

For a quick, scathing moment Ash hated her brother. This stupid game he and Ali had of avoiding her was as immature as it was infuriating.

"Oh, sure," she snapped. "And send my regards, will you?"

He had the gall to look confused. "Your regards? To who?"

Ash shrugged and started away. "Oh, you know. Whoever." Then she led the EMTs back to Deacon while her brother walked out the front.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ZERO

The buildings for the next day's op were viewable from the foothills with a simple pair of binoculars. It had taken just over an hour to find the perfect nest location on a rise outside of the city and settle in to scope out the next day's stage.

Based on the blueprints, Zero had imagined some sort of glass-covered walkway, which would have been a nightmare once the bullets started flying. But as it turned out the area was uncovered and looked more like a sitting area than a practical path between two buildings.

Arman Aldo had chosen his location well. Taking the bodyguards down would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The main issue would be the tranq gun and its reloading time. Taking the extra steps required for tranq ammunition would give the enemy ample time to fire back. Zero would have to choose his nest well, but he could do that tomorrow after he was on site and all the cameras were disabled.

Until then Zero would hold his current position, finish his bottle of Maker's Mark, and give himself a shot at getting a good night's rest. The motion traps were set around him, and his position gave him the advantage against all incoming hostiles.

Using his binoculars, Zero scoped out the city glowing in shades of neon below. The pristine portion of the city radiated every color of the rainbow into the sky. In the daytime the city looked increasingly like a mini Dubai, but once the sun went down the whole place turned into a interactive world of crystalline color. Stairways became multicolored fountains you could climb without getting wet. Sidewalks initiated games with pedestrians or simply guided them to where they wanted to go by lighting up the panels that led to their requested destination.

Then there was non-pristine portion of Reno—old Reno, which stood apart from the sleek new sections of the city like a tacky slot machine. The line between old and new was stark—even from miles away—but it still made a perfect postcard for tourism. There would be but a short window to experience both the old and the new. All it would take was a few more years to erase the physical history that had shaped old Reno—the shot-out light bulbs, the uneven paint jobs, the plastered over bullet holes...all the evidence Reno's roots would cease to exist.

In its place, new rulers writing a new history on a new landscape. Word was that once complete, the city name would be changed as well. Like Istanbul was once Constantinople, one city would rise out of another like a phoenix and be renamed in its resurrection. The city that would rise from Reno would be Atlantis—or New Atlantis. There seemed to still be some ongoing argument about that. Because that was the kind of shit rich people obsessed over.

Atlantis? Or New Atlantis? Gosh. Which one better communicated the fact that they were superior to everyone else on the earth? It was a decision that would echo through the ages and be written into every future history book, so it was clearly not a decision to be taken lightly.

It was all Zero could do not to reverse-chug his bourbon onto every self-important piece of shit that ran the city, but that didn't mean he didn't take them seriously. Zero had learned long ago to never underestimate the potential of rich, delusional fucktards with a common goal. Left unchecked, they'd tread on anything to get where they wanted to go. Ultimately, the power of rich fucktards in large groups was why Zero had opted in to being a voluntary check point in the ruling body's forward momentum.

Zero had spent his entire military career enforcing the will of the strong. He'd been trained to make executive decisions on what constituted a viable and imminent threat. He'd been trained to see through a utilitarian lens: if X dies, how many Ys will live as a result?

It didn't matter if the person on the other side of his scope was a billionaire or a pauper. It didn't matter if the target left behind a dozen orphaned children or none at all. Hell, it didn't even matter if the person on the other side of his gun was a child. The math didn't change.

If X dies, how many Ys will be saved?

If even one Y would be saved, Zero squeezed the trigger. Y casualties always equaled zero in his book. That was the math. And as long as that remained the case, Zero didn't give two shits what X equaled. Any number under the sun was just fine with him so long as the integrity of Y casualties = 0 was preserved.

Zero thought of tomorrow's mark and almost wished Dom would let him take the shot. It would be an honor to rid the earth of Target 8, but Dom had a message to send. And it was a L-O-U-D one—one that would be heard in every level of organized crime. Dom had already killed seven out of nine of his enemies, and the fact that he was going to pull off number eight tomorrow?

Every person who had even a finger in the sex trade was going to seriously consider bowing out. Because when Dom did something, he did not do it half way. And even if Zero couldn't stomach being in the same room with Dom when he took his adversaries to task and even passed on viewing pictures of the aftermath, it was still an honor to help his friend add to the X tally while seeing the Ys live on.

If everything went as planned on the op tomorrow, the new tally would be X+1. Zero would do his part. It was all any of them could do, and so far their team efforts had been quite effective.

"Phi? Zero?" Bach's voice cut in on the comm. "You know that call from McGee that was a possibility? It's about to become a reality. We're going to need that false trace we talked about, Phi."

"Enabling," Phi said, sounding distracted.

Zero placed his binoculars to the side and dug the disposable phone he used for jobs out of his tactical pants. "Where is it going to say I am? It's gotta be somewhere that's farther than a five-hour flight."

"I'm putting you in Virginia," Phi said. "There is no direct flight, putting travel time at seven hours commercially. A businessman was shot there two hours ago, which could be attributed to you if McGee looks into it."

"Good," Zero said, putting the phone in his line of sight while remaining in his prone firing position.

"Gotta make this debrief fast," Bach said. "The McGees have hired a consultant who's had eyes on your military records, Zero. This consultant knows you have the skills to have made the shot today, and he likes you for being the shooter. Patrick hasn't bought into the consultant's theory yet. He thinks you're a dead end, but the consultant keeps harping on you so Patrick has agreed to make the call with the express purpose of establishing your location and pulling you in for a more personal interrogation. He needs—"

Zero's phone rang. Blocked number.

"That's them," Bach said. "They need ninety seconds for the trace. As soon as Phi gives you a thumbs up to answer, take the call and give Patrick those ninety seconds."

"You're good to go," Phi said. "Over and out."

"Me too," Bach said. "Over and out."

And just like that Zero was left alone with the ringing phone. He hated phones. Given a choice he'd never answer one, but the world didn't really revolve around what he wanted.

Zero picked up. "Speak."

"Dan? This is Patrick. Are you in a place where you can talk?"

Zero kept his voice flat. "Talk?"

"Yes. I have a—"

"This line is not clean. You've said both our names. What the fuck are you thinking, Patrick?"

"Fair points," the man said, and Zero could all but see Patrick glaring at his consultant. "But this is not that type of call."

"Oh? Are we girlfriends now?"

"No. I just—"

"You want to know if the purple tie or the pink tie goes better with your eyes?"

"Dan, I need you to—"

"No, Patrick, I need you to tell me why I should ever take a fucking call from you again. This call is way out of line."

There was a brief silence. "Someone shot my son, Dan."

Zero paused for what he hoped was an appropriate amount of silence. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"We both know you don't mean that, but I'll take the sentiment anyway. I need to know anything you know about who did it and how."

Zero waited a beat. "So now you're saying that you think I knew this was going down and I didn't give you a heads up."

"No. That's not what I'm saying—"

"That's exactly what you're saying," Zero shot back.

"What I'm saying is that maybe you've heard something in the aftermath. Maybe someone has talked."

"Snipers don't talk, Patrick. In fact, we're kind of famous for that exact attribute. If a sniper did this, he or she packed up, left, and didn't tell a fucking soul they were in town. You're going to have to pray for a money trail or a plane ticket, because those are the only things that'll come even close to tracking your shooter down at this point."

"And, of course, we're looking at all that," Patrick said. "But I have a source with a hard on pointing to you as the shooter, Dan."

Zero put a grimace on his face, hoping it would translate into a sneer in his tone. "What? Did your source fuck himself with my rolled up military file and decide I was just the right girth for an asshole like him?"

"I didn't ask," Patrick said flatly. "But he wants me to bring you in so he can meet you."

"Well, we both know that isn't going to happen, so I hope that's not why you called."

"Not even out of good faith?" Patrick pressed.

"There is no good faith here. The very fact that you called with the intent to ask me what you're asking me is evidence of bad faith. It means you're ready and willing to fuck me over. And you know what else that means? It means I can never trust you again. That's what all this means, Patrick."

"It doesn't have to."

"Yes. It does. And you knew that when you made this call. You knew it, you risked it, and the hand is going to play out exactly how you knew it would. And while I'm sorry you're grieving your son, you fucking know better than to come at someone like me with nothing to stand on. So if you want to burn every bridge you've got, by all means start calling everyone who gives your consultant a hard on. Also, please inform your consultant that I'm going to know his name within ten minutes of hanging up with you and he'll know when I'm back in town when he comes out to a car with four flat tires. And if he ever says my name out loud again—to anyone—the next time I shoot those tires out it'll be when there's a cliff he can drive off of at full speed."

"In town?" Patrick echoed, latching on to the one part of the threat Zero had hoped he would. "Where are you?"

"None of your fucking business."

"I need you to tell me, Dan."

"No. You don't. You know the rules as well as anyone, Patrick."

"If you want to be cleared in my son's shooting, I need to know where you are."

"No, what you need is for your consultant to drop to his knees and suck you off so you at least get some bang for your buck."

"They've locked on the Virginia location," Bach said on the comm. "And they're buying it. End the call whenever."

"Dan—" Patrick began before Zero cut him off.

"Is your consultant law enforcement, Patrick? Did he tell you to use names on this call so he could fucking blackmail both of us later? You're being played, asshole. Sorrow has made you stupid. Your kid was a murderous and mean-spirited little shit. I'm sure you loved him and will miss him, but you were right when you said that I won't. The world will miss your son like an anthill misses a kid with a magnifying glass. So go get your vengeance. But when that's over and done, don't ever come looking for my number again. We're done. You've given my number to law enforcement. You've disclosed our relationship. You've let them record this fucking call, and believe it or not, you don't own every cop in the land. A recording like this could yank the rug out from under you just as easily as it could be used against me. So get smart, or you'll be wearing tight, shiny cuffs before the end of the week."

When Zero disconnected the phone on that note, he couldn't help but feel a bit proud of himself. That had gone well, he thought. Maybe it could have gone better, but it definitely could have gone worse.

"That was good," Bach confirmed. "Now take the phone apart. Put the battery and SIM in different pockets. I know you want to shoot the phone, but that'll leave evidence so just keep the pieces separate and drop them off in Hell so Phi can incinerate them. It's the only clean way to end this and make sure no one trips into anything later."

"Copy that," Zero said taking the back off of his phone.

"Oh, and Zero?" Bach added.

"Yeah?"

"That consultant is getting her ass handed to her. I'm listening to it go down right now."

Zero pulled the battery out of his phone. "It was a woman? You said it was a guy."

"Because I wanted you to say 'he'," Bach replied. "But she is the family mystic. A psychic. She's been consulting with the McGees for years."

"So she wasn't law enforcement?"

"Well, she freelances. She's worked for police a time or two...although after today she might need to work for them a little more to pay the bills."

"Hmm," Zero mused. "Think she might be the real deal? A real psychic? She dialed in on me, and that ain't nothing."

"It's worth looking into," Bach said. "I'll put her on our watch list after I corrupt all the file recordings of that call. It'll be like it never happened. You just worry about getting that phone to Phi to be destroyed, although you don't have to do it tonight. Tomorrow is fine."

"Copy that. And remember I promised to shoot out her tires, so send me her address sometime tomorrow so I can live up to my word."

"You've got it."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SWISS

The pod was ready to go when Swiss returned to the lab after seeing Gideon and Gunnar. Phi didn't raise his eyes from the monitor as she entered. Pleasantries weren't his thing, and Swiss was long past needing his instructions.

In the past two years, she'd spent more nights in the pod than out of it. The nano-scale carbon replacement in her bones, muscles, and other tissues, combined with the resequencing of her DNA to replicate the upgrades, had required 208 sequential nights in the pod before the modifications became self-sustaining. So, yeah, Swiss knew the drill, and she'd run out of excuses to delay hopping in yet again.

Gideon had Ash covered and, according to Gunnar, the McGee tail was out of commission for the rest of the night. Gunnar knew what he was dealing with and had shut Swiss down when she offered backup. He said he had it covered, so that was that.

As Swiss pulled her shirt over her head, she absently ran her hand over her close-cropped hair, feeling the buzzed length tickle her palm. "I'm going to need to keep my hair this time. It's short enough."

"Not optimal," Phi said, his eyes still on his monitor. "We'll remove it."

Swiss shook her head. "Not with an op tomorrow. Looking like a chemo patient draws too much attention."

Phi sent her an unimpressed look. "It draws no more attention than your current look."

She leveled her gaze on him. "It stays."

"Just wear a wig tomorrow."

"It stays."

Rather than replying, Phi pulled up her brain scan. "Where is this coming from? I didn't see any foreshadowing of this conversation while you were out."

Swiss felt her pulse spike and watched the aggression centers glow in the scan both she and Phi could see. "I have enough to think about when I'm out there. I don't want to have to navigate pitying looks from strangers or deal with an itchy wig, okay? I can deal with the buzzed look. I've gotten used to that, but I'm done with the clean shave. That's not happening again."

Phi zoomed in on her brain scan, completely ignoring her. "Ah, I see it now. This is an alpha response—like a lion wanting to keep its mane. You perceive a shaved head as synonymous with weakness or even illness in your mind, and thus it inhibits your inherent confidence."

If she punched him in the throat, would he stop talking? Forever?

"Very well," he said, walking toward the pod. "Our time is short. I'll work around the hair."

Swiss undid her belt and toed out of her boots before letting her pants slide down. She folded everything up and moved to the pod, not even feeling the liquid around her as she immersed herself in it.

Each time Swiss entered the pod was like re-entering the womb, which was exactly what the pod was designed to be. Although it was closer to the size of a coffin, its design created a sensory deprivation environment that Phi could introduce stimuli into. Swiss didn't get exactly how it worked, but she was living proof that the pod did indeed do what it was designed to do. Plus, every time she emerged from the pod her body felt...well, perfect. Every muscle, every nerve, every synapse, every cell exactly how it was designed to be. And her skin? Clear and baby-ass soft. Stepping out of the pod felt like being reborn, and Swiss could hardly balk at that. She was 31 years old and looked better and felt better than she had at half her age.

Not to mention that she was about 800 times stronger than she'd ever been.

All in all, not a bad tradeoff for going hairless. But Swiss was ready to draw the line now. She couldn't say for certain that this would be her last upgrade, but she was reaching the end of this road. She was where she needed to be—and probably a bit beyond where she needed to be—to serve her purpose. That meant that her days as a lab rat were complete and it was time to start owning her own skin again.

She would give Phi this one last upgrade without a fight, but after tonight they were going to have to have a talk.

She was strong enough to do what she needed to be done, and that was all either of them needed. Tomorrow she would face off against a good man who didn't know he needed her help. And thanks to Phi's upgrades, she wouldn't die doing it.

The last time Swiss had seen Gunnery Sergeant Mike Grahl, it had been in a firefight in Syria. He'd been in bad shape after taking fire, and Swiss had been able to do something about it. Mike liked to say she'd saved his life. Swiss wasn't so sure about that, but she'd definitely saved his leg. And while she'd seen Mike a few times since, neither of them had made an effort to keep in touch after being discharged.

Mike had gone home to Memphis; Swiss had moved to Reno; and that was that, until Swiss had seen Mike's name pop up on Phi's red flag list. She'd been quick to make the call, and Mike had been quick to return her message. He'd assumed the call was social, and Swiss had done nothing to dissuade him of that as she'd invented a reason to drop into Memphis for a visit.

As far as Mike was concerned, Swiss was just a medic he used to know who would be dropping in for the night while she waited out an extended layover. Mike didn't know why Swiss was really coming any more than he knew what he had become: a ticking time bomb—a weapon of war just waiting for someone to push his button.

Tomorrow that button-pusher would be Swiss.

Safely activating and containing men like Mike was what Phi had designed Swiss to do. She, and she alone, could overpower the immensely powerful creations Phi called alters. And while Phi may despise how Swiss did her job, the fact was that her methods were clean and effective. If Phi wanted things done his way, well then, he could just get his ass out of Hell and do his dirty work himself. Until that snowy day in hell came, however, Phi could stomp around cursing Swiss's methods all he wanted. A little foot stomping did the man good. It was probably the only exercise he got all day.

Leaning back in the pod, Swiss left only her face above the thick liquid until the mask descended, covering her mouth and nose and intubating her. When the glass lid closed and the liquid started to rise, Swiss remained calm, breathing through the tube as the pod filled to the top and systematically removed all the air bubbles. Then Swiss felt a light tickle in her brain and the world went dark.

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Coming Up!

Coming Up in Episode 3

As Swiss heads out to Memphis to face a possible alter, Dom works to get Arman Aldo right where he wants him.

Both ops are threatened when unforeseen women and one demanding child push their way onto the scenes.

OMEN (Sneak Peek)

Omen opened the door to the staging area and walked in on Dom testing the stability of the hook he'd hung from the ceiling—swinging, bouncing, and tugging—doing everything he could think of to ensure the setup was solid. Dom glanced Omen's way when the door opened, and motioned for Omen to come over.

"Let's see if this can hold both our weights," he said.

Omen crossed the room to comply. "The area is secure and empty. We're the only ones here, and all broadcasters and receivers are offline and unplugged."

Dom nodded in acknowledgment and held out the hook between them.

Omen grabbed on and let the hook take his weight. It held comfortably even when Dom joined in and gave the hook several violent tugs. It would hold, just like it had every other time Dom had set it up. But Dom wasn't the type to leave room for error. Omen couldn't fault him for that, especially since this would the last time Dom set up his now-infamous hook.

And Omen honestly wasn't sure how he felt about that.

BACH (Sneak Peek)

"How we looking, man?"

Bach hit the button to activate his mic. "Smooth sailing. All is on schedule."

Dom took a deep breath. "Okay...okay."

Just then Bach's computer pinged with a bogey alert set off by irregular movements in the vicinity of Target Eight. He shut off his comm with Dom.

"Shouldn't have jinxed myself," he muttered then tapped the key on his computer to bring the bogey audio front and center for his consideration.

"Identify," Bach said to the computer.

"Alert is tied to Detective Kaliska Waters. Female, age 32. Waters is a homicide detective, currently on duty."

SWISS (Sneak Peek)

"Thank you," the woman said in a somewhat breathless tone. "I still have my brother because of you. I've heard the story a hundred times and always wanted to meet you. It's an honor."

Ah, Mike's sister. Not his wife. Not his girlfriend.

Swiss gripped her hand. "The honor's mine. I'm Ali Reyes."

"Master Chief Ali Reyes," the woman corrected, her voice a bit thin as she openly watched the muscle play in Swiss's arm as they shook hands. "I'm Tara...I pictured you looking totally different."

Interesting that Tara had been picturing Swiss at all. "Yeah?"

Tara sent Swiss a heavy-lidded look to match her suddenly breathy voice. "Yeah."

Straight, Swiss decided assessing Tara's body language—the way she stood, the way she spoke, the way she flirted—all very, very straight. Swiss would bet her salary that Tara had never even played around with another woman even as a joke. If she had, she'd be playing her cards differently at that moment. Yet it couldn't be denied that Tara was hitting on her in a very overt way...too overt. Hooker overt.

Don't be stupid, Swiss coached herself. Don't bite.

OMEN (Sneak Peek)

Just then Omen's comm pinged with a message, and Dom gave him a cold look. "Outside connections are supposed to be offline."

"I know," Omen said, glancing at the message. It was from Chuck.

The kid's gone. Twelve minutes and counting. I think he's hiding, but I have no fucking clue where.

Omen excused himself without explanation and went to make a very inopportune call.
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Thank you for reading Episodes 1 & 2 of The Undergods.

Episodes 1 & 2 are only just beginning, and I can promise you the series is one hell of a ride.

The story of The Undergods plays out more like a TV show than a traditional book, which is why I made the atypical choice of releasing the story in episodes. Season 1 has 12 episodes that will be released between January and April in 2015. And if you want more? TRUST ME! There is more. There is season after season of The Undergods that I'm hoping to have the honor to write!

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Eva Kane

Copyright © 2015 Eva Kane

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

