

Agents of Change

Second Edition

By Guy Harrison

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012, 2013 Guy Harrison Publishing

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To my dearest Lindsay, for putting up with all of the late nights and wasted days I spent in front of my laptop.
Table of Contents

Prologue

Part I: The Agency of Influence

Part II: The Agents of Change

About the Author

Excerpt from Agents of Chaos

Prologue

Awake at an obscene Saturday hour for a teenager, the girl looks into the distance as the rising sun behind her gives her otherwise golden hair a bright orange hue. Biking along Pennypack Trail, one of Philadelphia's most scenic paths, the girl stares down the challenging stretch that awaits her while also ignoring that which she's already traversed.

The trail takes the girl over its eponymous creek before turning west. Ahead, another cyclist sprints in her direction. If the girl is running a marathon, her counterpart is running a hundred-meter sprint.

As the cyclist draws nearer, the girl can see that her counterpart wears a vintage light blue Phillies cap and is female, expressionless, and in an apparent hurry. The girl breathes a subconscious sigh of relief. She's been told countless stories of young women being sexually assaulted, even murdered at odd hours along the trail.

The girl moves to her left—closer to the creek below—to clear the way for the cyclist. Her counterpart only mirrors her movement. One of those awkward moments, the girl thinks as she moves back to her right.

Closer still, the cyclist again mirrors the girl's maneuver and shows no signs of slowing down.

This isn't funny.

The gap between them closing, the girl clenches her bike's breaks and swerves to her left.

Swoooop!

Crash!

The girl and her bike spin off the trail and tumble over the guardrail, sending the girl hurtling towards the creek. In a helpless panic, the girl attempts to brace herself for the rocky earth that lines the creek's embankment.

Before she can shed her bike, before she can reach out a hand for protection, her left cheek meets a rock. Her face cracks as her legs and bike are sent flailing into the air.

As the girl continues to drop toward the water, unable to regain control of her body, she catches a glimpse of the cyclist standing on the trail, staring down at her bounding body. Soon, the girl's joints seem to rap every possible protrusion along the embankment and her bike splashes into the creek.

Tumbling backwards, the girl sees the cyclist and the sky in one final blur before succumbing to blackness.

Crack!

Part I: The Agency of Influence
Chapter One

I slide my dark finger down the page, never minding the newspaper ink that's certain to rub off on my finger. I've come this far, I must find the information I'm looking for.

I scratch my closely-coiffed head and separate my tie from my neck; it's a bit stuffy in here. I would have gathered the information I was looking for last night but I crashed early. I can't stay up as late as I used to—are you supposed to get all grandfatherly in your late twenties?

Ah. Found it.

The local hockey team, the Flyers, won last night, 3-2. Awesome.

I look away from the newspaper and remember the envelope that occupies the desk space next to it. Having already stamped and addressed it to Celia Williams, I sign the bottom of a five-hundred-dollar check and place it in the envelope. I lick the seal and press it shut.

When I turn my attention back to the newspaper, I'm interrupted by a knock at my door. Paula, my assistant, stands before me with her arms relaxed at her sides.

"Mr. Grace is on line one," she says, sweetly as always.

"Thank you, Paula."

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

I grin and raise my eyebrows.

She smacks her forehead with her right hand. "Oh, right. Sorry."

"It's cool. Don't worry about it." Really, it was. As she leaves my office and closes the door behind her, I recall the day I hired Paula, not more than three weeks ago. Because I'm in the minority of bosses who don't like coffee, I'm sure that'll take some getting used to. I'm also in the minority of bosses at Maxwell that are, well, minorities. I imagine that, in combination with my age, will also be an adjustment for Paula, just as it was for me. It's still odd telling people that are older than me what to do.

Knowing what's coming next, I exhale as I close my newspaper and pick up the phone. "How are you, Mr. Grace?" I press the receiver closer to my ear and look at the set numbers and formulas scribbled on the whiteboard in front of me.

"Not happy."

I play coy. "Sir?"

"That moron you have down there, Keeling—"

"Oh, Keeling?" I say, with a blasé wave of my hand. "I can explain. He—"

"Don't explain, Newsome. Just fix."

"He had a bad quarter. He'll bounce back."

"You've got a lot more faith than I do."

"I guess. What do you want me to do?"

"You're the director, man. Direct."

"Wait, are you asking me to fire him?"

Silence from the other end.

"That's a little harsh, don't you think?" I say.

"You might want consider it. Look at the guy's numbers for chrissakes. You can't ignore that kind of decline. "

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. I'll call him in."

"Good. And don't be nice with him, either. I know how you like to play psychologist."

"Yes, sir."

I hang up the phone and dial Paula on speakerphone.

"Hi, Calvin."

"Paula, can you let Trevor Keeling know that I need to speak with him, please?"

"Sure thing."

"Thanks."

I hang up and turn to look through the window. I never used to think that corner offices were everything people made them out to be. That changed when I moved into this office. I get unobstructed, breathtaking views of Philadelphia's skyline, its glass skyscrapers glistening in the spring sun.

On the other hand, I used to think that being the director of business analytics had its vast array of advantages. Other than my office, though, I can't say I've enjoyed this experience; it's not what I thought it'd be. Heck, not even my salary increase was worth celebrating—it simply meant that I was in a new tax bracket. Yippee.

Despite a bevy of efforts to circumvent it, I'm now that guy that everyone tries to avoid. I'm the guy who, when you're called to my office, you get a knot in your stomach. It's a feeling I'm sure Mr. Keeling feels now, though I can't say it's unwarranted from his point of view.

I pull a granola bar out of my desk drawer, unwrap it, and take a bite. I look down at my desk and look at the headline on the front page of the newspaper. City Pall. Clever.

When I hear a knock at my door, I wave my visitor in. Trevor Keeling was a holdover from my predecessor, so he's not my guy. I can't say I feel a ton of loyalty to him.

"You wanted to see me?" he says in a hushed tone.

I take a deep breath. "Take a seat."

He sits down in a wooden chair in front of my desk and straightens his tie. His hands are trembling.

"I've had a chance to look over your numbers from the last quarter."

He averts his gaze. "I know. No good, right?"

"No good? Try inexplicable. Unfathomable."

Keeling doesn't say a word. He only rocks anxiously while continuing to avoid my gaze.

"I mean, what the fuck happened?" I say, holding his report between my thumb and index finger. "You've never—"

He places a hand in front of his face to hide his trembling lips.

"I've been given the green light to terminate you," I say.

"No..." he says, his eyes moistening.

"The fact is, my ass is on the line, too. And I refuse to lose my job because of you."

"Please, don't do this to me."

I rub the back of my neck and look down at my desk as I avoid Keeling's pathetic gestures. My eyes flick over to my partially-eaten granola bar before settling on the random numbers and formulas scribbled on the dry erase board behind him again. I furrow my brow with contempt as I catch myself reciting each formula in my head. I hate this crap.

Keeling's whimpering draws me back to the task at hand. "What am I supposed to tell my wife?" he says.

I force myself to look at the man again and take in his pained, involuntary movements. I then look him in the eye as I lean forward and place my elbows on my desk.

"I want you to tell her that she has nothing to worry about," I say in a soft tone.

Keeling sits slouched in his chair with a confused look on his face.

"I know how much you love your family," I say. "I've been by your desk, I've seen your screensaver. You've thought about what you'd tell them if you were ever fired, yes?"

He nods his head.

"And I'm sure you've imagined the looks on their faces."

"Yeah..."

"Remember what that looks like going forward, Trevor. I expect to see you kick ass this quarter."

Keeling stifles a grin. "Wait. What?"

"You're going to meet with me every Friday—arrange it with Paula. We'll get you back on track."

He looks to the floor as he tries to hide his swaying emotions. I watch him silently for the next few moments. The man doesn't move.

"Trevor?" I wait for his eyes to return to me. "You can go back to your desk now," I say, slowly.

"Oh, right," he says, breaking out of his trance. He gets up and walks to the door, stopping just before he leaves. "Thank you," he says, now wearing a broad smile. I wave him off as he closes the door behind him.

I shake my head and look at the digital clock on the wall: 12:28. I better get going if I want to make my appointment.

As I hop out of my chair, my cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Calvin, where are you?" It's my adoring Ronni.

"Uh, at work?"

"Did you forget?"

"Forget what?" When I remember that I was supposed to meet Ronni for lunch today, I press my fist against my forehead and swear under my breath.

"Ugh! I knew you'd forget."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. How about tonight? Your place?"

"Fine," she says like a spoiled teen. "You better bring Italian."

"Spinach ravioli?"

"Yes, please."

After we hang up, I grab my suit jacket and the envelope, and leave my office. Paula greets me at her desk just outside my office.

"I'm taking my lunch now," I say. "I'll be back at 1:30."

"Sounds good," she says. "Hey, when's the next community service outing?"

"Next Saturday. Want me to add you to the list?"

"Where will it be?"

"The SPCA."

Her eyes light up.

"I'll take that as a yes." I place the envelope on her desk. She's been good at taking care of my mail.

"I didn't think you were into animals."

"Every dog has his day," I say with a shrug.

"Good one," Paula says, just as her phone rings.

When she recites the standard Maxwell greeting, I walk away toward the elevator and wait to take it down to the underground parking garage.

Veronica Lee—Ronni for short—is Chinese-American, first generation, in fact. I've known her since we were little kids. Her parents immigrated to the States in the '70s. They were among the few Asians who flocked to the eastern seaboard as opposed to the west coast. And as is customary in her culture, Ronni's parents were very strict with her, especially in regard to her studies. When Ronni would beat herself up over the occasional B, she would tell me, with great disappointment, that she could see her father reminding her, "You no B-sian, you A-sian."

Despite the fact that her academics took precedence, Ronni still found a way to love me in a way no one else ever has. When I've had my heart broken—or when I've done the occasional heartbreaking—Ronni's always offered herself as a sounding board. She also never laughed at me when I sought her out for college calculus help, even though I went to Penn, and Ivy League school, and she inexplicably went to Philly U. Now, that's true love.

In the garage, I climb into my car—a late-model Kia—and open the sunroof but not the windows. It's a gorgeous spring day outside but if I have any shot of making my appointment on time, my only chance is on the expressway. I turn the ignition, emerge from the garage, and head west.

As I drive through the high rises that comprise the city's skyline, passing the intermittent gobs of pedestrians and the exhaust-coated homeless lying along the sidewalk, my thoughts wander to what has me driving quite far from work on my lunch break.

In my spare time, I am a matchmaker and, today, I'm meeting a new client. Don't laugh. It seemed like a cool thing to do at the time.

I'm a matchmaker and fairly wet behind the ears with it, too. I'm so new to the industry, I haven't yet posted a bio or photo on my website. See, in a field inundated with folks who are older and much more experienced than I, my services need to speak for themselves. I need to allow word of mouth to do the advertising for me.

Initially, in order to get my name out there, I had to offer a few free sessions to wrangle my first handful of clients. It was a strategy I learned in business school. It also illustrates my current predicament: as I try to make a difference, I still have to take a businessman's approach to things. And that's not what I want.

I want my work to mean something without having to think about numbers and customers and cash flow. Despite my management degree from Penn's Wharton School, I've never had a job that I would consider significant. My current job is cushy, don't get me wrong. But I never found much meaning in my work, even with the employee stock options and the silly-nilly corporate office games like hallway bowling. Call me too cool for school but that isn't me.

While I'll be okay if I end up being a matchmaker for the rest of my life, I really view it as a stopgap, something I can do immediately to fill a void as I explore other, more meaningful opportunities. Eventually, I need to do something everlasting, something the world can profit from, and not necessarily in a financial way. I want to do something that, when people see it, they know Calvin Newsome's hands have been all over it. I want it to be different. I want it to stand out.

I've always been good at that, standing out. I use big words you'll only find in the dictionary. I like hockey. I like rock music as well as rap. As a black man, those things make it hard to blend into the crowd.

Turning my right blinker on, I merge to my right as I approach my exit.

East Falls is a very woody, slice-of-Suburbia part of town, although it's certainly not without its warts. Despite its greenery, sloping throughways, and desirable location, it still possesses Philly's most common property, the row home. This neighborhood is also home to Ronni's alma mater, Philly U, or "P.U." as I used to say whenever I wanted to piss her off.

When I pull up to my client's house for the first time, I'm struck by how large it is. It's a colonial—red bricks, white window details and all. The house stands as a fortress along the two-lane road in front of it.

Before opening my door, I take off my tie and leave it in the passenger seat, undoing my shirt's top button for a more casual look. I climb out of the car and grab a notepad before closing the door.

Two large trees surround both sides of the home's expansive, forward-sloping front lawn. A small stairwell of about three steps leads me from the sidewalk onto a concrete path through the lawn up to the front door. Startled, I look up when I hear the loud kazoo-like squawking of a bird from one of the large trees.

As I approach the door, I remember this new client being female. I ring the doorbell, expecting Blanche Devereaux to answer.

The door swings open and standing before me is one of the most beautiful women I've ever laid eyes on. She's a Latin goddess and is far younger than my usual clientele.

"Hi," she says.

I take a moment to study her shoulder length brown hair—adorned with highlights—and light, caramel-colored skin. Her form-fitting T-shirt and jeans accentuate her curvaceous figure. To top it off, she's wearing my favorite scent: vanilla.

"Uh, hi," I manage to say through clenched vocal cords. Consider me speechless.

"Come in," she says, all business as she opens the door even further. I step inside and blown away by the home's interior. Polished hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, classic yet tasteful window valances and beautiful, nearly-mint condition leather furniture beckon the home's guests.

The woman reaches out her hand. "Elena Jimenez," she says, her face emotionless as her large brown eyes fixate on mine.

"Calvin Newsome. Nice to meet you." Despite her allure, I can't hold her gaze. I choose instead to take her in just a little bit at a time.

"Take a seat," she says, pointing to a leather chair in the living room. Still no smile.

Elena walks briskly to the kitchen as I take a seat in the chair. One of the perks of this job is getting to see my clients' homes. This one is the nicest, by far.

"Can I get you some water?" Elena says from afar.

"That'd be great."

I pull a pen out of my pocket and, as I put it to my notepad, there are only two words I can think to write at the moment. Hot mamacita.

The only downside to this is that I don't really have an age-appropriate male to set her up with. That's not entirely bad, though. At the very least, I could post her photo on my website and use her as bait for both my male and female clients—my practice is flexible like that.

She comes back with a glass of water in hand, still very much poker-faced. She may be beautiful but if this is the extent of her personality, I can see why she's single. I take a swig of water and place the glass on an end table. Elena sits on a couch across from me.

"So, what can I do for you?" I say.

"Tell me about the process," she says. "How does it work?"

"Well..." I suddenly feel the urge to close my eyes and begin to fall forward, despite a steadfast desire not to. I hit the hardwood floor with a thud, landing in the fetal position. Before my eyelids call it an afternoon, the last thing I see is the bizarre image of the beautiful Elena standing over me... with a rope in her hand.

***

Philadelphia's City Hall was once, for a considerable length of time, the tallest building in the city. It now stands as one of the tallest masonry buildings in the world and is smack-dab in the middle of Philly, at least Philly as it was designed by its founder.

Behind its rock-solid limestone, granite, and marble façade, sits the city's mayor, Terry Haslett. A former local business owner and city council chairman, Haslett sits in a large, black plush leather chair, one of those in which you'd imagine someone of great importance sitting.

Sitting on the other side of Haslett's freshly polished cherry wood desk is his successor as council chairman, Wes Henry. In many ways, Haslett and Henry are polar opposites.

Haslett is tall and sinewy, elected despite Philadelphia's history of voting mostly against white mayoral candidates since the late 1990s. He accomplished this while overcoming the attention drawn by his abnormally long schnoz. Recently, a local political cartoonist depicted Haslett's nose to be like that of Pinocchio. Haslett, however, liked it better when that same cartoonist used to depict him as Gonzo from the Muppets.

Despite this unfortunate feature, Haslett is charismatic and speaks slowly, giving the impression of a perpetual calm to go along with a quiet confidence. When he dies, it will not be from complications stemming from heart disease and high blood pressure.

On the other hand, Henry is rotund with understated facial features. The bottom of his gut threatens to break free of its captivity as it spreads the pleats of his slacks. Meanwhile, his nose is as small as the button on his shirt.

Henry is known as a yeller and screamer. He was able to ascend to the top of the city council food chain despite his abrasive personality. The consensus, however, is that this is as far as he will get. Even if Haslett becomes the governor of Pennsylvania, Henry's spot will most likely remain in his now-flattened seat as city council chair. Unlike Haslett, Henry's short fuse will probably cause a fatal myocardial infarction.

"When are you going to get rid of Commissioner Sears?" Henry says his predecessor.

"I can't," Haslett says. "He knows."

"Does he know everything?"

"No. But he knows enough."

Henry exhales loudly as he looks out into the dwindling sunlight illuminating the city. From this vantage point, he can see a steady flow of white headlights coming toward the building as well as a river of red taillights floating away from the building.

"So he knows about our transportation situation?" the large man says, adjusting in his chair to compensate for its arm digging into his leg.

"Yes. The rolling stock, the track at Suburban Station. He knows about all of that stuff."

"Who told him?"

Haslett shrugs. "I wish I knew."

Henry exhales loudly again. In general, Henry breathes loudly but he's more agitated than usual at the moment.

"Relax, Wes. We're not in danger."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"You would if you knew what I know."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Our protection," Haslett says with a deliberate cadence, "knows no boundaries."

"I hope so. I have kids to feed. I'm not going down like this."

"Wes, when will you learn to stop referring to your stomach as your children?"

"Not funny."

"Hey, you're just as guilty as I am. Stop pretending to be innocent."

Henry looks down at the floor, his stomach obstructing his view.

"Now, please," Haslett says, leaning over his desk, "stop... freaking... out." He then motions for Henry to leave his office.
Chapter Two

I wake up, only to find myself surrounded by nothing more than three white walls. And a fluorescent light. Oh, that light, buzzing in its perch above me, flickering, pulsating as though it's somehow aggravated by my presence.

When I feel the urge to scratch an itch on my face, I realize that my hands are tied behind the back of the wooden chair I'm sitting in.

"Hello?" I say into the emptiness. The only response I get is the echo of my own voice and the irritating flicker of the light, a flagrant violation of the Third Geneva Convention in its own right.

I hear a door open behind me. Footsteps. Multiple people. I close my eyes and brace for the hit I know is coming. Which will it be? A punch to the head? A whip to the back? A whack in the nuts with a thick rope tied in an even thicker knot? Ever see Casino Royale with Daniel Craig? I think every man grabbed his balls while watching that.

As the footsteps move past me, I open my eyes and see three people line up in front of me. The trio is intimidating, though I don't think they're here to inflict physical harm. No, these look like the type of people who'd prosecute me for the extensive yet perfectly legal stash of porn on my home computer instead. Don't judge. A single guy has needs.

Next to Elena—who now wears a black pants suit—stand two men, both dapper, sporting suits and ties. There is a stark generational gap between the two men. The first man, standing in the middle, has a Clark Kent persona about him. He's tall, maybe 6'2" or 6'3", has a full head of dark, closely-cropped hair and is kind of gangly and awkward-looking. Clark looks to be around my age, if not a touch older, and wears eyeglasses to boot.

The elder of the two men is a short, stout, meek-looking man in his sixties with white hair on the top of his head. When he came in, I could see that he's balding in the back of his head. If he's lived this long and only has that small of a bald spot on his head, good for him. I also noticed that the old man walks with a slight limp and has a minor hunch in his back. Based on age and appearance, I don't think it's a stretch to say that the old guy is probably the wisest of the triumvirate, making him the most difficult to pull one over on.

"Untie him," the elder man tells Clark Kent.

The young man comes around behind my chair and starts tugging at the rope.

"You're not going to be a problem, are you?" the old man says with a sort of deep, booming voice and an unmistakable Southern drawl. I shake my head as Clark makes headway with the rope behind me.

"Where am I?" I say, looking up at that damn light again.

The old man clasps his hands and completely ignores my question. "You must be hungry."

I furrow my brow, questioning the turn this situation has taken. "Very."

The old man waves at someone behind me. I turn around and see a mirror, two-way, I presume.

The Man of Steel finishes untying me and returns to his place near Elena and the old man. I want to scratch the itchy rope marks on my wrists but my face... oh, my face. Razor burn is a bitch. I start scratching under my chin and work my way up to my cheeks, eventually building up more of a rub than a scratch.

Out of the door behind me comes an older woman, built like a linebacker. The graying bun perched on the top of her head is none too intimidating, though. She rolls a table on wheels in my direction.

"You like Cuban food?" says the old man.

"Never had it."

The lady puts the food in front of me. It's a hearty-looking meal of grilled chicken breast on a bed of yellow rice. The aroma and steam it exudes fills my nostrils. Also, a paper cup filled to the brim with soda. I pick up the cup before looking at the old man.

"It's not poisoned, I promise."

I take a small sip. Definitely Pepsi and, for now, definitely sterile. I'm usually an uncola guy but I'm not complaining. This is much better than what I had envisioned when I first heard my captors walk in.

"It's arroz con pollo. Agent Jimenez's signature recipe," says the old man, nodding in Elena's direction. "Can we get you anything else?"

"Yeah. You don't happen to have any lotion or aftershave, do you? My face itches real bad."

The trio looks amongst themselves, caught off guard. These guys were prepared but not that prepared. Finally, Elena reaches inside her suit jacket and pulls out a small bottle.

"Here," she says, brandishing the bottle. "Hope you don't mind vanilla."

While I love that scent, I don't usually wear it myself. I grin and nod my head, creating a basket with my hands. Elena tosses the bottle and throws a perfect strike with the seriousness of a baseball pitcher. I squeeze a fairly small amount of lotion out of the bottle and massage it into my face.

I pick up my fork and start gathering rice with it. "Okay, so when do we get to the part where you tell me who the hell you guys are?"

"My name's Donald Richardson," says the old man. "This here is Nick Hamilton and I believe you've already met Elena Jimenez."

"Yeah, she's a real knock-out."

"Sorry she drugged you. We had to make sure you wouldn't run," he says.

"I think just calling me in would have sufficed," I say.

"We couldn't risk you seeing our location," Richardson says. "Not yet, at least."

"That's reassuring," I say through a big wad of rice in my mouth.

Richardson draws closer to me, arm's length in fact, making me nervous for the first time since these guys first showed themselves.

"Calvin, what would you do if I told you I could give you a chance to change the world?"

I stop chewing, Pepsi in hand. "I'd say bullshit."

"What if I told you that you could be an Agent of Influence?"

"Excuse me?" I say, nearly choking on my soda.

"Influence. You know what it means to be influential, don't you?"

I nod my head.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Calvin, you are at the Philadelphia branch of the Agency of Influence."

I laugh, inadvertently projecting a grain of rice onto Richardson's weathered face.

The old man doesn't flinch.

"Agency of Influence," I say. "That's funny. Do I call each of you 'Agent' then?"

The trio remains poker faced. These people are serious.

"Your reaction was predictable, Cal—can I call you Cal?"

I throw my hands up, afraid of what will follow. "Why not?"

"We've set up a tour of our facility just for you. When we're through, you'll see... this is no joke." Agent Richardson motions for me to stand. Hamilton and Jimenez walk past me to the front of the room. Hamilton opens the door and holds it as the rest of us, led by Jimenez, walk through it.

To my surprise, the barren room simply leads to a short hallway. Reminiscent of a hospital, the hallway is literally and figuratively cold, lined with windows and doors on either side.

I trade glances with Hamilton; he seems like a reasonable fellow. But when I look at Jimenez, she ignores me. As we continue walking, I notice that the curtains on all of the windows are closed. "Is this a government agency?"

"No," says Hamilton.

"What is it then? Who runs this place?"

"Easy, easy," the old man says. "One question at a time."

"Our government doesn't know we exist," Hamilton says.

"In general," says the old man, "the world has remained largely oblivious to our presence."

"What do you mean the world?" I say.

"This is just one of several hundred branches worldwide," the old man adds. "Each one is tied to a major metropolitan area—or country, depending on its size."

"I still don't get what goes on here."

When we stop at a door along the hallway, Hamilton unlocks it and turns on a set of dimmed track lighting overhead. Upon entering the room, I see that it's a small auditorium, one that could pass for someone's tricked out home theater.

"Take a seat," Richardson says.

I oblige and sit next to the aisle, surprised to find reclining seats and retractable armrests, replete with cup holders. Jimenez takes a seat in the row in front of me, Richardson sits behind me. Hamilton chooses to stand against the wall.

"An agency like this has a lot to offer a guy like you," the old man says before nodding to Hamilton.

"Calvin, our agency—consider us the people responsible for delivering good karma, so to speak," Hamilton says.

"So, you're like guardian angels."

"Kind of. We don't work for God."

"Cal," the old man interjects, "as an Agent of Influence, you'd be making a difference in people's lives. Bringing them good fortune when they need it the most."

I furrow my eyebrows. "Agents of Influence? Is that really what you call yourselves?"

"Richardson's the director of this branch. He used to work in the field. We all have worked in the field," Jimenez says.

"The field?"

"Yes. Influencing people usually requires engaging them," Hamilton says, careful not to sound condescending. "On a personal level."

"Hamilton just left the field and now works behind the scenes. He's my number two," says Richardson.

"That's why you're here," says Jimenez. "We have an opening for a field agent."

"I—I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong guy."

The old man nods to Jimenez. She removes a small remote from her pocket and presses a button. Expecting a movie of sorts, I am surprised when the projection screen is filled with images taken from some of the more intimate moments of my life. The more recent photos look like they were taken with a still camera. The photos from times long gone appear to have been captured with a surveillance video feed.

These guys have been watching me.

My amazement over the fact that these guys were actually able to capture these photos is upstaged only by my amazement over the moments these images actually illustrate. Me high-fiving that ten-year-old from the little league team I coached a few summers ago. A happy moment with Ronni. My shirtsleeves rolled up as I pick up trash with coworkers at Fairmount Park.

I'm not quite sure what to say or how to react. "How—where did you get these?"

"As you can see, we've been following you for some time," Richardson says. "I told Hamilton that if he wanted to leave the field, he had to get me a replacement who could be as good as he was."

"But—"

"You're intelligent, you think quickly on your feet and," Hamilton says, "you have a desire to make a difference."

"Oh, c'mon," I say. "You hardly even know me."

Richardson waves me off.

"Seriously. I do this stuff for a few hours, not as a full-fledged career."

"Director of business analytics at Maxwell," Richardson says. "Six-figure salary. Huge employee stock options. And you absolutely hate it."

"How do you—"

"C'mon, you don't think that matchmaking gig's actually fooling anybody, do you? We know what you're really after."

"We know what you're capable of," Jimenez says. "You passed our final test this morning."

"Test?"

"That wasn't actually Mr. Grace you talked to on the phone," Richardson says.

"Huh? What do you mean?" I say with a nervous snicker. "It sounded just like him."

Hamilton crouches down to meet me at eye level. "You like working with people, right?"

"Yeah."

"You want your life to have meaning, right?

"Well, yeah, but I...kinda have those things now."

Hamilton grins, almost offended. "Calvin, this isn't even in the same realm as matchmaking."

"Then, what're we talking about?"

"Raising people up," Richardson says.

"How do you raise people up?" I say, mocking the old man.

"Any number of ways," Jimenez says. "Friendly encounters, generosity—"

"So, what, you throw a homeless guy a few bucks?"

"It's not about money," Richardson says, hand now on the knob of an unobtrusive door along the wall. "It never is with the A of I. But, if that's what makes you happy, you'll be happy to know that you're better off here than at Maxwell."

"I don't care about money."

"Of course," the old man says. "Why else would a man of your stature drive a Kia? Or send your mother five hundred bucks every month?"

I shoot the codger a look. These guys know way too much.

Richardson opens the door. I let the other agents leave the theater ahead of me. When I enter the next room, which is nearly as long as a subway car, I'm stunned by the inordinate number of flatscreen monitors mounted on the wall. Small, recessed flood lights hang over the room. The colors in each monitor jump off the screens thanks to the room's dim lighting.

"We call this the control room," Richardson says.

As I look at the monitors, they are fixed on countless individuals. A man at home watching sitcom reruns, beer in hand. A woman walking down a city street, grocery bags in hand. There are even cameras capturing these individuals in their cars, some drivers on the phone, some jamming out to their favorite tunes.

"Oh my God. What the hell kind of operation are you running here?" I say, not sure whether to be amazed or disgusted. "I could have this place shut down by the end of tomorrow."

"Yeah, you could tell the authorities," Hamilton says, shrugging. "But who would believe you?"

"How do you get all these cameras...?"

"Our system's been around for decades. We get—"

Richardson backhands the young man in the arm. "We'll tell you how it all works, if you decide to join us," the old man says.

I scoff and shake my head as I look at the monitors. At the bottom of the wall of monitors is a long table. The four of us stand near one end of the table. At the other end, to our left, sit two people, a man and a woman. They appear to be recent college grads, taking notes and keeping tabs on the monitors. They both wave in our direction before going back to work.

"Those guys are part of our intelligence team," Hamilton says.

"Intelligence?"

"Yes. They're kind of the behind-the-scenes guys. They monitor all of our case subjects, keep close tabs on them and let us know when we need to act."

"What is this, the CIA?"

"I present you your first case, if you were to join us," the old man says. He points at a monitor that shows a black woman at home, sitting on a torn couch while smoking a cigarette. Her hair is wild, half done. One half of her head as been braided, the other half stands up in the air a la Don King.

"This is Carla Andrews," says Jimenez. "A single mother living in Nicetown with three kids. She's been considering walking out on her children for the last week or so."

On the monitor, two young kids wearing a random ensemble of dirty and tattered clothing run past the mother in the living room, stopping only when the mom yells at them. The kids then sit down on the living room's brown carpet, which is so sullied that it appears black.

"The father's not around, is he?" I say.

"Their fathers," Jimenez says. By the looks of the mother, her kids, and the somewhat squalid conditions of the family's home, the Andrews Family could use a pick me up.

"What does she do for work?"

"Nothing," Jimenez says.

"Welfare?" I say.

Jimenez nods.

"Do you know why we'd give you this assignment?" Richardson says.

Of course I do. In the short time I've known them, the Agency of Influence has made a habit of tugging at my heart strings and they know this hits too close to home for me. Literally. Despite my education, I grew up in Nicetown and, despite its name, it epitomizes the modern-day ghetto. It's the type of place that would scare the crap out of your average suburbanite. Rowhomes upon rowhomes line the neighborhood's narrow streets. Pavements are uneven, porches are unkempt. Drug dealers command street corners the way Napoleon commanded Europe. The distinct odor of ganja persistently permeates the atmosphere. Little boys mimic their favorite football stars while playing two-hand touch in the street; most of them don't finish school. Little girls play hopscotch and jump rope on the sidewalk; many of them spawn children far before they're ready.

It's no place for a child to live. You never know when a stray bullet might be the last sensation you feel. Walking to the corner store with your head on swivel like an American in Afghanistan is a difficult way to live for anyone, regardless of age. At least, that's probably an outsider's view of it. When you live it every day like I did, you think nothing of it because that's just life. It's just like how you never realize how deep or high-pitched your voice is until you hear it the way everyone else hears it, through a recording. It's not until you've lived anywhere else that you can see the ghetto for what it truly is.

In Nicetown, I witnessed the plight of several single mothers—white, black, and Latin—all of whom seemingly had no way out. Fortunately for me, my mom had her shit together. I can't imagine having a mom who would question her desire to care for me.

"Yeah," I say. "I get it, but..."

"But what?" Hamilton says.

"I don't know... what makes you think she'll listen to me? They need money not a social worker."

The two younger agents look over at Richardson. "We're not exactly talking about social work here," the old man says. "This way."

He ushers us to the other end of the table and a door that leads back to the hallway. I take a look at the two intelligence agents before leaving the room. The girl, a cute redhead, is most definitely a recent college grad. Upon further examination, the guy may be just a couple of years younger than I. He looks kind of like a frat boy, square jaw, pompous aura, and all. As we exit the room, I notice Frat Boy take a peek at Jimenez's ass. Boys will be boys.

Out of the control room, we start walking further down the hallway. In the distance, I see a large window but I can't yet see what lies behind it.

"Cal," Richardson starts, "the thing that separates Agents of Influence from social workers are, well, special abilities."

"Like, superheroes?" I say, shooting him a quick glance.

"Sort of." The large window comes closer and closer into view.

Hamilton motions for my attention. "Calvin, have you ever met an attractive woman who you thought was being way too nice to you?"

"I guess."

"You know what I'm talking about. Like, she's way out of your league but she's just too friendly to be true?"

"Oh, for sure. It's a big tease."

"That's some of what we do."

"Really?"

"You felt better about yourself after that encounter, right?"

I scoff but it's true. As a man, a compliment's always nice but when it comes from someone who also happens to be very attractive, it provides a boost to your ego. Such an encounter can even encourage you to become a better person.

When I was a teenager, I worked at a movie theater. It was one of those large multiplexes that showed every movie, including the indie films no one's ever heard of. There was a good length of time during my senior year of high school, maybe a month—October I'll say—when I wasn't myself. I had just found out my girlfriend at the time cheated on me. I was moody, I never smiled, and I never did anything after school but work, homework, and exercise. I got in countless arguments with my mom because I could sense a sort of sadistic relief from her—she never approved of said girlfriend. She carried herself with one of those I told you so vibes that really pissed me off.

But every Friday night in October, a girl—I think she introduced herself as Denise—came to the theater and came to my line at the concession stand. Denise was gorgeous; long brown hair, green eyes, and teeth straight as an arrow. She also always smelled of vanilla. Denise never stopped smiling and always had a kind word to say. Whether it was about the efficiency of my service, or my complexion, or my haircut, or my smile... you name it, she found something for which to compliment me.

For some reason—perhaps because our encounters were always so mind-blowing—I could never summon the courage to ask her out. When I finally did, that's when her visits to my theater stopped. For the next three or four Fridays, I always kept a hopeful eye out for Denise but I never saw her again.

In retrospect, I thought it odd that a girl so young, so beautiful would be going to the movies by herself every Friday, in October no less, a month when the only new releases are those crappy horror flicks. She always ordered the same thing—a small popcorn and a small Coke—and I never saw her actually leave the theater. Maybe she went to the movies with friends and decided I was her best bet for good service. Or, maybe she was a tease, an Agent of Influence thrown my way to help me recover from the post-breakup blues. If so, it was cruel but it worked.

"So you give people a confidence boost?" I say.

Jimenez nods. "Sometimes."

"Those are easy, though," Hamilton says. "We all do those every now and then when we feel the urge to go back in the field."

"What's a challenging case, then?"

A few feet from the large window, Richardson and Jimenez look at Hamilton. His expression turns sober.

"Two years ago, a man from Abington, married with three kids and another on the way, was dismissed from his job with the school district."

"Laid off?" I say.

"Not exactly. He was assistant superintendant. A new superintendant came in and cleaned house."

"Damn."

Hamilton goes on to explain that it was a double whammy for the guy. He had put in sixteen years with the district and was expecting a promotion. Obviously, the guy took it hard. His family lost their house and his severance package wasn't enough. He also started to question his abilities as a father and husband.

"I bet," I say. "Was he suicidal?"

"Sort of." The guy eventually developed an elaborate scheme to take out the board and the superintendent at a board meeting. He managed to plan all of this without his family's knowledge.

"With what? A bomb?"

"A gun. An UZI."

"What happened to him?" I say.

"Well, at the eleventh hour, I talked him out of it. He knew his family still loved him but I had to convince him that this was a good time to look for a job he would really enjoy."

"Did he?"

Hamilton stops walking. The rest of us follow suit as he explains that the man went to City Hall to interview for a job but was killed fifteen minutes later. "A fight broke out in the City Hall subway station. He was accidentally pushed onto the tracks. A train was coming..."

"That's right," I say slowly, "I heard about that on the news. Wasn't the fight over some sneakers?"

"Yeah."

"That could've happened to anyone," I say, trying to start the process of changing the subject.

"That's what these guys said," he says, pointing at Richardson and Elena. "I know they're right, but..."

The old man pats Hamilton on the back and motions for everyone to continue toward the large window.

"Now we've come to the piéce de résistance," the old man says, butchering the pronunciation like a true Southern American.

As we move closer to the large window, I begin to see steel. Oodles of stainless steel. Standing in front of the window now, it's obvious that this large room is some kind of laboratory. Computer monitors with endless data litter the left side of the lab. Controls and the tables upon which they sit fill the right side of the room. In the center stands what appears to be a table in an upright position. The four binds situated along the table's edges are a dead giveaway. All of the doohickeys, gadgets, and hardware are all intertwined by a series of cables.

Realizing what comes next, I suddenly gasp for air. "I've seen this movie before. The black man's always the first to go."
Chapter Three

"Relax," Richardson says.

When Hamilton opens the lab, I cautiously follow the old man and Jimenez into the room before Clark Kent enters and closes the door behind us. My heart rate rising, Richardson and Jimenez move closer to the table. Hamilton stands behind me, perhaps guarding against a potential escape.

"Take a good look, Calvin. It's got a long, confusing scientific name," Hamilton says, "but we just call it the Change Machine."

I turn back to Richardson and Jimenez. "I'm guessing there's no scenario here where any of you get strapped onto that table."

"Affirmative," says Jimenez.

"What if I said no?"

"You haven't even heard what it does yet," Hamilton says.

"Cal," the old man says, "remember when you said your would-be first assignment would never listen to you?"

"Yeah."

"One round with this thing and you could grab anyone's attention."

"How is that?"

"Calvin, this machine will give you the ability to take any human form, among other things."

"Huh?"

"You'd be a polymorph," Jimenez says. "A shape shifter."

I take a long look at Jimenez before my eyes flit over to Richardson. "First you poison and kidnap me, then you tell me you've been stalking me for God only knows how long and, now, you want me to believe that you can somehow give me magic powers?"

"Calm down, son," Richardson says, holding up a hand.

"It's perfectly safe," says Hamilton. "We've all gone through the procedure."

I look at Hamilton, then over at Jimenez. "You—"

"Absolutely not. This is a hundred percent real," she says, advertising her circuitous figure the way Vanna White flaunts the letter 'L.'

Richardson chuckles. "No, Calvin. We're all in our God-given forms right now."

"We have to be," adds Hamilton. "The first rule of being an Agent of Influence is to be yourself, so to speak, whenever you're in an A of I facility. Unless it's necessary."

"It helps prevent the abuse of our abilities," Richardson says. "Don't want to lose sight of why we have them in the first place."

"Well, that's very admirable of you but—"

Swoosh!

The sound, a hum like that of a snake moving across a leather surface, comes from Jimenez. Before my very own eyes, her skin tone gradually turns a lighter shade, her frame straightens, her hair grows longer and darker, and her eyes shrink. With the transformation complete, a new person—a few inches shorter than Elena Jimenez—stands before me.

"Ronni," I say, breathless. Jimenez is a spitting image of my lifelong friend. The only thing missing is one of Ronni's signature smiles.

"How did you... ?"

"It's the machine, Calvin," Hamilton says. "And Jimenez is the best Change Machine engineer on the East Coast. Nobody knows it better. You'll be in good hands."

Jimenez doesn't hesitate to change back into herself. I think she grew tired of me gawking at her.

"Why do I have to be someone else to be... influential?"

"In theory, you don't always have to be," Richardson says. "In fact, we can do more than change our appearance. Every once in a while, everyone just needs a lucky bounce." The old man winks and the top button pops off of my shirt, landing at Jimenez's feet.

"What the—how did you—why is that even necessary?"

"You could have been a widower at a coffee shop, Elena could have been a lonely spinster."

I exhale and rub the bridge of my nose. "What the hell is going on?"

"You're being recruited."

I engage in a stare down with Richardson, as I try to wrap my brain around all of this. I can become other people and move objects with my mind?

Think of everything you could accomplish in Nicetown.

No, too good to be true.

"What's next? Is there an Agency of Troublemakers or something?" I say, snickering. My nervous smile subsides when Jimenez and Richardson trade glances. "You're kidding."

"They call themselves the Agency of Justice. And, believe it or not, they're mission complements ours. Has for centuries."

"Centuries?"

"Yes, the two agencies date back to the 1700s," Richardson says.

"Of course they do." I look at the contraption again, curious yet hesitant to learn more about it. "Where does the machine get its power from?"

"Have you ever heard of the Arrowhead of the Seminole?"

"Like football at Florida State?"

"No," he says with a chuckle. "That was a trick question. It's not something I would expect you to know." The old man explains that the Arrowhead of the Seminole is a relic that has remained in obscurity for almost five hundred years. As European settlers began coming to the New World, a very powerful and very mysterious member of the Seminole native tribe, a shaman—who was also a polymorph—took to the task of making a more effective, ethereal kind of arrowhead, one which could instantly kill its victims, regardless of the severity of the wound it caused. The shaman purposely gave the Arrowhead ornate markings so as to make it standout but erred, however, by imbuing the weapon with the wrong power. Instead of being lethal, the Arrowhead bestowed upon its carrier shape shifting and telekinetic abilities.

"He accidentally transferred his own power to the Arrowhead?" I say.

"Exactly. And, knowing the threat it posed, he kept it hidden... until Ponce de Leon stole it from him after sailing from Spain to Florida to find the Fountain of Youth. Four centuries and a few, um, exchanges later, both agencies are harnessing the Arrowhead's power."

As I listen, I come to one conclusion: never trust a Spaniard.

"Every branch uses a replica carved from the original," the old man says, lifting up a tube-like compartment out of the machine's mainframe. "Ours is right here."

I move closer to get a better look. Indeed, the Arrowhead is very decorative. It has an Aztec-like design on both sides as well as three red stones set into each side.

"Where's the original?"

"Even if you join us," Hamilton says, "he won't tell you. They don't tell agents where the Arrowhead is kept."

"So no one steals it," I say.

"Or breaks it," Richardson says.

"Someone actually broke it?"

"No, but it'd be catastrophic if they did."

I open my mouth to ask another question but Hamilton cuts me off. "We should tell you, Calvin—the effects of the Change Machine procedure are irreversible."

I nod my head as the tidal wave of information washes over me.

Hamilton nudges me with his elbow. "So, what do you think?"

"Honestly?" I say. "This is all a little too... strange for me. I can't go through with this."

"Yes, you can," says the old man.

"I'm sorry," I say with a snicker, "but I don't know that I can trust you guys."

"Bullshit!" the old man exclaims, throwing a tense pump of the fist in there for emphasis. This jars me and Jimenez behind him. "You know you want this. You're just scared."

Fact. Remember when I thought the old man would be the toughest person of the trio to outwit? The truth is that this is exactly the kind of opportunity I've been looking for, except I haven't actually been looking for it because I never knew it existed. In reality, I am scared. People with this much power either fail in epic fashion, become targets of those who envy their power, or go mad. I have no interest in partaking in any of those activities.

Sensing that he has me on the ropes as I stand before him, punch-drunk and weakening, the old man approaches me and goes in to deliver the proverbial knockout blow.

"There's a role to be played by all of us, Cal," he says. "Which will it be for you? You can go on working a job you hate if you want. We'll let you walk out that door, no questions asked. It's your choice, son."

I hit the mat like a ton of bricks.

I exhale deeply and take a long look through the window, peering into the cold, lifeless hallway.

In the reflection of the glass, I see Richardson, Hamilton, Jimenez, and the Change Machine, all awaiting my next word. Most importantly, I see myself, Calvin Newsome III, Ivy League-educated African-American male with big dreams who has yet to actually accomplish anything. Regardless of what I decide, the man in the reflection won't be the same after the choice has been made, for better or worse, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the consequences associated with either option. Still, my longing for a greater purpose is due, in large part, to the fact that I've taken very little risks, calculated or otherwise, in my twenty-nine years on this planet. My ideal path has been laid before me but it will require my greatest leap of faith.

"I'm in."

Richardson smiles and extends his hand. "Welcome aboard, Agent Newsome."

As I shake the old man's hand, essentially congratulating him for winning our heavyweight bout, Hamilton gives me a sturdy pat on the back. Jimenez, on the other hand, goes right to work, flipping switches and striking keys. She then holds down another button, causing the table to tilt backwards, eventually stopping when it's horizontal to the floor.

"Wait," I say, "what about my job at Maxwell?"

"I'd say you've worked your last day at Maxwell," the old man says.

"I should at least give two weeks' notice, don't you think?"

"Does it matter?" Hamilton says.

I look Hamilton in the eye. He's probably right. It sounds as though being an Agent of Influence is akin to being a Supreme Court Justice, especially if this procedure is irreversible.

Jimenez pats her hand on the table. "Up."

With my heart racing, palms sweating, and legs shaking, I sit on the table before swinging my legs onto it. Jimenez then takes my left arm and lays my wrist into the leather bind, fastening it tightly before moving to my left leg. Even though I'm fully clothed, the table is ice cold to the touch.

"Relax," says Hamilton. "It will only take a few seconds for the machine to take effect."

Jimenez swings around to the other side of the table and fastens my right ankle and wrist. "You'll be unconscious for about five minutes."

"Is this going be a regular occurrence for us?"

She goes back to the buttons. "Just relax and try to think about something nice."

I force my eyes closed. The first thing that comes to mind is Jimenez. She's a little too serious for my taste but—

"Anything but me," I hear her say. Hamilton chuckles in the background. "This will hurt for a few seconds."

I feel like a kid getting his first shot at the doctor's office. Where's my mom to hold my hand when I need her?

That's right, she's in St. Louis.

I hear a buzz coming from Jimenez's direction, gradually rising in volume. The buzz is then followed by a crackle and a few pops. Suddenly, I feel a jolt through my nerves. Control of my body is slipping away from me. The more this continues, the more I wonder if I am even going to survive this. As the jolt spreads through my body, a panic rises from my chest.

"Stop the machine!" I scream.

"Just hang on, Cal," I hear the old man say.

I let out a loud, throaty groan as the buzzing sears my nerves. "Please!"

As I start to feel my body shake uncontrollably, I open my eyes. The last glimpse I catch is that of the three agents standing before me, as stoic as they were the moment they first revealed themselves to me.

***

For the second time today—I think it's still today—I awaken from a stream of unconsciousness. Instead of a large slab of nothing, however, I'm staring at ceiling tiles, the table still parallel to the floor. Although I feel like I've been in hibernation, I sense that I've only been out for a few minutes.

Fighting off another cloud of grogginess, I manage to lift my head and see myself in the reflection of the big window. I'm a changed man, in the figurative sense.

There is no going back.

I look to my left and see Jimenez, slaving away at her monitors and keyboards.

"Where are the other two?" I say.

As though startled, Jimenez turns away from her gadgets and looks over at me. "You made it." She holds down a button and leans closer to her hardware. "He's ready," she says, speaking into a microphone.

She lets out a sigh—as though bored—walks over to the side of my table and starts undoing my binds. As she frees my left wrist, I take a look at the woman, her shoulder length, highlighted brown hair hiding her face. I begin to wonder how she came to be recruited by the Agency of Influence. She is as laconic and serious as she is beautiful, so she doesn't exactly strike me as compassionate.

"Do you go out in the field often?" I say.

She shakes her head as she frees my left ankle. "I oversee our branch's intelligence."

"So, you're like third in command."

"Yes," she says fixated on my last bind, my right wrist.

"Won't be seeing you much once I get out there, will I?"

Finished her task, she goes back to her gadgets. "Not true. I'm going to be your partner for your first few cases."

"Really?"

No response. She continues pushing buttons and typing keys.

Sensing that my enthusiasm has gone unheard, I turn my attention away from her and examine my wrists as I sit up on the table. "It's okay if the idea of shadowing me doesn't excite you."

"The three of us take turns shadowing the new recruits."

"Your turn. Got it." I'm going to be like that annoying little brother who has his older sister take him to the carnival. "What did do before you joined these guys?"

"I was in the Air Force," she says. "I studied at Colorado Springs and did my five-year commitment." I did not expect that. Her personality befits that of an officer but appearances can be deceiving. "I'm guessing you were an intelligence officer, right?"

Jimenez stops what she's doing, looks upward and exhales loudly. "Look, stop trying to be nice. You're wasting your time."

"Sorry, I was just—"

She turns to look at me. "Drop it."

I hold her gaze. She means business. "Yes, ma'am."

At that moment, Richardson and Hamilton enter the room, all smiles. If Richardson was the one who recruited Jimenez, he's either a genius or a buffoon. On one hand, not only did he get someone who I presume has a military intelligence background to lead his own intelligence team but he also got someone whose personality seems to complement those of the two men. In a feel good establishment such as this, it would be easy to load up on do-gooders who are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Every once in a while, though, you need a ball-buster to move things along. I imagine Jimenez's charges respect her because she's smart and won't take any shit. On the other hand, it's possible that Richardson hired her on looks alone, not realizing how her bitchy temperament could sabotage his branch.

"I see the procedure was a success," says Richardson.

"Yeah, I feel good," I say.

"Why don't you stand up, Agent Newsome?"

I oblige the old man, carefully putting one foot on the ground before placing the second foot down.

"Try changing," says Hamilton.

I give him an inquisitive look.

"It's easy. Just think about who you want to be and what they look like."

I look at the three agents. If it feels anything like that damn machine, I'd rather not.

Swoosh!

My shoulders narrow as I shrink closer to the floor. My feet also shrink as the loafers on them are replaced by stiletto heels. In my periphery, I see the hair on my head, which was in the style of a nearly-bald fade, lengthen around my face. I look down once again and see my chest growing larger inside the pants suit that has now supplanted my dress shirt and slacks. As the skin on my hands turns a lighter shade, I acquire a crucifix around my neck and a decorative silver ring on my much slimmer right ring finger.

With the transformation complete, I turn to the large window and nearly fall over. I am now a dead ringer for Elena Jimenez.

"Perfect," Richardson exclaims.

I look over at Jimenez. She's pissed.

"My bad." I look at my reflection in the window one more time until I feel an itch under my blouse.

Richardson pats me on the shoulder. "When you change, Calvin, you acquire clothes, jewelry, pretty much everything someone would wear. You don't get their technology, such as cell phones, their wallet or identification, however."

Distracted, I ignore the old man. I want to adjust my undergarments, but isn't that taboo in public? Instead, I try contorting my body for relief. "Women actually wear these things?"

"Enough," the real Jimenez says.

Swoosh!

In a matter of a few seconds, my frame straightens, my skin darkens, and my hair slides back into the pores on my head.

"Cal," Richardson says, "before you're briefed on your first case subject, I want to give you the ground rules of being an Agent of Influence. We already explained to you the use of unnecessary shape shifting when you're here. The same goes for when you're in public. And never, ever change in front of other people. Find some privacy before doing so."

"Like Superman and his phone booth," Hamilton says.

This makes sense. They don't want anyone abusing their power nor do they want to reveal themselves to the unsuspecting public. Given what I saw in the Control Room, I don't think they'd have a problem detecting or enforcing that.

"Secondly," Richardson continues, "you cannot tell anyone about who you work for or what you do."

The hard part will be convincing Ronni that the matchmaker service is flourishing. She's good at detecting a lie and I'm sure that one won't fly for long.

"Lastly, you have to be careful where and when you change."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Agents of Justice are everywhere," says Hamilton. "Their presence automatically negates our shape shifting abilities."

"Why would they do that?"

"It's accidental when it happens, actually."

The old man scratches his bald spot. "The A of J has been trying rather unsuccessfully to replicate our Change Machine for years. Currently, they're only able to move things telekinetically. It was by chance that they discovered a way to neutralize our shape shifting power."

"Convenient. So what happens? I just turn back into myself?"

"Instantly," Jimenez says. "As soon as they're in the vicinity. We estimate that they need to be within fifty feet to expose you."

"That's why we want you to minimize your use of your power," Richardson says. "You never know when or where an A of J will be."

I nod my head. There's a lot more to this than I originally thought. It sounds like my success as an Agent of Influence will be as much about when I don't change as it'll be when I do.

"Now, enough of that crap," the old man says with a hearty wave. "Let's get to the good stuff." He nods towards the door.

I hop off of the table and follow his lead with Jimenez behind me. Once again, Hamilton holds the door open for all of us. We walk down the hallway toward the Control Room again. Hamilton unlocks the door, allowing us all to filter in.
Chapter Four

Inside the room, Ginger and the Frat Boy are still keeping watch over the monitors. The girl jots down a few notes on a pad. The boy, meanwhile, holds a yellow folder.

Richardson clears his throat, immediately breaking the youngsters' attention away from their work and onto me.

"We have a new agent," Jimenez tells the youngsters. "Listen up."

"This is Agent Calvin Newsome," the old man says. "He'll be working in the field and will be on the Carla Andrews case to start." The two intelligence agents give the customary nod and grin. "Cal, this is Agent Steve Seville. He just earned his MBA at Penn State and was working at a marketing firm before joining us."

As I shake hands with Seville, I notice him sizing me up. I also notice the light reflecting off of the guy's scalp, through the uber-moussed spikes in his hair. Sporting a pair of dimples amongst his chiseled facial features, Agent Seville strikes me as a playboy.

"You play basketball, man?" he says with a confident grin.

"No," I say, straight faced. "Which frat were you in?"

Steve furrows his brow with confusion as he shakes his head. "I—I wasn't in a frat."

One of my biggest pet peeves is being asked if I ever played basketball—or football, for that matter—especially by someone I just met.

I let go of Seville's hand and turn my attention to the redhead. She sports a cute pixie hair cut with blue eyes and faint freckles.

"And this is Agent Valerie Darling," Richardson says.

She greets my outstretched hand with a hearty shake and a heartwarming smile. If Jimenez is the emotionless Hollywood leading lady, jaded by the wandering eyes and the unwanted, misogynistic advances of the male species, then the ironically-named Agent Darling is the understated supporting actress, one of America's sweethearts.

"She graduated last spring from DeSales and was waiting tables when Jimenez found her, but we expect big things from her all the same," the old man says, patting her on the back.

"Nice to meet you," I say.

"Welcome aboard," she says with a pleasant tone and a bob of the head. "I'm sure you'll do great."

"As we told you before," Jimenez says, cutting into my moment with Darling, "Carla Andrews lives in Nicetown."

"Yeah, I know where that is," I say. "What a misnomer."

"Dude," Hamilton says, "where do you come up with these words?"

I shrug. "Sorry. I read."

"Gentlemen," Jimenez says sharply. "Don't interrupt me again."

"My bad."

"Sorry," Hamilton says.

"Ms. Andrews lives in Nicetown. Calvin, you and I are going to get to her house around 0900 tomorrow. We believe she's going grocery shopping."

"She just made out her grocery list," Seville says.

"You're going to engage her at the store," Jimenez says. "Be nice to her, make her feel good about herself, do whatever you need to do. Just convince her not to leave her kids."

"How do we know she's going to leave her kids?" I say.

"We've recorded a phone conversation she had with a friend," Darling says. She pushes a few buttons on the control panel in front of her.

"I can't do this shit anymore," a woman's voice says from a speaker in the ceiling above us.

"What are you going do, Carla?" another woman's voice says.

"I don't know, I..." Her voice catches.

"It's okay."

Carla's end of the line falls silent, just before one of her kids lets out a brief yelp. "I can't live like this anymore," she manages between sobs.

"Do you need me to call someone? I—"

"No. I don't want nobody coming here. They'll put me away, child."

"You need help, Carla."

"No! I don't want no damn help!"

Carla's friend only manages a helpless sigh and waits for another response.

"I need to go."

"Fine. Call me later," the friend says.

"No. I mean, I need to go."

"Carla... don't you leave those kids."

"Why not? It might do them some good."

"You are their mother. Those kids need you."

"Not me. They don't need me."

Another sigh from the friend.

"I'm gonna go."

"Promise me you won't leave those kids."

"I promise." You can almost hear Carla's fingers crossed behind her back. Agent Darling stops the recording.

"Shouldn't we just call child protective services?" I say.

"We checked her out," Hamilton says. "She's not unfit, just overwhelmed."

"Our policy," Richardson says, "is to try to keep children with their parents whenever possible. I'm sure you of all people can appreciate that."

I sure can. Despite the current, tenuous relationship I have with my mom, I wouldn't be who I am without her. Besides, I can recall too many foster family horror stories to place my faith in that system.

The old man interrupts my train of thought. "I'm surprised you aren't more enthusiastic about this assignment."

I shrug. "I just—I don't know. You guys make it sound so easy. This isn't a cut and dry kind of situation."

"You're right. I just thought that, with your background—"

"What about my background?" I say.

He holds up both hands. "Calvin, this has nothing to do with race. You and Carla have been presented with very similar life obstacles. You'd be a good example for her."

Save for the fact that I haven't fathered any children yet, I know what he's getting at. The ghetto presents many temptations to the young African-American. I managed to ignore them, though others will have you believe I climbed Mount Everest or something.

"What did she used to do for work?" I say.

"Food services," Seville says, "before she was fired for attendance."

"Any education?" I say.

"She dropped out of high school," Darling says.

"No GED?"

Darling shakes her head.

This will definitely be tougher than these guys realize. Carla's been dealt a difficult hand, to be sure. But she needs to get her life in order before she can appreciate or even handle being a mother. The best way she can go about doing that, at least to start, is to further her education so that she can get out of the house and earn some money.

"Any other questions, Agent Newsome?" Richardson says.

"How do you identify your case subjects? Out of so many people, I mean."

"Cell phones, cameras," Hamilton says. "We can hear and see just about everything. Our intelligence agents monitor all of this 24/7."

"We especially look in places where people go to vent their frustrations and problems," Darling says.

"Like bars and churches," I say.

"Right."

"Anything else?" the old man says.

I shake my head.

"Good. You'll be needing this." Richardson reaches into a shelf behind him and hands me a binder. "It's your Agent of Influence manual. Everything you need to know about pretty much every situation you'll encounter as an A of I."

"Awesome." The weight of the binder surprises me.

"Your contract is in there as well. Give it to Jimenez tomorrow and we'll take care of the rest."

Hamilton waves for me to follow him. "I'm going to drive you back to your car at Agent Richardson's house."

"Wait, that was your house?" I say, looking back at the old man.

Richardson nods with a wink and a smile.

As I leave the Control Room with Hamilton and walk down the other end of the hallway, I think about the fact that this is all more than a little surreal. When I woke up this morning, I didn't think I'd have a new job, let alone one that added 'Agent' as a prefix to my name.

I'm not even really sure I would call this a job. Jobs are those things you dread when the alarm sounds in the morning. They, and the people who tell you what to do while you're at them, are the banes of human existence. Ever notice how people who work crappy jobs can talk about nothing other than their crappy jobs while on their lunch breaks? Or at home? Or at happy hour? This isn't like that. This is different. Everyday will be different.

Down the hallway, Hamilton and I pass the room in which I was held captive, its ominous light still buzzing. At the end of the hallway is another door. Hamilton opens it, revealing a small parking garage.

"How many people work at this branch?" I say.

"About twenty." Hamilton holds up a car remote and unlocks his black Ford Explorer.

"Twenty? I thought it'd be more than that."

Hamilton shrugs. "That includes our hospitality services staff."

"Your what staff?"

"Hospitality services," Hamilton says with a smile. "Sometimes agents stay here overnight. We always have rooms and food available."

"Nice."

Hamilton opens the driver's side door and climbs in. The black coat of the car shines brightly under the much less annoying fluorescent lights in the garage. The tires on the car are well maintained, giving them more of a leather look as opposed to rubber. Dude takes care of his car.

"Nice wheels," I say as I climb in.

"Thanks," he says. Hamilton turns the ignition and drives toward a gate as I peruse all of the gadgets and gizmos lining the dash.

"Are those two the only agents working in intelligence?"

"No, we have four others. They work in shifts."

I nod as we approach the gate. Hamilton comes to a stop as we wait for the gate to open.

"There a code to get in?"

"No. They place a sensor in your glove compartment."

I'm so accustomed to codes. They're what our lives now revolve around, isn't it? I use a code to make purchases with my bank card and I use keyless entry to get into my townhouse. After the gate slides open, we drive into a dark, two-way tunnel. My ears pop as we gradually climb to the surface.

"Where are we?" I say.

"FDR Park."

"In South Philly? How do you build a place like this?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Nearing the end of the tunnel and the gate at its entrance, I see nothing but a wooded area, lit only by the city's waning twilight. Once again, we wait for the gate to open.

"Anyone ever find this place?"

"You get a group of kids who play around out here every once in a while," Hamilton says, "but that's it." Out of the tunnel, we drive down a narrow, winding path in a wooded area, tall trees hovering over us on both sides. "Have to look out for deer, though."

As the ride gets a little bumpy, I see a single car up ahead, driving on a road perpendicular to the wooded path. We then turn right onto the road, following the car. One look around and I can see why the branch would be difficult to find. This area of FDR Park is inconspicuous. No pools, no golf courses, no gazebos, or picnic areas that would otherwise attract a lot of traffic. It would be easy to slip in and out undetected.

"So how'd you get to be an Agent of Influence?" I say.

"Richardson," Hamilton says. "I've known him since I was fifteen."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he was kind of a father figure to me."

"Oh. What did you do before you were recruited?"

"Nothing," he says. Eyes fixed on the road.

"No job?"

"No job, no college. Nothing."

I look at Hamilton. There is a lot more to these agents than meets the eye. I think he can sense my curiosity as to his transformation from do-nothing to Agent of Influence. He turns to look at me, as though pondering whether to change the subject.

"Despite what you might think," he says, "I was not a good kid."

"We all have our faults."

"I was in a detox program when I was twenty."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay. Everyone's surprised by that part of my life."

"When did you get straight?"

"Richardson sought me out. He told me what he really did for a living. I thought he was a fool to recruit me." Instead, he was a genius. It was another shrewd hiring decision on Richardson's part. Who better to talk someone off the proverbial ledge than a person who's already been there? "He gave me a job, gave me food and clothes, and made me promise to leave all the drugs and booze behind."

"I'm sure that was hard."

"It still is."

I'm amazed he didn't fall off the wagon when his case subject died on the subway tracks. I chalk that up to what must be a very good support system. Having a guy like Richardson by your side never hurts. We all need someone like that for those important turning points in our lives.

"What do you do at the branch?" I say.

"I oversee all the administrative stuff. Selection of recruits and finances, mostly."

I nod before asking the next question on my mind. "Hey, what's up with Jimenez?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's like she's got something stuck up her ass."

Hamilton smiles and nods in agreement. "She has her reasons, I guess."

As we travel along the expressway, back toward my car in East Falls, I think about the events of the day. Suddenly, I remember: Ronni. I told her we would hang out at her place tonight.

"You mind if I make a call?" I say.

"Be my guest."

I pull out my phone and notice that I have no missed calls. Surely, at least Paula would have noticed I never returned from my lunch break.

"We had an agent cover for you," Hamilton says.

"What?" I say, an open-mouthed expression on my face.

Hamilton grins as though daring me to not be impressed. I pull up Ronnie's number on my phone and listen to it ring as I dream up different scenarios in my mind. Before I can decide which lie is the best to tell, I hear her voice on the other end.

"Calvin, where have you been?" she says, angry and relieved.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"It's fine. I'm just glad you're okay. Did you have a matchmaking appointment?" That's the Ronni I know and love. Never mind that I stood her up twice in one day. She chose my lie for me. That's far less awkward.

"I did, actually. And I think I have a match for her," I say, sensing Hamilton's eyes on me.

"That's awesome, Calvin. When do I get to see you? Are you still coming over?"

"Um," I say, looking over at Hamilton, "I don't think tonight's good for me."

"Oh. Well... have a good night, I guess."

"Goodnight."

Ronnie is an actuary at a corporate insurance firm in Center City. She lives close to her family in Northeast Philly, not terribly far from me—maybe twenty minutes in good traffic—but far enough where we generally need to plan our get-togethers a few days in advance.

"You guys ever go out?" Hamilton says.

"No."

"Really?"

I look at Hamilton, wanting him to elaborate further.

He only shrugs. "I'm just a little surprised, that's all. I mean, I've seen the two of you together."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Just saying."

The truth is, I love Ronni but I don't love Ronni. And, no, we've never done the friends with benefits thing, either. It's not that she's not attractive. Ronni's a beautiful girl, far more attractive than I. She has skin as smooth as porcelain and a smile bright enough to illuminate this burnt-out burg. It's just that, if we cross that path, there are only two things that could potentially happen: we would live happily ever after or we break up and our friendship becomes a train wreck. Call me strange—hell, call me gay if you want—but I just like what we have too much.

As we drive through East Falls towards Richardson's house, I look at some of the people walking down the street, some confident, some beaten down by life's jackhammer. I wonder if those people will ever need a visit from their neighborhood Agent of Influence. Hamilton pulls up next to my car and triggers the power locks.

"Remember," Hamilton says, "Jimenez will be by to pick you up at nine tomorrow morning."

I nod my head.

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

I hop out of the car and watch Hamilton drive away before I climb into my car. I throw the manual on the passenger seat and begin to laugh at myself as I sit in a pool of reality.

What am I doing?

I've just taken these people at their word. No training program, no shadowing, nothing. Mr. Grace always accuses of me being too quick to trust people. I'm beginning to agree with him. Maybe I'll just call out sick at Maxwell tomorrow, just to be safe.

I start the car and begin driving home.

***

The phone rings three times before it's answered.

"Hello?" says a voice. Its accent is English.

"Justice will be done," says the second voice.

"Very well. What news do you bring?"

"Everything is in place, sir. Tomorrow, everything starts."

"Which Agent of Influence will be unlucky enough to receive this assignment?"

"His name's Calvin Newsome, sir. He was just hired today."

"Perfect. He'll never see it coming."

"I'm not sure if it is perfect, actually."

"Why not?"

"I'm a little nervous about the Agent of Justice assigned to this, sir. They could be compromised."

"I can assure you, the agent will do their job."

Silence from the second voice.

"Do I detect doubt?"

"No."

"Good. Just focus on your task and the agent will certainly do theirs."

"Yes, sir."

"Besides, yours is the most important assignment. If you succeed tomorrow, you should have no problem getting what you came for.

"Yes, sir."

"You've done well," the first voice says. "Justice will be done."
Chapter Five

Rule number one: An Agent of Influence shall not change his or her form while in an A of I facility. Rule number two: An Agent of Influence shall not change his or her form in the presence of a civilian.

The Agency of Influence manual has about a dozen of these kinds of rules. Most of them are common sense. Some are ridiculous. Usually, though, for every ludicrous-sounding rule, there is at least one person who committed that infraction, thus necessitating the need to write the rule. One in particular stands out: rule number eleven, an Agent of Influence must not knowingly and intentionally use their ability to assume a second life. If I were so inclined, I could use my power to help support my matchmaking practice, using my power to deliver highly-attractive and very eager matches. I'd have the highest percentage of satisfied clients ever.

Oh well.

After a long night of perusing the manual, which includes a section on how to work with despondent parents, I manage to get a few hours of sleep before waking up and calling out sick at Maxwell. If today goes well, I'll submit my immediate resignation tomorrow. I sign my contract but intentionally leave it at home when Jimenez picks me up. Richardson was right; I'll definitely make more money as an Agent of Influence than the six figures I was earning as director of business analytics at Maxwell. I wouldn't be a millionaire but I'd never have to worry about another cent for as long as I live. Still, I don't want to put all of my eggs in the shape shifting basket yet.

After a silent car ride, Jimenez slides into a parking spot along one of Nicetown's narrow streets. Just before she silences the radio, the jingle of a special news report grabs her attention.

"Disappointment for some," says the anchor, a male, "relief for others as City Hall remains intact this afternoon. A special city commission appointed to investigate accusations of corruption on the part of Mayor Terry Haslett and Philadelphia's City Council has cleared both parties of any wrongdoing."

"Ay," Jimenez says with a wave, her Cuban heritage on full display. She then looks through her window at nothing in particular. "No surprise."

I'm not one to keep up with current events so I can't say I fully understand the hatred being hurled towards our civic politicians. Philadelphia, as has been the case with most metropoli, has had its share of villainous political figures. That said, I've never seen a populace grow as venomous toward a group of elected officials as this one has to the ones who have just been exonerated.

"Haslett and City Council were accused of, among other things, embezzlement and failure to follow personnel policy. This includes a perceived lack of discipline taken against police chief Gregory Sears and six other top cops following a string of accusations of sexual assault."

Now I get it.

Jimenez pops off with something vengeful-sounding. I wish I had taken Spanish instead of French.

My focus on the radio is broken when I hear a sudden racket. Carla Andrews has opened her front door and stands on her porch, three houses from where we've parked.

"Don't go nowhere," she sternly says into the house, holding her door open, "I'll be right back." She's not much for safety, this Carla Andrews. If I was a deviant walking down the street, waiting to kidnap a few kids, I'd be salivating after hearing what she said.

"How old are her kids?" I say.

Jimenez responds without looking at me. "Six, five, and three."

"Wow. She sure spread them out, didn't she?"

She shakes her head. "You think you're so funny."

I ignore my partner and focus on Carla. She wears a pair of stained sweatpants, most likely laced with the same layer of filth I noticed on the monitor back in the Control Room. Up top, Carla sports an oversized Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt, replete with the team's midnight green coloring and some kind of faded print on the front. Carla's not fat but she's not thin.

She lets the security door close behind her as she bounds down the stairs walks in our direction.

"She doesn't have a car," Jimenez says, "so she'll probably take the bus."

"Which store is she going to?"

"Thrift Rite, I believe."

Just before passing our car, Carla starts running. I look in the sideview mirror and see a bus on the corner. As the traffic light turns green, Carla waves her right arm at the driver. The bus stays put, opening its doors to her.

Jimenez starts the car. "Let's go."

We take a shortcut, reaching Thrift Rite before the bus does.

Still in the car, my eyes shift from side-to-side, scoping out the parking lot for any potential witnesses before changing into a tall, handsome black man of about thirty-five to forty years old. While I haven't taken his form exactly, I've always liked Denzel Washington's style. Since studying the manual last night, I've had him in my mind as the inspiration for my first shape shifting assignment. Besides, name me one woman who doesn't care for the guy.

"Don't go in like that," Jimenez says, her emotionless tone providing no additional feedback.

"Like what?"

"Like a man."

"Why? I'm supposed to get her attention and draw her in, right?"

"Yes, but if you were a struggling single mother, whose advice would you take?"

Elena's right. I know that I got a huge lift from Denise when I needed a pick me up, but this is different. This isn't about a boy who was cheated on by a girl he probably would've dumped a couple months later.

This is serious. This is a woman's issue.

If I want to empower Carla with the knowledge that she can be a successful mother of three with a good head on her shoulders, I need to engage her as someone who's been there.

Swoosh!

The new form I take is modeled after Oprah. Articulate, fashionable, urbane, successful. She's my inspiration now and she'll be Carla's inspiration in Thrift Rite. I've made myself around forty years old with a sharp white blouse underneath a designer suit jacket. I've borrowed Jimenez's sense of style and have gone the way of the pants suit.

"Better?" I say.

"Yes."

As Carla steps off the bus, navigating the loose debris on the corner, Jimenez reaches into the inside pocket of her suit jacket and pulls out a small device. "This goes in your ear," she says, handing it to me. "We'll be able to communicate with it."

When I put the device in my ear, I can't help but think that, to my knowledge, Roger Moore, Sean Connery, and Pierce Brosnan never got to do anything like this in real life.

"Be friendly, but do it naturally."

"Okay," I say, watching Carla enter the store. I open my door and climb out of the car. Not only do I look different, I feel different. My form is a bit heavier than I actually am, so my movements feel a little slower. As I close the car door and turn towards the store, I feel the extra eleven years my new persona has added to my body. My knees feel creaky.

After the store's automatic door acknowledges my presence, I keep one eye on Carla as she navigates through the produce section. I grab a shopping cart and head in her direction.

Thrift Rite is one of those discount grocery chains you'd only imagine impoverished people frequenting. The carts are rickety and unwieldy, their handles filmy. The floors are dirty, the milk is two days expired, and the air smells like spoiled meat. Despite this, it's a good place to save a few dollars.

I went to bed last night pondering what I was going to do to gain Carla's trust. Even with the curveball Jimenez threw in my direction, I'll still be able to execute my plan, which will kill two birds with one stone. Fortunately, Carla's at the store at a time when it's slow, making it easier for me to work my magic, in a manner of speaking.

After Carla places a bag of broccoli in her cart, she turns around and scopes out the tomatoes in the middle of the produce section. I slide next to her, avoiding eye contact, and check out the broccoli right behind her. I bag a nice, healthy group of them and start walking away as I float the bag into Carla's cart. After I let it down quietly, Carla turns back to her cart but is otherwise oblivious as to what I've just done.

This telekinesis thing is quite easy. You mean I can tell an object what to do in my mind and it will actually do it? Awesome. Dangerous.

Carla picks up a carton of cherry tomatoes, places it in her cart and moves on, heading toward the canned food aisle. She stops her cart in front of a section of generic, no frills Spaghetti-Os. She drops about four or five cans into the cart before studying a shelf canned green beans behind her.

Taking Carla's spot at the tomato stash, I fixate on three more cans of the generic Spaghetti-Os and let them slowly fall into her cart. Still oblivious, Carla then drops a pair of green bean cans into the cart and moves on without hesitation.

I follow Carla further down the canned food aisle. When she reaches its halfway point, I break out the heavy artillery. "Excuse me, miss."

She stops in front of the soup section and looks over her shoulder at me.

"Can you tell me where I can find milk and butter?" I say, abandoning my cart. "I've never shopped here before."

She turns her back on her cart. "Yeah, it's at the other end of the store." As she says this, I drop a few cans of soup to her collection behind her.

"Oh, wait," I say before she turns around, "what about cereal?"

"Next aisle," she says as six packs of ramen float into her cart.

I crack a wide smile. "Well, thank you very much. You've been very helpful."

"No problem," she says.

I turn my cart around and round the corner, turning into the cereal aisle. The shelves are stocked with the generic, no frills knock-offs of otherwise popular cereals. Corn Puffs, Toasted Cinnamon and Lucky MarshmellO's all wait to be taken home. None of the knock-offs come in a box, either. They're all contained in large plastic bags.

I take a bag of Toasted Cinnamon for myself when I see Carla turn into the aisle from the other end. She pulls a large loaf of white bread off the shelf before pushing past me. I turn my cart around again, going toward the front of the store. When I see Carla slide into a checkout lane, I take my cue and slot in behind her.

Carla places all of her produce and cans on the lane's belt, still ignorant to my generosity. I'll give her credit; most impoverished parents don't even look at produce. Carla and I exchange smiles when she drops her last item on the belt.

The cashier, a young man in his early twenties, scans the items with gusto, letting the cans slide to the end of the lane where they wait to be bagged. Not surprisingly, this particular grocery store doesn't employ baggers.

After he scans the last item, the loaf of bread, the boy begins the bagging process. "Twenty-eight thirty-seven," he says.

Carla digs into the left pocket of her soiled sweats, whips out what looks like a government-issued card and swipes it through the reader in front of her. The boy looks at his register, tilts his head slightly and says her to swipe the card again. She obliges.

"It was declined," he tells Carla. Her jaw drops, more out of embarrassment than surprise, I suspect.

I took a chance that she would have insufficient funds if I dropped more groceries in her cart than she had planned. Be that as it may, her trip through the store was quicker than I expected. And although this has gone according to plan, I'm surprised as to how little she could actually afford.

"I'll pay for it," I say, handing my bag of Toasted Cinnamon to the cashier. I shimmy my way between Carla's cart and the candy and gum shelf as I make my way to the front of the line.

"Oh, you don't need to do that," she says.

"No, let me get this for you."

The cashier scans my cereal.

"It's my fault, I got more food than I thought."

"No worries. I got it."

"Thank you." She shuffles aside to allow me to step up to the credit card reader.

I pull out my bank card and swipe, typing in my PIN. The boy's register opens and a receipt slides out of its printer. The boy rips it out and hands it to me.

"Have a nice day, Ms... Newsome," he says, looking at the receipt.

"You too."

The boy finishes bagging our items and places them in Carla's cart before we move on.

"I'm Lisa Newsome," I say, shaking Carla's hand. "Do you live around here?"

"A couple blocks down on Erie."

"A couple blocks?"

"I live on Seventh."

"Seventh?" I say, trying to sound surprised. "That's more than a few blocks, girl! How are you getting home?"

"The bus."

I nod towards Jimenez's Volkswagen Jetta when we walk through the doors. "No, no. I'll have my chauffeur drive you home."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"No. Allow me."

"Why are you doing all this?"

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "Just paying it forward, I guess."

I walk around the front of Jimenez's Jetta, her eyes following me the entire time. I step up to her door before she engages the power windows. My reflection disappears as the window's glass slides out of view.

"What are you doing?" Jimenez says with a whisper.

"I'm helping her out," I say, bending down to the window. "Pop the trunk."

Jimenez simply rolls her eyes.

"Please," I say.

Jimenez sighs under her breath before springing forward when she sees something in her rearview mirror. "I don't think we'll be taking her home."

I stand up and watch Carla, grocery bags in hand, take off toward the street while a bus pulls up to a red light, ready to take her home.

As I start to yell her name, Jimenez puts her hand on my forearm and shakes her head. "Don't."

I give her a questioning look.

"You probably scared her off. We'll try again tomorrow."

"That's it?"

"For today, yes. These things take time, Calvin. You've planted the seed. We'll see her again tomorrow."

"Unbelievable," I say, throwing up my hands. "She even took my cereal."

Jimenez gives me a look of insincere pity. "Sorry."

Once I get over the initial disappointment of not finishing my first assignment, I reflect on what happened as I watch Carla's bus disappear down the street. Assuming I finish my assignment, I can now firmly say, after just a few minutes on the job, that this has the potential to be the most meaningful job I've ever had. It felt good to be back in my community, trying to lend a helping hand, even if it was just for a few fleeting moments.

I can make a career out of this.

"C'mon!" Jimenez says. "Get in the car!"

I climb into the passenger seat and shut the door. "Wow. And I get paid how much for this? Where does the funding for this operation come from?"

"Donations, mostly," she says, turning the ignition and driving away from the store. "That, and a large endowment that's been maintained throughout the centuries. Both agencies were formed by a select few who owned replicas of the Arrowhead. When they did that, they poured a ton of money into the agencies to help them stay afloat."

"I'd say they're doing pretty damn good for 'staying afloat. Hey, how'd I do on my first day?"

"Not bad. I've seen much worse."

"Wow, a compliment!"

"Every dog has his day," she says in a mocking tone.

When I start to recall the last time I said that, a thought pops into my mind. "I have to call Ronni."

"Wait. You're going to tell Ronni about this?"

"Hell no." I dial her number on my cell phone and listen to it ring twice before she picks up.

"This is Veronica."

"Ronni, it's Calvin."

"Calvin? What happened to your voice?"

"Oh," I say, nearly swearing. "Let me call you right back."

When I hang up the phone, Jimenez is actually smiling. "So, that's what you laugh at? Other people's mistakes?"

Swoosh!

I dial Ronni's number again. "This is Veronica."

"Hey, Ronni. It's me."

"What the heck was that?"

"I—I just inhaled some helium. Crazy, right?" I trade glances with Elena.

"Interesting," Ronni says, unfazed. "What's up?"

"Well, I wanted to see if we could hang out tonight."

"Tonight? I don't know."

"I'll bring dinner."

She groans. "Fine. Six o'clock," she says. "Don't be late."

"I won't."

"Cool. See you."

"See you." I hang up the phone and look over at Jimenez to find her staring at me. "What?"

"You love her, don't you?"

"No," I say, as though she told me I was from Mars. "I mean, I do, but not like—I love her like a sister."

She nods her head, skeptical. "Right."

"What's it to you, anyway?"

She shrugs.

I look down at my phone and lower my voice. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't."

As Jimenez rounds a corner, I think about my encounter with Carla Andrews. If this is what it's going to be like, day-in and day-out, consider me hooked. If I can get through to Carla, this is the tangible impact I talked about. If she gets to watch her kids walk across a stage—mortarboards and tassels on their heads—I can say that I, Calvin Newsome, was the one who turned all of their lives around.

***

A plastic bag of Italian takeout in hand, I get to Ronni's place and knock on her door. Through a window overlooking her dining room, I watch her skip out of her bathroom and open the door. Without saying a word, she greets me with her signature smile and wraps her arms around me. Ronni's hugs are nice. Not the limp ones you'd give your grandmother. Her smile and her hugs; those are the things I enjoy most about Ronni.

I step into the apartment and set the bag down on her dining room table. "How are you?"

"I'm okay." As she pulls out a chair, she pauses and glances at her reflection in the dining room window. She then turns around and walks back to the bathroom.

I sigh. "Ronni, you look great."

As usual, my refrain goes unheard. It is true that old habits die hard; my friend, despite being an otherwise sensible sort, is as vain as they come.

I grab a few utensils from Ronni's kitchen and take a seat, arranging our separate entrees and garlic bread. "It's just me, you know."

After she puts the finishing touches on what I'm sure is a reapplication of the day's eyeliner, Ronni sits down across from me, grabbing a fork and knife as though nothing happened. She dives into her spinach ravioli as I start to spill my guts over a well-prepared batch of chicken parm.

Bursting at the seams with excitement, I tell Ronni everything. Of course, I give her the rundown of the day's events after prefacing that my encounter with Carla was a matchmaking appointment. And I bend some of the details, such as Carla's economic status. Instead of telling her that Carla was an impoverished single mother who wants so badly to escape her daily life, I tell her that Carla was an affluent single mother who wants so badly to escape her daily life. Ronni buys it, too, though I don't think she's enjoying the story as much as I am. I'd even go so far as to say that she seems sad, though that's nothing new.

For the past few years, Ronni's been exuding a sort of subtle sadness and it wafts over me whenever we're together. She won't admit it but I'm certain it has to do with our relationship. While I'm content with what we have, that sentiment is not mutual. Her feelings began to intensify after I was abandoned by the girl I thought I was going to marry.

"But I could go on and on. How was your day?"

"Oh," she says, waving me off, "it was the same old, same old. Everyone at work complaining about City Hall."

"What? Bean counters actually have feelings and get mad?"

She shoots me a tired look.

"What's the latest with that?"

"A lot of people were giddy yesterday, like today was going to be Christmas or something."

"Today?"

"Didn't you hear? The state just finished investigating the mayor."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I heard he was cleared. Not what you guys were hoping for, huh?"

"No. Not for the mayor, the city council chair or the police chief. It would've changed things for us."

I furrow my brow. "Really?" When she doesn't answer, instead only looking down at her food, I take a moment to regard Ronni and notice how the dining room light hanging above us gives her jet black hair a sort of navy blue tint. I then look at her face, which she holds in her hand as she plays with her food. She can't be full, she hasn't eaten much. Something's on her mind.

"What's wrong?"

She speaks without looking at me. "Nothing."

"Want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head.

"You can tell me. It won't bother me." Yes, it may be sadistic but hearing Ronni profess her desire for more out of our relationship never truly annoys me. She's my friend. I care about her feelings. But I do wish there was something I could do about them. "I'm sorry I can't, you know, give you what you want."

Ronni raises her head and simply meets my gaze with a blank stare.

My phone rings. "Do you mind if I take this?"

She shakes her head before again looking down at her ravioli with a melancholic gaze. I stand up and take my phone over to her small kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Calvin. It's Jimenez."

"Hi, Elena," I say. I trade glances with Ronni. I probably shouldn't have let it be known that I was speaking with another woman.

"Do you think you can come in to the branch?"

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"I'm in the middle of dinner."

"Fine," Jimenez says. "When you're finished, get over here right away."

"Why? What's up? Something new with Carla?"

"Negative. It's someone else. We need to brief you," she says. "It's an emergency case subject. Possible suicide."

"Suicide?" I say. "Damn, I'm on my way."

I hang up the phone and look over at Ronni.

She's not happy.

"I have to go. A friend of mine—don't look at me like that."

She throws her hands up. "Why'd you even come over?"

"I'm sorry. I really have to go."

If looks could kill, Ronni would be tried for murder and given the chair. I walk over to her side of the table, her eyes locked on me the entire time.

"What's wrong?" I say, kneeling down to her level.

"We don't even talk anymore."

"Sure we do. We did tonight, right?"

"That's not what I mean." She sighs. "Whatever, just go."

I take a deep breath and pat Ronni's leg. "Look, when all of this dies down, I promise, we'll pick a day and just hang out. Maybe even go to Six Flags."

I notice a subtle change in Ronni's expression. I can at least leave her apartment in one piece now.

I kiss her on the cheek and stand up while looking into her razor-sharp gaze again. "I love you."

"Love you, too," she says. "Call me later."

"I will," I say, opening her door. "Keep my chicken parm in the fridge, will you?"

She nods with a faint smile before I close the door. I love Ronni but I wish she didn't mope around me all the time. Maybe she needs a visit from her friendly neighborhood Agent of Influence.

I leave Ronni's apartment building, hop into my Kia and drive toward South Philly, burning rubber in the process.
Chapter Six

With rush hour long gone, I make it to Franklin D. Roosevelt Park in less than twenty minutes. I admit, I flew down the interstate, pushing the limits of the old nine, you're fine; ten, you're mine proviso. The hardest part is finding the entrance to the Agency of Influence branch. Despite having just been here yesterday, I was too preoccupied with my surroundings to take a mental picture of its exact location. Once I finally find the entrance, I phone Jimenez to let me in.

The gate opens and I feel like I'm driving into the Batcave. I drive down the long, steep two-way tunnel, my ears popping as I ride the brake the entire time. At the bottom of the tunnel, I reach the agency's parking garage. Not as many cars are here as there were yesterday evening. As I get out of my car, the door leading to the main hallway swings open, Elena's ever-serious expression greeting me.

"You said there's a potential suicide?" I say as we walk down the hall, side-by-side.

"Yes. A teenage boy."

She opens the door to the Control Room where Agents Seville and Darling continue to sit at the table and face the monitors. They turn around, each greeting me with a nod and a smile, respectively.

Jimenez's eyes examine the monitors as she speaks. "Josh Jenner lost his mother in a boating accident last summer."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

"He's always felt a little guilty about it," Seville says, "but lately it's gotten worse."

"You should see the awful things he writes in his notebooks," Darling says.

Jimenez grabs a yellow file folder off of the table and hands it to me. "This contains everything you'll need to know for tomorrow."

I open the folder and find, among its contents, a schedule of Josh's classes at Lincoln High School as well as a lanyard with a faded Lincoln High ID belonging to a blonde girl.

"Who's Jenny Cooper?" I say.

"You. That's the identity you'll assume when you meet him at school tomorrow."

"Do I have to be a girl?"

"Affirmative. It's the only Lincoln High ID we have. You'll need that to get in."

I examine the card. "Looks kind of old and beat up. You think it'll pass?"

Jimenez takes the card out of my hand and gives it a good inspection. "You're right, it is a little worn. Where'd you guys find this?"

"The ID collection," Darling says, as though surprised Jimenez should have known.

I turn to Elena with a confused expression. "What's she talking about?"

"We have a collection of documents and ID cards we've made over the years," Jimenez tells me. "We keep them and use them for later cases. It's safe to say someone mishandled this one." She places the card back in the open folder.

"If anyone says," Seville adds, "just tell them you left it in your laundry."

"Good call," I say.

"You'll be arriving at the school around lunch time," Darling says. "You'll meet Josh in the cafeteria."

"Just introduce yourself," Jimenez says. "Suicide cases are relatively easy but they require the most patience."

"Gotcha."

"Any questions?"

I shake my head.

"Good. Read the manual section on suicides. I'll pick you up at your place around ten. Don't make me wait."

"I won't."

She opens the door, motioning for me to let myself out of the branch. "I'll see you then."

I hear Darling wish me luck just as I reenter the hallway and head back to my car.

That was quick. Now I feel bad for leaving Ronni the way I did. I do, however, appreciate being given a full evening to sleep on things and devise a plan as to how to engage Josh. I enter the parking garage again and hop into my Kia, pondering the possibilities.

***

Early the next morning, I drive to Maxwell to deliver my letter of resignation to Mr. Grace. He's not in but I'm able to hand the letter to his assistant. I don't like quitting jobs in this manner—even when I worked at the movies as a teen—but when an opportunity like this comes along, you do what you have to do.

I get back home in time to meet Elena at my townhouse again. This time, I give her my signed contract.

After once again failing to strike up conversation with Jimenez while on our way to Lincoln, I begin to value her curt personality. It's easy to underestimate the power of a silent car ride; it gives me time to think and focus on the task at hand. I can also appreciate Jimenez because she doesn't strike me as the judgmental type, either. She remains remarkably silent as I jam out to Tom Petty's Runnin' Down A Dream.

Halfway through the chorus, I stop singing and look over at Jimenez. Her sunglasses hide her eyes while the rest of her face remains motionless. Both of her hands remain firmly affixed to the steering wheel.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing. Just... are you annoyed or something?"

"Would you like me to be?"

I shrug. "I got kind of carried away with the song there."

"I don't care."

I can appreciate that, much in the same way Lenin appreciated Marx. See, given the color of my skin, it's not uncommon for me to get razzed for my eclectic musical choices. With Elena, it would appear that I never have to worry about that stuff.

From Jimenez's Jetta, I can now see Lincoln High, its large, brick structure looming large in the otherwise residential neighborhood. We turn into the school's parking lot and slide into a spot far from the building's main entrance.

I open the yellow folder on my lap and look at the photo ID of Jenny Cooper once again. The agency did a really good job of finding someone who likes like a vibrant teenage girl. Through the faded ink, I can make Jenny out, full of life and, no doubt, popular with her peers.

"You should change before someone sees you," Jimenez says.

"You're right. It's morphin time!" I proclaim with a laugh, recalling the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, one of my favorite childhood television shows. I wait for a reaction from Jimenez. "Nothing? Not even a groan?"

My moment of nostalgia only elicits a blank stare.

Swoosh!

I look in the side-view mirror and see a full set of blonde curls to go along with blue eyes and a cute, unblemished face.

Freaky.

As I smile, I can honestly say that my teeth have never been straighter. My rendition of Jenny is solely based on the headshot in the ID. I decided on a slim build, about five and a half feet tall.

"You still have your earpiece?"

"Wearing it now," I say, freaked out by my shrill voice as I tap my tragus. I then think to ask a question that's been bugging me since delving deeper into the A of I manual last night. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You know what I don't know understand? Instead of making every agent go through the Change Machine procedure, why not just give every agent a replica Arrowhead? It'd be a lot less painful and not irreversible—you could just take it back when they quit."

"Yes but think about what would happen if someone lost it. What if it fell into the wrong hands?"

"Okay, but how do we know the Agency of Justice isn't making replicas?"

"They'd need the original. It's possible they've done that in the past but, right now, the A of I has it."

"Interesting. I would think the A of J would push for replicas since they can't seem to get the machine right. You know, you guys never did tell me what exactly it is that they do."

Jimenez nods, as though acknowledging that I'm owed at least that explanation despite her preference for silence. "Back when they were created, the agencies had an agreement that they would carry out very different types of missions. One agency would look after the downtrodden while the other would seek out those who haven't paid for their crimes against humanity. Remember when bin Laden died? That was the A of J."

"Really?" I say. "I get it. It's like they were trying to create a Utopia."

"In theory, yes. But some might say that the Agency of Justice takes things to the extreme."

"Define extreme."

"Remember the fight that killed Hamilton's subject in the subway near City Hall? We're convinced an Agent of Justice started it."

"They sacrificed the safety of others to punish one guy?"

"That's one way to put it."

"Why doesn't the A of I do anything about it?"

"The two agencies have a consonance. They've both promised to stay out of each other's way."

I shake my head as I put the lanyard ID around my neck and peek at the photo of Josh in the folder one last time. There are those among my brethren who would call Josh a wigger. I don't subscribe to the theory that someone is supposed to act and dress a certain way based on the color of their skin. Still, it won't be hard to spot Josh given his style of dress. Northeast Philly has never been known for its diversity.

"You should probably get moving," Jimenez says. "Josh will be in the cafeteria soon."

I close the folder and hand it to her.

"Remember, be patient. Introduce yourself. Observe him."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, opening the door. "I got it."

"I'll be here in the car."

Nodding as I climb out of Elena's car, I close the door behind me. I walk not four steps before I hear her voice again.

"You walk like a man!" she calls from the car.

I nod and start walking again, trying to put a little more wiggle in my midsection.

"Much better!" I look back at the Jetta and see, for a brief moment, what I believe to be a faint smile on Jimenez's face to go along with a shake of the head.

As I walk along the side of the school building, I give it a longer look. The school is an older, two-story building with an off-white cinderblock exterior and windows laced with bars. Lincoln isn't in a bad neighborhood but you can't tell by the windows or the uninviting wrought iron fence surrounding the school's grounds.

Before I reach the front of the building, I come across a red metallic door. On the other side of the door, I hear the din of rowdy teenagers. Either this is an unruly classroom or I've found the cafeteria. I start to put my face up to the window to peer inside but am startled when the door flies open.

A chubby boy, milk carton in hand, motions for me to enter. "Sneaking into school?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Nice," he says with an admiring nod of the head.

I enter the building, greeted by the zoo that is the cafeteria. It's just about everything I remember from high school, except more exaggerated and more cartoonish. Maybe it's because I'm now old enough to notice the nuances of the high school social scene.

I peruse the cafeteria and catch Josh Jenner sitting by himself at the end of a table in a corner of the room as he jots down notes in a notebook. Perhaps he's completing last night's homework at the last minute.

Those were the days.

"Get some food. It'll help you blend in," Jimenez says in my ear.

She doesn't have to tell me twice. I'm famished. Besides, I'm curious to see the crap they're feeding kids these days anyway. On my way to the food, I pass a trio of girls, all of them brunettes. One of them is Latin while the other two are white. They all give me a hard look up and down. I'm initially flattered, holding their collective gaze until I realize that I, too, am female.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I say under my breath. I turn my attention back to the food and pick up a tray in the process.

Behind the customary glass sits chicken nuggets, burgers, fries and pizza, all of which appears to have been sitting out too long. The lunch lady grabs a pair of tongs, picks up a plate and gives me that what do you want look.

"Can I have some nuggets and fries, please?" I sound so much friendlier as a female. No wonder girls always get what they want.

The lady nods her head and starts placing the junk on the plate. Not only does this food look stale, it sounds the part as it clanks on the plate. As the lady hands me the food, her apathetic gaze turns into a quizzical one.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"No, I don't think so," I say, playing with my lanyard so as to hide the ID without calling attention to it. "I just moved here from Ohio. It's my first day."

"Weird," the lady says with a shrug. "I could've sworn I've seen you before."

I grab my tray and start walking across the cafeteria, suddenly realizing that I didn't get anything to drink. Doesn't matter. If I have my druthers, I'll have this kid turned around in no time.

I close in on Josh. He continues writing with his right hand while leaning his head on his left. As I draw closer, though, I notice that he's not doing homework. Instead, he's writing as a teenage girl would write in her diary. No textbook, no worksheet, nothing but the thoughts of an angst-ridden teenage boy. When he takes a break from his writing to look at the cafeteria's clock, I decide I have one chance to see what makes this kid tick. With a wink of my eye, his notebook slides off the table.

"Let me get that for you," I say.

I put my tray down next to Josh's and walk behind him to pick up the notebook. "Sorry about that. Let me find your place." I skim through the book as much as I can, finding nothing of substance.

"Give me that shit!" he says, snatching the book from me. "What the hell are you doing?"

Oh, hell no.

I was going to be nice to this kid but it sounds like he needs a stiff kick in the ass. The A of I's suicide literature didn't say anything about foul-mouthed teenage boys.

Before I cuss the boy out, I watch him flip through the pages in his book and notice a page laced with nothing but the same phrase: I wish you would just die. The phrase comes in all varieties of lettering: large, small, thick, thin, lower case, all caps, chicken scratch, and cursive. While the kid hasn't done anything to endear himself to me, Jimenez and her crew weren't kidding, he needs an intervention.

I sit down next to Josh and he immediately grows uncomfortable as he continues to write. I take a deep breath before engaging him again. "So what's your name?"

"Josh," he says, never looking away from his notebook.

"I'm Jenny." I extend my hand for a shake but he ignores it. "What are you writing?"

The boy continues to give me the silent treatment as he slides his notebook further out of my view. I've heard of some people being tough nuts to crack but this guy's a macadamia.

"Is something bothering you?" I say.

He shoots me a look before turning back to his notebook.

"What's wrong?"

"Leave me alone."

I take another deep breath.

"Walk away, Newsome," I hear Jimenez say. I ponder her directive, noting that she's been at this a lot longer than I have. However, I'm not sure when I will get this kind of individual time with Josh again. Given what I saw in his notebook, and the fact that Jimenez didn't see it, I'd rather not tempt fate.

Screw it.

"Look," I say, "whatever it is you're going through, it's not your fault."

The boy slams his book closed and stares into my eyes. "Are you deaf? I said leave me the fuck alone." It's all I can do to keep my eyes from popping out of my head as Josh stands up and walks away.

"Pendejo," Jimenez says. I'm not sure what that means but it didn't sound at all like praise.

"I'll get him after school."

"No. We're done for the day."

You know that feeling you get after you royally mess up? Yeah, I'm that guy right now. It's not a good feeling and it's hard to ignore it, no matter how many times you tell yourself what's done is done. The feeling weighs on your body as well as your mind. I can feel my temperature rise, especially in my face, as I turn and watch Josh leave the cafeteria.

When I scan the scene, I notice that many of the other students are now watching me. Initially, I think that it's just the boys being boys but the girls are staring, too, much like the trio of plastics I encountered before I got my food.

But this look is different, disconcerting even. The boys and the girls are all whispering amongst themselves. I turn my back to everyone and face the wall at the back of the cafeteria. I look at the skin on my hands. Fair. I run my fingers through my hair. Flaxen. I check my clothes. Feminine and clean.

"I'll be there soon," I manage to finally tell Elena. "I need to use the restroom."

"I'll be here." Not that Jimenez is a joy to be around to begin with, but this is one time I definitely won't look forward to seeing her.

Out in the hallway, the loud roar of the cafeteria quiets to mere ambient noise. The fluorescent lights that dot the hall's ceiling buzz loudly. To the left I see two restrooms, a boys' room next to a girls' room.

I let the cafeteria door close behind me and head for the ladies room. Ahead of me is the same trio of girls who so closely scrutinized me earlier. After they enter the bathroom, I take a look at the sign on the boys' door before looking at the sign on girls' door. It's funny how something as simple as the silhouette of a dress can make such a big difference. If not for that, those quasi-stick figures are the same people. My choice shouldn't be this hard.

"Can't do it," I whisper to myself. I check to see if anyone's watching before entering the boys' room.

Thankfully, it's empty.

I can't imagine going to a restroom without a urinal, even if it's not anatomically possible for me to use one at the moment. When I enter a stall, I can't bring myself to squat. I love the female anatomy but waste elimination is one aspect of it I wish not to explore.

Swoosh!

As I relieve myself, I replay the encounter with Josh in my head. Sure, I could have left when Jimenez directed me to but doing so would have felt incomplete. Then again, I recall Elena telling me back at the branch that suicides require the most patience. If I did blow it, if I did wreck any chance we had at saving Josh, he may be as good as dead.

I flush, wash my hands, and look at my natural face. One drawback to this job is that none of my subjects will ever get to know the real me. Can't say I'm all that interesting, though. If I was suicidal and could choose between being saved by Jenny Cooper or Calvin Newsome, I'd choose Jenny.

Swoosh!

I walk back to the restroom door and it nearly hits me as it flies open. A teacher wearing glasses and a mustache walks past me and starts unzipping his pants. Expecting to be scolded, I scurry out of the restroom, careful to let my arms flail like a skinny teenage girl.

Back out in the hallway, the bell rings, signaling a mass exodus from the cafeteria. With my sights set on the cafeteria door, I fight upstream against the current of teenagers. As I finally reach the door, many of the kids yell at me, scolding me for going the wrong way.

"Excuse me, sir," a deep voice says from behind me, near the restroom. Through force of habit, I turn to look at the voice. Standing against the wall is an older man, maybe in his fifties, wearing a polyester suit and tie, and he's looking directly at me.

"Oh, I forgot something in there," I say, shocked by my suddenly masculine voice.

As the man approaches me, I look at my hands once again and realize my skin has darkened. I pat my head only to feel the nappy tuft on top of it.

What the hell is going on here?

"Can I see some identification?"

My heart pounding through my chest, my temperature rising again, I can't manage anything out of my mouth, not even a grunt. The man notices the lanyard around my neck and lifts the ID card closer to his eyes. After taking a long look at it, the man looks at me once more before looking at the ID one last time. He lifts the lanyard off of my neck and places it in his pocket. His hand then moves from his pocket to a walkie-talking on his hip.

"This is Reidhead," the man says. "I need an officer to meet me in Room 101."

My mind is telling me to run but my legs have turned to lead. "Don't say anything," Jimenez says in my ear.

"Ten-four," says a voice on the walkie. "Officer Perriman will be there shortly."

"I'm going to have to ask you to come with me," the man says.

"Where are you taking me?"

He nudges me forward "If you're thinking of running, don't. By the time you get outside, there'll be an army of cops waiting to arrest you."

What happened? I know for a fact I changed into Jenny before leaving the bathroom. I must've changed back before I left and I must've been so focused on my ruse that I ignored the fact that I was suddenly wearing clothes from the men's section at Gap. This might explain my uneventful encounter with the teacher in the boys' room.

"Where did you find this ID?" Reidhead says.

I lower my head and ignore him. He might not have read me my Miranda Rights but now's a good time to utilize them.

Reidhead stays behind me as he ushers me down the hallway, past the cafeteria. As I pass students along the way, I see all of their faces as they can't help but look at the spectacle before them. When they stop conversing about their crushes or the absurd amount of homework their history teacher assigns them, I wonder if they are as shocked by all of this as I am or if this just provides a few moments of entertainment in an otherwise boring day.

As Reidhead and I turn a corner just before entering the school's main office, I turn my head to look back down the hallway. In that instant, I see someone come out of the girls' restroom wearing a light blue Phillies cap and sunglasses. I didn't think you could wear hats and sunglasses in school.

In the office, my captor leads me past the front desk where a pair of secretaries, one young, one old, answer phones and field questions from visitors. Reidhead and I pass through a waist-high swinging door, taking us behind the front desk. To our right is a door with a name and title plastered on its window: Geoffrey Reidhead, Principal.

Great, in all my years of schooling, not once was I ever sent to the principal's office. Who knew my first trip to the dungeon would be after my twenty-ninth birthday?

We turn around as a school district cop enters the main office. As he walks in our direction, Reidhead points to a bench behind the front desk. "Stay here."

He opens the door to his office and follows the cop into it. I take a seat as the two gentlemen discuss things behind closed doors.

"Where are you?" Jimenez says.

"The main office," I say, my head down as I try to muffle my speech. "The principal's talking to a school cop."

"Shit. What do they look like they're saying?"

"I don't know."

Reidhead slaps the ID down on his desk and points to it.

"They're definitely talking about the ID, though."

"Dammit."

I'm apparently not doing a very good job staying silent. The younger secretary turns and takes a peek at me.

"Elena, are there any cops over by where we parked?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm going to run."

"No. Stay there. The A of J could still be out there."

"Huh?"

"The Agent of Justice. There had to be one around, that's why you lost your power. Did you see anyone strange?"

"Actually, yeah, there was this girl wearing sunglasses."

"Did she see you?"

"How the hell would I know? She had sunglasses on."

"Just stay there, Calvin," she says after a lengthy silence.

"Why? I'm already exposed." I've also been given an opportunity thanks to the stupidity of the two men in the principal's office. Reidhead's obviously not a cop and don't even get me started on school cops. When I got the snot beat out of me in middle school, they were nowhere to be found. "I have to try, Elena."

"Calvin, wait—"

I take off and, with a thrust of my hand, throw the swinging door wide open, allowing for an easy exit. Behind me, I hear the two ladies yell at me to stop before yelling the principal's name.

Out of the main office, I look to my right and see three cop cars outside. I decide, instead, to turn left and go back where I came from. The hallway is littered with teens going to and from class, hanging out at their lockers. I look back and see no sign of the cop or the principal. Still, I take no chances, pushing a few kids aside with a stiff arm, a cold shoulder or a telekinetic thrust of the hand.

"Sorry," I say, jumping, dodging and contorting my way through the crowd. Some kids are knocked to the ground while some are knocked into their lockers. Nerds, jocks, cheerleaders, druggies, hipsters and band geeks all form one colorful blur as I race past them.

"What are you doing?" Jimenez says.

"Getting out of here."

When I reach the cafeteria, I push open the double doors and head straight for the door through which I first entered the school, ignoring the teeming mass of youth in the lunch room.

Outside, as my feet find the pavement, the sun shines on me like a spotlight. Fifty yards away, I see the back of Jimenez's Jetta. She was right; there are no cops out here. Now on the lot's asphalt, I hear Elena turn the ignition, giving me that extra push as I draw nearer to her car.

"Look out!" she screams in my earpiece.

In my periphery, a police cruiser hooks around and comes to a screeching halt in front of me. This cruiser belongs to the real Philly PD and its driver jumps out of the car and points a gun directly at my head.

"Don't move," he says.

I reach for the sky as my heart pounds against the inner walls of my chest.

The cop crosses the front of his cruiser, pulls my arms down and lays a pair of cuffs on my wrists. "You have the right remain silent."

"Pay attention to where they take you," Jimenez says, "and let me know as soon as you can. Don't tell them anything."

When the cop eases me into the backseat of his cruiser, it occurs to me that this is the first time that Jimenez actually sounds sympathetic.

I don't know what I'm being charged with but, judging by how animated Reidhead was while talking about the ID, I suspect that it's more than trespassing.
Chapter Seven

Once he tucks me into the cruiser, the cop who arrested me paces outside the car and uses the walkie affixed to his chest to communicate with whomever he's communicating with. I can't hear all of what is being said but there's quite a bit of mention about the ID. After waiting what seems like an eternity to be driven somewhere, anywhere, I'm taken to precinct headquarters, booked, given the mug shot treatment and put in jail. They tell me they're holding me for trespassing, but this seems to have gone on far too long for that. Besides, if this is a simple trespassing case, then why so much focus on the ID?

I can't give Jimenez much of an update, either; they confiscate my earpiece and cell phone as soon as I arrive at the police station. Thus, I never get to tell her that I am being held at the fifteenth police district headquarters, not more than fifteen minutes away from Lincoln High.

After waiting for what seems like another eternity, I now sit alone in an interrogation room. A single fluorescent light hangs over the table at which I'm sitting. This light is far less maddening than the one at the Agency of Influence branch but I would trade this well-behaved bulb for a chance at getting out of here.

A man in a navy blue suit, badge on his belt, open dossier in his hands, enters the room and closes the door behind him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he says. "Had to get a judge to give us a search warrant, schedule your arraignment, and all that other crap... but I'm sure you already knew that."

"Arraignment?" If they're considering holding me with or without bail, I clearly wasn't just arrested for trespassing, which is only a misdemeanor if I recall.

"You know what I don't understand? After all this time, why on earth would you still be wearing her ID?"

"After all of what time? What do you think I did?"

"You also called out sick at work yesterday and suddenly submitted your resignation this morning. Sounds an awful lot like a guy who had designs of either turning himself in or running away."

I shrug. "I had something else lined up."

"You know, your coworkers were shocked. Vouched for you. But I'm having a hard time believing you're an innocent man. Maybe you can help me." The detective tosses the Jenny Cooper ID on the table. "Where'd you get that?"

"Someone gave it to me."

The cop scoffs and shoots me a smirk. He sits down across from me, laying one leg on top of the other. "C'mon," he says with a smile, "admit it. Admit what you did."

"I—I'm sorry... I don't know what you're talking about." I'm beginning to wish I had taken them up on their offer to talk to a lawyer. Whatever this guy wants me to admit, it sounds frighteningly serious.

The detective drops the folder on the table and folds his arms across his chest. "Look, you're wasting your time. Just admit it."

"I don't know wh—"

"Right, because people run from the cops for shits and giggles. Look at the ID. You recognize her, don't you?"

I look at the card and shrug.

"Doesn't look familiar?"

I shake my head.

"Read me her name, maybe that'll help you remember."

"I don't know who she is."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. I—"

"For the last time, read the girl's name. You can read, can't you?"

I look the man in the eye and gulp before opening my mouth. "Jenny Cooper."

"That's right," he says, nodding his head as he bites his lower lip. "Jenny Cooper. You remember what happened to her, don't you?"

I shake my head.

"Found dead in Pennypack Creek three years ago. Blunt-force trauma to the head, cracked orbital bone, broken leg. Scuffmarks on her bike that made it look like an accident. Tell me; is that the price for saying 'no' these days?"

"No! You think I killed her?"

He shrugs. "The evidence doesn't lie."

I can feel my face radiating as my arteries and veins pound the walls of my neck. I damn near faint as I sit back in my chair, letting the detective's words reverberate in my mind. I've been set up... by way of human error, I think. I don't believe an organization as benevolent as the Agency of Influence would go to such elaborate lengths to see to it that Jenny Cooper's death—which was a cold case, it seems—was pinned on me.

The detective clears his throat. "I'll give you credit... the marks on the bike, the absence of DNA... you covered your tracks."

"But it's just an ID," I say, my eyes fixed on the card instead of the man.

"Unless you have one hell of a story, it's all we need." He leans forward and places his interlocked hands on the table. "C'mon. Just admit it."

He's right. There's no way of convincing anyone that I was given that ID by accident without being laughed out of town and into prison. The only other plausible explanations would either include me having a weird mentor-like friendship with Jenny or with a friend of hers. Either way, I look suspicious.

I can't say anything else, lest I risk further incriminating myself.

"Nothing?" says the interrogator, eyebrow raised, anger growing in his eyes.

My lips start to quiver and my hands start to quake; I'm losing control of my body. I don't feel like I'm going to cry but I feel paralyzed instead. I can't speak because I can't breathe. I can't hear what the detective's saying because my mind is racing, speaking over him. And I can't move a limb because I don't want to appear even guiltier. Detectives study body language, don't they?

Suddenly, the detective grunts and slaps his hand on the table. He stands up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With the weight of a murder charge firmly placed upon my shoulders, my mind starts racing for a solution. I have no way to reach Jimenez or Ronni, not that the latter could do anything about this. Even if they do give me my phone call, I'll still be locked up in here. My only solution is escape.

I look at the walls and then the ceiling. As I look at each corner of the room, I notice a camera, located on my right, above the door. The first plan that pops into my mind is a risky one but if it's going to work, I have to employ it now.

Looking straight ahead, I set my mind on the camera and cut its cable. Next, I tear the camera off the wall and watch it fall to the floor before it breaks into several pieces.

Swoosh!

Now sitting at the table, hands cuffed in front of him, is Detective Lawrence, a young man I noticed leaving the station when I was being booked. He has closely-cropped brown hair, brown eyes and a tan complexion.

The interrogator bursts back into the room, his eyes wide open. "Lawrence?"

"I—I'm sorry," I say. "I thought I could get him to crack."

Veins protrude from his neck. "Are you kidding me?"

"First, stop yelling. Secondly, you're wasting your time. He just left, you can still catch him."

The interrogator barks an f-bomb and turns around in a huff, his jacket flailing in the air like a cape. With the door left open, I stand up, leave the interrogation room and begin walking down a short hallway lined with vanilla-colored concrete walls.

I hear a steady commotion come from around the corner. Sounds like a large group of people. As I get closer to the corner, the commotion grows louder, reaching its highest volume when I reach the end of the hall and take a left turn around the corner.

The precinct's front lobby is a circus.

In addition to the dope pushers and prostitutes waiting in line to be booked, there are several more people sitting in the station's lobby and many more milling about outside. Through the crowd in the lobby, the decibel level inside the station rises with each opening of the precinct's double doors. I look through the horde of people and get a clearer picture of what exactly awaits outside; the media.

They're ravenous, the media. And they're all waiting to catch a glimpse of Calvin Newsome. That gives me an odd sense of comfort in this otherwise ghastly situation. Because I know I'm innocent as charged, I can judge the media throng barricading the police station's front steps as ugly. To their knowledge, the murderer of a teenage girl has been captured and they're frothing at the mouth, almost giddy to be covering this story. I know that the if it bleeds, it leads mentality is the mantra that most media outlets live by these days but, given my unique position, I can now see it for all its absurdity.

"He escaped!" exclaims a man.

A collective gasp fills the lobby. With the subtlety of a tidal wave, word of my escape filters through the lobby and out to the media in front of the building. I find the nearest officer at the front desk and approach him in a harried state.

"He got me," I say, holding up my cuffed hands. "You got a key to take these off?"

"Detective Lawrence? I thought you went home."

"I did... but I couldn't stand being at home with that shithead here."

The cop chuckles before sifting through a collection of keys on a ring so large, you could fit a Nerf ball through it. "I hear you on that one." He finds the key. "How'd he get you?"

"I don't know," I say. "I must've blacked out. One minute I was talking to him, the next minute he had me in cuffs."

"Wow."

"Crazy, right?"

The cop undoes my cuffs. With my wrists free, I resist the urge to rub them. I look behind the counter for my cell phone and wallet when I jump at the sound of a loud voice.

"Lawrence!" the detective yells. I hear the man but don't acknowledge him. "Lawrence!" He grabs me from behind and turns me around, speaking with clenched teeth. "You're coming with me."

"I am?"

"C'mon."

I follow him through the crowded lobby. "Where are we going, Detective, um, Jones?"

"First off, the name's Suter," he says. "Secondly, we're going to his house. The jerk might pop up."

"Do we have a warrant?"

"What do you mean, do we have a warrant? You were there when we searched his place, remember? You better hope his ass turns up."

"Yes, sir."

Suter opens the station's front door, exposing us to the collection of media-types guarding the stairwell. As soon as we reach the edge of the staircase's top landing, microphones, tape recorders and all manner of other electronic devices are shoved in our faces. Suter acts as a lead blocker, opening up the smallest of spaces for us to squeeze through.

The media, determined to get the right quote, says us question upon question, speaking over one another. Suter and I reach the pavement and shove our way to a black Ford Taurus parallel parked on the street. Suter utilizes the car's remote and motions for me to get in. I open the door and climb in, surprised to see no police equipment inside, save for a walkie and dispatch receiver. I suppose homicide detectives use their own vehicles when on the case.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Suter says, slamming the driver side door.

"I don't know, I—"

"If he doesn't turn up, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick your ass." He turns the ignition and drives off, parting the sea of media.

"Relax, man. We'll find him."

"Relax!? That's a pretty big collar you just let get away."

"You honestly think he's that big of a collar?" The Taurus fishtails as Suter takes a sharp right turn. I instinctually place my hand on the dashboard to steady myself.

"Hell, yeah. You saw all the reporters."

"Yeah, why were there so many?"

"Have you seen the girl's picture?"

"No."

Suter's knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. His head turns about like an oscillating fan as he scans our surroundings for his prey. "She was pretty. A girl like that gets murdered... that's just asking for attention."

"Remind me. Did we find anything at his place?"

"No. The guy's place was clean. We're still waiting on that scan of his computer, though."

Great. There goes my stash of porn.

"And we impounded his car, too. Can you believe the guy made a six-figure salary and drove a Kia?"

I catch myself, careful to keep my breath from escaping loudly out of my mouth. I've most likely seen my car for the last time. Hopefully the same won't hold true for the light of day.

In a normal world, my murder trial would not be as much of a slam dunk as Detective Suter thinks it is. Any team of defense attorneys I assemble would be able to find me a more than adequate alibi. Between my e-calendar at Maxwell and my phone records, I'm sure my legal team could prove that I was nowhere near Pennypack Park at that time. But my world isn't normal anymore. The truth is, I was given Jenny's ID and I don't have anyone credible to blame for giving it to me.

As we get off the interstate, approaching Northern Liberties, I begin to appreciate the car ride. This is probably the best thing that could have happened after my escape from the interrogation room. I don't have any money for a cab and taking the bus all the way to FDR Park would have proved risky; who knows how many Agents of Justice utilize public transportation.

Entering my townhouse will be easy—I use keyless entry, as you recall—but breaking away from Suter will be the hard part. If I can somehow manage to do that, I'll be able to gather a few things—some clothes, money, and the cellphone I use for matchmaking. That is, of course, unless the cops confiscated those items, too.

"What are we doing?" I say as we pull up in front of my townhouse.

"We're staking out."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes. We'll have cops all over the city looking for this guy."

"Except here."

"Right. And he might be dumb enough to come back here. If the bastard shows up, I want to be the one to bag him."

"Not if I cuff him first," I say with a grin.

Suddenly, Suter turns and grabs me by the lapels, bringing my face only inches away from his. "This is my case," he says, his breath warming my face. "You arrest him and I'll put my foot up your ass. You understand?" He lets me go, the tension in his face subsiding as he pulls away before he finally bursts into laughter. "I'm just kidding you, pal."

"That was hilarious," I say, unimpressed. "You really had me going."

"Yeah I did," he says before containing himself. Detective Suter is either bipolar or has a sick sense of humor. I'd rather have Jimenez as my partner.

I turn my attention back to my window to look at my townhouse, its yellow vinyl siding glistening in the moonlight. My building is a new build, constructed as part of a gentrification process that would later accommodate the influx of yuppie hipsters that have inundated the neighborhood. Knowing that my heart wasn't in my work at Maxwell, I decided to rent a place instead of buying.

"Man, I'm thirsty," Suter says, tugging at his necktie. He engages the car's power locks and opens both our windows. I look at the convenience store across the street, kitty corner from my townhouse.

"Go grab a drink," I say, nodding toward the store. "I'll keep an eye out."

He takes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. "Yeah right. You already let him go once. You go."

"I don't have any cash," I say, reaching into my pockets. "I left my wallet back at the station."

Suter opens his door. "Fine. I'll be right back." He climbs out of the car and closes the door.

My heart begins to race.

"Don't be no hero," he says, pointing at me with the unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. "You see him, you call me."

"Got it."

I watch Detective Suter walk away, waiting for him to enter the store. I'm sure he'll be watching me like a hawk since he's so apparently hell-bent on making a name for himself. I crack my knuckles in anticipation; I want my fingers loose for when I dial my keyless entry code.

When Suter crosses the street and enters the store, I already have my hand on the door's handle. He turns back once more to make sure that I'm still in position and that the fugitive has not returned to his roost. He then makes a beeline for the refrigerated section of the store. The store's entire selection of beverages faces the entrance, so Suter has his back turned to me.

This is my chance.

Before he can choose between Pepsi and Coke, I open the door but stop. A homeless woman with a shopping cart full of cans strolls right in front of the car. I close the door.

Dammit.

I could go for it now but if this lady sticks around, she could tell Suter that I've gone inside. I want to give him the impression that I've left the scene completely. After taking another peek at Suter, I look at the woman. She doesn't stop at the corner. She continues walking down the street, out of sight. I might have missed my chance, though. Suter has reached the checkout counter, Coke in hand, his Taurus in full view. Before reaching for his wallet, he turns around to study the junk food behind him.

Now or never.

I thrust the door open—using my hands, this time—before racing to my townhome's front door. Without looking back, without closing the car door, I type the four digit code. The lock scolds me with an angry tone. I must've fat fingered the code. Or maybe it was changed.

Shit.

I take a peek back. Suter still has his back turned. With the fury of someone who's just seconds away from urinating himself, I try my code one more time. This time, the lock greets me with a friendly tone. I open the door just enough for me to slip in, and close it shut.

Relief.

I finally breathe. My heart pounds against my chest, my legs shake in my slacks.

"Lawrence!" I hear Suter yell outside.

Through my peep hole, I watch as the detective runs across the street and slams his car's door closed.

"Lawrence!" He uses the Lord's name in vain as he pulls his gun off his hip. He then looks both ways before running down the street, away from my townhouse.

Out of habit, I turn around and reach for the light switch before catching myself. Instead, now that my eyes have adjusted, I climb the stairs using the faint combination of moonlight and streetlight to lead the way. I take each step slowly, careful not to trip in the dark stairwell.

My place is one of those where the entrance sits at ground level but everything else is upstairs. The main inhabitable space hangs over covered parking. I never did get to park in my designated spot last night; some jerk decided he was entitled.

When I reach the top of the first flight of stairs, I step away from the stairwell and turn onto the first floor. It comes as no surprise to me that my place has been ransacked. I'm not a neat freak but I try my best to keep the place tidy. So, when I see a stream of clothes spread across the cherry wood flooring and into my laundry room, I know that's not my work. I peek to my right—into the laundry room—and see that it's been pillaged.

Thank goodness my place is a rental. I won't have to worry about keeping up with a mortgage when I go into hiding. My landlady will be inconvenienced but she'll have my full permission to ditch all the stuff I leave behind.

I walk past the kitchen and notice that they left that relatively unscathed, save for a single, wide open cabinet. I take a few steps into the living room. I can tell they took liberties with my furniture, but nothing outlandish. I look over at my desk, located next to the kitchen, and see the space where my computer used to be. The monitor is still there, but the tower, which was underneath the desk, is gone. I walk over to the desk and open its drawer, hoping to find my matchmaking phone. Instead, I find nothing, save for my matchmaking phone's charger.

I grab the charger and close the drawer before heading back toward the stairwell. I'd love to disconnect my PlayStation 3 and take it with me but I just don't have time for that. I need to pack the essentials, call Ronni, and lay low until Elena finds me.

Still careful to walk softly, I inch closer to the stairwell, reaching out my hands so as not to knock anything over. The walls in this building are thick but I don't want to chance anyone hearing me next door.

When I get to the stairwell, I watch a police cruiser come to a stop across the street. I crouch down on the top step of the first flight of stairs. With my back against the wall, I peek around corner and through the window. I don't want to run across the window and risk drawing attention to myself.

Two cops exit the car and stay on that side of the street. They look pretty jovial, perhaps just making the rounds. After sharing a hearty laugh the two officers round the corner across from my townhome and across from the convenience store before eventually walking out of view. I traipse up the stairs, still careful to take quiet, yet efficient steps.

On the second floor, the moon brightens my master suite through two skylights that dot the ceiling. This is where the police did the most damage. Clothes, shoes, ball caps, coats and jackets are strewn all across the floor and on my bed. Thankfully, the safe in my closet is still intact. I step over some of my clothes on the floor as I make my way to the safe. As I starting entering the code to open it, I hear a noise from within the closet.

Buzz-buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz.

I survey the few jackets that are still hanging in my closet. I feel my leather jacket.

Buzz-buzz-buzz.

Then I feel a sports coat. I can feel something hard in one of its pockets.

Perfect. My matchmaking cell phone—a small BlackBerry. Because I haven't yet attached my name to my matchmaking practice, the police most likely won't know to trace this number, unless they track my domain name back to me. Unfortunately, I haven't taken the time to memorize Jimenez's number. At least I remember Ronni's.

I look at the BlackBerry and see that I just missed a call from Ronni. I have four missed calls in total—three of them from Ronni—and a voicemail. Other than my clients, Ronni's the only person who has this number. I press the key to play the message.

"Hi," says a nervous male voice, "my name's Mark. I'm, uh, calling to schedule an appointment with your company. I'm, uh, not sure how this works but I'm really interested in being matched. Please give me a call back when you can. Thanks." Just before hanging up, Mark remembers to leave his number.

Poor kid. He's probably a loner. Too bad most of my clients are probably old enough to at least be his parents. Either this kid's desperate or the cops have found my number and have attempted to set a trap. I check the time of the message: 8:09 this morning. I had just left the house to hand in my resignation letter to Maxwell.

I go to the text messaging screen and type a message for Ronni: Have you spoken to the cops? I don't want to send her messages if the police are hovering in her apartment. If they are, my stay here won't be long.

No. Where r you???

I sit on my cluttered bed and type another message. The less u know, the better.

R u okay? I'm so scared.

I'm fine. I'll call you in 30 mins, okay?

K. I'm sorry. She adds a sad face to her text. Even in SMS messaging, Ronni's emo.

Sorry for what? This isn't your fault. LOL. I love Ronni but sometimes her affection is laughable.

I hold my phone and look through my bedroom windows, both of which overlook a back alley. With no response from Ronni, I type another message to change the subject. I probably hurt her feelings by laughing at her sympathetic text. I didn't do it.

I know, she replies, this time with a smiley face. Life, death, taxes, and a smile from Ronni: those are my four guarantees in this jacked-up life.

Before doing anything else, I activate my townhome's alarm system, punching in another code in the keypad near my bedroom door. If the cops come barging in, I'll have plenty of notice.

I turn around and look at my clothes—both clean and dirty—spread out across my bedroom. I grab a duffle bag out of my closet and sigh.

This could take a while.

Chapter Eight

With the sun shining through the skylights, I roll over in my bed and look at my alarm clock.

Eight o'clock.

I look over to my closet and see my duffle bag, unzipped, stuffed with a few clothes that were given the short shrift. Next to me on the bed are the couple hundreds of dollars I pulled out of my safe.

I grab my cell phone and see four more missed calls from Ronni and a text: U 4got about me. Indeed I did. I must have fallen asleep while packing, as evidenced by the money on my bed and the fact that I'm sleeping in yesterday's clothes. When I roll onto my back and look up into the skylights, my phone rings. Ronni.

"Hello?"

"Oh my God, Calvin, where are you?"

"I'm at h—I'm in Washington."

"You're lying."

"I..." This isn't fair. I just woke up.

"Tell me where you are."

"I can't."

"Please. I need to see you. There's something I need to tell you."

"You want to see me now? Are you outta your mi—" I hear a loud crash downstairs, followed by the ear-splitting beeping of my alarm system. Next, I hear multiple, quickly-paced footsteps in my stairwell. "Gotta go," I say, looking around for my sneakers.

"Wait!" I hear before hanging up.

I toss the covers aside and stuff my money in my pocket before launching myself off the bed. I pick up my sneakers, laces already tied, and slide my feet in to them as the footsteps continue up the first flight. I snatch up my duffle bag and zip it, cursing myself for making too much noise in the process. I then hear footsteps downstairs in the kitchen/living room area. Sounds like two, maybe three people.

I go over to one of my bedroom windows and slide it open, once again making too much noise. I look down into the alley. No cops. A pair of bionic legs would come in handy right about now.

Swoosh!

With the Bionic Woman on the brain, I change into Lindsay Wagner—or some semblance of her—jeans, flannel shirt, and all. I start to climb through the window, my long, dark blonde hair floating with the currents of the morning breeze. Waiting for me below is a small patch of grass, stretching eight feet from the wall behind the covered parking on street level. Beyond the grass is a short fence, separating my building from the coarse concrete surface of the alley behind it. I'll need a controlled jump; too far and I'll be impaled.

I really need to find Jimenez. Better yet, she really needs to find me.

I sit on the window sill with my legs flush against the back of the building and toss my duffle over the fence and down into the alley. As the footsteps re-enter the stairwell, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I let myself slide off the window sill, praying that I survive my fall.

In a heap, I land face down in the grass. I stand up, gasping for air, my right ankle barking at me. I then struggle to climb over the fence, my slender legs flailing in the air. The top of the fence nearly rips off my shirt as I fall to the alley's inflexible surface before I pick up the bag and limp towards the street. My mind tells me not to run but my legs—save for my ankle—are ready to go.

"Hey, lady!" I hear. I look back and see a cop in my window. "You see anybody back here?"

"No," I say as I look around. "Sorry." When I walk toward the end of the alley, I hear the cop curse me—the real me—before closing my window.

I remember watching reruns of the original The Bionic Woman—not the gimmicky, cash-grabbing remake—when I was a youngster. I had crushes on quite a few actresses growing up, but Lindsay Wagner wasn't one of them. Still, I'm glad I remembered her; she was the perfect choice to get me out of that pickle. Now that I'm older, I can appreciate Ms. Wagner's beauty as I see it in the reflection of the cars parked in the alley.

I reach the end of the alley, look to my left and see three police cruisers parked in front of my townhome. I take a right turn out of the alley before my phone rings. Because I don't recognize the number, I let it ring a couple times. What if it's the cops? What if it's another would-be client? What if it's Jimenez?

"Hello?"

"Calvin, is that you?" Elena says.

"Yes," I say as I exhale.

"Where are you?"

"Just left my house. Got quite the wake-up call."

"Cops?"

"Yeah. You coming to get me?" I say as I cross the street.

"That's why I was calling. It might be a few hours."

"A few hours?"

"Richardson's pissed. He's asked me to launch an immediate investigation."

"What about me?"

"You're on your own, at least for now. I'm trying to find another A of I to come get you. Richardson's with me and Hamilton's AWOL at the moment."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"You're the one with the Ivy League education. You figure it out."

I took a wide variety of classes at Penn. Fugitive Shape shifting wasn't one of them. "But—"

"Stay away from the cops. Stay away from the A of J."

"Wait—"

"I'll call you as soon as I hear anything."

If I didn't know Jimenez to be such a gruff bitch, I'd say that the Agency of Influence has, in fact, formulated an elaborate plot to bring me down. If this was an honest mistake, Elena sure hasn't gone out of her way to apologize.

I look down the street and see a bus headed in my direction. It's risky but I can't stay here. I can't really stay in any one spot lest an Agent of Justice exposes me in front of the numerous cops that are certain to be circling the city. Really, there is no safe place for me right now, save for the A of I branch, but that's too far away to safely make it there by public transit.

I pull two singles out of my pocket. My phone buzzes again.

Ronni.

I reject the call.

Having had my computer for over twelve hours, I'm sure the cops know of our relationship and have approached her by now. They've probably asked her to seek me out, hoping they can draw me in to a trap. I may have blindly put my faith in the A of I but I'm not that stupid.

With the bus eclipsing me, I realize that it's the 57. It will take me south, through the historical section of the city and leave me in Southeast Philly—somewhat close to FDR Park—if I take it to the end of the line. Right now, a specific destination's not important. As long as I'm in constant motion and avoid large crowds, I'll be okay. I only need to simply blend in until Jimenez can dispatch an A of I to come get me. The bus stops in front of me and opens its doors. I step up to pay my fare and scope out the rest of the bus. It's not empty but not packed. An empty bus would have been a surprise at rush hour anyway. I avert my gaze when I see that all eyes are on me.

I check the skin on my hands as I slide my money into the fare machine. Fair and feminine. When I turn to find a seat, I begin to wish that I changed into a nondescript man. As I walk down the middle of the bus, women and schoolgirls stare at me, most likely because of my dated sense of fashion. Men and teenage boys stare at me, too, either because they're horny or bored. Or both.

After the bus pulls off, I take advantage of a pair of empty seats next to a window on the left side of the bus. I sit in the window seat and set my bag in the seat next to me, ensuring that no one can sit there. I look over to my right and see a man with worn hands and a rugged, five o'clock-shadowed face, reading a newspaper. His lunch pail sits on the floor, next to the work boots on his feet. The newspaper's headline reads GOTCHA! in bold, white letters over my blown-up mug shot.

I turn away from my maddening reality and look through the window. The passing, worn streets of East Philly lead even further east to the Delaware River. I then look back toward the laborer reading the paper. Sitting two seats down from him is an older woman. She's seen better days. Her hair is untidy and she's missing a few teeth. She also looks like she's missed a few meals, although it'd be hard to eat with her dental work—or lack thereof.

"He's loose, you know," the woman says, leaning in the man's direction.

The man folds a top corner of his newspaper down to look at the woman. "You're kidding."

She shakes her head. "He escaped last night."

"Leave it up to Philly PD."

"Man, if he had been caught with some weed," I hear a booming voice say, "they'd still have that nigga on lockdown."

I turn around. The booming voice belongs to a large black man, one who looks like he probably works at a barbershop. While I think there's a hint of truth to what he said, he seems like the same guy who'd bitch about the political incorrectness and so-called stupidity of a black man killing a white girl.

"You're right," the woman says.

"Dude had help, too," the black man says. "You see that shit? Somebody turned the camera off when he escaped."

"That's crazy."

"They're saying he tried to rape the girl just before he killed her," the laborer says, shaking his head behind the paper. Some of the other passengers gasp; others chime in on the conversation.

Uncomfortable with the direction of the discussion, I turn back to the window and place my hand on my forehead. This is what the Agency of Influence's negligence has done. Not only am I wanted for murder, there are wild stories being spread that I may have sexually assaulted a girl I never met. And this is on a bus. I can only imagine what the other one and a half million Philadelphians are hearing and saying about me?

I look up and see more passengers filing on to the bus. People stand in the aisle, hanging on to the bars overhead. I check the skin on my hands. Still fair.

My phone rings again. It's Jimenez.

"That was fast," I say.

"Get off at Arch Street and make your way to Reading Terminal Market. An A of I will meet you there."

"Shouldn't I stay on? I'll be closer to the branch if I take this to the end of the line."

"Negative. Get your ass off the bus and get to the Market."

I lower my voice. "And the A of I will be there waiting for me?"

"By the time you get there, yes."

"And they know what I look like?"

"Yes, yes. Blonde hair, flannel shirt."

I exhale and smile. "Thanks, Elena."

"Bye."

I hang up the phone and look outside. I'm still another three stops or so away from Arch. I check my hands again. Still fair.

"This seat taken?" I hear someone say. I look up and see a briefcase-carrying man in his thirties wearing a suit and tie.

I stand up. "Here, sit by the window. I'm getting off soon." The alternative was to be courteous and place my duffel bag on my lap. I switch spots with the man, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. I ignore the man's gaze as I sit in the aisle seat.

"You take the bus often?" he says.

"No."

"I just started. Car crapped out last week."

"Ouch."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a matchmaker."

"Really? That's great. I bet your clients like working with you."

"More or less."

"You know, my mom's been looking for a matchmaker. You have a business card?"

"I don't. Sorry."

"That's alright," he says, looking down at the floor and then through the window. He suddenly turns to look at me again. "Can I—can I have your number? Or take you out for coffee some time?"

Well, that's a curveball and not because I'm heterosexual.

Not caring about what happened to this dude's car—especially when one considers what happened to mine—is one thing, hurting his feelings is another. I obviously want to say no but I know how rejection feels.

Besides, even if I was female and did want to see him again, you know how I feel about coffee.

"It's okay if you don't want to," he says. "Just asking."

I stare at the man blankly, still unsure of what to say. In turn, he lays his head on the window before taking a long look at the world.

"You're not usually aggressive, are you?" I say.

He shakes his head.

"Keep trying. Seriously," I say with a grin. I add a concerned furrow of the brow and a tilt of the head for good measure. His eyes meet mine as he smiles before looking back out into the world. This reminds me of my infatuation with Denise, the girl at the movie theater. I'm not the only sucker for the too-good-to-be-true type.

When the bus stops at Arch Street, a collective groan filters throughout the bus. Outside, a large crowd waits to climb on board. I get up and twist between a few passengers on my way into the bus's back stairwell.

When I yell for the bus driver to open the back door, I notice that my voice is suddenly masculine.

There's an A of J here, either on the bus or outside.

Perfect.

The manual laborer looks up from his newspaper and looks back in my direction. He then glances at the cover of the paper before glancing at me again.

"Back door!" I say for the second time, pushing the vertical bars on the double doors.

The laborer tosses his newspaper aside and inadvertently kicks his lunch pail as he stands up. He steps over, around, and through people on his way to the back of the bus.

After the back doors finally swing open, I hop onto the sidewalk and walk away from the bus, my head on swivel. I look to the front of the bus and decide that the crowd there is too big for me to run in that direction. When I look to the back of the bus, there are too many pedestrians that way, too.

I look up at the building in front of me. It's the US Mint, and there is a horde of people standing in front of the entrance. There's nothing positive to be found here. Instead, there is only anxiety on the faces of those who now recognize me. I'll be lucky to make it to Reading Terminal Market.

I turn around. Newspaper guy, work boots and all, is chasing me. I start sprinting west on Arch Street—which is relatively free of foot traffic— leaving the bus behind. In the far distance, one block down, I can make out Philly's historical sites. In the near distance, however, are two overweight cops scoping out the menu at a food truck.

"Hey!" the laborer says. "Stop that guy!"

I run past the two cops before they're even aware of what's going on. I hear newspaper guy tell the cops who I am before I hear the cops' heavy footsteps as they, too, start chasing me. One of them radios the chase into dispatch and calls for backup.

I need to find an alley. Quick. Although I'm outrunning these guys with ease—one's wearing boots and the other two are fat—I'm no track star. With the Mint's high concrete wall to my right and a small cemetery to my left, there is no opening in which I can hide.

I come to a red light as I approach Fifth Street. A steady stream of cars flows north on the road, coming from my left. With the three pairs of footsteps drawing nearer, I decide to go for it. I run past one car before stopping in the middle of the road to let another pass. When I start running again, the horn of a third car jars my nerves, stopping me dead in my tracks. When that car, an SUV, gets to within five feet of me, I hold out my hand to protect myself. With the thrust of my hand, however, the car suddenly swerves to its right and misses me by the erect hair on my arms.

As I reach the sidewalk and stop to breathe a sigh of relief, I hear a loud screech and a boom. I turn around and find newspaper man in the air. He lands in the street, his skull cracking against the asphalt.

Shit.

When the Arch Street light turns green, the two cops cross Fifth while radioing the accident to the dispatcher. I turn on the jets once again as remorse starts running through my nerves.

The closest historical site, the Constitution Center museum, looms large with its white, stone frontage. I turn to my right and start sprinting up a red brick path leading up to the building. A museum would serve as a good hiding place with many exhibits, restrooms, nooks, and crannies in which to lose the cops and change forms. Getting in will be the hard part. Admission isn't free.

Closer to the building's entrance, I notice the preamble of the Constitution slapped on the top of its façade. We the People. Yeah, right. Where's the democratic justice in this?

I reach the end of the path, pull on the front door and nearly lose my arm when it doesn't open. I glance at the hours posted on the doors; it doesn't open until 9:30. I look behind me and see the cops only halfway up the path. I peek at the time on my phone: 8:56.

I start running again, this time down a second path, back toward Arch Street. To my surprise, I can see no cops other than the two officers chasing me. It makes sense, though. If there's an ongoing manhunt, the city's police have likely been dispatched to the most ordinary far reaches of the city. The last place they'd expect to find me is in the historical area, the city's crown jewel.

Back on Arch Street, I see Independence Hall—our nation's maternity ward—off in the southern distance. There is a large, grassy mall, about two city blocks in length, leading up to the Hall. In the middle of that mall is a small building containing the Liberty Bell. Running through the mall will make it more difficult on the cops; more ground to cover and no roads on which cruisers can run me down.

With the onset of fatigue, and with my ankle really bothering me, I cross Arch Street and dash down a small path into the mall. The two overweight cops are still well behind me, across the street even. As oblivious civilians sit on benches or pace during phone conversations, a cruiser comes to a screeching halt behind me in the middle of the street. I turn around and see two more cops climb out of the car. These guys look far more athletic than the first two I outran.

I turn back around and focus my attention on Independence Hall.

"Stop, or we will shoot!" says one of the new cops. I have no doubt that the cops have their guns pointed at me but I'm calling their bluff; they won't shoot with so many civilians around. And even if they were the world's sharpest shooters, the task of shooting a target is much more difficult when it's moving.

I cross another street and continue through the mall.

Next, my heart almost skips a beat when a large, hulking man comes out of my periphery and tackles me to the ground. I look behind me and find that the two new cops are gaining on me, guns still aimed. When I look up at the man, I'm astounded by his size. He could pass for a professional wrestler. I, on the other hand, am nowhere near his weight class—this man has at least 150 pounds on me.

"You're not going anywhere, asshole," he says.

I look to my side and see a large rock, the size of a bicycle wheel, lying in the grass set next to the path. I focus on the rock, watching it as I telekinetically lift it off the ground and hurl it at Hulk Hogan's head. The rock hits him in the face, knocking him back on his ass.

"Sorry." I get up and continue towards the Hall.

Closing in on the Liberty Bell Pavilion, a large group of about twenty to twenty-five kids—first or second graders—gathers outside the building with the help a few chaperones. Surely, the cops wouldn't shoot now. Given the option to run through the group or around it, I choose the former.

I take one last look back and see the two athletic cops about twenty yards behind me. Meanwhile, Hulk Hogan has decided to sit the rest of this one out.

"Get out of the way!" one of the cops yells.

Some of the kids scurry out of the way while others are caught with the accompanying deer-in-headlights look.

Delving into the crowd, I run into a little boy wearing a blue Transformers sweatshirt, nearly knocking him over. I hold him up before sprinting again.

With Independence Hall about thirty yards away and a couple of cops gaining on me, my hamstrings start to tighten. I wish I had taken Ronni up on her offer to take me to yoga class. Speaking of, Ronni would be a welcomed sight right about now. If I manage to survive this catastrophe, I want nothing but to bask in the glow of her brilliant smile while enveloped in the warmth of her embrace.

I make one last push, crossing Chestnut Street.

Independence Hall features two archway entrances that flank the building on either side. There is a small, white door on the front of the building that is not open for public use.

Before I can head for one of the Hall's two archways, a police cruiser stops just shy of hitting me as I step onto the brick sidewalk leading up to the brick building. I spin away from the cruiser and use all my cognitive strength to lock the cruisers' doors. As the cops within those cruisers fight their doors, the two athletic cops then join the fray, guns aimed at me. Onlookers behind me clear the area, leaving the spotlight on myself.

"Don't come any closer," I say.

Behind their guns, the two athletic cops gasp for air. "You're out of options, Newsome!" one of them says.

I take a peek over my right shoulder and look at the Hall's west archway. A restroom waits on the other side.

"Don't even think about it!" yells the other cop.

Short on solutions and even shorter on breath, I hold my hands up by my shoulders. The two cops draw closer, guns still aimed at my head.

One of the officers takes his cuffs off of his belt. "You're not getting away this time," he says.

I put my hands behind my back, waiting for the cuffs to be laid on my wrist. Instead, the other cop grabs his nightstick and whacks me in the back with it. Temporarily paralyzed, I fall to my knees. The other cop, cuffs still in his hands, simply laughs as his buddy stands behind me.

"Stay down, you monster," Nightstick Man says. He whacks me in the back of the neck, forcing me on all fours and causing to form in my eyes.

I hear the other cops come out of the cruiser. The cop with the nightstick grabs the back of my collar and pulls me back up on my knees. "I hope the inmates do to you what you did to her."

With tears streaming down my face, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I let out one last cry, one last wail for help as I scream towards the heavens, cursing Elena Jimenez and the Agency of Influence in the process.

In doing so, I'm nudged back to the ground, but not by a cop. With a huge rush of air and a rumble of the earth, the two cops closest to me fly backwards, losing their guns and nightsticks along the way. One of them crashes through a window, into Independence Hall while the other hits the building's brick facing, knocking him unconscious as he falls to the ground.

Some of the Hall's windows shatter. The cops who had just arrived at the scene fly back to the other side of Chestnut Street. Their cruisers flip over twice and land on top of them. The poles on the curb, there to keep people from driving up on the Hall's sidewalk, bend forward. The closest of the Mall's trees nearly come out of the soil in which they're planted. To my right, a horse falls on its side, shattering the empty carriage it was hauling.

When the destruction stops, I feel lightheaded. I go down on all fours again as I attempt to gather myself. I hear sirens in the distance and finally muster the strength to stand up and plod toward the restroom.

What the hell was that? Richardson told me I could move objects with my mind, but I nearly caused the apocalypse just now and I wasn't even trying.

I stumble to the archway and realize that I may actually get out of this. And, although unfair, the PPD's reputation is going to take a major blow after this incident. Fool them once, shame on me. Fool them twice, shame on them. At least that will be the public's perception. Given what they've done to me, however, I'll chalk it up to spontaneous karma.

Inside the restroom, I quickly throw a little water on my face in the hopes that it will wash away the wooziness. I enter a stall before closing and locking it behind me.

Swoosh!

I open the stall and pretend to adjust my suit and tie. I don't think anyone would confuse the real me with a Caucasian, white-collar worker. A new cop barges into the bathroom, gun raised.

"Out of the bathroom. Now!" he shouts at me.

"Okay, okay," I say, hands in the air.

As I leave the bathroom, I look back one last time. The cop paces between the sinks and stalls behind me. "Come out of the stall with your hands up, Newsome!"

I leave the restroom, regaining my legs as I plod into the mild spring air. I look at my cell phone. It's 9:13.

The mass of police officers in front of Independence Hall has now doubled in size. I look around for a cab but find none. Philly's taxis are scarce compared to those in a town like New York but I need to keep moving.

I turn left down Chestnut Street and embark on my seven-block trek to Reading Terminal Market, envisioning the multitude of backstreets I can take along the way.

When I take one last look at the scene, the cop who stormed the restroom emerges from the archway and shakes his head with bewilderment.

I exhale and press on, never again looking back.

Chapter Nine

After an unsteady trek toward Reading Terminal Market, I decide to stop at a coffee shop.

Of all the places, I know.

But I don't see an A of I at the rendezvous point of Twelfth and Arch and I really need a cold drink. Phil's Coffee is the closest and safest establishment that offers such a beverage. In its own right, the market provides numerous drinks and other forms of nourishment but it's too risky. The market's foot traffic is far too dense and its concourses are not that wide, thus rendering any potential escape difficult.

I try calling Jimenez for an update but only get her voicemail. Just before I step into Phil's, however, my phone rings.

"There's nobody here, Elena," I say, my voice still that of the white-collar worker.

"Hi," a young man says. "Is this the matchmaker service?"

"Um... yes. Who's this?"

"I'd like to set up an appointment."

"We'll have to call you back. The guy who runs this practice... he's busy."

"Can you help me, then? Please?"

"Maybe," I say with a sigh. "What's your name?"

"Mark." It was the kid who left me a voicemail while I was on my way to Lincoln High yesterday.

"What do you do, Mark?"

"I'm a student. I go to CCP," he says, referencing the local community college. I've never had a college student before.

Given my current state of affairs, I'm of mind to hang up on this kid. But I can't. "I must say, you sound younger than most of our clients. What is it you're looking for?"

"Um... "

"A date? Long-term relationship?" I check my attire. Still white collar.

"I don't know... I'm just tired of feeling lonely all the time."

"Do you live alone, Mark?"

"With my mom."

"Any friends?"

"Not really. We moved here last year."

"I see. Well, I believe you when you say you're lonely but I'm not sure I can help you. Maybe you should see a counselor at school."

"I did that already," Mark says with a nervous laugh. He may be desperate but I like this kid. "They suggested I talk to a matchmaker."

"How'd you find us?"

"I Googled matchmakers and saw your website. I liked what you had to say, especially the part where you say your first priority is listening." Guilty as charged. Sometimes, my clients don't even need a mate. They need someone who'll listen to them, who'll instill in them a sense that they can be of value to someone. Mark claims to not know anyone here, so, in his mind, he probably feels like he has nothing to offer the populace. Still, I don't think I can help this kid right now.

"Where do you live?" I say.

"Center City."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We live in a really old apartment on Chestnut, a couple blocks east of Broad Street."

I look down in that direction. "You know, we're a little busy this morning but, if you hurry, I have someone who might be able to meet with you."

"Okay. Where are they?"

"She's at Phil's Coffee across from Reading Terminal Market."

"Wow, that's close. I can be there in like ten minutes."

"Perfect. Her name's Lindsay. You'll like her. Look for the blonde in the flannel shirt." Meeting Mark as the Bionic Woman instead of the white-collar worker should help give my encouragement more weight.

"Sweet. I'll be there soon. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Although I think he lacks confidence, I find Mark far more endearing than Josh Jenner.

I hang up the phone, enter Phil's, and sneak into the women's restroom to change back into Lindsay Wagner. Doing so will also allow me to be lighter on my feet in case I need to run again.

I then think about what Hamilton said two days ago when we talked about shape shifting in public. If Superman had phone booths, I've been relegated to bathroom stalls. While more than a little annoying, my new life is nothing if not adventurous. It gives the concept of keeping me on my toes a whole new meaning.

Needing something to ward off my continuing lightheadedness, I buy an iced tea and look for a place to sit. I grab a seat at a small table next to a window and look out towards Twelfth Street; Reading Terminal Market's Depression-era exterior beckons across the road.

Still no sign of any Agents of Influence. If they show up before Mark arrives, I'll leave. If Mark gets here first, the driver will have to wait. I'm sure a fellow A of I would understand.

I take a deep breath and ingest the shop's java-scented air as I take my phone out of my pocket and begin looking at my collection of pictures, most of which are of Ronni and me. Although my everyday phone was confiscated by the police, I've placed all my photos and their inherent memories on the cloud.

The photos begin to blur as I think about the state of my life right now. There was great promise to be had but it's hard to focus on any of that with all that has occurred in the last twenty-four hours or so. I need to lay low until I hear from an Agent of Influence, though I'm not entirely sure I want to hear from them anymore. One thing is clear: the promise my life once had has now evaporated because of an ID card.

Jimenez still hasn't called me back since my exposure at the Mint. Between the investigation and trying to find me a ride, it's entirely possible that she's just too busy to call me right now. Or, maybe I'm just saying that in order to quiet the voice inside my head that tells me that my exposure was no accident. Unfortunately, I have no other options. Running from everyone, including both agencies, would be fruitless.

Breaking out of my trance, I look up and see a lanky young man with long, wavy brown hair entering the coffee shop. Even though I've never seen him, I know it's Mark. He has an acute case of acne and wears a Linkin Park T-shirt underneath a gray zip-up hooded sweatshirt. He sports a pair of faded jeans to go along with gray Vans sneakers.

I wave my flannel-sleeved arm to draw his attention. He nods and ignores the front counter as he heads in my direction. Wearing a nervous smile, Mark takes the seat across from me. Hopefully this freelance case subject will help me take my mind off my maddening reality.

"Hi, Mark," I say, offering my outstretch hand. "I'm Lindsay."

"Nice to meet you," he says, shaking my hand without much conviction.

This is definitely not a trap.

I'm confident in my sexuality. As such, I have no qualms about saying that Mark strikes me as somewhat of an average boy. Not ugly, not leading man material, but... handsome... in a puppy dog kind of way. If his personality and confidence shine, however, I think he'd be quite the catch for someone.

"I'm sorry Calvin couldn't meet with you," I say. "He's a little busy this morning."

"Who?"

"Sorry. He's our guy who usually works with men."

"It's fine." Judging by Mark's nervous grin, I gather that he'd prefer working with me instead of Calvin anyway.

"So, Calvin tells me you've been feeling lonely," I say, moving my light brown hair out of my face. Earlier, I could have sworn my hair was dark blonde. Whatever.

"Yeah. I was kind of hoping you could help me with that." Mark's eye contact isn't very good. I hope that's just a matter of me intimidating him as opposed to an everyday social awkwardness.

"I have to be honest with you. You're the youngest client our practice has ever had. I'm not sure if Calvin told you but most of our clients are spinsters, divorcees and widows."

"Oh."

"But, that doesn't mean we can't get you in our database."

He shrugs. "Well, I don't want to waste your time."

"No. You won't," I say, taking a peek outside. "Can't have a younger clientele without that first younger client, right?"

Mark nods his head.

"Tell me about yourself. What do you study?"

"Well," he says with a nervous laugh again, "I'm a liberal studies major."

"Okay. Tell me your three best qualities."

The boy squirms in his seat and sighs.

"Mark," I say in a softer tone, "part of my job is to sell you. I can't do that if—"

"People say I'm sensitive."

"Okay," I say, looking outside before checking my hands again. "That's a good start."

"Shouldn't you be writing this down?"

"No. Not necessarily. Please, leave the questions to me."

"Sorry," Mark says with the sincerity of a first grader's handmade Christmas card.

"It's okay. What else?" I say, glancing at my hands again.

"I play the drums," he says with another shrug. This is going to be tough.

"We'll come back to that. You are straight, right?"

"You think I'm gay?"

"I'm just checking. We cater to that kind of clientele, too. Tell me about your dream girl."

"Like, my real dream girl?"

"If you have one, sure. What's her name?" I notice a police cruiser drifting down Twelfth Street.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You keep looking outside."

"Oh," I say, waving him off. "I just—what's the girl's name?"

"Maddy."

"What's she like?" I haven't touched my tea since I sat down. I'd take a sip but I don't want to look any more preoccupied than I already am.

"Oh, she's beautiful," Mark says, looking off in the distance as though Maddy were actually standing behind me.

"How so?"

"I..." he says, still studying the imaginary girl. "She's like an angel."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She's just so kind. And drama-free. She's never loud or mad or anything."

"What's she look like?" I glance outside and check my hands again.

Despite being so candid about Maddy's personality, Mark tenses up here, mostly out of embarrassment, I'd guess.

"Her eyes are just... I don't know. She's got big beautiful brown eyes."

"Yeah?"

"She makes me feel good about myself just by looking at me."

"Interesting."

"Yeah. I guess it sounds kind of stupid."

"No. Not at all." That's how I feel about Ronni's smile. "You really like her, huh?"

"Yes."

"Ever ask her out?"

"No."

"Why?" I say checking my hands once again.

Mark looks through the window and then back behind me before taking a deep breath. "I don't know. It's kind of hard for me."

"If you like her, you should go after her."

Mark shakes his head. "She won't go out with me."

"Why do you say that?"

Mark shrugs, looking down at the floor beside the table.

"She single?"

"Yeah."

I scoff and give Mark a look of incredulity. "What are you waiting for, man?"

"Isn't—isn't that your job?"

"My job is to find you a match. I think we have one already."

"She won't go out with me, though."

"How do you know?" I say, making sure I'm not disturbing the shop's other patrons. "You haven't even tried."

Mark simply stares at his intertwined hands on the table.

"It must frustrate you that you haven't asked her out."

Mark nods, keeping his eyes on his hands.

"That's probably why you won't ask her out; you feel stupid because you think a better man would have asked her out by now." I touched a nerve, I think. It's something that needed to be said, though. He needs to be aware of the fact that the only person keeping him from at least asking Maddy out is himself. It's a vicious cycle, one that will affect more than just his love life. "You might not have thought of it that way but I'm sure you agree with me."

Mark nods his head.

"How do you know this girl?"

"She's in my political science class. It's a night class."

"You sit next to her?"

"We're study partners."

I give him an impressed look. He's done more groundwork than he knows. "Nice."

"I guess. I think she just does it because I get good grades."

"Wait. Do you have her phone number?"

Mark nods.

"Call her up."

"Now?"

"Sure."

"No way," he says, shaking his head furiously. "I can't."

"Sure you can," I chuckle at the expense of his fright. "You like her don't you?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I can't."

"Just try. We can go outside if you'd like. I'll go with you."

"No way."

I glance to my right, through the café window, take a deep breath, and turn back to the boy with a sympathetic smile. "Look, I know you don't think so, but I think you actually have something to offer a girl. If I were younger, I'd go for you," I say, using every ounce of my feminine side. If a young Lindsay Wagner had confessed this to me when I was in college, I'd feel like Brad Pitt.

"Yeah, right," he says.

"I'm serious. You're a nice boy. Maddy would be extremely lucky to have you." This part is true. I see a sort of vulnerability in Mark that most guys his age don't have. If this Maddy knows what's good for her, she'll at least give him a chance. "Mark, remember what you told me about Maddy's eyes? How they make you feel?"

"Yeah?"

"You have a chance to experience that every day, maybe for the rest of your life. How can you pass on that?"

"What if she says no?"

"Okay, how about this? If she says yes or no, you won't owe me a cent but you have to call her right now. Otherwise, I hope you brought your mom's credit card." Mark finally makes solid eye contact with me as the terms of my offer swirl around in his head. "You might not know it but I took a huge risk coming out to see you."

Mark furrows his brow. "Why? What risk?"

I ignore his question. "Mark, this goes a lot deeper for you than wanting a girlfriend. No one calls a matchmaker at eight in the morning."

He averts his eyes.

"I've made you a good offer. Don't disappoint me."

He looks into my blue eyes once more before standing up, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out his cell phone. "I'll be back," he says, suddenly possessed by another, more confident boy.

"I'll wait here."

Mark turns around and walks away from the table with a newfound swagger. As he walks through the shop's entrance, he passes a bearded man wearing a leather jacket.

I don't know if Maddy will say yes but, suffice it to say, I certainly hope she does. Despite the deal I've made with Mark, I can only imagine one of two things happening if the girl says no. I'll either incur his wrath for coercing him into embarrassing himself or he'll melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in a shower of his own tears. Either way, Mark won't see the true value in what I've told him.

I look straight ahead, out to where Mark paces about on the sidewalk, his phone up to his ear. We never really discussed what would happen if he got her voicemail. When it looks like Maddy has picked up, I look away and turn my attention back to the window at my side. I can't bear to watch.

When I see my reflection in the window, I nearly swear out loud this time. To my surprise, my skin is no longer fair and my features are no longer feminine. Instead, I see the real me—the one who's wanted for murder—dark skin; short, nappy hair; male features. I check the skin on my hands.

Dark.

I stand up and dash toward the entrance, leaving my iced tea at the table. I keep my head turned away from the coffee shop's counter, which is where the bearded man that just entered is standing. I can only assume that he's the one responsible for my unplanned transformation.

Swinging the door open, I let the mild spring air wash over me and brush past Mark, keeping my head down.

"Sure," I hear him say, "Friday would be great."

I stifle a grin as I cross Twelfth Street and head for Reading Terminal Market. Taking the place of Lindsay Wagner's flannel shirt and jeans is my signature polo shirt and jeans combination, the same ensemble I wore yesterday.

Across the street now, I pull a door open and step inside the market. This is not your typical market. Although some of the vendors sell groceries, most of the vendors here sell deliciously indulgent fare—cheesesteaks, fried chicken, cakes, and pies. Thankfully, the breakfast crowd has dissipated, leaving a scattered mass of customers spread out across the vast warehouse.

Speed walking past an ice cream vendor, I spot a restroom and push its door open. Once inside, I find it free of any potential witnesses and relatively small with just three stalls and three sinks across from those stalls. I step into the stall furthest from the entrance and lock it.

Swoosh!

Before I leave the stall, my phone rings. It's Jimenez.

"This better be good."

"Where are you?"

"Where you told me to be."

"Perfect."

"What? What's perfect?"

"Josh Jenner's at The Gallery right now. He skipped school today."

I shake my head. She didn't just say what I think she just said, did she? "Wait, what? Elena, I've now been exposed three times and all in places you and your people told me to go. That's not a very good percentage."

"Those were mistakes. I didn't know there'd be A of Js at those places."

"Of course you didn't. So, when's someone coming to get me?"

"Soon," she says. "I have one more interview to conduct."

"Call another A of I, then."

"It's too risky. You need to be on the move right now, which is perfect because I need you to go to The Gallery."

"Uh, no. No way."

"Calvin, Josh is planning to kill himself."

"Yeah, I know that already."

"He's planning to do it today."

"Today? Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Check the intelligence again."

"I did."

"All of it?"

"The intelligence isn't wrong on this," she says. "You have my word."

I exhale loudly into the phone. "Fine. How should I proceed?"

"Start making your way to The Gallery. I'll text you his exact location."

"When should I engage?"

"Not immediately. But make sure he's not left alone in a private place."

"Like a restroom."

"Right. It'll be your call when to act. Just... don't mess it up like you did last time."

I roll my eyes. "How's the investigation going?"

"So far? Inconclusive."

I pound the stall's door with my fist which, given a moment to think about it, is pointless. Even if they find out who set me up, there's little the agency can do to clear my name without exposing itself.

"But by the time you're done with Josh, I should be able to pick you up," she says.

"Fine. Call me."

Stepping out of the stall, I see an overweight, middle-aged white man in my reflection but I step back into the stall and lock its door.

I'll need a new approach with Josh. It's obvious from my failed encounter with him yesterday that he doesn't respect females; I can't go that route again. And, chances are, if he's come all the way down to Center City to shop at The Gallery, he's more of an urban kind of guy. I need to meet him at his level.

Swoosh!

I step out of the stall and study my reflection. This time, I'm a cartoonish black teenage male donning a fitted Yankees cap cocked to the side, baggy jeans sitting halfway down my ass, and a brown Sean John shirt about three sizes too large. Looking the part of this cliché won't present the greatest of challenges. Acting the part, however, will be an entirely different story.

When I exit the bathroom, I begin to reflect on the events of the past three days and those that potentially lie ahead of me. If I save Josh, my faith in my new employer might be restored. If I don't, I'll have no choice but to view my life as the muddled mess that it has become.

For the moment, my role as an Agent of Influence hangs as a tissue-thin veil; one that hides the terrifying uncertainty that lies behind it.
Chapter Ten

After the Arch Street debacle and my exposure at Phil's Coffee—however uneventful it was—I decide to use the network of underground walkways in the area to traverse the short distance to The Gallery. The hunch I play is a good one; there aren't nearly as many people—let alone cops or Agents of Justice—underground as there are sure to be on the surface. If my name is never cleared, I may have to take up a subterranean lifestyle.

The Gallery is a mall with over a million square feet of retail space that is now largely unused. Its reputation has taken a major hit over the past decade as the mall has become known as a popular hangout spot for teenage riffraff, even when they should be in school. For Josh, The Gallery's pretty far. There's nothing special about the place and there are plenty of other malls scattered across this metropolis. This mall, however, is still popular with those who love urban fashion, such as the getup I'm wearing now. I can't understand how my brethren walk around town with the waists of their jeans wrapped around their ass cheeks.

Jimenez tells me via text message that I can find Josh in The Gallery's food court. During my walk, that nagging voice in the back of my mind reminds me that I might not find the boy in The Gallery. It tells me that this may actually be another trap set by the A of I.

Fortunately, I do find Josh where Jimenez said he'd be. I can't reconcile my suspicions with the fact that the A of I would have had to go to such great lengths—the Control Room, the Change Machine, the Arrowhead, Carla Andrews—just to see to it that I was framed for murder.

As is usually the case on a weekday morning, mall is barren. I've taken a seat at a table quite far from Josh so as to be more inconspicuous. I don't think he ate lunch—most of these eateries aren't open yet—but he is indulging in a Mrs. Field's cookie and lemonade as he sits by himself. For someone hell-bent on suicide, he seems in good spirits.

The more I observe this kid, the more I wonder how he was singled out by the A of I. I'm sure that they probably try to save everyone who needs saving but—as he belches loudly—they couldn't have found a more loathsome subject.

Josh stops playing on his cellphone and holds it to his ear. "Hello?... Yeah, I'm at the food court, where you at?... Alright, later." He hangs up the phone, stands up and walks away from the wrapper and cup he leaves at his table. I wait a few moments before following him.

One half of the mall's main concourse is brighter than the other as the sun's angled rays shine through The Gallery's glass ceiling. Walking in the shade, trying to keep my pants from falling, I keep a distance of about twenty yards behind Josh as he walks in the sunlight. In the distance stands a group of four black guys, all older than Josh, in front of a jewelry store. As the boy draws closer to the quartet, I keep walking, unsure of what to do. I'll only have one chance to walk past them without drawing attention to myself.

As I draw closer, Josh trades bro hugs with the foursome. I stop in front of a sporting goods store and pretend to look at the Phillies gear in the window. I then take a peek over at the group; they're huddled up like a football team. When I move a few yards closer, Josh hands something to the tallest member of the group. Tall guy takes a look at what he's been given—a wad of cash. He takes a quick count of the money and hands Josh what looks like a small brown paper bag.

I can't hear what's being said but there is no acrimony. In fact, the tall guy, definitely the leader of the pack, puts his hand on Josh's shoulder.

Suddenly, a member of the group looks over Josh's shoulder and notices me. "What you looking at, homie?"

"Me? Nothing. What you looking at... dawg?"

"You want some of this?" the leader says.

I'm now five yards away from the group but retreating. "Sorry, I'm not looking for a fight."

"Nah, man. I mean some of this," he says, hand on his jacket pocket. "I got that ready rock," he says, lowering his voice.

"You mean crack?!"

"Yo, shut the fuck up," he says as all of his minions, including Josh, shush me.

"I'll pass." I hold up my hands as I walk backwards toward the sporting goods store.

Is this how Josh plans to go out? Overdosing on all the crack he can get his hands on? Given what I already know about the boy, I can't say I'm surprised. But, for the life of me, though, I still can't grasp why he came all the way down to The Gallery. They sell drugs in his neck of the woods, too.

Josh separates from the group and walks toward the food court again. I let him pass behind me before following him once more. As he passes the food court, I deduce that Josh's next move is to get on the EL—it runs underground through Center City—and go home. Given my earlier episode on the bus, I can't get on the EL.

I stop near the food court, pull out my phone, and call Jimenez. Voicemail. I turn my back to Josh and tightly grip my phone, making a fist with that hand. I then hold the top of my phone to my lips.

C'mon Jimenez, call me back. Tell me to abort.

I take a deep breath and look to my left. An empty store. Nothing there to preoccupy my mind, nothing there but my reflection to remind me of the power I have and the reason I have it.

Just walk away, Calvin. It's not that hard...

I turn around and watch Josh near the entrance to the EL station. I look down to the floor and then back up to Josh. The EL is indeed risky but the train presents a contained area within which I can engage the boy. And, if push comes to shove, I know I can fight like hell to escape.

As I start jogging toward Josh, he turns left down a set of stairs, at the bottom of which is the aforementioned EL stop. When he reaches the bottom and drops a token into one of the fare machines, I skip down the stairs. I check the money in my pocket and see that all I have are twenties except for a five dollar bill. As Josh enters the station, I walk over to a token machine and force my five into its slot, keeping an eye on the boy.

While the machine processes my transaction, I hear a train in the distance. I look around the corner, urging the machine to move with a bit more alacrity. If I lose the boy while getting tokens, that will be a clear sign that I'm supposed to abort.

The sound of the oncoming train reaches its apex, but it's a westbound train. False alarm.

The machine finally spits out my tokens and I enter the train station, the distinct stench of urine filling my nostrils. I find Josh sitting on a bench. I, however, continue standing. The station is relatively empty so there's no point in crowding the kid just yet.

We trade brief glances—he's not oblivious to my presence. I'll need to be less obvious until we get on the train. Someone who lives as far away from The Gallery as Josh does will need to take the EL to the end of the line. That gives me about twenty-five or thirty minutes. Plenty of time.

I look down into the dark tunnel and see a bright, white light coming in our direction. When I remember Hamilton's story about the former assistant superintendent, my legs take me away from the edge of the platform.

Peeking at Josh, I find that he's on his cell phone, once again. It shocks me the kind of phones teenagers carry these days. I didn't get my first cell phone until I was halfway through college. Now it's not uncommon for these kids to carry smartphones.

I watch as the train enters the station, bringing a gust of wind with it. Josh stands up and approaches the thick yellow line signifying the edge of the platform. I take my place about ten yards down from him. When the train comes to a stop, I get on the same car as the boy but one door down. He sits in a forward-facing seat, next to a window. I sit down in a side-facing seat so I can keep a close eye on the boy's movements. With a harmonic tune, the doors close and the train presses on to the next station.

At this time of day, the train is half empty. To my right, a little girl of about two years old squirms in her seat next to her mother. A young guy with large headphones jams out to rock music. To my left, with his back to me, Josh. I take a moment to confirm that the Yankees hat is still perched at an angle on the top of my head. Until now, I've been able to simply check the skin on my hands.

I could use some aspirin. My wooziness has worn off but now I have a headache thanks, most likely, to the dude with the nightstick.

Following Josh's lead, I pull out my phone and, once again, look at my photos. The first photo I come across is my favorite of Ronni and me. We're at a Fourth of July celebration at Penn's Landing. On what was a muggy night, my face glistens in the camera's flash as Ronni's hair sticks to her face. My arm is around her waist and she's flashing her luminescent smile, of course.

When the train makes its final underground stop, I remember my conversation with Hamilton. If he can turn his life around, albeit with Richardson's help, perhaps Josh can do the same, starting today. An encounter with an Agent of Influence can be a turning point in someone's life. I'm going to attempt the same with Josh.

The train climbs out of the tunnel and reaches its full elevation. Out of the window behind me, I see the majority of the city to the west, its high-rises sparkling in the sun's merciless glow. The EL then stops at its first elevated station. With a handful of passengers entering the car, I take the opportunity to slide into the seat next to Josh. He shoots me a look before going back to a game on his phone.

"What are you playing?" I say, trying to be more like myself, despite my apparel.

"Angry Birds."

I snicker. "There's angry birds all over this town. They don't look anything like those." My joke goes over Josh's head. Instead of a laugh, my lame attempt at humor only elicits a loud sigh. If these are to be Josh's last moments on Earth, does he really want to spend it playing Angry Birds? With a wink of my eye, I crack the screen on Josh's phone.

"What the hell?" he says.

"That sucks."

Josh leans his head against the window, avoiding eye contact with me.

"Hey, what school do you go to?" I say.

Josh looks at me without saying a word.

I swallow hard. I'm fully engaged now. "You go to Lincoln, don't you?"

"Yeah. How did you—"

"I've seen you before."

"You go to Lincoln?"

"Went to Lincoln. I dropped out."

"Sweet."

"I guess," I say. "It ain't that fun. Kind of boring."

"I want to drop out."

"Yeah?" I check my Yankees cap to make sure it's still there.

"Yeah. I hate school."

"Don't you want to go to college?"

"Hell no," he says, laughing. "And why do you care? Didn't you just say you dropped out."

I shrug. "You're right. I guess I just got tired of people telling me what to do all the time."

"For real. All these people keep telling me I need to go to college to make money. No I don't." Josh might be a little rough around the edges but he's right about that.

More people enter the train as we reach another stop.

"What would you do?" I say. "To make money, I mean."

Josh looks around the train before leaning in toward me. "I'd push."

"Push?"

Josh nods his head.

Full disclosure: I'm not hip enough to know what he's talking about but I don't want to seem like the dork who doesn't know what it means. "How much can you make doing that?"

"Lots," he says with a straight face. "I make a couple c-notes a day."

"Oh, so you do this already?"

"You ask too many questions," he says.

"My bad." Okay, I'm not getting anywhere with this conversation. In fact, I'm only encouraging Josh to drop out of school. "What does your mom do?"

He sucks his teeth. "She ain't around no more." He turns back to the window.

"What happened to her?"

"She died," he says, turning back to me.

"Ah, man, sorry about that."

He waves me off. "Whatever. It was an accident."

"You ever feel... guilty about it?"

"No." He's being quite cavalier about this for being driven to suicidal thoughts. Then again, that's how most young males act. It's a way to hide their feelings.

"Man, I don't know how you deal with that."

"I just do my thing, man."

Screw it. "Like drugs?"

"Yeah."

"You buy some from those guys at the mall?"

Josh looks at me, offended that I would ask him such a question. The train starts to slow down as we reach another station.

"What are you, a cop or something?"

"Give me the drugs, Josh."

"How do you know my name?"

"Give me the—"

Josh slugs me in the jaw, almost knocking me out of my seat as the train comes to a stop. He climbs over the seat in front of us and runs for the nearest set of doors. I orient myself, stand up, and chase Josh off the train and out to the platform.

He bumps a couple of would-be passengers on his way to the stairwell leading to the street below. My head now pounding, I run into the stairwell, two seconds off of the boy's pace, stopping to hike my pants up to a normal height. Josh gains some separation from me, galloping down the stairs with the pace of a racehorse. I, meanwhile, have had enough aerobic exercise for one day.

When I reach the bottom of the stairwell, Josh takes a right turn and starts running down the sidewalk. The Kensington part of town is littered with abandoned factories, run down boutiques, and decrepit homes—half of which stand in the EL's imposing shadow. In addition, the EL's light blue stanchions, each separated by about twenty yards, stand guard at the edge of the sidewalk.

Now thirty yards ahead of me, Josh takes a slight turn to his left and looks back at the oncoming traffic. With the coast relatively clear, the boy races across the street.

The ear-piercing screech of a car's tires comes from my left. A Lincoln Navigator revs past me before swerving out of control. In front of a stanchion, the boy turns around and freezes.

"Josh!"

Bang!

After it had accelerated just moments ago, the car stops dead in its tracks, crumpling flush against the EL stanchion with its front tilted upward. Still standing on the other side of the street, I wait to see Josh emerge from the wreckage but there's no sign of him.

A slew of people leave their cars, homes, and bodegas, flocking to the wreck like ants on a donut left in the grass. I cross the street hoping for a miracle but expecting the worst. When I approach the car and look inside I find that the driver—a woman—is unconscious, her seat belt on and head against her airbag.

I look to the front of the car and swallow hard again. Josh's body stands pinned to stanchion, the front of the car's mangled underbody and grille flush against his chest. His eyes are closed and his white T-shirt is soaked in blood.

I suddenly feel the need to gasp for air. "Oh, God, no." Some in the crowd force open the driver side door of the Navigator and reach for the driver. "Don't touch her! Call 911!" I say, tears forming in my eyes. The crowd looks at me, puzzled. I take a look at my clothing and realize that I've changed back to myself.

Before their suspicions come to a head, I turn and run into an empty alley, bend over at the waist and put my hands on my knees. I gulp as much oxygen as my lungs will allow between my silent sobs. I suddenly begin feeling lightheaded again, my headache intensifying. With my tears dropping to the pavement, I close my eyes and imagine Ronni. I see her smiling face in front of me, her arms around my shoulders. I miss her fiercely. It would be impossible to feel this hopeless, this lost if she were by my side.

I open my eyes and peek around one of the alley's brick walls, hands over my head, as I observe the scene while listening to sirens in the distance.

Standing by herself in the middle of the street is a girl in a light blue Phillies cap and sunglasses. In fact, that's the same girl I saw when I was arrested at the school. This time, she's on a cell phone.

I start to wipe the tears from my eyes to get a better look but, before I can do so, she hangs up her phone and turns away from the scene.

"Calvin!" I hear a voice say.

It's Jimenez in her Jetta.

I shake my head.

"Get in the car!"

"You stay the hell away from me!"

"The cops are coming! Get in the car!"

I look around to make sure the coast is clear before racing out of the alley and into the car.

"What happened?" she says.

"I don't know, you tell me."

"Huh?"

"You know what the hell I'm talking about."

"What you think I did this?"

I roll my eyes at her and look through the passenger window. We make a u-turn and drive away from the scene.

"Tell me what happened," she says.

"Josh was hit by a car. Pinned against an EL pole."

"Oh my God." Jimenez looks over at me. "You think I caused that?"

"I don't know. I just know every time you tell me to go somewhere, an A of J seems to conveniently pop up."

"Okay, you can blame me for the Mint and Reading Terminal Market, but this? How would I know he'd take the EL and get off here?"

I ignore her. "I know who caused the accident."

"Who?"

"The girl with the Phillies hat and sunglasses."

"Wait, the one who was at Lincoln?"

"Same hat, same clothes, same everything."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Swoosh!

I turn back into Lindsay Wagner so as not to draw attention from any cops we might pass.

"It probably was her. What are the odds she'd be at the school yesterday but not today?" Jimenez says.

"Just like Josh... and what are the odds I'd see her in both places?"

"Ay dios mio. Richardson was afraid of this," she says, still not looking at me.

"Afraid of what?"

Jimenez's eyes remain affixed to the road.

"Tell me!"

"There's a mole in our agency."

"You're kidding."

"The A of J had to have known that Josh was your subject. They were following the both of you."

"Why would they—"

"No idea."

"What about the ID? How did the investig—"

"Nothing. Both Seville and Darling said they got it from the ID collection. But when I cross-referenced our database, there was no record of the card having ever been made."

"So, whoever the mole is must've planted it there."

"Right."

"Shit," I say, leaning back in my seat. "So I was set up."

Jimenez nods her head.

"Okay, so let's change forms when we go back to the branch. Whoever's nearby when we change back into ourselves has to be the mole, right?"

She shakes her head. "They wouldn't be that stupid. Their cover would have been blown a long time ago. Whoever the mole is works for the A of J but hasn't gone through their Change Machine."

On the interstate now, I think about the choice I had before hopping on the Change Machine. I wish I would have chosen the safer, more boring choice. "How do I know you're not the mole?"

"Calvin," she says, punched in the gut, "you can trust me."

I suddenly sit up and scoff. "Oh, of course I can. Up to this point you've been real trustworthy." My resentful gaze meets hers.

"You're right," she says. "We're all responsible for this." If Jimenez is acting sympathetic, she ought to be in pictures. Otherwise, her eyes look as though they actually exude pain. She averts her gaze, returning it to the road.

A long, awkward silence falls over the car. Jimenez and I are left with nothing but the ambient noise of the car's tires rolling on the highway. She must know what I am thinking, all of the pent up anger and frustration I must feel. I, however, don't know how she feels.

She is either burying herself in remorse or plotting her next twisted move when her phone rings. "Hello?... Yes, we're on our way... Okay, I'll tell him... Bye." She hangs up the phone and places it back in her center console. "It was Richardson. He wants to meet with you back at the branch."

What choice do I have? "Fine."

"We will get you out of this. I promise."

"Don't promise things you have no control over," I say, keeping my eyes on the road.

The truth of the matter is that keeping me holed up at the Agency of Influence may hide me from the cops but it won't protect me from the mole. The frustrating thing is that I have no clue what the mole wants from me. Money's the only thing I have, but I'm not wealthy.

If, however, their aim was to tear my life to pieces, then they have been nothing if not successful.

Chapter Eleven

Upon my arrival at the branch, I take a badly-needed shower, washing away the filth I've accumulated over the past couple of days. I still feel terrible about what happened to Josh but I've resigned myself to the fact that the Agency of Justice was going to get him—for whatever reason—sooner or later.

Having showered, I take a sorely-needed nap in one of the branch's sleeping chambers. The mattress is quite stiff but anything would have sufficed, including the floor. When I wake up, I throw on a set of agency-issued sweats. This is the first time in a while that I've felt comfortable, at least in my own clothing, if not in my own skin.

I am now sitting in a small meeting room. A rectangular table serves as the room's focal point with an empty leather chair across from me. I'm curious as to what Richardson has to say at this point. I anticipate something along the lines of blah blah blah mistake, blah blah blah mole, blah blah blah you're fucked.

The door swings open. Richardson, noticeably more serious than usual, sits down in front of me with a folder in his hands. What surprise will this one bring?

"Calvin," the old man says, "at the risk of sounding trite, I am truly sorry."

"I know."

"I'd like to make it up to you."

"Have you found a way to clear my name?"

Richardson leans forward. "To be honest, it'd be difficult to clear your name without exposing the agency... but we're prepared to offer you an alternative."

"Like what?"

He places the folder in front of me. "A new life. Anywhere you want, doing whatever you want." He motions for me to open the folder. I oblige the old man and notice a passport and a set of car keys. "You name the place. We'll make sure you get there, no questions asked."

I open the passport. It belongs to a black man named Kevin Stewart. According to the document, he's my age and hails from New York City. He's a couple of inches taller than me and, judging by the photo, darker than me.

"You would assume his name and his appearance," the old man says.

"How do I know this wasn't planted?" I say, pressing the passport with my finger.

"I made it myself. And I cross-referenced it with Department of State records to make sure that this is not Kevin Stewart."

"You can do that?"

"Cal, all of this is coming from up high. Our executive director, Lasse Gantert, approved all of this."

"You think this makes everything better?" I say. "You're asking me to live a lie."

"I'll wire the money in your savings account to an account in Kevin's name and the agency will continue to pay your salary."

"Forget my salary. You were the one who told me there was a role to be played by all of us, right?" The old man lowers his head. "Well, I didn't choose to be a murder suspect. If you really wanted to make things better..."

"My hands are tied, Cal. You know clearing your name's not an option for us. I mean, who would even believe us?"

"Well, you won't buy my silence."

"It's not about silence. It's about protection."

"Protection for who?"

"Dammit, Calvin... you know the alternative. Trust me when I say I wouldn't wish that on anybody."

I laugh. "Right, like you've been to prison. What was it? Tax evasion?"

"Vehicular manslaughter."

"Bullshit."

"I was twenty-two... and drunk." He averts his gaze, staring instead at his hands on the table. "Killed a girl."

"Was she older? Or was she..."

"She was seventeen."

The room falls silent. I stare at the old man. He, however, can't bring himself to look at me. I don't blame him.

"Anyone else know?"

He shakes his head. "Not even my wife."

"How long were you put away?"

"Sentenced to fifteen years, got out in twelve for good behavior."

"Wow."

"Cal," the old man says, still not looking at me, "I wish like hell we could clear your name, but... there's just too much at stake, including you. If you stay here, you will be exposed, and you will go to prison. And given what you're accused of... you'll wish you were dead."

I look past the old man and see my reflection in the window behind him. I've never been vain but I don't like the idea of trading in my mug for that of someone else. On numerous levels, I'd be selling my life away. I'd have to break off contact with everyone I know.

Still, the man in the reflection is wanted for murder. And, given the sordid chronicling of this affair by the media, I think I'd rather take Richardson's word for what it's like to be in prison.

"Let me think about it," I say.

He takes the folder and its contents off of the table. "Take your time."

"I have a question."

The old man nods.

"What happened to me at Independence Hall?"

"Your telekinetic episode, you mean?"

I nod my head.

"That was a telekinetic rift. Very powerful, very dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"You felt dizzy afterwards, yes?"

"Very."

"It has a concussive effect. I'll put it to you this way, had you held on any longer, you would've been brain dead." That explains my headaches and lightheadedness.

"How's it triggered?"

"It's usually involuntary, caused by an overwhelming rush of emotion. Like rage."

I snicker. "Kind of like how the Hulk?"

"Sure. But under normal circumstances, an agent would never need to use it. You were lucky. Telekinetic rifts are not to be messed with. It's why we recruit folks who are emotionally stable." The old man stands up, grunting in the process. "Let me know when you've made up your mind."

I nod as Richardson leaves.

Left in the room by myself, I continue to stare at my reflection. Although I'll most likely take it, the agency's offer seems like the easy way out. I wouldn't even know where to go.

I leave the room, walk down the hallway and turn the doorknob to the Control Room, looking both ways before entering. Richardson and company have only told me to stay at the branch. They never told me which room I had to stay in.

With the Control Room empty, I take a seat in front of the room's central computer. It prompts me to search by intersection or geographical coordinates. Josh's accident was on Front Street and we ran off the train at the York-Dauphin station. I type in the intersection of Front and York. The computer then prompts me to enter a time. I enter noon—the approximate time of the accident—and get an error message: the video doesn't exist.

Next, I try calling up the same video feed but from an hour later. This time it works, and first responders are scattered north of York Street. Most of the wreckage—and the crowd it attracted—has been cleared and traffic has resumed. I exit out of the video and attempt to view the scene at twelve o'clock again.

No luck.

The mole must have deleted the video from that timeframe. Whoever it is, they're thorough; I'll say that for them.

I readjust in the chair and pull out my phone. Five missed calls—four of them from Ronni—a similar number of texts, and one voicemail. I tap the voicemail button and put the phone to my ear.

"Hi, this is Mark. I, uh, wanted to thank you for setting up my meeting with Lindsay today." No, thank you for not being a trap. "She did leave without saying goodbye, though, so I hope everything's okay. Anyway, I owe you guys big time. Thanks again and please tell Lindsay that Maddy said yes." Awesome. Glad one of us got what we deserved.

I return to the missed call screen. I've wanted nothing more than to call Ronni but I don't know what to say. Telling her that I'm okay would incur more questions, more impatience and telling her the truth is not an option.

Still not entirely sure of what to say, I dial Ronni's number.

"Hello?" she says, the sound of gravel in her voice.

"Ronni, it's Calvin."

"Hi."

"Have the cops talked to you? I mean, can they—"

"No. The cops haven't been here."

I exhale a bit. "You just wake up?"

"Yeah."

"Did you not go to work?"

"I called out."

"Are you sick?"

"Kind of."

"Well, what if I come over tonight and bring you some soup?"

"That's not a good idea."

"Don't worry about me."

"It's not that. It's just... tonight's not good for me."

"Ronni, I miss you. I really need to see you."

"Calvin, this isn't fair."

"What's not fair?"

"This! You ignore me whenever I need you but then pop up whenever the hell you feel like it."

"I was running from the cops."

"It's always been like this and you know it."

My mind races for something to say but it doesn't find anything. Not anything found in logic, anyway.

"While you're off helping everyone else..."

I open my mouth, hoping to find the right words. Instead, after a long, silent pause, I finally hear a faint sob. Ronni and I have shed many a tear together but never was it because of something either of us did or said to the other.

"Please, Ronni, I have to see you."

"I can't," she manages through a sob. "Bye."

"Wait."

After she hangs up I toss my phone on the Control Room table, placing my hands on my head. That same warmth I felt after my failed first encounter with Josh is the same warmth I feel rushing to my head now. Nothing lasts forever but this is the train wreck I wanted to avoid with Ronni, whether she intended to permanently cast me aside or not. Though she's usually a cool customer, her reaction to my request was warranted. I have ignored her, both pre- and post-Agency of Influence. A sensitive human being can only give without receiving for so long. It only comes as minor consolation that this has essentially made it easier for me to disappear out of Ronni's life.

I step away from the control panel and go back into the hallway.

On my way to the café, I pass the Change Machine. Agent Darling is in the lab, studying the machine and jotting down notes on a clipboard at every turn. When I knock on the window, she turns around with a quick twist as though startled and flashes a smile. She may not be Ronni but any friendly face will do. I open the door and step into the lab.

"Jesus, Calvin. You scared the crap out of me."

"What are you doing?"

"Running a diagnostic. Jimenez has us do it every month."

"Gotcha."

Darling holds her clipboard down by her side before coming over to me. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired."

"I bet." She pats my shoulder with her free hand. "I'm so sorry about what happened."

"It's not your fault," I say before snickering. "Someone obviously has it out for me."

"Don't say that."

"I think it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

She shrugs. "Maybe we're all targets."

I hadn't considered that. No surprise; it falls in line with my freshly-exposed self-absorbed mentality.

"Don't take Josh's accident too hard. Could've happened to anyone."

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling myself."

"Good," she says with another smile. "Are you going to take Richardson's offer?"

"How did you—"

"He kind of told us about it when he reamed us earlier," she says, walking back to the machine.

"If you were me, what would you do?"

Darling purses her lips. "I'd take it and run."

"Where would you go?"

"Oh, my favorite place," she says, imagining it within the confines of the lab. "Clearwater Beach. Heaven on Earth."

"You go there often?"

"Twice a year. Christmas and summer—my parents own a vacation home there."

"Nice."

Darling grows orgasmic as she envisions her oasis. "I wish I was there now. See what you did?"

I chuckle. I hadn't had a genuine laugh in a while. If Ronni reigns supreme on my list of platonic friends, Valerie would make a good number two; she's a little too young for girlfriend material.

Now that I think about it, if Maddy didn't work out, Agent Darling might be a good match for Mark. She's probably only two or three years his senior.

When my stomach politely reminds me that I haven't eaten all day, I turn to look at the door. "Valerie, I'm going to stop at the café for something to eat. Care to join me?"

She lets out a nervous giggle. "Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Newsome?"

"Well, no—not that I wouldn't want to. I just have a lot on my mind. Don't want to eat alone, you know?"

She nods. "Sure, I'll eat with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, let's do it. I'm a little hungry myself. Let me just put this stuff away and shut it down. Can I meet you there?"

"Yeah—wait, aren't you on duty?"

"I'm supposed to go on break soon anyway. Seville should be back from his break any minute."

"Okay," I say, smiling. "I'll grab us a table."

I move to the lab's door before turning around. I look at Darling with an suggestive shrug. "Any requests?"

Valerie looks at me, initially confused before finally laughing. "Just be yourself."

I leave the lab and walk toward the garage at the end of the hallway. That annoying voice in the back of my head reminds me that anyone could be the mole, including Valerie. Still, she's no more of a suspect than Seville, Jimenez, any of Jimenez's other charges, Hamilton, or even Richardson himself. Besides, the branch's café presents a supervised environment in which a mole wouldn't pose much of a threat, and if they wanted to kill me, they would have done it by now.

Before reaching the garage, I approach the last door on the right and open it. Inside, the café fills my nose with the scent of delicious homemade-smelling food. The café features the menu of a college cafeteria while maintaining the ambience of a high brow sports bar. The place appears to have been remodeled within the past five years or so. Flat screens are mounted in each of the four corners of the eatery while the café also features tables as well as booths, each with plush seating and soft lighting. Posh as it may be, I find it odd that there is so much seating for a building that only houses twenty or so employees.

Because it's an odd hour, the café isn't very busy. There is one agent who sits by himself at a table in the middle of the café as he talks on the phone. Torn between a hearty meal and bar food, I choose the former. I go with a plate of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and green beans, all served buffet style. Despite my aversion to fulfilling stereotypes, I can't resist this time.

I pay the cashier and grab a booth along a wall, giving myself a full view of one of the flat screens. Valerie will have her own TV behind me.

As Agent Darling walks in, I nearly gasp as I watch a breaking news report on one of the twenty-four-hour news networks. The glass dome covering the Galleria in Milan, Italy has collapsed, injuring and killing countless shoppers and restaurant goers. The television is muted, so I can't hear what's being said. Based on the expressions of the eyewitnesses being interviewed, however, it's clear that Milan's natives are shaken. On the network's scroll on the bottom of the screen, it is announced that one American is dead and three others are injured.

Darling places her tray across from me and sits down. She went for the bar food—a small plate full of nachos.

"You see this?" I say, nodding up at the flat screen.

"No. What—" She turns back to look at my television. "Oh my god."

"I know. Crazy." I fork together some mac and cheese before stuffing my face.

"Was it an accident?"

"No clue."

Valerie turns around and starts working on her nachos. Meanwhile, a group of four male agents enters the café and scopes out the food. I turn my gaze back to Valerie and watch as her blue eyes peer past my head. The flat screen behind me replays last night's Phillies' game. To my surprise, Valerie appears more intrigued by the replay than by the events in Italy.

"You a big baseball fan?" I say.

"Huge."

"Nice. I bet that earns you lots of points with the guys."

She tilts her head. "Eh, you'd think so. I seem to attract the bad boys."

"I thought nice girls liked bad boys."

"Not this one. Not anymore."

"Fair enough."

"What about you?"

"Nah. Bad boys were never my thing, either."

Valerie laughs. "I meant, are you a sports fan?"

"Of course."

"What's your favorite sport?"

"Man, that's hard..." I look around, imagining each sport in every corner of the café. "It's definitely not basketball."

"Really?"

"I kind of have a love/hate relationship with basketball." Valerie gives me a quizzical look. "Loved it until I hit my growth spurt, then I got tired of people expecting me to be Michael Jordan."

"Now why would anyone expect that?" She winks before taking a sip of water through a straw.

As I take my first bite of the fried chicken breast, the four men have piled into the booth behind me.

"Believe it or not," I say, watching the events in Italy again, "I always wanted to play hockey."

"Interesting."

"It was too expensive, though."

"But that's cool. You're a non-conformist."

"I guess."

"Your parents must have been proud watching you grow up."

"If only that were true."

Valerie furrows her brow.

"My mom would have me believe that there are certain things black men should and should not do."

"What about your dad?"

"Never met him."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Actually, I should say I don't remember him. He left us when I was barely a year old."

"So, your dad wasn't around. You must be a momma's boy," she says with a playful smile. "That's probably why you're so sensitive."

"It's why I'm so out of touch women. With no father figure around..."

"You're learning, though, right?"

"Trial and error," I say before looking off in the distance, shaking my head.

"How long was your longest relationship?"

"I was engaged once."

"Really."

"Her name was Ashley Koch."

"What happened? If you don't mind—"

"I was stood up at the altar."

"Oh my god."

"I deserved it. She never actually told me why she left but I knew why she did it. The maddening thing, though, was that I sacrificed a lot to put a ring on her finger."

Valerie gives me a quizzical look.

"She's the reason I don't talk to my mom anymore. My mom didn't approve of her."

"Your mom disowned you?"

I nod.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" I say.

"And you still send her money? You are a momma's boy."

"There's a difference between disagreeing with someone and not loving them. She's all I had growing up. I'm just paying it back."

Valerie is speechless for a moment before patting my hand. "Well, Ashley leaving you was her loss."

"I guess."

"I'm serious. Any girl would be lucky to have you." Where have I heard that one?

"Doesn't matter now, does it?"

I catch her rolling her eyes before she pulls a nacho off the pile. "Guess not." I appreciate her compliments—flattered, in fact—but nothing can change what happened between Ashley and me. It's one of several bitter memories I'll take with me into exile.

I offer a sheepish shrug as I chew and swallow some chicken and green beans. "I'm being ornery. Sorry."

"It's okay," she says with nachos sloshing around her mouth. "I understand."

I fork up another combination, mac and cheese and green beans, this time. As I take a bite, a cell phones rings behind me. The guilty party excuses himself from the man table before walking out to the hallway.

"Hi, Sweetie," I hear him say.

"So, what do you think of everything going on at City Hall?" Darling says, refocusing my attention.

"I don't know. I haven't really kept up with it. Wasn't the mayor cleared yesterday or something like that?"

"And city council," Valerie says. "It's a joke."

"Yeah?"

While Valerie speaks of the alleged injustices of Philly's top ranking officials, my attention is drawn to the man on his phone. He walks back to the booth behind me, apparently in a hurry.

"I need to go, guys," he says.

"Already? We just started eating."

"It's the wife. She's waiting for the bus in the rain."

The man's buddies give him a collective razzing for violating Rule Six of Guy Code: Bros before Hoes.

"Sorry guys," he says before walking out of the café.

"He didn't even eat his nachos," one of his friends says.

"I'll eat them," says another guy.

"I wish my wife would tell me to come pick her up. Sorry, your ass is taking the bus."

The guy who took the abandoned nachos scoffs. "Did it ever occur to any of you that maybe that's why he's getting laid and we're not." The booth falls silent.

It's all I can do to not laugh at the conversation. I think that in previous years, I would have subscribed to the philosophies of the men behind me. However, after losing Ashley, I've become sensitive to just how selfish people, including myself, can be.

I mean, why is it that I can be selfless with total strangers but not with the people I claim to love? It was that way with Ashley and so it has been with Ronni. See, the difference between the two women is that Veronica Lee loved me unconditionally, tolerating my selfishness for much longer than my ex-fiancée. Perhaps Ronni was the only person who ever truly loved me. As such, why haven't I projected my benevolent self to her? Honestly, I think it goes back to not wanting to lose our friendship. I've spent so much time protecting the most precious thing I've ever had, that I never fully embraced the most precious thing I've ever had. That's quite sad, really.

What if I could take her with me? Wherever I end up going, I'll have nothing. But if I bring Ronni along, I'll have her love. And isn't that a basic human need anyway? To be loved? To feel admired? At first blush, there's no way it would work. If I took Ronni with me, there'd be so much to explain. On the other hand, it's not as if I owe the Agency of Influence anything at this juncture. Really, if I did whisk Ronni away with me, who could she tell? Who would believe her?

"It'll be a sad day when that happens," I hear Valerie say. "Calvin?"

I stand up, ignoring the succulent chicken I barely ate. "I have to go."

"Where're you going?"

I look down into Valerie's vacant stare. "I'll be back later."

"But you—" she says motioning at my food.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." I give her a couple pats on the shoulder on my way out of the café.

In the hallway, I shove the door leading to the garage and look around, remembering that my car has been taken by the police. The only way in or out of the garage, though, is by driving. After a few brief moments, I see the Casanova from the café climb into his car, a black Lexus.

Swoosh!

Casanova pulls out of his spot and slowly drives toward me. I wave a fair-skinned, wrinkled hand in his direction. He stops in front of me and rolls down his window.

"Agent Richardson," he says. "What do you need?"

"My car died," I say in my best Southern drawl. "I need to get up to the surface."

"Yes, sir," he says, unlocking his doors.

I hop in the backseat and close the door. Casanova then swings away from the entrance and up into the tunnel.

I pull out my cell phone and dial a number. "Hi, I'm at FDR Park and I need a cab... I'm over by the—just have the driver call me when they get to the park... twenty minutes? Great." I hang up the phone and see my chauffeur's eyes looking back at me in the mirror.

"Where're you going, sir?"

"I need to swing home for a bit."

"Oh, I'll take you."

"You don't have to do that."

"Please, let me."

I laugh. "Son, I think saving your wife from the rain is more important."

"How did you know about that?"

"You work for the Agency of Influence. Are you surprised?"

Casanova shrugs as we pass through the gate and emerge from the tunnel. The park is awash in a steady downpour.

I wait until we're out of the park's wooded area to stop the driver. "Right here's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yup."

"Whatever you say."

I open my door, bid Casanova farewell and throw myself into the precipitation before running under a tree. I hold my phone with a tight grip, shielding it from the rain as I look at the time. Almost rush hour.

Swoosh!

With Casanova gone, I change into a nerdy, hipster white boy, replete with skin tight jeans, a pair of Converses and Buddy Holly glasses. I lean against the tree as the rain adheres to my glasses in the form of droplets.

While waiting for the cab, I think of the myriad of things I can say to Ronni. Whatever words I choose to say, God only knows if she'll be willing to leave her life behind.
Chapter Twelve

After listening to my burly cab driver carry on about the Phillies' need for a new manager for the past half hour—during which I placated his bloodlust by explaining that we're only one month into the sixth-month baseball season—we reach Ronni's apartment in Northeast Philly. Suffice it to say, after navigating through the initial wave of rush hour traffic in a driving rainstorm, I could have rented a car for the same price as the fare.

I pull the cash out of my pocket and count up the fare. I wish I still had my credit card. Since I'll soon assume a new life as Kevin Stewart, I could really go buck wild. The creditors would never find me.

Before I finish counting the cash, the driver—his name is Joe—grabs my attention with a whistle. "Who's that?"

I look up and see Ronni bounding out of her apartment and into the parking lot. She, like the real me, is wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants. I'm still in disguise as Hipster Boy.

"Easy, big guy. That's my girl, Ronni."

"Now I see why you had me drive all the way up here."

"Pretty much."

"You ever, you know, hooked up with an Asian chick before?"

"No."

"Neither have I," Joe says with a chuckle. "I wanted to know if I was missing out."

I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, Ronni climbs into her Civic and turns the ignition.

"Uh-oh," Joe says. "You want me to follow her?"

"Yes. Please. If you don't mind."

"Nope."

Ronni backs out of her parking spot, turns on to the street and starts driving away at a slow pace.

The cab driver follows suit. "Was she expecting you?"

"No, but I expected her to be home. She told me she was sick."

Joe shrugs. "Maybe she's just going to the drugstore."

***

Ronni sits in her Civic in silence. With no music or talk radio to occupy her mind, the young lady is left with her thoughts of Calvin.

If he had only cared, he might have been able to save the both of them from her current predicament. Instead, Calvin's thoughtless behavior has helped push her to a point of no return.

Ronni's cell phone rings. Calvin. She ignores the call.

If Calvin had only cared sooner, if he had only listened, she most likely would have told him the truth. Instead, she feels little sympathy for him. The world, and all of its inhabitants, is as ugly and unfair as they told her it was. Calvin is guilty by association.

Ronni's cell phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"Agent Lee," a British man says, "how do you feel?"

"Nervous."

"That's natural. Just make sure your focus is on your mission."

"It is."

"Good. I called to inform you that you are being followed."

"Really?" Ronni says, looking up at her rearview mirror.

"It's an Agent of Influence."

"Is it him?"

"Never mind that. Just proceed with caution."

"I will."

"You are fulfilling your promise, Agent Lee. Our society will forever be indebted to you. Justice will be done."

"Justice will be done."

Ronni hangs up the phone and places it in her center console. At a red light, she looks over to her passenger seat and picks up her light blue Phillies cap, sliding it onto her jet-black mane.

When the light turns green, Ronni squeezes the steering wheel, breathes in as much oxygen as she can, and exhales loudly before stepping on the gas pedal.

***

Turning a corner, we pass Holmesburg Prison and then Pennypack Trail and Creek. My heart jumps at the sight of the brook. If I'm somehow found and arrested here, it would punch my ticket on the list of Philadelphia's all-time dumbest criminals.

I glance at the skin on my arm. Still fair.

I feel bad for ditching Agent Darling but I would have been restless without at least attempting to confront Ronni. I really must have pissed her off. She never ignores my calls.

She pulls into a small parking lot overlooked by the Holmesburg Junction train station. Regional rail—a more far-reaching mode of transportation than the EL—services this station. The eastbound train takes you to New Jersey. The westbound train takes you into Center City.

Joe drives us into the lot and parks a few spaces down from and one row behind Ronni. He has parked facing the street. Ronni's Civic faces the station. Joe turns to look at me as I look through the cab's rear window.

"What are you going do?" he says.

I hand the driver some cash. I've had flights cheaper than this cab fare.

Ronni gets out of the car, her head covered by the hood on her sweatshirt. She walks up the concrete stairs leading to the station, bypasses the ticket machines, and eventually anchors herself to the westbound platform. In the distance, an oncoming train rolls down the westbound track.

I open the door and climb out of the cab. "Thanks."

"Good l—" I hear the driver say before I close the door.

I race up the stairs to the platform as the train coasts into the station. Once I reach the platform, Ronni boards the train. I jog onto the same car, using a different access point.

From an alcove dividing the car into two sections, I look into the forward section but find no sign of Ronni. I take a seat just past the alcove, sitting next to the aisle in hopes of catching a glimpse of her.

A conductor enters the car, surveying its passengers. "Tacony, next!"

A slight breeze from the alcove—now behind me—wafts through the car as the train lurches forward. Outside, Northeast Philly's tree-and-concrete landscape hovers past the train. With the storm off to the suburbs, the sun shines through the car's windows as twilight envelopes the city.

Where is Ronni going and why would she take the train? Despite the high-price of parking in Center City, Ronni prefers driving to work. She was always afraid of the crackheads that sometimes utilize the city's transit system. A public transportation girl she is not.

When the conductor reappears, I extract a few bills from my pocket. Regardless of how far Ronni intends to go, this ride will be much cheaper than the one in the cab. I'll pay for the end of the line, ensuring I'll go as far as she does.

The conductor punches the tickets of the passengers in front of me with a cool confidence. I've always wondered if the conductors actually have a method as to where and how they're supposed to punch tickets.

Wearing a navy blue jacket and police officer-like cap, the conductor approaches me with a smile. "Where're you headed today, sir?"

"The end of the line," I say, handing the man my money. Shit. That was Calvin's voice. My tight jeans and Converses have been replaced by sweats and Nikes.

Who's the Agent of Justice, this time?

"You ride this train often?" the conductor says.

"No."

"Didn't think so. You look familiar to me, though."

"Weird," I say, looking frontwards to only give him a view of my profile.

"Hmm."

"Actually," I say, "I think the next stop is mine."

"You sure?"

"Tacony, right? Definitely my stop."

He shrugs and chortles. "That's one short trip." He stops short of punching a ticket before giving me all my money back. "It's on the house."

"Thank you, sir." I place the money back in my pocket.

I wait for the conductor to pass me before standing up. I turn back toward the alcove, only to find four people standing there, waiting to get off at the next stop. Eight eyes staring at me are far too many at this point. I turn and walk toward the front of the car where nobody's waiting to disembark.

Peeking at the people sitting in their seats, I hold on to the small glimmer of hope that I might get to catch one last glimpse of Ronni—although, I'm not sure what I would do if I did see her. A young couple entertains their little daughter. A businessman reads a book. Another young lady jams out on her iPod. Everyone looks so happy... and normal; two states of being that I'm no longer familiar with.

I would love to convince Ronni to go into exile with me but there won't be an exile if I stay on this train any longer. The risk outweighs the reward, however desirable.

Before reaching the last row of seats near the car's fore entry, the train begins to slow down. I look to my right and see the back of a light blue cap—dark hair flowing out of it—just like the one at Lincoln High and under the EL. I can either ignore this person or I can get a good look at them. Either way, I can't dawdle. I need to get off the train and call another cab.

I decide to keep walking toward the fore alcove, only taking a peek at the girl through the corner of my eye. Suddenly, my stomach drops and my legs grow weak. I turn to get a better look at the Agent of Justice. It's Ronni, her beautiful face obstructed by the cap.

Her eyes widen as they meet mine. "What are you doing here?" she says, lowering her head.

There's so much I want to say but I can only focus on the current situation. "I was coming to see you." I can feel the eyes of some of the car's other passengers locked on us.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I don't give a shit about that," I say, lowering my voice, waving all of the onlookers off.

"You don't understand. You need to get off this train."

With the train at rest, I look through Ronni's window and see Tacony's platform, beckoning me to follow Ronni's command. My mind tells me to get off the train—there's no chance of her coming with me now—but my heart has other ideas. New passengers brush past me on the way down the aisle.

I sit down next to Ronni. "It was you?"

She slowly turns her head toward the window.

"Why?"

No response.

The conductor barges in. "Bridesburg! Bridesburg's next."

I look outside. It's the first time I notice the train moving since I sat down. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Ronni stops looking through the window but continues to ignore me. Her lips begin to quiver as she looks straight ahead.

I grab her and turn her toward me. "Why didn't you fucking tell me?" I say through clenched teeth.

"I tried," she says, her moistening eyes peering into mine.

Finding it difficult to breathe, I let her go and lean back in my seat.

"Calvin, you have to get off this train."

"No. I need you to tell me everything."

"Please, just do what I say," she says, speaking to the wall in front of us.

"I'm not leaving."

"Please."

"How long did you know?"

"Calvin ..."

"How long did you—"

"You stayed on," says the conductor. I never saw him enter the car.

Ronni turns back to the window. The train slows down once again.

"End of the line," I say, handing him the money in my pocket.

He punches a ticket and hands it to me before taking a peek at Ronni. Before he moves on, the conductor flashes me a wink and a smile.

"I never wanted any of this to happen to you," she says, her tears now on the precipice of falling. "I wanted to tell you... but you were so damn distant."

"Ronni, I love you."

She shakes her head.

I lean closer to her. "I was so stupid. We should have always been together."

Ronni covers her face with her hands. Her body starts to shudder.

"You were the only one who's ever loved me," I say

The train rolls to a stop at Bridesburg Station. The platform is empty.

"Go," she finally says through her hands. "Please."

"I can't. Not without you."

Ronni shakes her head again, her hands catching her tears.

Unsure of what to say, I look at the rest of the car behind us. The other passengers are minding their own collective business. I look out at the beckoning platform. Empty. Next to me, Ronni sits as her body trembles, her emotions spilling into her hands. I want nothing more than to hold her and take her away—even if I can never hide my true identity.

"Come with me." I say, putting my arm around her as a lump forms in my throat.

Her emotions suddenly in check, she uncovers her face and angrily pulls away from my arm. "It's too late. I made my choice." Meanwhile, the train moves on, giving us a view of the area's abandoned warehouses.

"What choice?"

"There's a role to be played by all of us, Calvin."

I back away from her and examine her flushed face. "Who told you that?"

Ronni takes a deep breath and stares at the wall in front of us. "You should have gotten off the train."

"Why?"

"It's not going to make it to the end of the line."

The passengers gasp as the train suddenly accelerates to another gear.

"What the hell?" I look through the window. The city's brick-and-concrete urban landscape zooms past the train in an endless blur.

"I can't stop it," Ronni says.

The conductor bursts into the car, a bead of sweat streaming down his ashen face. The passengers gasp—some shouting obscenities—as the train races through the next station.

"Please remain seated," the conductor says, stomping down the aisle.

My gaze returns to Ronni. "Is this you? Are you doing this?"

She only responds with a glance.

"Why?"

Ronni looks straight ahead again, emotionless.

I turn to look at the rest of the car. The passengers grill the conductor, not unlike like the media that engulfed me outside the police station.

"Our operator's dead," the conductor says.

The passengers gasp, asking more questions.

"Can you stop it?" says one man.

"The door's locked, I can't get in."

"What are we supposed to do?" a woman says in frazzled tone.

"Just remain calm," says the conductor. "Everything will be okay."

I turn back to Ronni. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Justice will be done," she says in a tone so menacing, it could not have come from her. The train accelerates again, throwing everyone back in their seats.

"What are you doing? Stop the train."

"I can't, but you can stop me."

"What?"

"I don't deserve to live."

"Stop, Ronni. This isn't you," I say, my voice catching.

She turns to look at me, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill me. Please"

"Ronni, no."

"Kill me!"

With her outburst, I'm thrust to the other side of the car where I hit an overhead storage rack and land face down on a row of seats. Ronni's window shatters and the wall in front of her caves. Through the open window, the scream of the outside world is deafening, muting those of the passengers behind me. As the train accelerates again, another station whizzes by in the window.

Ronni winces and grabs her head, most likely feeling the effects of her telekinetic rift as she falls to the floor between our seats and the wall.

Next, the train's interior lights flicker. Its wheels cry against the steel of the tracks.

I crawl over to Ronni and help her sit up against the wall. The gusts of air blowing through the window throw her hair across her drowsy face. "Stop the train!" I say above the chaos.

"Justice... will be done." Her eyes are glazed over.

I bring her face to mine, meeting her lethargic gaze with mine. "They brainwashed you, Ronni. You don't know what you're doing."

"I don't?" The train accelerates again, throwing us against the base of the seats. We both crumble to the floor upon impact.

Lying face-to-face, I take Ronni's hand in mine. "I love you," I say, wiping my tears with my free hand. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

We both sit up again, this time holding on to the seats. The windows go black as the train moves underground.

"It's too late," she says.

The lights in the car go out and never return. Instead, the lights in the tunnel illuminate the interior of the car with a rhythm like that of Morse Code.

"Why?" I manage to say, barely able to breathe. "Why you?"

"I—I was the one who killed Jenny Cooper."

"What?"

"I love you," she says, closing her eyes as she squeezes my hand.

Suddenly, we're launched forward and my forehead hits the wall. Ronni, however, braces herself with her shoulder. Simultaneously, I hear a loud crash, screaming from inside the train, and the shriek of metal against metal from outside the train. Lying face down on the floor, I look over at Ronni. Her eyes remain open. Mine struggle to do the same.

"Why?" I say, only managing a whisper before I fade into the darkness.

***

"I found one!" I hear a hoarse voice say.

Squeezed and short of breath, I feel the debris above me shifting. A light shines through the rubble and grows brighter with the shifting of each shard of stone, each cube of concrete. Soon, I can see the origin of the hoarse voice, a firefighter. He throws each piece of debris left and right until my face is uncovered, in its entirety.

"He's still alive!" the firefighter says through a dust mask before lowering his voice. "And in bad shape. I'll be right back."

Although I can feel my arms and legs, I'm paralyzed. I look down toward my feet but don't see them. Instead, I only see the silver exterior of the train. I feel the jagged edges of the debris underneath me digging into my back. I lie here, squinting up into the light, happy to still be able to see, hear, and touch.

As the light begins to blind me, I think to close my eyes but the firefighter returns, with help. Three more first responders, all wearing dust msays, have joined him. Two of them swear when they see me while one of them turns away.

Wincing, the firefighter crouches down and looks me in the eye. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a train."

The firefighter smiles. "My name's Marcinkiewicz. We're going to get you out of here." He motions for his buddies to spread out. "You're underneath a piece of the train. These guys are going try lifting it up and I'll pull you out. The moment something hurts, you let me know, okay?"

I nod my head as I look at him through the train's open window.

When Marcinkiewicz helps lift the train's fuselage, the men grunt and groan as the metal comes off of me, releasing its pressure. Then, with the train's casing a mere foot above me, Marcinkiewicz places his forearms under my arms and pulls.

"Can you push with your legs?" he says, straining. I nod and use my Nikes to push off the rubble at my feet. "C'mon, c'mon. Push, push, push," he says as I inch from underneath the train's captive sliver.

Inch-by-inch, the other responders afford me more space, raising the metal three feet above my body. Eventually, Marcinkiewicz and I fall backwards, out in the open with the firefighter breaking my fall.

Finally able to move my body, pain starts rushing to certain areas of my body. My right knee and kidney, my left foot—the same one I hurt escaping my townhouse—left hand, and the left side of my face. My shirt is bloodied and my pants are filthy.

"I got you," the firefighter says. "Here, hold this." He presses a towel against the left side of my face, holding it in place until my hand meets the towel.

"What happened to my face?" I say.

"Just keep pressure on it. You should use it to cover your mouth, too. There's all kinds of dust down here. God only knows how old it is."

The other responders eventually manage to turn the sliver over, exposing two more bodies, both of which lie face down. They aren't as fortunate as I am.

"Can you stand?" Marcinkiewicz says.

"Yeah." Against a jagged terrain, I place pressure on both feet, standing with the firefighter's help. I eventually place all my pressure on my left leg—my knee hurts a lot worse than my foot.

"What's your name?"

"C—Kevin Newsome. I mean, Kevin Stewart." I feel a gap on the left side of my mouth. I've lost at least two teeth.

"Kevin," he says as he places my right arm on his shoulders, "we need to get you to a hospital. Quick."

"Where am I?"

"Center City. Suburban Station."

With my left hand holding the towel, I start hopping away on one leg with the firefighter's help.

I take an inventory of my surroundings. The landscape around us is comprised exclusively of rubble and the atmosphere is filled with ash and dust. In front of us, one of the station's old stairwells leads to nothing. Some of the station's rounded columns still stand, holding up what remains of the level above us. Other columns, and the parts of the level above us they once supported, have fallen.

I look up to the next level and find the carcass of the station's concourse. Some of its news vendors and ticket offices still remain. High above the concourse are some of the city's skyscrapers and the night sky. The opening through which the moon shines into the train station is nearly the length of a football field. At the other end of the station, the tunnels of the station's eight tracks are blocked by debris.

Behind me, the ill-fated train lies on its side, lifeless, and strewn across what was two of the station's five platforms. The train's foremost cars are covered in rubble while the aft cars are debris-free. The bright light that nearly blinded me illuminates the wreckage as it sits atop a pole connected to a transformer up on the surface.

"You find anyone else down here?" I say.

"Two others living. Everyone else was dead."

"Who were the people who lived?"

"A little girl and her mother."

I suddenly feel lightheaded again and my headache returns. The pain on the left side of my face intensifies. I take pressure off my leg and onto Marcinkiewicz. "Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to lift you back up to the surface and take you to the hospital."

"I don't—I don't want to go to the hospital."

The firefighter laughs. "You're funny."

We come to two EMTs. One holds a harness while the other holds a cable. The cable leads up to the surface.

"Oh my God," says the EMT with the harness, a female. "Are you okay?"

I nod my throbbing head.

"Okay. Lift your legs, sir. Like you're putting on pants."

I lift my right leg and then my left, allowing the EMT to slip the harness up my sweatpant-covered legs. The second EMT attaches a hook at the end of the cable to a loop on the front of my harness.

"Just hold on to the cable," the second EMT, a man, says. He reaches for my towel. "I'll take that."

I notice the large auburn-colored stain on the towel before looking over at Marcinkiewicz. "Thank you."

The firefighter nods his head before turning back to the wreck.

"Up!" yells the male EMT.

Soon, with both hands firmly on the cable, I feel myself rising out of the station. I pass through the darkened concourse where, as though nothing happened, candy bars, soft pretzels, newspapers, and magazines sit firmly in place at the front of the closest newsstands. Those items wait for a morning rush that isn't coming.

Upon reaching the surface, my eyes are met with the flashing strobes of police cruisers and ambulances. Two more EMTs, both of them men, stand on the precipice of the opening, aghast as I hang on to the cable.

"Stop!" one of them says.

Behind the two EMTs, the motorized pulley is silenced by the operator at its controls. When I stop rising, the two EMTs pull me away from the chasm. I place my feet on the dust-covered ground before the two men help me shed the harness.

"Here," one of them says, placing another towel on my face. "Let's get you to a hospital."

"I don't—"

The EMTs roll a gurney in my direction and motion for me to sit.

"No," I say, shaking my head.

"Sir, you're badly hurt," one of them says. "Get on the gurney. Please."

I comply and sit on the gurney. The EMTs raise its head, allowing me to sit up as they usher me toward an ambulance.

"Other than your face, what hurts?" one of them says.

"What's wrong with my face?"

"Just keep putting pressure on it."

To my left, Suburban Station's twenty-one-story office building has been completely leveled. Across the street, on my right, the city's adored Love Park sculpture, once red, is now covered in brown soot. The paramedics lift me into the ambulance.

"Don't worry," one of them says, "we'll get you all fixed."

"We got another!" screams the first responder back at the motorized pulley. The two EMTs secure my gurney before looking back toward the chasm. One of them turns back to me.

"Hang tight. We'll be right back," he says.

As the two EMTs walk away from the ambulance, I hold the towel to my face and look around, observing the vehicle's entrails, hoping to find a solution. Then, I remember how I got caught in this situation to begin with.

Swoosh!

With caramel-colored skin and in full police uniform, I sit up and place my good leg on the floor. While the two EMTs are fixated on the chasm as they await the next survivor, I swing my bum leg off of the gurney and place that foot on the floor. Careful not to apply too much pressure on that leg, I reach for a shelf which hangs over the vehicle's equipment. I pull myself up and limp to the end of the ambulance. Facing a four-foot drop off of the chassis, though, there's no getting around the pain I'm sure to suffer.

Much like I did when I escaped my townhouse earlier this morning, or yesterday—or whenever the hell it was—I close my eyes before leaping out of the ambulance. As I land, the pain shoots through my right knee and up my leg. With a groan, I crumble to the ground behind the ambulance.

"Are you okay?" I hear a deep female voice ask.

On my stomach, I look up and find a cop standing over me. She's androgynous with dark hair tucked under her cap.

"I'm good," I say, struggling to get back on my feet.

"Lopez," she says, looking at my name tag. "Which district you from?"

I dust myself off. "Fifteenth."

"Really? I used to work there."

Okay, this lady's nice but..."I need a cruiser."

"Where're you going?" she says. I look at her nametag. Her name is Wolfe. "I'll drive you."

"I forgot my gun and badge back at the precinct. I can go by myself, though."

She wears a smile behind the dust mask on her face. "How are you going to get those by yourself, dumbass? You don't have a cruiser."

The two EMTs help the next survivor out of the harness. I take the cue and limp away from the ambulance with Wolfe. "Lend me yours."

She shakes her head.

"Oh, c'mon. No need for both of us to go."

Her eyes scan the scene. "Yeah, we need as many bodies down here as possible. Only because you're from the Fifteenth..." she grabs her keys off her belt and hands them to me. "Hurry up. My LT will be back in an hour."

"No problem." I fully intend on not being here.

Wolfe directs me to her cruiser. With a wince and a grunt, I climb in, close the door, and turn the ignition. Meanwhile, the two EMTs are dumbfounded as they bring their blanket-covered survivor to the ambulance. As I drive past them, I glance at the wreck's fourth survivor, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ronni.

It's not her.

For the first time since my rescue, I begin to count what I've lost; thus far, two teeth and the thing I held closest to my heart. I look at the car's digital clock: 10:38.

With City Hall around the corner, I drive away from Suburban Station, utilizing the city's now-empty throughways on my trek back to FDR Park.

***

For the second time in what has been a hellacious day, Donald Richardson sits in the small meeting room at the Agency of Influence's Philadelphia Branch. Just a few hours earlier, Richardson sat on the other side of the table as he attempted to persuade Calvin Newsome to go in to exile. This time around, the old man sits where Agent Newsome sat. The alternative would be to disrespect his guest.

Given the turn of events at Suburban Station—and the fact that no one has been able to reach Calvin since their meeting—the old man ponders his conversation with the young man. Regardless of how many times he replays the discussion in his mind, he can't find fault with anything he said, including and especially his whopper about vehicular homicide. Although he considers himself to be a pretty good liar, this was one falsehood Agent Newsome didn't at least heed. Damn Calvin for being so strong-willed, so stubborn. It may cost Richardson what was a spotless conscience.

As Richardson twiddles his thumbs, the door swings open. Standing in its frame is an imposing figure, in both the literal and figurative senses.

Lasse Gantert is a tall, husky man. The dark, German features on his face exude neither warmth nor compassion—not at this moment, anyway. Richardson assumes that Gantert's presence at his branch will be like that of the Grim Reaper.

The German sits in the leather chair and looks the old man in the eye. Richardson, however, cannot comfortably meet his gaze.

"Where is he?" Gantert says, pronouncing his w with a v.

"We don't know."

Gantert exhales and wipes the dust off the table. "Donald," he says, "I want you to know that what has happened here at your branch is not new to the A of I. It happened in Finland, too. Decades ago."

"Yes, I know."

"I say this to say that a precedent has already been set."

"Just tell me," Richardson says, his gaze finally meeting Gantert's.

The German does not respond.

"What am I supposed tell them?" Richardson says, pointing out to the hallway.

"Unless you find the mole, I have no choice."

"But the entire staff?"

"Yes. And that includes you, though you'll get early retirement. Full pension, benefits."

"What about Calvin? What if he turns up?"

"What about him?"

"Does his offer of exile still stand?"

"In the off chance he turns up? Yes."

"Don't worry," Richardson says. "I won't bother sending a search party. I know how you like to save a buck."

Gantert shoots him a look.

"You need me to turn in my director's manual?" Richardson says.

"No. Keep it if you want. You've put in over forty years with this organization."

"Thank you, sir. There're a lot of directors I'd like to keep in touch with."

"Fine. Just shred the page about the Arrowhead for now. We'll come for the rest when you die."

"You're too kind," Richardson says, standing up. "I'll gather everyone in the theater."

Suddenly, Richardson looks past Gantert. Calvin limps down the hallway, his A of I sweats tattered and stained. When the old man gasps, Gantert turns around.

As Calvin holds a blue shirt to his face, the two men get out of their seats and step into the hallway.

***

As I limp toward my sleeping quarters, I feel the eyes of the many gawkers standing on both sides of the hallway. To my left, Jimenez and Hamilton glance at me before she lowers her head and he looks away.

Darling leans against a wall as she stands next to my bedroom door, her eyes moistening. "Are you okay?" she says, reaching out a hand.

With my left hand holding my police shirt to my face, I wave her off with my free hand and open the door to my room. I enter the chamber and keep the light off as I feel my way to the bed and sit down.

As the pain in my face subsides, my thoughts turn to Ronni. I attempt to envision her smiling face but I can't. Instead, the only memory I can conjure is that of her on the doomed train, uttering the phrase "justice will be done."

Never minding the crowd outside my room, I lay face down on the bed and bury my face in the bloody shirt.

Part II: The Agents of Change
Chapter Thirteen

They called it the worst train derailment in the history of the United States. I was one of the very few fortunate ones—four, in fact—to have survived what I know to be a faceless act of terrorism. It was a disaster that only I could have stopped, if I was willing to kill my best friend and love of my life. Instead, as Ronni alluded to, thousands of people, both innocent and guilty, paid for what was discovered to be the improprieties of Philadelphia's corrupt political machine.

Suburban Station, Center City's rail hub, was completely destroyed. Despite the sinkhole's proximity to City Hall, it only encountered minimal structural damage. Its political machine, however, was ousted in cinematic fashion.

According to an independent investigation commissioned by the state, the wreck was caused by a laundry list of faulty equipment. The train's operator died of electrocution as its controls short-circuited. His door jammed, precluding anyone from taking the controls, which were determined to have been so faulty, they then caused the train to accelerate on its own. Lastly, it was posited with strong supporting evidence that the train jumped onto one of the station's platforms due to its speed as well as an ill-maintained track leading into Suburban Station. That last finding proved most damming to the mayor and city council.

It later came out that the city's political machine ignored a well-researched suggestion to upgrade the transportation system's rolling stock, accepting a kickback from the company whose equipment the city kept. It also came out that those same administrators ignored a diagnostic test of the faulty track which suggested that it be fixed. They never took money for that decision. Instead, they chose not to spend it.

Philly's police commissioner didn't survive this mess, either. It came out that he knew all about the politicians' indiscretions and merely used that information as blackmail to save his own job. Despite what the state commission said the day I visited Lincoln High School, Commissioner Sears did, in fact, oversee a police department that was devoid of any morals. In fact, he partook in the salacious activities of which many of his top-ranking officers were originally accused.

The Agency of Justice didn't do this haphazardly. They did their homework—had someone inside City Hall, I'd say—developed a plan and executed it with Ronni's help. I still don't know how or why Ronni got roped into working for them. And it took me a while to accept that even the Agency of Influence knew not of her dealings. The old man explained to me that both agencies had long ago agreed to disallow the surveillance of the other's employees. In the end, it's all moot. Ronni accepted her role and played it well. If only I had paid attention to her sooner, perhaps I could have intervened...

Ronni wasn't the only thing I lost in the wreck. The left side of my face was nearly damaged beyond recognition. Avoiding all places in which I could be identified, such as hospitals, I never had corrective surgery. I instead elected to let my injury heal naturally, save for a few liquids and ointments to prevent an infection. Thus, whenever I choose to take my God-given form, I wear a trench-like scar that starts from my scalp, just misses the corner of my eye, and terminates at my jaw line. The scar has a bit of a refracting effect, making one half of the left side of my face asymmetrical with the other side. When I can get past the horror, I laugh at myself in the mirror. I look like a Picasso.

My other injuries healed without incident. My internal organs were—to the best of my knowledge—relatively unscathed. I did suffer a badly sprained knee. Thankfully, it didn't require surgery and the A of I was able to fit me for a brace.

Due to its consonance with the Agency of Justice, the powers that be at the Agency of Influence ignored the attack on Suburban Station, choosing instead to focus on the A of J's infiltration of the Philly branch. The A of J issued a mea culpa and all was disturbingly right again in the world of karma.

Despite my distrust for Richardson—Ronni did utter his sales pitch, after all—I took him up on his offer of exile and never said goodbye to Jimenez and company before they were all let go. For the past thirteen months, I have been living in Canada—Montreal to be precise—under the identity of Kevin Stewart. I wanted to move to Europe but was reluctant to fully disconnect myself from the North American way of life. To its credit, Montreal is a slice of Europe with its French influence. I've had to brush up on my francais, but I manage.

Although the agency continues to pay me a handsome severance package, I've needed work to keep my mind off of everything I've lost, and to get me out in the community. I decided to stick with what I know. Kevin Stewart is an independent management consultant. He is also far more handsome than I, even before—and especially after—the train wreck.

Despite the money, these are still tough times. I may have taken on Kevin Stewart's identity, but at my core I'm still Calvin Newsome III. I still found my niche and had it—among other things—ripped away from me. It was Calvin who influenced Mark at the coffee shop. But it was also Calvin who witnessed the impaling of Josh Jenner underneath the EL. And it was Calvin who lost the love of his life in a catastrophic disaster. Not a day goes by where I don't think about her. It still hurts not having her around, especially when a woman smiles at me. When a woman smiles in my direction, it does nothing for me anymore. Ronni's was always better.

In bed now, my attention turns from my window to my alarm clock. It's already ten in the morning. When I was in college, my friends and I used to describe this amount of sleep as hibernation. It was great back then but now I've wasted a large amount of the day. When I eventually do get up, I need a good shower. I feel the crust around my eyes trying to hold them shut. I could also use a good swig of Listerine.

I turn my head the other way and am greeted by the back of the head of Thérèse, the blonde occupying the other side of my bed. She's sound asleep.

A surprise to be sure, Thérèse helped fill a void, at least for one night. I met her at a bar last night, a crazy scene in itself. The locals sang and danced the entire night as the local hockey team and perpetual obsession, the Canadiens, moved to within one game of winning the Stanley Cup. Impressed with how much Thérèse knew about hockey and Les Habitants, and the fact that she actually wasn't sloppy drunk, she pleasantly distracted me from my otherwise messed up life. Calvin would not have been able to bring Thérèse home. Kevin, on the other hand, did so with relative ease.

I turn my head to look back up to the ceiling of my studio apartment. I wonder what Jimenez et al are doing. They must either still be gloating about how they helped bring down Philadelphia's political machine or are still stewing over their ouster, forced to contribute to society as mortals. They still have their powers, as do I, but cannot use them with the help of any agency intelligence. If they are still in the business of lifting people up, they are doing so on their own accord.

"I need to go," I hear Thérèse say with her Quebecois accent, her back still turned to me.

"That's fine."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

Thérèse gets up, her tanned skin, and all of its curves, exposed. I give her ass a playful smack.

"Naughty," she says, her hazel eyes peeking through her golden locks. "Hey, are you going back tonight?" Tonight is Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final. I am curious how this hockey-crazed town will react to tonight's result, win or lose. If last night was any indication, I'm not sure I want to be in the middle of all of what is most assuredly going to be chaos.

"I don't know," I say. "I'll call you."

"I didn't give you my number," she says with a smile and teasing raise of eyebrow.

"Then I guess you'll never find out, will you?"

Thérèse snickers and, after buttoning up her blouse, jots down her number on a newspaper on my nightstand. In an effort to improve my French, and after everything I went through in Philly, I decided to start reading the local paper—all of it, not just the sports section. In theory, it should help me do a better job of keeping up with current events.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, my face near Thérèse's midriff. She looks down at me and gives me a peck on the lips.

"Take care," she says, framing the side of my face with her hand. I wonder if she'd do that if I were Calvin.

"Bye."

Thérèse turns and leaves my apartment, her shoes beating the parquet floor. With the sudden silence washing over me, I look around the apartment, studying its exposed brick and ventilation system

The silence recedes when I hear the faint sound of my cell phone vibrating. I look around and can't locate the phone before remembering that I left it on the kitchen counter. I jog over to the counter and pick up the phone without looking at the number.

"This is Kevin."

"Calvin, it's Jimenez."

I look back toward my disheveled bed. "How did you get this number?"

"Easy. I Googled you."

"What do you want?"

"I need your help."

"Uh-huh."

"Something big is happening. Tonight."

"And I'm the only who can do anything about, right?"

"Right."

"Forget it."

"Calvin—"

"No. You think after what you guys did to me... I'm not an agent anymore. You don't give me orders."

"It's not an order," she says with a sigh.

"Then what is it, huh?"

"Look," she says, "if I were you, I'd be angry, too..."

"Uh-huh."

"... but, please, just listen to me. If you don't want anything to do with it, fine. I can honor that."

"Did you guys ever find out who the mole was?"

"No."

"Of course not. You probably were the mole."

"I'm not the mole! Please, just listen to me."

I exhale loudly. "Fine. What is it, then?"

"They're planning another attack, Calvin. In Montreal."

"Who's they?"

"The Agency of Justice."

The conversation goes silent for a moment.

"How do you know this?" I say.

"I have my sources."

"You have your sources?"

"I'll explain later."

"Where—when will they do it?"

"There's probably going to be a riot tonight, right?"

"Probably."

"I didn't get specifics, just something about a helicopter."

"That's vague, Elena. Montreal's a big city."

"Where will most people be after the game?"

"I don't know. Somewhere around the Bell Centre, I'd think."

"That's probably where it'll be."

"Well, I appreciate the head's up. Have a nice day."

"Calvin..."

"Elena..."

"There's a reason I'm telling you this."

"Uh-huh. And I'm sure it's very compelling."

"Calvin, you can save these people."

"No way," I say with a snicker. "How the hell would I do that?"

"Use your powers. You saw what Ronni did to that train."

"Why don't you do it?"

"I'm in Philly right now. I'm trying to get up there but I don't think I'll make it in time. You're the only one I know up there."

I exhale loudly into my phone's receiver again. Why am I entertaining this lunacy? "So, you're guessing they're going to crash the chopper?"

"Yes."

"During the riot?"

"Yes."

I'm not sure what to say at this point. I really don't want anything to do with what is, in essence, a mission given to me by someone who could be out to inflict more pain upon me. The less I know of this, the better.

"I—I don't know what to tell you, Elena. You're going to have to find someone else."

"Wait—"

"I can't trust you," I say, "so, please, don't call this number again." I hang up my phone and take a deep breath, holding the phone tightly in the palm of my hand.

Wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, I walk over to the large window in my apartment and look out at the city. In the distance, I see the Bell Centre and its angular brick, concrete, and glass structure to the east. The building stands out among the city's high-rises and otherwise European architecture. It's also home to the Canadiens and site of another potential act of terrorism.

If what Elena said is true, why is the Agency of Justice doing this? I might not be the best at keeping up with current affairs but I know, with certainty, that no known or alleged corruption exists in this city, at least not to the pervasive extent that it did in Philly. The only controversy here exists over whether or not the province of Quebec should become its own sovereign entity. Unless there's some rogue Quebecois separatist terrorist group in play, there's nothing here worthy of an attack. Nothing worthy of the fate that befell Philly's politicians.

In the aftermath of the Suburban Station attack, members of an outraged populace consequently made assassination attempts on the mayor as well as the city council chairman. The mayor survived but, adding insult to his wound, was promptly convicted of embezzlement and thrown in prison, along with half a dozen other wayward civil servants.

I could alert the local authorities but what are they going to do? Postpone the game? I'd be laughed out of Canada. And even if they did believe me, we're not talking about a car bomb or an unattended piece of luggage here. They're dealing with a weapon that only a select few people know actually exists.

I walk over to my nightstand and pick up yesterday's newspaper. I find where Thérèse wrote her phone number and start to dial it before I notice a story under the fold on the front page. Despite it being written in French, I can make out that Chicago's EL collapsed two nights ago, just after a game at Wrigley Field. The collapse knocked down a few nearby buildings and even knocked out a portion of the baseball stadium itself. Hundreds are unaccounted for. Local authorities are calling it an accident caused by a semi-truck. I look at the lead story above the fold to see what could possibly be more important. Of course, a preview of last night's Game Six.

I finish dialing Thérèse's number but my call goes straight to her voicemail.

"Thérèse, it's Kevin. I don't think I'm going to go to the bar tonight and I don't think you should, either. I know it sounds crazy but I don't think you should be anywhere near the Bell Centre. I just have this feeling that something crazy's going to happen. You know hockey fans. Anyway, I'll talk to you soon."

***

René's is a quaint lounge for those of the intellectual yuppie elite in downtown Montreal, around the corner from the Bell Centre on René-Levesque Boulevard. From the outside, it looks like just another hole in the wall dive bar. But on the inside, its lighting is dim, its table tops are granite, its seating is plush, and there is no beer on tap.

This is not where I met Thérèse. That place was much louder, with a lot more flag-waving and drink-swaying. It's not that people at René's aren't watching the game; they've just taken a country club approach to doing so. Although I enjoy living in the midst of the pandemic gripping this city, I have no rooting interest in Les Habitants.

Besides, my reason for being down here isn't to party, although, I must admit to having indulged in a Jack and Coke during the second period. Once this game is over—and it's currently tied at 3-3 with 2:17 left—I'm looking for a helicopter. Such is my life. Everyone will either be climbing light poles and flipping over cars while in a euphoric state or climbing light poles and flipping over cars while pissed off. I'll remain stoic, searching for one measly little helicopter.

Although I told Jimenez I wanted no part of this, I couldn't stay away. I couldn't in good conscience sit in my apartment while innocent lives were lost. At the very least, I didn't call her back. That way, if she was bluffing, I will not have given her the satisfaction of knowing that she got me.

The barkeep looks in my direction, ostensibly checking to see if I need anything else to wet the old whistle. I shake him off. If I didn't have a mission to carry out, I'd take him up on his offer.

The others in the establishment groan. I look up at the television overlooking the bar. The referee has awarded the other team, the Vancouver Canucks, a penalty shot. Based on the replay, the referee's judgment and integrity will be questioned, especially given the time left in the game: 1:35.

The gentle murmur that filled the lounge has been replaced by a hush, all eyes on the penalty shot. The Canucks' player glides toward the goal, the puck on the blade of his stick. With one fell swoop, the player slides the puck between Montreal's goalie's legs. The scene in the lounge is a stark contrast to that on the television. With the taste of champagne on the tips of their tongues, the Canucks explode into elation on their bench. In the lounge, the patrons swear at the TV in French. Some walk out. One guy even throws his shot glass on the floor. Unless the Habs pull off a miracle, the verdict is in: the masses will be pissed the hell off.

When play resumes, I give the barkeep a bill and wait for change. Outside, there's only silence, calm before an inevitable maelstrom. Wrappers and leaves slide down René-Levesque, pushed by a moist, early summer breeze. As I look through the front window, I imagine what the scene will look like in only a few minutes when fans start filing out of bars, restaurants and the Bell Centre.

"Merci," says the barkeep, breaking my concentration.

I count the change and place a bill down for tip. I look up at the TV and see the Canucks celebrating their championship. The Canadiens, meanwhile, sit on the bench, sitting forward, heads down.

I step down off of my stool and trade glances with the barkeep.

"Stay inside," I say.

The barkeep nods and smirks—he's anticipating a riot. I'm anticipating something else. As I step outside, I hear him ask his patrons to leave. He wants whatever damage his lounge will incur to be minimal.

I turn off of René-Levesque and head toward the Bell Center. With that, the opening salvo is fired. A citizen throws a Molotov cocktail through a car window. I watch the car go up in flames before pressing on toward the arena. When I reach the corner, the street is engorged with one giant mass of human destruction stretching into the next city block. Men and women climb up and hang from the tops of light poles like a group of angered apes. A group of five guys, all dressed in Canadiens jerseys rock a GMC Yukon, eventually forcing it on its side.

Go big or go home, I suppose.

Fans drive down the street, through the blob of humanity, waving Le Bleu-Blanc-Rouge, despite their team's demise. Men and women—and, in some cases, women and women—make out in the streets.

Directly across the street from the Bell Centre, next to me on my left, is a high-rise office building. Next to the high-rise, across the street on my right, is a large parking lot. I can't imagine the devastation being caused there.

My attention turns skyward. A Montreal Police helicopter, its royal blue and white paint shimmering in the moon light, appears from behind the Bell Centre and settles for a holding pattern above the chaos. A single light shines from the chopper, illuminating the crazed, destructive mob.

Next, my attention is turned over my right shoulder as an army of cops arrives on the scene, approaching on foot, horse, and motor scooter. An officer onboard the chopper barks through its loudspeaker, speaking something in French. Whatever he said, I'm sure he didn't tell the citizenry to continue what they were doing. Of course, the zealots on the street show no signs of slowing down.

This could get tricky.

With the infantry of police officers bearing down on me, I move closer to the chaos between the arena and the office building.

"Oh my God!" I hear a woman scream in French as she points up at the helicopter.

A canister falls from the sky, leaving a trail of smoke as it lands thirty yards from me.

Tear gas.

I turn away from the bouncing can and cover my nose and mouth with my shirt. Of course, tear gas goes for the eyes as well but I can't sacrifice my vision. The police haven't left me much of a choice, I'll have to navigate the area now permeated with tear gas.

When I start running towards the chaos, the gas helps scatter some of the rioters, but some hold their ground, picking up empty bottles and any other debris they can find.

In the middle of the street, I notice a tall man wearing a nylon pullover golf jacket. Most people in the crowd are either running away or salivating over the approaching horde of cops. This man is doing neither. He is facing the arena, looking up at the helicopter. He appears to be younger than I and a bit of a pretty boy.

As I pass through the tear gas, a slight burn in my eyes, I see the man raise his right arm toward the helicopter. The chopper, which was once steady, takes a slight left turn and tilts downward toward the Bell Centre.

"No!" I exclaim. With a thrust of my right hand, the man leaves his feet and falls onto his back, five feet from where he stood.

The helicopter slowly rises back up to a safe depth. The man lifts his head off the ground, peers over his stomach, sees me walking toward him and makes eye contact. The man mutters something in French before throwing his hand in my direction.

It feels like I've been punched by a gust of wind. The punch isn't hard enough to hurt but is strong enough to throw me to the ground.

Turning onto my side, I look ahead and see the man climb to his feet. As he starts to run away, I get up and chase after him. Running away from the Bell Centre, the man flails his right arm every which way, hurling cars, parking meters, even a manhole cover in my direction. His aim isn't very good, however, most likely because he's on the run.

When he comes to a clearance between the arena and another office building, he turns into an alley next to the arena. A second or so behind him, I turn the corner, surprised to see that the man his disappeared into the riot that is now spilling into the alley.

I study each person within twenty yards of me, observing their movements and expressions, my eyes darting and scanning the scene. Everyone has either gone mad or is scared shitless. The man has vanished, despite being slow and otherwise difficult to miss.

A loud crack diverts my attention to whence I came. I peek around the corner of the arena and see the chopper's propellers break away from the rest of the machine, clanking to a stop on the roof of the arena. The chopper then starts a precipitous decent toward the street and all the rioters. I come out of the clearance and throw up both of my hands, ignoring my pursuit of the man as I slow the falling chopper. I tremble as I strain to keep the machine of the ground—even with the power of telekinesis, the chopper's heavy. With the craft hanging just thirty feet above ground, the mob scatters and screams.

With a bead of sweating trickling down my neck, I let out a testosterone-laden yelp as I force the chopper upwards. I glance at the mob as its collective scream becomes a gasp. Once the chopper reaches a safe altitude, I slide it over the arena and let it down easy onto the roof. My eyes shift to the mass on the street and several people have their phones and digital cameras in hand, pointed toward me. I make a run for it down the street, away from the arena, the alley and the office building until a black Ford Taurus makes a sudden u-turn and pulls up next to me.

"Calvin," I hear a voice say.

"Elena?"

"Hurry," Jimenez says through the open passenger side window. "Get in."

I climb into the car and close the door.

"You okay?" she says.

I nod my head, out of breath. "You were right. They did try to attack."

Jimenez shifts the car into drive and steps on the gas, pushing through the calming riot.
Chapter Fourteen

Elena Jimenez drives us to the north, far from rioters or anyone else that might recognize me and my heroics. We've stopped at a hotel for the night. By the looks of it, the hotel is something along the same caliber as an Econolodge. If Montreal is an island, much like New York City, we've ventured off that island tonight, settling in a town called Repentigny.

"We need two rooms," I tell the hotel's front desk clerk, Jimenez behind me. This is the first time I've seen Elena out of her signature pants suit since the day she abducted me. Tonight, she's wearing a form-fitting v-neck T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. She caps off the ensemble with a pair of black boots.

"I only have one," the clerk says. He must've watched the game, too. He never even greeted us. As this was the first All-Canada Stanley Cup Final in decades, hotels have been a hot commodity.

I look back at Jimenez with a shrug. She nods.

"We'll take it," I say.

When I first met Elena, this would have been a dream come true. Unfortunately, my experience with the Agency of Influence has distorted her beauty, and I no longer view her as the vixen I saw when we first met. That said, it's nice to see a familiar face and, I must say, I've noticed a change in her temperament, however slight.

During our hour-long trek to Repentigny, Jimenez revealed to me that she has big plans and that tonight's events offer a taste of the future to come.

"I'm assembling a team," she said with her eyes fixed on the road. Her grip on the steering wheel caused her knuckles to be as pale as her tanned skin would allow.

"For what?" I said, leaning back in my seat.

"This. All of this... craziness."

"You mean that?" I said, pointing back toward the Bell Centre with my thumb.

"That, Chicago, Milan."

"You think the A of J caused Milan?"

Elena shot me a look.

"Good luck," I said.

"I'm serious."

I scoffed. "Well, you're not an Agent of Influence anymore."

"Exactly," she said, slowly rounding a corner.

"You're nuts, then."

"It's just the beginning, Calvin."

"Of what? Like, World War III or something?"

"Kind of."

"How do you know this?"

"I told you," she said, peeking at the rearview mirror, "I have my sources."

"Who is it?"

"It's not a person. It's my computer. I've hacked into the A of J's communication system."

"How'd you manage that?"

"All military intelligence can," she said with a grin. "They didn't teach you that at Penn, did they?"

That time, I shot her a look.

"Calvin," she said, suddenly turning serious, "I never got the chance to tell you... I'm sorry for your loss. This past year's been hard on all of us. Can't imagine how it's been for you."

I continued to look at Elena. This was the most sympathetic she'd been since I met her. I have no doubt that the events of the past year have weighed heavily on her. No matter how much of a bitch she may have been, the human conscience can only witness so many things before it begins to question its owner. Elena's eyes told me she'd done a lot of self-questioning lately.

"I want you on my team," she said without hesitating.

"Me? I'm not a soldier."

"This isn't that kind of war. It's about what's up here," she said, poking the side of her head.

"That was just a helicopter."

"And you saved it."

I snickered. "Elena, you don't really think we can stop all of this, do you? The world's a pretty big place."

"So, we recruit more people to our cause. Look, the people in this world deserve to decide their own fate."

I nodded. Amen to that.

"My father was an émigré from Cuba and met my mother in Miami. I've never seen another couple love each other the way they did."

"Yeah?"

"He also had a bad temper."

"Was he abusive?"

"No," she said with a slight tilt of the head. "Not with us."

I glanced at Jimenez, looking at the corner of her right eye, waiting for any hint of emotion. She was poker-faced, as usual.

"One night," she said, "he was at a bar. One of my mom's exes approached him and insulted him."

"They got in fight, right?"

"Yes," she said, looking over at me. "They took it outside and my father beat him to death."

"Damn."

"My father was arrested and arraigned. They were going to try him for murder but our lawyer had a defense in place to take it down to involuntary manslaughter."

"Because he was drunk," I said.

"Right. But on the first day of the trial, the van taking him to the courthouse swerved off a road and landed in the Everglades."

"You think it was the A of J?"

"Yes," she said, nodding her head. "I obviously didn't know then but... it hadn't rained in weeks and it was in the middle of broad daylight. There was no reason for the van to swerve off the road on its own."

"Why do you think they killed Josh Jenner?"

"I don't know."

"I mean, he wasn't exactly the nicest kid."

"Well, the intelligence said he needed saving," she said. "I looked at his file. I approved it."

"What if we were wrong? What if it wasn't a coincidence the mole set up the Jenny Cooper ID for a subject that the A of J eventually... eliminated?"

Jimenez shot me a razor-sharp look; I touched a nerve. She's still obviously sore about the fact that the branch's intelligence faltered under her watch. Still, the question—one that had bothered me since Josh's death—needed to be asked. The mole's presence automatically rendered all of the branch's intelligence questionable.

"Who else are you recruiting?" I said.

"Hamilton."

"What'd he say?"

"I haven't asked him yet. We have to go get him."

"We?"

"I thought you said you'd do it."

"I haven't agreed to anything yet. Where does he live?"

"Philly."

"Hell no. I'm not going back there."

"It'll be quick, Calvin. I'll be with you the whole time."

"Right."

"Remember how I recruited you?"

"Yeah, you poisoned me."

"This is going to take two people. He's a big guy."

"You love knocking people out." If someone held a gun to my head and told me to explain all of this to them, I couldn't convince them of the truth even if I tried. Hell, these days I have a hard time convincing myself of the truth. "What about Valerie?"

"Who?"

"Agent Darling, your department's up-and-comer."

"Oh, right."

"Aren't you going to recruit her?"

"I don't think so. She's too young for this."

"I think she'd be a good fit, actually." While that's true, I really just want to see Valerie. She's the one person from the agency that I've missed since going into exile. "We get her, I'm in."

Jimenez looked at me, a slight wrinkle in her brow. "I think it's a waste of time, but if we get Hamilton first, fine."

"Deal."

In the hotel, Elena and I are placed in a compromising situation. When we take the last room in the hotel, we also take the last bed in the hotel... bed, as in one. Thankfully, it's a king, so we declare our own separate zones.

While I shower, I assume Jimenez slips into something more comfortable. I won't know for sure because, when I come out of the bathroom, she is wrapped in the blanket, much like a caterpillar in a cocoon. All I can see of her is her long, dark hair against her white pillowcase. Wearing the same undershirt and boxers I wore to the bar, I slip in to bed.

"Goodnight," I Elena says.

I turn out the lamp on my nightstand. "I thought you were asleep."

"Not yet."

"When we swing by my place to get my car tomorrow," I say, "can I go up to get a few things?"

"Sure," she says, the back of her head still facing me.

"Elena," I say, "that thing with your father. Is that why you're always so... I don't know, serious?"

She shrugs through the covers.

"Hamilton said you had your reasons."

"I do."

"Well, you're getting better," I say, placing my arms behind my head. "Thank you for not making me sleep on the floor."

"Do you think I'm a bitch?"

"No." I stare at a slanted pattern on the wall as a streetlight outside shines through the blinds on our room's window.

"Be honest," she says.

"Maybe—in the past—I don't know. I wouldn't call you a bitch. I just think you could loosen up some." I look at the back of Elena's head. She doesn't flinch. "I mean, what do you do for fun?"

"The Air Force and A of I were always my life."

"When's the last time you went to see a movie?"

"I don't know. When I was sixteen, maybe?"

"God."

"I guess it makes me sound like a loser, huh?"

"No. You made commitments. You chose to serve your country in ways most people wouldn't fathom doing."

She scoffs. "But I'm thirty-one, Calvin. Look at me."

"What do you mean? You're beautiful, you're intelligent—"

"I want to be a mother," she says.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why? You don't think I—"

"No, no. I just... you didn't strike me as the motherly type."

"I would like to be."

"Well, why not start dating first? See what you like?"

"I hate dating. It's all a stupid game."

"Okay. Then do artificial insemination."

"No way. I couldn't raise a kid on my own. Wouldn't even want to."

I laugh. "Well, what do you want?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging again.

I sigh and furrow my brow. "Elena, do you feel like... I don't know, like you've missed out on life or something?"

Silence.

After a brief moment, I hear the faint sound of the cars on the highway outside before I hear what sounds like a sniffle.

"Are you crying?" I say.

"Damn you, Calvin. I liked you better when you thought I was a bitch."

"You like being a bitch?"

"No. But I like making people think I do."

"You are nuts."

"It has its advantages. Nobody uses you."

"So, it's like that?"

"Yeah," Elena says with a whisper. She rolls over to face me, tears in her eyes, her hair strewn across her face. She then places her head on my chest and turns away from my gaze. Next, her body starts to shake as she heaves silent sobs into my undershirt, each one more violent than the last and her toned core muscles contracting against my hip. With her cries intensifying, she clutches my undershirt with closed fists. Unsure of what to do, I start moving my hands from behind my head and on to Elena's shoulder.

"Don't touch me."

When's the last time Jimenez cried? It sure as hell seems like it's been a long time. I want to delve deeper into Elena's subconscious, but now is not the time. Her wounds are now open and exposed. It's only when that wound starts to scar that the issue can be broached, head on. Until now, Elena's wound was a scab. Our conversation picked at it until it bled.

***

In the morning, Elena is back to her old, ball-busting Lieutenant Jimenez persona. She's dressed and ready to go as she orders me up at seven in the morning. We check out of the hotel and drive back into the city to drop off her rental car. We then take a cab to my studio to get my car and some clothes before the eight-hour drive to Philly. When I start up the stairs to go to the second story, my landlord's door flies open.

"Kevin!" he says, leaning on the frame of his doorway.

"Hi, Mr. Sanders. What's up?"

"Oh my God, so much has happened since the riot last night."

"Yeah?" I say, one foot on the bottom step.

"Yeah, the cops came by and wanted to search your apartment."

"The cops?" Just what I need.

"Yeah, I wouldn't let them at first, but then they showed a warrant—I hope you don't mind."

"No, it's fine," I say, climbing a couple of steps before turning around. "Mr. Sanders, I'm going to be gone for a while.

"Really? Where're you going?"

"Back to the States. Shouldn't be for long. I'll be sure to mail you rent."

"Okay."

I climb the rest of the steps, pulling my keys out of my pocket when I reach the landing. The building is an old one. The exposed brick is stained and the wooden floors are weathered. I reach the door to my apartment, only to find that it isn't closed all the way.

Thanks, Montreal P.D.

I enter the studio and, to my surprise, it appears untouched. Unlike Philly P.D., these folks either didn't do much searching, or they did me the courtesy of cleaning up after themselves. I close the door behind me and walk to the closet next to my bed. I grab my duffle bag—a replacement for the one I lost in the Independence Mall chase—and stuff it with T-shirts, underwear, socks, and jeans.

Kneeling down to the floor for a pair of sneakers, I pause when I hear the floor creaking. I glance at my door—it's open again. "Elena?"

Silence.

I keep my eyes affixed to the doorway before going back to my packing. After grabbing my newest pair of Nikes and throw them in the bag, I stand up to go to the bathroom to grab some toiletries.

But my heart races. Something's not right.

Why would the cops search my place? Even if a video of last night's heroics surfaced on the Internet somewhere, it's not like they'd be able to identify me. Unless... Elena. Whatever. I'm probably freaking out for no reason.

I walk slowly to my bathroom, watching the parquet under me as I round my bed. Get a grip, Calvin! You weren't afraid of the Boogey Man when you were five; there's no reason to be a scaredy cat now.

I push open the bathroom door, flip on the light and look at Kevin's reflection in the mirror before running the water in my pedestal sink. I splash some on my face, hoping that it will allow me to come to my senses. I then open my medicine cabinet and grab some toiletries. When I close the cabinet, my heart skips a beat. In the reflection of the mirror, I swear saw something move out in the living area behind me. I turn around quickly and walk out of the bathroom, nearly soiling myself when I see someone standing in the middle of my studio.

"Kevin, wait!" he says, holding up a hand.

It's too late. Scared out of my wits, I push Mr. Sanders off his feet with a thrust of my hand, doing so with so much force that my landlord floats through my apartment's large window and out into the atmosphere.

"No!" I reach to stop his fall but it's useless. I already hear my landlord land on the pavement outside, accompanied by shards of glass.

Another lump forming in my throat, I grab my bag and run out of the apartment. I race down the stairs and out of the building when I see Jimenez standing next to my car.

Elena throws her arms into the air. "What the hell was that?"

"We have to go," I say, my duffle bag bumbling at my side with each of my steps. "We have to go now."

I look at the carnage to my left and do a double take.

That's not Mr. Sanders.

I toss my bag in the backseat of my car before jogging over to the mess.

"Calvin!" Jimenez yells.

A female lies in a pool of bloody glass. A brunette with blue eyes, she's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. With her last ounce of strength, she slowly turns her head to look into my eyes before breathing her last. When I stop five yards away from the body, I hear Elena's voice behind me, although it's hard to know what she's saying. All of my senses have shut down. I've witnessed another death, causing this one myself.

Jimenez grabs me and turns me back towards the car. As the sound of sirens draws closer, I climb into the Nissan and slam the door. With Elena in the passenger seat, I put the car in drive and step on the gas.

Careful not to induce a telekinetic rift, I take out my anger on the inside of the door, slamming it with the side of my fist.

"What happened?" Elena says.

"I—she," I manage before taking a deep breath. "She appeared as my landlord. Scared the shit out of me. I pushed her through the window."

"Calvin," she says, watching a screaming ambulance roll past us, "it's okay, there's nothing you could've done."

I want to agree with her, but I can't. I tune her out as I look out of the window. When I see my reflection in the side-view mirror, the lump in my throat dissipates. "What the hell?"

"What? What is it?"

"I—I didn't change. I'm still Kevin."

"Yeah? So?"

"That means she was an Agent of Influence. Why would an A of I be snooping around my apartment?"

"I—I don't know."

"You know what? I didn't change last night, either."

"Huh?"

"Last night. I encountered the agent who tried to crash the chopper, remember? I never changed." I look over at Elena before suddenly pulling over and shifting the car into park. "Get out."

"Wait."

"I said get out!"

"Calvin, I—"

"You still work for the A of I. They've been the ones setting off all these disasters."

She shakes her head.

"For the last time, get the hell out of my car!"

"Calvin, will you shut up and listen to me? I hacked the A of J, remember? I know it was them. And if I was working for the agency causing the disasters, why would I call you to prevent the helicopter from crashing last night?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that I was this close to that guy last night and didn't change. Why?"

She shrugs. "Maybe the A of J found a way to perfect the machine."

I stop and catch my breath before looking into Elena's eyes. She holds my gaze.

"Maybe that's how they lost me last night," I say.

"Huh?"

"Last night, I was chasing the guy who was trying to crash the helicopter. He turned into an alley and disappeared."

Jimenez scratches and then primps her straight, dark hair. "Was there anyone else in the alley?"

"Yes—lots of people, rioters. It was next to the arena." I lay my head back and look at the car's ceiling. "The agent back there said the cops came to search my apartment last night."

Elena places her hand on my shoulder. "The A of J's looking for you."

I sigh and shake my head. Out of options again, I pull out into the street and head south, starting the drive back to Philly.
Chapter Fifteen

We get through the border with relative ease. I say "relative" because I assume that the Agency of Justice has the same invasive video technology that the Agency of Influence has. So if they're looking for me, they know where to find me.

Nick Hamilton lives in the Manayunk section of Philly. Known for its hills—more so than nearby East Falls—Manayunk, like Northern Liberties, was a working class neighborhood before it was gentrified. Jimenez and Hamilton still speak regularly even though, according to Elena, Hamilton has no idea what she's been up to. Along the drive, she keeps referencing a need to add him to the team. Other than being the longest-tenured agent at the branch—save for the Old Man Richardson—I'm still not sure why it's so imperative that we add him to the team. Elena has been vague on that front.

In the early evening, we pull up to his townhouse complex. Parked across the street, we unbuckle our seat belts before hearing a door close. It's Hamilton, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. Based on his pair of Levi's, he must plan on going somewhere indoors. Philly's summers are oppressively hot and steamy, especially with no breeze coming in off of either of its two rivers.

Hamilton hops into his car, turns the ignition, and pulls out of his parking spot underneath the building. The last time I sat in a car, surprised to see someone leaving their house...

Jimenez and I redo our seat belts before I turn the ignition and follow Hamilton. I drive down a steep hill and turn left. Driving around here is tricky, what with the hills and the never-ending line of parallel-parked cars. A chase is never a good option in this part of town, unless you want to risk hitting the eight-year old boy running into the street going after his favorite ball.

I slam on the breaks when Hamilton suddenly slips into an open parking space in front of a bar. It's one of those corner joints you'd only see in a town like Philly or Boston. It's old, it's dirty, and most of its patrons fit that very same description. It's one of those places where the stench of alcoholism bowls you over when you walk past it.

Hamilton climbs out of his car as ours sits in the middle of the one-way street. In general, Nick doesn't look good. He's let himself go a bit, as evidenced by the pudge that's developed around his neck and gut.

"He's going to a bar?" I say. "It's like 5:30."

Jimenez shrugs. "This is his dinner."

"This is why you wanted him? So he wouldn't fall off the wagon?"

"No. To get him back on."

I remember Hamilton telling me he was in a detox program when he was younger. I thought it was for drugs, not alcohol.

"So what do we do?" I say.

"We'll go in and get him."

"Alright," I say, unbuckling my seat belt.

"Not right now," Jimenez says.

"You're going to wait until he's drunk."

"Yup."

"Let's just go in there and get him now."

"He won't want anything to do with any of this. Not while he's sober."

A driver behind me honks their horn.

"Ay! Wait a minute!" Jimenez exclaims, throwing her hand up in the air. "Pendejo!" That's the Elena Jimenez I know but don't necessarily love.

***

Jimenez and I go to a local steak joint to grab a bite to eat. An hour and a half later, we come back and Hamilton's car is still parked in front of the bar. Now that he's sure to be liquored up, Elena has devised a plan to lure Hamilton into our conversation with him... and it's a farce.

Elena has changed into Johanna and I've changed into Annika. We're two foreign exchange students from Sweden studying at Philly U, pregaming for a big night out. We're both blonde, a taste for which my partner tells me Hamilton has an affinity.

Johanna is wearing a blue cocktail dress, one in which the neckline is so low, her abundant décolletage is one false step from full exposure. I have chosen a more modest look, choosing a lavender halter top to go along with a pair of jeans. Elena talked me into a pair of platform shoes

Never again.

With our hair primped and our makeup on, we enter the bar with the subtlety of Elvis at a 1950s all-girls' school and let the door close behind us. With all eyes on the two blondes, the stench of flat Buds and Wild Turkey invades my nostrils. All of the bar's patrons, including Hamilton, hold their drinks in their hands, waiting on our every step. We ignore the onlookers and take two open seats to the right of Nick at the bar, with Johanna sitting closest to him. He peeks over at us, uninterested before throwing back a shot of Jack.

"What was that you just had?" Johanna says, making a horrible attempt at a Swedish accent, though it's not like I could do any better. Really, what does a Swedish accent sound like?

"Jack Daniels," he says. "Whiskey."

"It any good?"

"I don't know," he says, glancing at her chest while tilting his head with uncertainty. "You might be a little young for it. Try it with some Coke."

"You want to try it?" Johanna says, turning to me.

"Let's do it, straight up," I say.

"Fine," she says with a smile, slapping the bar. "Bartender, three shots of Jack."

"Three?" Hamilton says.

"Yeah. One for you, too."

"Oh, I couldn't, I—"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Johanna says, waving him off. "Have fun with us."

"Yeah," I add, not knowing what else to say. I'm not sure how the second girl is supposed to act in these situations. Utter silence is awkward. Unabashed enthusiasm gives the impression that Johanna and I are in competition.

The bartender nods before lifting a bottle of Jack out of his liquor collection. Elena might not know how to have a good time but she's fairly good at acting like she does. The bartender carefully places all the shot glasses down on the bar, the liquor giving them a brownish tint.

"Wait," the bartender says. "I need to see some ID."

Johanna and I share a glance. She has a fake ID, I do not. She pulls hers out of her purse and hands it to the bartender. I pretend to search around in a purse that Jimenez gave me before entering the bar.

The bartender looks at Johanna's ID closely before handing it back to her. "Twenty-three, huh? You don't look a day over sixteen," he says with a wink.

Johanna laughs in kind, playfully throwing back her hair for good measure. "You're funny."

Meanwhile, I keep looking for my non-existent ID.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the bartender says before tending to someone else. That was easy.

As the three of us raise our glasses, I notice that the old men in the bar have gone back to their business. Some of them, however, can't help but peek at the two outgoing blondes and their lucky friend in the corner of the bar.

"To friendship," Johanna says.

"Friendship," Hamilton responds with a grin.

The three of us clink our shot glasses together before throwing our drinks back. Hamilton and Johanna take their drinks like a champ but I almost fall off of my stool and gag. I usually stick to beer and mixed drinks. Hard liquor straight up, especially whiskey, is out of my league.

"You okay?" Hamilton says.

"I'm fine," I say, holding up a hand.

"Whew," he says with a sway. "I need to go to the boy's room."

"Okay," Johanna says, adjusting the top of her dress. "Come right back."

"I will," he says, staggering as he walks away.

"Wow," I say. "He's trashed."

"He's getting there," Johanna says, waving for the bartender's attention. "Can we get three more Jacks?"

"You sure?" he says with a discerning eye. "I don't know if that guy can take anymore."

"He'll be fine. We're friends of his. We'll drag him out of here if we need to."

"Count me out of this one," I tell her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Fine. Two Jacks."

The bartender pours the two drinks and places them before Johanna.

"We're ready for the check," she says. "And give us his tab, too."

The bartender nods before going to his cash register. Next, Johanna takes a pill out of her purse and puts it in one of the shot glasses.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"Rohypnol."

"You're slipping him a roofie?"

"Shhh. How do you expect us to get him out of here?"

"I can't believe you're going to—he could OD from that, all the booze he's had."

"Calm down," Johanna says. "He'll be fine. This formula's a lower concentration. I swiped it from the agency before I left."

"You used that shit on me, didn't you?"

No response.

"That's fucked up."

"Here you go," says the bartender, placing the check in front of us.

Johanna slides Hamilton's drink in its rightful spot before picking up the check. "Ay, dios mio."

The bartender, pouring another drink, looks in Johanna's direction. Although blonde Latinas do exist, they are rare, especially when they look as Nordic as the two of us.

Johanna fishes in her purse. "I got this."

Before I can reach for Kevin Stewart's credit card, Hamilton plops down on his stool. Without hesitation, Nick throws back the poisoned shot.

Yeesh. He really has fallen off the wagon.

"Who the ... hell are you?" he says, swaying again. He darts his eyes down toward the floor. He's holding a gun at his hip and he has it pointed at us. "Don't...move," he says, before I can throw my hands up. "Who sent you?"

Johanna and I look at each other, unsure of what to do.

"C'mon, you think I trust... two hot blondes? Especially when they're interested in me?"

"Nick," Johanna says, "it's Elena Jimenez."

"No, you're not. Elena Jimenez... is a bitch."

Johanna turns back to look at me. Although she doesn't show it, I can tell that Hamilton's comment picked at her healing wound. In vino veritas.

"You're nice. I like you," he tells Johanna.

"Then why do you have a gun pointed at us?" I say.

"Oh... don't worry, it's not... it's not loaded."

No, but you are.

"Really... why you being nice to me?" Hamilton sways wildly, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Whew, I'm tired. I'm going to...I'm going to take a nap." He lays his arms down on the bar before placing his head on them.

"That was fast," I say. "I thought you said that was a low concentration."

"I said it was lower," Johanna clarifies. "Grab his arms. I'll get his feet."

She signs the receipt left by the bartender and grabs Nick's feet.

I grip him by the armpits and start backing up as his greasy head lies just below mine. "Damn. Dude needs a shower."

All eyes in the bar return to us as Johanna and I carry Nick toward the bar's entrance. My partner giggles nervously as the bartender watches with his mouth wide open. And, as if trying to add to this absurdity, someone whistles from the back of the room.

"Next time we carry someone, I'd like to change first," I say.

"Be quiet and keep going," she says. Her choice of attire was ill-advised given this exit strategy.

I let my back hit the swinging front door before carefully taking a step down to the sidewalk. As we approach my car, the air still reeks of cheap booze.

"Lean him against the car," I say.

We place Hamilton's back on the front passenger-side door as I pull out the remote to unlock the car. As I do this, I stop and sniff myself.

Booze.

How's that possible? Alcohol's a liquid.

With the doors unlocked and the back door ajar, we carefully slide Hamilton onto the backseat.

"Great," I say, closing the door. "I smell like whiskey and four-day-old hair gel."

"Stop being a little girl," Johanna says, while once again adjusting her top. She climbs into the car. "Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," I say as I climb into the car and turn the ignition. Elena's not in a good mood; this'll probably be a quiet car ride to our hotel.

The jig was up in the bar but Hamilton was too drunk to do anything about it. He was the one who explained to me the theory that overly-friendly, attractive people are most likely too good to be true. His instincts served him well but could not overcome the alcohol in his system.

***

After changing into our real personas—for me, that would be Kevin—Jimenez and I stop by Hamilton's townhouse to pick up a few clothes for him before checking into a Holiday Inn. As we go through the process of hauling Hamilton up to my room, Jimenez is all business, never seeming to smile, blink, or even breathe.

We plop Hamilton onto his bed—he and I are sharing a room—and handcuff his right wrist to the headboard. Jimenez and I sit and watch TV until Hamilton wakes up.

"What—what is this?" Hamilton says trying to free his wrist.

We turn off the TV and turn our attention over to our hung-over comrade.

"Elena? Is that you?"

She nods.

"Oh my God," he says rubbing his head. "What are you doing here?"

"We took you from the bar," I say.

He turns his attention to me. "Who are you?"

"Calvin Newsome."

"Calvin?" He looks thoroughly confused. "Why did you cuff me?"

"Ah, now the shoe's on the other foot," I say.

"We need you," Jimenez says.

"For what?"

"We need to stop the Agency of Justice."

"Oh, great. How do you plan to do that?"

"I've hacked their communication system," she says. "We can prevent their disasters, at least the ones here in the U.S."

"Elena," he says, "that's a life I don't live anymore."

"But we need you," I say.

"And you need us," Jimenez says.

"I need you?"

"Yes. Look at you."

"I don't need your help."

"Well, you need somebody's help," I say.

"Who the hell are you?" he says with an incredulous expression. "You don't know me."

"We're just trying to help."

"Bullshit. You're just trying to use me."

"Just like Richardson, right?" Jimenez says. "After all he did for you."

He ignores her, choosing to look through the window instead.

"Nick?" she says.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know yet. We're trying to assemble our team first."

"Who else do you want?"

"Darling," I say.

He nods his head. "Good. Now, can you please un-cuff me?"

"That mean you're in?"

"I guess, yeah," he mumbles.

With a flick of her finger, Jimenez unlocks Hamilton's handcuff.

"Your first mission," I say, "is to take a shower." I take Hamilton's hand and help him to his feet.

He rubs his eyes. "God, I feel like shit."

"I'll be in my room," Jimenez says.

"Wait," I say. "Do you guys know where Valerie lives?"

"When we found her, she lived with her parents in Roxborough, I think," Hamilton says. "But I'm sure she's moved out by now."

"Yeah, but that's a good place to start. Roxborough's not too far."

"No, it's not. I think her parents live off of Evergreen and Ridge," he says. "Big brick house. Can't miss it."

"Cool. I'm going to go find her, then."

"Calvin," Jimenez says, "you shouldn't go out by yourself. Wait until tomorrow. We'll do it together."

"The A of J can't expose me anymore, remember?"

"What's he talking about?" Hamilton says.

"You don't know that for sure," Elena says.

"Please. Valerie and I were good friends. It—"

"Fine," she says with a sigh. She opens the door to leave. "Just come right back."

"I will."

Elena looks at Hamilton. "I'll be back to check on you." She leaves the room and closes the door.

"What's her problem?" Hamilton says.

"You kind of popped off at the bar."

"Really? What I say?"

"Don't worry about it. She hasn't been right lately."

"It's probably just PMS," he says, waving it off. "Was this your idea or hers?"

"Hers. She found me in Montreal."

"Wait, were you in the middle of that riot?"

"Yeah," I say with a chuckle. "Remind me to tell you about it later."

"I will." He walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. As I open the door to leave, Nick stops me. "Hey, Calvin. Thanks, man."

"Don't worry about it." I leave the room and let the door close behind me.

Walking toward the elevator, I stop as I pass Jimenez's room. My heart drops at what sounds like the sound of her weeping. I raise my hand to knock on the door before thinking better of it and continuing toward the elevator.

***

With the moon shining upon Roxborough, I pull up to Valerie's house. It certainly fits Hamilton's description: large, brick, and hard to miss. By the looks of things, someone's home; there are a few lights on inside. Before getting out of my car, I check the mirrors to ensure that I'm still the younger, nerdy hipster I turned into. Valerie's family may not open the door for an older black man past eight in the evening.

Much like I did at Richardson's house in East Falls, I climb the small steps leading to a path through the home's large front yard. I jump when I see a large German shepherd jump up into one of the windows, barking like hell as its breath fogs up the window.

I reach the front door and ring the doorbell. But before my finger leaves the button, the door opens. An older woman comes out of the house, startled to see me. She fits the profile of what I expected to find when I met Elena.

"Oh, hi," she says.

"Hi. I'm looking for Valerie. Is she home?"

She starts walking down the path. "Oh, no. She's with her family on vacation."

"Oh. Any idea when they'll be back?"

"Not for another two weeks. They're in Florida."

I know exactly where Valerie is. "Ah, okay. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. Could you be a gentleman and help me down those stairs? My knees are bad today."

"Sure."

I take the old lady's arm.

"What's your name?" she says.

"Bobby."

"Nice to meet you, Bobby. I'm Rita. How do you know Val?"

"We go way back. High school."

"That's cute," she says, taking each step one at a time. "I've been house sitting for her family for years. Valerie's a very sweet girl."

"I know."

"Well, this is my car. Thank you for your help."

"No problem."

I watch Rita get into her car before pulling out my cell phone and dialing Jimenez's number.

"Hello?" she says. She's been sleeping.

"Clearwater Beach."

"Huh?"

"Valerie's on vacation. She's in Clearwater Beach."
Chapter Sixteen

Heaven on Earth is what she called it. Valerie Darling's parents own a vacation home on Clearwater Beach and visit it twice a year. I play the educated hunch and take the flight down to the Sunshine State. To save money, Jimenez and Hamilton stay behind in Philly, electing instead to crash at Nick's townhouse in Manayunk while he detoxifies.

In town for two days, I've been mostly taking in the sun as well as a few sights. I've also staked out the row of houses on the beach's main drag with no sign of Valerie or her family. Today, I'm hanging around the beach behind the houses. I've rented a large umbrella for the day and have slathered on the sunscreen. Black people don't burn easily but I'm not taking any chances; I'm prepared to be here all day. I start my stakeout at nine in the morning and wait.

It's now two o'clock and there's no sign of anyone yet, other than the usual patrons down by the more public areas of the beach.

Feeling like I might fall asleep, I check sports scores on my phone. I take a peek to my left. Forty yards away is a short female—a redhead— in a two-piece bikini with a towel thrown over her shoulder. She closes the fence behind one of the houses and disturbs the sand leading up to the water. Halfway down to the water, she unfurls her towel and lays it down on the sand.

If this is Valerie, she has let her red hair grow out, letting it down past her shoulders. And I hadn't realized the kind of shape she was in. Her stomach is as flat as you can get without a six-pack. She sits down on the towel, staring out into the Gulf of Mexico, her knees up under her chin.

As Kevin, Valerie won't recognize me. Thusly, I want to avoid any awkward situations and make sure that it's her before approaching. My umbrella's situated in a manner that will allow me to covertly observe the girl.

In the distance, a speedboat skips along the otherwise calm waters of the gulf, travelling from my right to left. The disturbance of the water surrounding the boat adds to the light, salty mist permeating the air. On a line behind the boat, a parasailor hangs on for dear life high above the water. From their vantage point, they probably have a good view of the entire Tampa Bay area.

I look back at the girl sitting on the beach and see her raise her arms, as if welcoming the sun and its harmful rays onto her fair skin. I never knew Valerie to be one of those sun god zealots. Back in the gulf, the surf swells around the boat. It's a little early for high tide, I think, but the boat rocks from side to side as the surf swells higher.

In the air, the parasailor starts to panic as the wind is literally taken out of his sail. I look back at the girl and see her thrust her arms in the air once again. The water swells again, this time reaching as high as twenty feet in the air.

"What the hell?" With a wave of my arm, I toss my umbrella aside, exposing myself to the sun. I stand up and run on the beach's uneven sand.

The girl thrusts her arms in the air once more. This time, the waves swell so high that it nearly turns the boat over. Meanwhile, the parasailor braces for a crash landing into the Gulf.

Still fifteen yards away, I knock the girl on her side, attempting to disrupt her focus with a thrust of my right hand. The waves subside, allowing the boat to regain its footing in the now-foamy waters and move at a more graceful gait.

In the meantime, this can't be Valerie. The girl starts to pick herself up off the sand, coughing up what she no doubt inhaled.

Within earshot of the girl, I keep my hand at the ready. "Tell me why I shouldn't—"

I stop when the girl turns to look at me, terror in her eyes.

It's Valerie. Red hair, blue eyes, freckles, everything. It's Agent Darling, America's Sweetheart.

"Who are you?" she says, squinting her eyes up at the sun behind me.

"Cal—" I feel my face. I'm still Kevin.

"Calvin?"

"What were you doing, Valerie?" I say, kneeling down beside her.

"Calvin... "

"Who do you work for?"

"I... " For some reason, she's speechless.

I wait for her to explain herself before speaking through clenched teeth. "Tell me!"

Valerie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "They hired me right after the A of I did."

"You were the mole? Why?"

"Everything Richardson said, everything the A of I stands for is bullshit."

"How do you figure?"

"The A of J stands for something, Calvin. Justice, just like our title says."

"So justice makes it okay to kill thousands of innocent people? That's real noble."

"Collateral damage."

I scoff and shake my head before sitting down next to her.

Valerie Darling has proven to be the snakiest of liars. Now, she can only stare at the sand beside her.

Swoosh!

"Look at me," I say, grabbing her arm. "Take a good look and see what you've done."

She glances at my real face. "I didn't do that. That was your beloved Ronni."

I throw her arm out of my hand. "Fuck you."

"Poor thing. You have no idea."

"Have no idea about what? That she killed Jenny Cooper? I know that already."

"She did kill Jenny... before she became one of us."

"What are you talking about?"

"Jenny's death was an accident, Calvin. Ronni was too much of a coward to come forward."

"Bullshit."

"The A of J targeted her but decided to recruit her instead. She terminated a lot of people," she says, as though sorry to have to tell me that. "And the agency knew that convincing her to cause the wreck would be easy. She was weak."

"You used her."

"She had a choice. She joined us in exchange for making sure the police didn't start asking her questions."

"You're so full of shit. What about Josh, then, huh? What about me?"

"You? More collateral damage. And don't think Josh was a saint, either."

"Well, no but—"

"He was going to kill himself, right? That's what I led everyone to believe," she says before leaning in to me. "Josh killed his mom on that boat, Calvin. He was a murderer and a drug pusher."

"Right."

"Think I'm lying? You saw Josh's notebook. The clues were right there." She's right. Josh's notebook was littered with scribblings that read I wish you would just die.

I'm more curious than angry now. "Why did they need you inside the agency?"

"To cause a diversion. While everyone was off worrying about you, I got what I came for."

"Which was?"

"You've noticed the fact that Agents of Justice can change now, right?" So, she's the reason why the A of J perfected the change machine.

"Then why Suburban Station?" I say. "That's not justice."

"Because the people in this world don't deserve goodwill."

"So you guys play God now?"

"Hey, we don't do it any more than the A of I. Look, people need to respect the world they live in. This society is past the point of saving. We're going to heal it."

"Armageddon? That's your idea of healing?"

"We'll be better off," she says with a shrug. "When people are at the point when they've had enough, when they beg for mercy... that's when our world will be healed."

I laugh. "You're out of your mind."

She stands up. "I saw what you did in Montreal. That was impressive. You should give me a call when you're done buying into Richardson's bullshit."

"I've already got something lined up."

"Oh, right. With Hamilton and Jimenez." Another blank stare. "Well, you can't catch what you can't see."

"Val!" a man's voice calls from behind the fence. "Grandma's here."

She dusts herself off. "I feel bad for you."

"Don't," I say, rolling my eyes.

She slides her sun-kissed hair behind her ear. "Richardson's lies have blinded you bad."

"I don't work for him anymore."

"Good," she says, walking away. "Just be careful, then."

I hear the sand move under Valerie's feet as she walks back to her house, swinging her gate open and closed when she gets there. I pull out my cell phone and dial Jimenez.

She picks up quickly this time. "I was just about to call you."

"What's up?"

"It's happening again. Miami."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning. Hamilton and I are catching the next flight out."

"Okay, I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Wait," Jimenez says. "Did you find Valerie?"

"Yes."

"Well, what did she say?"

"She's our mole, Elena."

"Shit."

"She was behind everything. She planted the ID, she gave us the false intelligence on Josh, and now the A of J can change, thanks to her. She figured out the Change Machine."

"How?"

"I don't know. Did any of your intelligence staff ever run diagnostics on the machine?"

"No, only I did those."

"Before the derailing, I walked in on her studying the machine."

"Ay my God. Why didn't you tell me?"

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Okay, whatever. Just get to Miami."

"Fine. Bye." I hang up the phone.

With the sun's rays spanking the back of my neck, I put my knees up to my chin and place my arms on them as I look down at the sand underneath me. To my right, a couple walks along the edge of the beach, their hands intertwined. I miss Ronni, even though I didn't know her as much as I thought. Mostly, I miss the time when I still had her, before she killed Jenny Cooper, before I became an Agent of Influence.

That certainly explains her malaise the past couple years. I was so blind, so flattered by myself that I thought Ronni's negative attitude had something to do with me. I thought she still pined over me. Instead, she was guilty. She carried the guilt of Jenny's death—and those of countless others—every day. If only I had opened my eyes, if only I had listened, I would have known something was terribly amiss. Instead, I never truly got to know the person I held in the highest regard.

Meanwhile, Valerie's betrayal eats away at me like acid. Everything she said and did was a lie. Her charming smile, her playful pats on the shoulder, all of her positive body language was just a ruse. Her brief career as an A of I was a dodge, just to cozy up to that damn machine. It's made the A of J more dangerous. Their new power allows them to virtually disappear, vanishing from suspecting eyes as they destroy city after city. It allows them the ability to slither up to their case subjects in the same manner in which Valerie seduced me. Most importantly, it also means that Agents of Influence won't know of their presence. In a roundabout way, that's good news for Calvin and all ordinary A of Is. It's terrible news, though, for folks like Kevin, Elena, Nick and any future Agents of Change.

It only comes as small consolation that I believe that Valerie truly does feel sorry for me. If the Agency of Justice wanted me dead, they would have seen to it that I was killed. Instead, I was a pawn in their game of chess. As I recall, it was Valerie who told me not to take Josh's death personally, that I might not have been the Agency of Justice's primary target. She knew the deal and couldn't bear to see me hurt any more than I already was.

It's a pity. Given the chance, if we ever cross paths again, I can't say I'll be so sympathetic.

Chapter Seventeen

It takes me four hours to get to Miami. I drive down the interstate along Florida's Gulf Coast before cutting across Alligator Alley and winding up in South Florida. The air is different here, even compared to that of the Tampa Bay area. It's heavier, it's thicker, and it's far more humid. Take one step outside, and you feel wet.

Having visited Miami on a number of occasions, I've found the city to be overrated. It's a haven for college kids and retirees. It's not a place in which I would settle down and start a family. Miami's poverty rate is sky high and the number of violent crimes in Miami is on par with that in Philadelphia, even though Philly has three times as many residents.

I would never say all of this in Elena's presence. This is her hometown and I make it a point never to openly blast someone's hometown. No matter how negatively the general, nationwide population may look upon your city, it's still your home. There's something to be said for that. It's not as if Philadelphia's perfect. Most people see it and its citizens as dirty and undignified. My view, of course, is different. It's home.

But I digress.

I pick Jimenez and Hamilton up from Miami International, an old, large and confusing airport. We check into a Hampton Inn amongst all the high-rises in downtown Miami and each get our own rooms. We don't want to be too far from the Julia Tuttle Causeway, a bridge which runs across Biscayne Bay and connects downtown Miami with Miami Beach. The causeway, according to Elena, is also the target of the A of J's next attack.

The three of us are huddled around the desk in Jimenez's room. She sits in the desk's chair. I sit on the edge of her bed while Nick sits on the floor.

"Why there?" I say.

"There used to be a designated colony for sex offenders under the bridge," she says. "They called it Bookville."

"You said there used to be?" Hamilton says.

"Right. There're still some there; enough for the A of J to give the A of I the impression that that's why they hit it."

Hamilton rolls his eyes. "That is, if the A of I ever made them explain themselves."

"That's not why they've targeted it, is it?" I say.

"No, it's not," Elena says. "It's just more chaos."

"What are they going to use this time?"

"A plane."

"Are you serious?"

She nods her head. "Commercial airliner."

"Jesus," Nick says.

"Pilots flying into MIA often circle out into the ocean before making their descent," she says. "The A of J wants to throw a plane into the side of the causeway. Between the size of the plane and its fuel..."

Nick makes an explosion noise, using his hands to illustrate.

"How do we know exactly where they'll hit it?" I say.

"About two-thirds of the causeway is surrounded by small patches of land," Elena says.

"Kind of like an island."

"Right. The other third is exposed to the bay."

"How the hell are we going to control a plane? No way we keep that thing from crashing. It's too big."

Elena shrugs. "If the A of J can crash it, we can keep it in the air."

"Or at least keep it from crashing into the bridge," Nick says. "We could land it safely in the bay."

"Like that plane in the Hudson River a few years ago," I say.

"Exactly," she says.

"So, what's our plan?" Nick says.

"At 0800, we'll pull over near the causeway's point of the exposure. That'll give us a few moments before they're to execute their plan."

"Right in the middle of rush hour."

"Yes," she says. "They didn't choose that timing by accident."

Something about this entire campaign bothers me, though. It's been stuck in my craw since I left Clearwater. "I have a question."

Elena and Nick stare at me blankly.

"Let's say we save the bridge. Then what?"

"What do you mean?" Elena says. "We recruit more former A of Is and move on to the next disaster."

I purse my lips and shake my head slowly. "This is all a little shortsighted, no? I mean, what if we all die tomorrow? It's not like there's anyone out there right now who'd pick up where we left off." I swallow hard and look both of my two comrades in the eye. "I just think there needs to be an endgame here. There's three of us and God only knows how many of them. And the A of J is on to us. There's nothing that precludes us from being eliminated."

"What are you suggesting?"

"The only way to win this thing is to stop the A of J, right? I'm just saying... instead of waiting for them to attack, why don't we attack them?"

"I'm not following," Hamilton says.

"The Arrowhead," I say.

Nick and Elena both groan. "No way. Out of the question."

"Why? Didn't Richardson say destroying it would be catastrophic? Let's at least take it. It'd definitely scare the shit out of them, wouldn't it?"

"And the A of I. I don't know about you but I'm okay just pissing off the A of J," Hamilton says.

"And that's if we could ever find the thing," Elena says.

"Let's ask Richardson. I'm sure he knows."

Both of them shake their heads.

"I don't get it. Why are you guys so—"

"Doesn't the A of I still pay your salary?" Nick says.

"Well, yeah, but—"

"What about your safety?" Jimenez says.

"What about my safety?"

"The agencies aren't Philly P.D., Calvin. That's all I'm saying. Look, when we finally get a chance to catch our breath, we'll recruit more people."

"Fine." Their reaction was some kind of strong. I feel like there's something they're not telling me.

"Anything else?" Nick says. "I'm hungry."

"No," Elena says. "That's all, gentlemen."

"I think I'm going to grab something from the sub shop across the street," he says, standing up. "Anyone want to come with?"

"No, I'm good," I say, following him to Elena's door.

"No, thanks, Nick," she says. "Calvin, wait."

I turn around to look at Elena.

She waits for Hamilton to leave before standing. "I want to visit my parents, before it gets dark. Can you take me?"

"To the cemetery?"

She nods.

"Sure, let me just grab my wallet."

With the sunlight waning, we drive to a cemetery just outside Little Havana, not twenty-five minutes from our hotel. Although Elena has been quiet throughout the car ride, she's been more pensive than unpleasant.

"How did the A of I compare," I ask her, "with what you did in the military?"

She looks over at me. "I still did some of the same things... intelligence gathering and stuff like that."

"What's different, aside from the obvious?"

"For one, I was actually making a difference in people's lives."

"So you did like it."

"Of course."

"I guess it just seemed too warm and fuzzy for you."

"No," she says. "I really did like it."

"Well, you had a funny way of showing it."

She shrugs. "It was a shield."

I glance at her. "Oh, I know all about shields. Do—do you care to share?" I'm not sure if her aforementioned wound has healed fully, but she brought this up. It must not be as painful as it was that night in Repentigny.

"Only if you tell me about yours."

We trade glances, her brown eyes teasing me behind the veil of the foremost strands of her hair. This is the most relaxed I've seen Elena. As such, it's also the most vibrant I've ever seen her.

I tell her about my flawed friendship with Ronni, how I held it in such haughty, untouchable regard. I explain to Elena how I could love Ronni so much that I couldn't admit it until the very end. I even tell her about Ashley Koch and how her patience for my selfishness ran thin well before Ronni's.

"Do you still miss her?" Elena says. "Ronni?"

"Yes." I shrug. "But it's not like she was ever mine to begin with."

Elena nods her head. She then holds her hands together on her lap and stares down at them. Her lengthy, brown mane hides her face from me.

"What about y—"

"Mine was a boy," she says, still focused on her hands. "In high school, I dated a boy named David. We took all the same classes and were in JROTC together."

"So you knew you were going to go into the military for a while."

"Yeah. David did, too. At least, that's what he told me." She moves her hair away from her face. "We both applied to Colorado Springs and said we'd only go if we both got in. If not, we were both going to enlist right out of high school."

"Wow."

"Well, we both got in and we both went."

On my left, I see the cemetery's entrance approaching.

"Then, one day," she says with a sneer, "he was gone."

"He left?"

"Yup," she says, nodding her head. She throws her hands up only to let them make a loud slap on her thighs. "Didn't even tell me."

"Damn, what a punk," I say. "Was he homesick?"

"Sort of."

"Well, if were you there. How much more home did he need?"

"That's the thing," she says. She points for me to turn into the cemetery.

"Another girl?" She nods. "In Miami?" She nods again. "That's messed up."

"I found out when I went home for the holidays that first year."

I can only shake my head. "That's why you put up your shield."

"Kind of. The worst of it was the aftermath. I cried, all the time. And in the military, that means you're weak."

"Right."

"The other girls would all smother me with pity. The guys..." she says, looking out the passenger side window. "Let's just say they really liked the weak girls at the academy. I put up my shield and got used to it. Back then it was perfect. Nobody wanted a damned thing to do with me. I loved it."

"It's not too late, Elena."

She shakes her head. "I don't want to live without my shield."

"Don't want to or don't know how?"

She looks back down at her hands. I hope David's happy. He ruined Elena's view of all people, not just men. At her core, there is a pleasant Elena Jimenez, one with a sense of humor, one who sees the good in people. It's a shame. That's a woman I'd really love to get to know.

"I'm sorry," I say, driving down the cemetery's main drag. "You deserve better."

"Right there," she says, pointing to a group of gravestones to my left. She's put up her shield again.

I stop the car, making sure to leave enough space for any other cars that may traverse this narrow road. I think we're alone, however. I can see no other cars or people for as far as my sight will allow.

We walk side-by-side through two rows of headstones before stopping in front of two tombstones, memorials for Jorge and Andrea Jimenez. The tributes on both tombstones are written in Spanish. Andrea died only three years ago.

Elena takes a step forward. She lowers her head as she toes the imaginary line of committing the impropriety of standing over one's grave. She begins speaking to her parents, I presume, in Spanish. I imagine her telling them that she misses them and, if she believes in God, she's asking Him to watch over them. During her tribute, Elena's voice catches, causing her to speak louder. She wipes tears from both her cheeks as she continues her prayer, stopping every so often to let out a sob or to sniffle. Before long, Elena is overcome, burying her face in her hands.

If Elena were to ever ask me about my parents, I'd be embarrassed. I wouldn't know how to answer, honestly. I never really knew my father, and my mother and I have a strained relationship, to put it kindly. Money aside, I couldn't tell you what she's been up to in recent years. Hell, the fact that I haven't written her a check yet that hasn't been cashed is the only reason I know she isn't dead. Morbid, I know, but I feel better off; Celia Williams is a hard woman to please. To wit, she bemoaned my decision to choose Penn over Tuskegee, despite Penn's offering more scholarship money. If you know anything about Tuskegee University, or any of the other historically black colleges, you get an idea of my mom's view of the world and I can tell you it was no doubt formed during the 1950s. Elena is not the first person I've known who has loved their parents this fiercely. But I'm embarrassed, without fail, whenever I see the manner in which people like her interact with their parents, even after they've passed away. My mom may annoy the shit out of me, but she's still my mom.

I step forward and, for a brief moment, place my hand on the small of Elena's back. "Mr. and Mrs. Jimenez, I hope that, wherever you are, you're proud of your daughter..."

Elena pulls her hands away from her face. I keep my eyes on her parents' headstones but I can feel her eyes upon me.

"... She has grown very beautiful and very strong. Currently, she—she needs your guidance. She has started down—started on a journey that will require the greatest strength and the sharpest... decisions. She is well-trained and well-prepared for this. But, I also know that she hurts inside. Please give her your guidance and love so that she may possess greater strength to overcome all obstacles."

Elena takes my right hand in her left and, with tears still rolling down her cheeks, leans her head on my shoulder. The scent of vanilla fills my nose. With the soft skin of her arm against mine, I turn to face her. She averts her eyes, attempting to hide the sadness that lies within them. Then, with the quickness of a cat, she wraps her arms around my ribcage, embracing me with a loving viciousness. With her head firmly pressed against my chest, I feel her core muscles contracting again. Remembering the last time she cried on my chest, I keep my arms at my side.

I look over at Jorge's and Andrea's headstones and wonder if they are looking upon this scene.

"Hold me," Elena says between sobs. "Please."

I wrap my arms around her as she presses her body firmly against mine. I muffle every cry and absorb every sob. When her cries subside, I pull away, hoping to see Elena's face. Instead, she lowers her head, hiding from my gaze. With my right hand, I lift her head, her eyes finally meeting mine. Her face is a beautiful disaster: her cheeks flushed, eyes swollen and hair scattered across her moistened visage.

I brush her hair aside as she wipes her tears away. We share a laugh. I think Elena's embarrassed to have shown me this much. I hold the side of her face with my right hand as we trade smiles and I draw my face closer to hers. She doesn't back away.

She then covers the rest of the distance, softly overwhelming my lips with hers. I savor the moment. I've never felt a kiss this powerful, this meaningful. It's the kiss I never want to end.

And it stops.

Elena pulls away and averts her gaze again. "I'm sorry," she says, trying to catch her breath. "We have to go."

She walks past me, toward the car, leaving me to stand alone in front of her parents' headstones. Was that a mistake?

I don't know if our moment was based purely in physical attraction, emotional vulnerability, genuine love, or a combination of the three. The most profound thing I can take away from it is that Elena Jimenez is, in some form or other, capable of love.

And that means something.

***

After enjoying an authentic Cuban sandwich and fries from the sub shop across the street, Nick Hamilton showers and relaxes on his bed, watching Family Guy reruns. The time is 8:21.

I wonder what Calvin and Elena ate.

He laughs at himself. He knows what he's trying to do. He can't trick his own mind into not thinking about tomorrow's mission. He's found it funny just how enthusiastically the three of them have taken to their task. Most people would be shaking in their boots.

A knock at the door.

Nick uncovers himself, climbs out of bed and walks toward the door, wearing boxers and an undershirt. He looks in the peephole before opening the door—it's Kevin Stewart. He stands alone in the hallway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Nick opens the door. "Hey, Calvin. What's up?"

"We need to talk. Can I come in?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

Calvin enters and walks past the TV at the front of the room as Nick closes the door.

"So, what's going on?" Nick says.

"It's Elena."

"Yeah?"

Calvin goes to the window and looks down at the parking lot below. "Look," he says, waving for Nick to join him.

"What's wrong?"

With Nick now standing half a step behind him, Calvin turns and thrusts his right hand into Nick's midsection. Nick's jaw drops, his breath quickly escaping him. Calvin thrusts once more, bringing Nick to his knees. Calvin then pulls back, bringing his knife with him. Nick's blood drips loudly on the carpet.

"Why?" Nick says, holding the wound.

"You're in the way."

Nick falls on his side and rolls onto his back, staring up at Calvin. The carpet surrounding Nick turns a dark shade of brown.

Calvin gags as he holds his bloodied knife like a dead rodent. "Yuck. The worst." His victim's eyes staring up blankly at him, he nudges Nick with his feet before kneeling down next to his prey's lifeless body and sliding his eyelids closed. He then pulls out his phone and dials a number. "Justice will be done."

"Very well," says a British voice. "To what do I owe this call?"

"I eliminated one of them, sir."

"One?"

"I can't find the other two. I apologize."

"Do what must be done, then," the man says. "You've become one of my most trustworthy agents. My faith rests with you."

"Yes, sir. Justice will be done."

***

Elena and I drive across the Tuttle Causeway for two reasons. One, we want to get a lay of the land. Secondly, we're hungry, and Elena recommended a really good Cuban place on Miami Beach.

"What was that at the cemetery?" I say as we approach the causeway.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says, enamored with her hands in her lap again.

I look through the driver's side window, frustrated that I can't know more. I can feel Elena turn her attention away from her hands and place it on me.

"But it did feel good," she says.

At the Cuban place, we critique the preparation of Elena's favorite dish, arroz con pollo, judging it by its every detail, everything from the coloration of the chicken down to the seasonings used. Elena could really tell you a thing or two about Cuban food and its preparation. It's good that she's passionate about something aside from her work.

From there, we make our way to South Beach. It's not a sight for children's eyes. Not at night, anyway. All manner of things are on full display. People flaunt things that need not be flaunted. Even on a weeknight, you'll find some tatted-up douchebag with his hat on backwards, driving a fluorescent green Hummer down Ocean Avenue. He does this with his oversized gas-guzzler's windows down, moonroof open, and bass bumping. And I'd be remiss if I failed to mention the trio of twenty-somethings shaking what their mothers—and cosmetic surgeons—gave them as they stand up through the Hummer's moonroof.

Elena and I park and trudge down to the beach itself, taking in its cool breeze while awash in the serenity of the waves eating away at the shore. We mostly lay in the sand in silence, separate like we were that night in Repentigny.

"Calvin," she says at one point, "do you believe in destiny?"

"I did," I say. "Until I joined the A of I."

"Do you still believe what Richardson said? That we all choose the roles we play in life?"

"I suppose. What are you trying to get at?"

"Why are we the only ones doing this?"

I scratch my head and shrug. "I don't know."

"Like, maybe Valerie was supposed to infiltrate our branch. Maybe the three of us were all supposed to go our separates ways and go on our own journeys."

"I could see that."

I personally think it's a reach, but she might be on to something. A part of me still believes that everything happens for a reason. If I follow that logic, then I was destined to join the A of I, I was destined to lose Ronni, and I was destined to end up with a deformed face. I think the jury's still out on Nick, but I know that Elena and I have had our own life-altering journeys, both beginning when I was first hired. During the course of our journeys, I've learned about myself while Elena had to confront the constricting self she already knew. I think we both feel as though our journeys have come too late in life.

Returning to the rental car now, I notice a loud hubbub across the street. A small nightclub serenades those of us nearby with salsa music. Appropriately, the name of the establishment is Salsa. Inside, red, blue, and green strobe lights fill the club as silhouettes strut about the dance floor.

I look over at Elena, a smile on my face, just before opening her door.

"We can't," she says. "We should be getting back."

I look at the time on my cell phone: 9:12. "Oh, c'mon. Just for a few minutes."

"Calvin..."

"Elena..." I say, mocking her. "C'mon, you want to live life without a shield, right? Here's your chance."

She rolls her eyes before flashing a wide smile.

"Seriously, where in Philly can you get good salsa like this?" I say.

I take her hand and walk her across Ocean Avenue. Salsa has no bouncer at the front and charges no cover; one of the perks of coming to South Beach on a weeknight.

Inside, the zesty tunes being played by the salsa band take over. Neither Elena nor I can control our bodies as we involuntarily move to the rhythm of the music. The offerings of a piano, a few trumpets and trombones, congas, and a bass guitar force us onto the dance floor.

This may come as a surprise to you, but I can't dance. Maybe it doesn't surprise you. Be that as it may, I've never been shy about going on the dance floor. And in this instance, in the name of Elena Jimenez living it up a little, I'm certainly open to trying. Needless to say, Elena dances circles around me, shaking her hips and shoulders with fluidity. I dance like a gringo. It's all good; at least Elena's having fun.

Next, she takes my hands and starts salsaing with me, shaking her hips as she steps back and forth. I feel her body heat one moment and then a cool gush of air the next. Then, she holds me close to her, continuing to shake her hips. She puts one hand behind my head and the other on the small of my back. Not knowing what else to do, I follow suit. She then lifts her knee up to my waist and leans backward, her chest and neck begging for attention. Surprised, I almost let her go, but in one swift motion, I lift her back up, holding her body against mine.

As the music subsides, she slides her hair away from her face and shakes her head. She pulls away from me, wearing the widest smile I've ever seen on her face. "Damn you," she says, smacking me on the chest.

At that moment, we decide that it's finally about time we head back to the hotel. We get back in the car and drive back to Downtown Miami, mostly in silence. Shield or not, Elena is an introvert.

Back in the hotel, I walk Elena to her room, situated between Hamilton's and mine.

"Thank you, Calvin," she says, opening the door.

"Don't mention it."

She turns her back on her door, her hand holding on to the knob. "Goodnight." Elena looks so beautiful. Pushed against the door, her hair encircles her face even more than usual. I consider going in for a kiss but think better of it. Things cannot escalate.

"Goodnight," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait," she says as I begin to walk away. She takes the left side of my face in her hand and kisses my right cheek. Elena then steps into her room, maintaining eye contact until she lets the door close.

Perfect.
Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, I spring out of bed, shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. I choose comfort over style with a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned button-up shirt over an undershirt. While brushing my teeth, I study my malformed face in the mirror. Over a full year later, it still looks the same. My face can undergo no more healing. A voice in the back of my mind tells me that last night's escapade with Elena would not have happened if I didn't have the ability to hide my true appearance. Another voice in the back of my mind reminds me that everything happens for a reason. Either way, I'm probably far too dependent on the voices in my head. I should probably get that checked out.

After tying the laces on my Nikes, I hear a knock at my door. When I open the door, I smile when I see Elena. That smile quickly fades, however, when I see the look on her face.

"Have you heard from Nick?" she says, furrowing her brow and biting her lip.

"No. Why?"

"I've been knocking on his door all morning. He doesn't answer."

"Did you check downstairs? Maybe he's at the breakfast bar."

"Yeah, you're probably right," she says, looking over my shoulder. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Let me just grab my bag."

I turn off the TV, which had been tuned in to SportsCenter. It was the first time I had watched any TV since leaving Montreal and yet, there it was, a segment about the riot, including a discussion about the helicopter incident. You know you've done something astounding when you've made it on SportsCenter without actually dunking a basketball, scoring a touchdown, or hitting a homerun.

Elena meets me in the hallway, a small satchel in her hand. We hop on the elevator and wait as it drifts down to the first floor. Silence, once again. When the elevator opens, we look to the breakfast bar on our left. Hamilton sits at a table, sipping orange juice out of a plastic cup.

"There you are," Elena says.

"Morning," Hamilton says, raising his cup.

"How long have you been down here?" I say.

"Oh... I don't know... a while, I guess. Elena, I poured you some coffee." He points to a coffee cup sitting in front of him. "I didn't bother with you, Calvin. I know how much you hate coffee."

I nod.

"Thanks, Nick," Elena says, grabbing the cup.

I look at my phone: 7:40.

"Shall we?" I say.

Nick stands up. He and Elena follow me through the lobby.

"Nick," Elena says, "where's your bag? You know we're not coming back, right?"

"Oh, I already put it in the trunk."

Outside, it's another humid, mostly sunny South Florida morning. A steady breeze, however, suggests that one of the area's patented tropical thunderstorms is due to roll in. I use the car's remote to pop the trunk.

"I'll take those," Nick says, grabbing our bags.

"Wow," I say. "You're extra nice this morning."

He shrugs and flashes a smile before placing our bags in the trunk.

I climb into the driver's seat and turn the ignition. Hamilton sits next to me and Jimenez sits behind him. We have a brief, ten-minute drive ahead of us but it's always nice to get there ahead of schedule, especially during rush hour.

"So, where'd you guys go last night?" Nick says.

I look at Elena in the rearview mirror, deferring the question to her.

She purses her lips and shrugs. "We visited my parents' gravesite and grabbed a bite to eat."

"Nice. What time did you guys get back?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, holding Elena's gaze in the mirror. "Nine-ish?"

"Hmm. I must've been dead asleep."

"Probably," I say. "What'd you do last night?" Nick's asking too many questions. He must sense that something's up between Elena and I but I don't know how he'd take to us going out for a little fun on South Beach, given the task at hand.

"Oh, you know... went to the sub shop, showered, and hit the hay. Knocked right out."

With the Tuttle Causeway two exits away on the interstate, I turn on the radio for a traffic update.

Clear.

I look to the east and see Biscayne Bay situated to my right, tucked between high-rise condos and palm trees. It's a shame that Miami, at least in my eyes, has so many issues. It must be nice to wake up along the city's waterfront every morning.

"I have a question," Hamilton says as I turn onto the causeway. "What do we do if the A of J shows up?"

"What do you mean?" I say with a snicker. "Of course they're going show up."

"You never know. They could actually be on the plane," Elena tells me.

I shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Not really. Why do you ask, Nick?"

"They're already here," he says.

I look over at Nick and he looks at me. Suddenly, our SUV swerves out of control, first fishtailing to the left. I pull the steering wheel hard to the right, but the car doesn't respond. Instead, it skids against the grain, crossing the road's three eastbound lanes on its way toward the causeway's grassy median.

Elena chops Nick in the neck. As he recoils, the car suddenly responds to my steering and veers back across the three lanes and hits the guardrail at full speed. Our airbags deploy. The windshield shatters. The three of us let out a collective scream as the SUV flips over the guardrail, first with a dizzying quickness, and then in slow motion. Someone's using the equivalent of a telekinetic parachute.

In front of us lies a small sliver of land, just before the bay, just before the causeway's exposure. Nick elbows Elena in the face, knocking her back in her seat as the car comes to a safe landing. Elena, bloody nose and all, reaches around Nick's headrest and puts him in a headlock.

"What the hell are you guys doing?" I say.

Nick struggles for air, trying to pry Elena's arm away from his throat. "She's an A of J."

"He's the A of J," Elena says.

My eyes dart between the two of them before focusing on Elena. There's no way... there's no way that Ronni, Valerie, and Elena are all A of Js. I can't be that doomed. After last night, I feel like I know Elena better than I obviously ever knew Valerie... and, perhaps, even more than I knew Ronni.

"Calvin," Elena says with a soft tone. "Please. You know I'm not an A of J. Remember last night?"

Hamilton's eyes widen as he turns his head to look at me.

Elena sits with her cheek flush against the back of Nick's headrest, both of her arms firmly entrapping his neck as she looks into my eyes. "I... would never try to hurt you."

That was never an obstacle for certain people in the past. Still, I can't not trust Elena. We've come too far.

I hold her gaze for a few brief moments, mostly to observe her vulnerability before placing my gaze onto Nick. "Who are you?".

"Quick, the plane's coming," he manages to say.

"Shut up," I say, punching him in the face.

Swoosh!

Nick lowers his head. His unblemished complexion becomes darker, red. His body shrinks and his hair grows long and black.

I stop breathing for a moment, shocked by what I see before me. "Ronni? You're still alive?" I only recognize her because of her eyes. The wreck was far worse on her than it was on me.

"What have you done with Hamilton?" Elena says with her arm still around Ronni's neck.

She doesn't respond. She only looks past me, through my window.

"Calvin, look!" Elena says.

I can't take my eyes off of Ronni, though, even though I want to. A girl once beautiful has become monstrous, in more ways than one.

Elena nudges me with her elbow. Out of my trance, I turn around to look through my window. A Delta airliner descends toward the causeway, no less than two miles away. I can only imagine the terror running through the cockpit.

I can feel Ronni's eyes on me. "Can't look at me anymore, can you? Don't kid yourself. Deep down, you know you're just like me. A freak."

I force myself to look at her. "You've killed people."

"But you still love me. Don't you?"

Elena's eyes meet mine.

"You know she'll never love you," Ronni adds. "Not the way I did."

"Calvin..." Elena says nodding at the plane.

Is Ronni manipulating this plane? Doubtful. She could not have seen the plane for long enough to bring it this close to the causeway. There must be an A of J on the flight.

"I know what you're thinking," Ronni says in a low tone, still grasping at Elena's arm. "You couldn't do it on the train... and you can't do it now."

"Elena," I say, opening my door, "let her go."

"What?"

"Let her go."

"What are you doing?" my partner says, leaning back in her seat.

"I think we need to talk this out."

"What is there to talk about? She—"

"Get out the car. Please." I turn back to look Elena in the eye. She gives me a dumbfounded stare. I respond with a subtle wink.

As the plane bears down on the exposed slab of causeway in front of us, we file out of the SUV.

"Elena," I say, "you get the plane. I'll take care of Ronni."

My partner nods and raises her arms. Ronni looks at me, her eyes widening. I then raise my arm, steadying Ronni as I lift her over the car and toward the causeway.

"What are you doing?" she says.

"I'm giving you a choice," I say. "If that plane crashes, it's going to take you with it." I hold her no more than twenty feet over middle of the causeway as cars honk and swerve out of her path, undoubtedly startled by what they're seeing. I'm almost certain that there is an A of J on that plane. If it crashes, I won't be the person solely responsible for her death. In the off chance that she is controlling the plane, she has a chance to redeem herself.

"Calvin!" Ronni yells as she tries to wriggle free of my grip.

I turn away from her and look at Elena. "How's it coming?"

"It's heavy, but I got it," she says, coming around to the front of the car. The plane is now less than a mile away. With her arms fully extended, Elena lifts the plane higher in the air, one inch at a time. It looks like it may just miss us and land safely in the bay.

Suddenly, I hear a cracking noise behind me. A sizeable shard of the SUV's damaged bumper breaks away from the car and impales Elena in the abdomen, close to her left hip. I call out her name as she's thrown backward into the bay.

I turn my attention back to Ronni. She's on the grassy median, running away from the scene. I must've dropped her when I was distracted by Elena.

Cars honk and swerve as the drivers are no doubt startled by Ronni's grotesque features as she runs up the Causeway. Meanwhile, the plane resumes its precipitous drop.

"Ronni!" I yell, my heart racing.

I turn around, hoping to see Elena.

Nobody.

I then turn my attention back to the plane and attempt to give it one good push upward but it's too late. This plane will crash, into the causeway.

I turn around and look at the bay. I never learned how to swim but Elena's submerged in that bay. And regardless of what happened last night, she is a true friend. She didn't lie to me on daily basis, the way Ronni did as she lived a dark, secret life. Elena didn't accidentally kill someone only to compound that by purposefully killing countless others. No, Elena believed in me and trusted me to stand by her side during this campaign, however lofty it was. She's also made more than her share of personal sacrifices.

I can't swim but... screw it.

Sprinting towards the bay, I belly-flop into its brackish waters. The water surrounding the man-made peninsula is not particularly deep. Still, there's no sight of Elena anywhere. Not on the surface, anyway.

My feet on the causeway's concrete, I stand in the water and look to my left and right. "Elena!"

The scream of the plane's engine is deafening now, causing me to peek back at the causeway. The aircraft's nose is no further than 60 yards away. The A of J has slowed down the plane, hoping for a more accurate hit.

I turn my attention back to the water. Although this portion of the bay is only five feet deep, I try not to venture too far. Meanwhile, the city of Miami beckons a mile and a half in front of me. With no sign of Elena, I start swimming toward the Miami shore, being sure to stay close to the peninsula.

As my mind braces for the crash of the plane, and seemingly going nowhere, I start gasping for air, hyperventilating, even. Despite my unwieldy kicking, my heart rate is the only thing accelerating. This is one attack by the Agency of Justice I don't think I'll survive. The wreck's maelstrom of salt water, concrete, fuselage, and jet fuel is certain to overwhelm me.

Now a mere twenty feet from where I started, a blob of auburn-colored water contrasts sharply against the aquamarine hue of Biscayne Bay. I take a deep breath and let myself drop into the water. At the risk of burning my eyes, I take a peek downward. Elena Jimenez leans against the island's concrete wall, her eyes closed, blood seeping from her midsection.

I hurriedly thrust my legs backwards, pushing towards Elena's lifeless body. I wrap my arm around her back, peeling her away from the concrete. If I were a better swimmer, we might survive. Instead, we'll surely die together.

I nearly go deaf. Behind me, flames and a large plume of smoke and dust rise into the air as the plane plows through the causeway. I hold Elena tightly along my right side and kick my legs as fast as I can, moving only a few, short inches away from the concrete wall.

I look over to Elena's emotionless face, her head lying on my shoulder. This is reminiscent of my very first impression of her. The fact that her face was emotionless in the past is irrelevant, though. She has been clandestinely sensitive throughout. If only I could speak with her one more time.

The concrete of the causeway and peninsula crumbles. Various vehicles drop into the bay like Micro Machines into a kiddie pool.

Out of options, I concentrate on the water, hoping for one more stroke of luck. Remembering my encounter with Valerie in Clearwater, I wave my left arm toward me, as though beckoning the bay's living organisms to follow me. The water swells away from the meager remnants of the plane and lifts Elena and me to its surface.

Our heads above water, the chaos of the scene back on the causeway fills my ears. People scream, sirens wail, debris falls on top of debris.

When I wave my arm a second time, the water swells again. This time, it rises higher than the causeway itself. A virtual tidal wave stands over Elena and me like one of Miami's waterfront high-rises. With the water edging closer, I fully embrace Elena, holding her head close to mine.

I close my eyes, concentrating on the water. The wave washes over us, silencing the chaos. Unsure of where we'll land, we're thrust forward toward Miami proper. I maintain my airtight grip on Elena.

In a brief instant, the water opens up just enough for me to get a clear view of the land ahead. I see a dock, upon which Elena and I are rapidly closing in. I close my eyes again as the water envelops us and I brace for our landing, lessening my concentration on the water and aiming for the dock.

The wave subsides but we've missed the dock. Overshot it, in fact. Instead, we hurtle toward a pool behind one of those aforementioned condo high-rises.

No longer engulfed by the wave, Elena and I fall into the pool in a collective heap. This pool is not deep, thankfully. I bring us back to the surface, allowing the fresh water to roll away from my face. I gasp loudly as I inhale a large amount of air.

With the causeway chaos behind us, we're met with several pairs of eyes. They don't know on which spectacle their attention should be focused. These scantily clad men and women stand poolside with their jaws nearly falling to the pool's concrete deck.

I paddle to the pool's steps and carry Elena onto the deck before letting her down easy. I take an inventory of her vital signs. Her face has turned a bluish tint but her heart is still beating, slowly. Blood continues to leak out of the left side of her abdomen.

One of the onlookers, a Latin man, walks over to us. "Are you okay?"

"She's hurt," I say. "Call 911. Please."

The man nods his head and runs back inside the building.

Meanwhile I take off my button-down and twist it before wrapping it firmly around Elena's waist. I start pushing on her chest before holding her nose and bringing my mouth to hers, hoping to fill her lungs with air.

I pull away.

Nothing.

"Please, Elena," I whisper. "Please."

With another lump forming in my throat, I push on her chest three more times before conducting mouth-to-mouth again. With tears now forming in my eyes, I push down on her chest twice more before water starts jumping out of her mouth.

Coughing, Elena suddenly opens her eyes. She winces and clutches at her tourniquet.

"You're going to be okay," I say.

Almost whimpering, she starts shaking her head.

I hold her face in my hand. "Shh, shh, shh. Relax, you're going to be okay."

"I called 911," the man says, returning from the building. "What happened?"

I turn and look up at him. "We got in an accident, right before the plane crash." I return my gaze to the scene of the crash. All manner of emergency vehicles—including a helicopter—have descended upon the scene. What's the likelihood that any of them will make a stop at a nondescript, condominium that's presumably safe from the carnage?

"Do you have a car?" I say.

"I do."

"You mind driving us to the hospital?"

"Not at all, man. There's one right down the street."

The man runs to his lounge chair and grabs his towel and keys. I put my arms underneath Elena and lift her up, looking into her eyes before taking a peek at the deck. A large blot of bloody water, no smaller than a manhole cover, glistens on its concrete. With the blood she's already lost, Elena's chances of survival slip away with each subsequent drop of blood.

***

We arrive at the emergency room before any of the crash's victims do and Elena is admitted immediately. The doctors tell me that she's suffered significant blood loss, not a big shock. The bombshell, however, is the need for an emergency nephrectomy; her kidney has to be removed. Of course, Elena can live without a kidney. The danger, however, lies within her chances of surviving the procedure, given the amount of blood she's already lost.

While nervously waiting out her operation, I bid adieu to the Latin man who had his otherwise relaxing morning ruined. Before he leaves, we watch as victim upon victim is ushered into the ER. There are broken or severed limbs for some, disfigurations for others. The man—his name was Rolando—then recalls all the violent incidents of the past year—Milan, Philly, Chicago, and Montreal. He ponders out loud whether there is a terrorist organization out to destroy the world one city at a time or if these are honest accidents that perhaps signal that the world as we know it is coming to a violent end. Little does he know that it's a combination of the two explanations.

While I wait amid the ensuing chaos of the ER's waiting room, the television is tuned in to coverage of the crash. The news crew on the scene captured many harrowing sound bites.

"I looked up and saw the plane's nose, just before it hit the bridge," a woman says, out of breath. "There was just so much dust and smoke... Oh my God." She places her hand over her mouth as her eyes well up.

Just when I can no longer observe the devastation, I'm drawn back to the television. The news anchors introduce an apocalyptic expert and, together, discuss numerous accounts of a large tidal wave originating from the site of the crash. The newscast cuts to an amateur video of the wave. The expert then hypothesizes that a wave of that size could not have been caused by the plane crash and begins to speculate about the meaning of the worldwide phenomena.

The pundit recalls the helicopter incident in Montreal and professes his belief that our planet is at war with itself. He believes that Earth's highest deity, which was victorious in Montreal, is currently losing its battle against evil. I'm sure many—but not all—viewers probably think the guy is off his rocker. Still, if you give any credence to the way the Agencies of Justice and Influence view themselves, the anchor was not far off.

My thoughts then turn to Ronni. The A of J knew we were on to them and called on her to at least eliminate us, if not to carry out the disaster. It's clear: despite being given an opportunity to redeem herself after the train wreck, Ronni's reached a point from which she cannot return. Once the A of J perfected the Change Machine, I'm sure it didn't take much for them to coax her back into action. I can only assume that she either has made a home for herself in South Florida or, more likely, she has become one of the A of J's most accomplished agents. There's no other explanation for her being the one sent to rid the agency of our triumvirate. But Ronni couldn't bring herself to bump me off. In that regard, we are very much alike. I'm thankful for that. Presumably, Hamilton wasn't so lucky.

After spending seven long hours in the waiting room, the doctors finally tell me that Elena successfully made it through her operation, though her life still hangs in the balance due to the loss of blood. My stomach had been in knots as the doctor approached me. But after receiving the news, I exhale a deep breath of relief, however temporary.

In her room now, I stand at Elena's bedside for a good fifteen minutes, observing her beautiful features. I think about our kiss back at the cemetery and how it could possibly be our last. I then think about how empty I felt after losing Ronni. In truth, I'm only thinking about it in the sense that it is not an emptiness I care to feel again. With the sun gone and the room dimly lit, I kiss Elena's forehead and caress her face, hoping that she might awaken from her slumber.

Nothing.

Suddenly, I go numb and sit down, unaware of my place in the room.

Images of the past year flash before me. Josh Jenner pinned against the EL pole. My hand intertwined with Ronni's just before the train wreck. The look on Valerie's face when I discovered her secret in Clearwater. My long embrace with Elena at the cemetery. And her submerged, lifeless body leaning against the causeway's wall.

I've seen and felt many things these past thirteen months. I would not have experienced any of these things had it not been for the Agencies of Influence and Justice. I've come to resent the both of them for that. Why couldn't they leave me alone? Why couldn't the A of I leave me to be a fledgling matchmaker, to eventually find my calling? Why couldn't the A of J leave Ronni to wallow in her own guilt, to eventually turn herself in? Neither agency has any business doing the things that they do, however noble they think their causes are.

I believe in fate, in things happening for a reason. I also believe people should be allowed to have a hand in choosing their destiny. Mark was an example of how the system should work. He was given an alternative but it was ultimately up to him to do the right thing.

Unfortunately, both agencies—especially the A of J—take it too far. Who is the Agency of Influence to decide who's worthy of goodwill? As Josh Jenner illustrated, they don't always get it right. And who is the Agency of Justice to decide that all of this carnage is the way to go about cleansing our world? Who's to say it even needs cleansing? Who's to say it will ever be fully cleansed?

Both agencies were created for the betterment of society. Unfortunately, the work of one agency does not compensate for the work being done by the other, especially when the first agency's work can ostensibly be done without its power.

No, both agencies have powers that neither needs nor deserves. Nick, Elena, and I have been going about this all wrong. Ours was a noble undertaking but we've bitten off more than we can chew, even as people with our power.

Instead of defending every attack, we need to attack the Agency of Justice at its heart, the Agency of Influence and my personal safety be damned.
Chapter Nineteen

The next morning, I awaken to the sound of a television. Elena's awake, too.

"Hi," she says a weary smile on her face as she looks in my direction.

No longer numb from the night before, I just now realize that I sat in a chair in the corner of the room all night. I wipe the sleep from my eyes before approaching her bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore."

I look up at the television. She's watching a game show. "We didn't stop the plane."

"I know."

"And she's still alive," I say.

Elena looks into my eyes a moment before turning off the TV with a remote. "I'm sorry." Her voice is so pained, I can't tell what hurts her more, her abdomen or our failure.

"What are you sorry for?"

"Everything," she says, looking over to her window. "Nick..."

"It's not your fault."

She shakes her head before looking down at her hands again.

I take a deep breath. "This is exactly why—I hope you won't fight me on my next move."

"What move?"

"There's something I have to do. Alone."

She gives me a confused look. "What do you have to do?"

A nurse comes into the room, pushing a cart toward Elena's bed. "Good morning," she says to the both of us. "Time for breakfast."

"Thank you," Elena says.

The nurse pulls the bed's table over Elena's lap and places the plate on top of it. She then bows her head, smiles, and exits the room.

Elena attempts to sit up before wincing in pain. "Calvin..."

"I don't think I can tell you."

"You're going to try to find Ronni, aren't you?"

"No."

"Then, tell me. Whatever it is, I'll support you."

I take a deep breath and walk over to the window, turning my back to Elena. "Remember when Richardson said that breaking the Arrowhead would be catastrophic?"

She exhales loudly. "Calvin..."

"What did he mean?"

"I... I don't know."

I turn to face her. "Elena, don't bullshit me. Please, I need to know."

"Taking the Arrowhead won't solve anything."

"I want to do more than just take it."

Elena furrows her brow, scared and even more confused.

I lunge toward her bed and look her in the eye. "Tell me what happens. Or you're just as careless as they are."

She closes her eyes and swallows hard. "If you destroy the Arrowhead, all of the replicas lose their power, all Change Machines lose their power. And... all agents will lose their power."

I back away from Elena, maintaining a blank stare.

"But, Calvin, what about our powers?"

"Don't want them anymore."

"And your face," she says with a whisper. "You do realize—"

"Don't you think I'm aware of that?"

Elena's eyes remain fixed on me.

I turn and face the window again. "Elena, be honest with me. If I wasn't Kevin, if I had had Calvin's face, would you have still kissed me?" I turn around to look at her.

She averts her gaze, staring at the breakfast on her lap.

"That's what I thought," I say. To be sure, it was an unfair question. I would have called her bluff if she had said yes. I wouldn't have expected anyone to kiss me with Calvin Newsome's face. Still, I needed to give Elena an illustration of the kind of falsehoods that are created by the Arrowhead. "Where can I find it?"

"I don't know."

"Would Richardson know?"

"Maybe. But even if he did, he wouldn't tell you."

"I'll take my chances," I say, walking past Elena's bed on my way out of the room.

"You don't know what you're up against."

"That was never a problem when you asked me to join your team."

"Calvin, wait."

I stop just short of the door and turn to look at her.

She has an emotionally pained look on her face. "Is it true what Ronni said? Do you still love her?"

I shrug. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," she says, holding my gaze for emphasis.

I look away so as to avoid her beauty before looking at her one last time. "Then I hope you'll understand what I have to do."

I notice Elena's breakfast in front of her.

Untouched.

When I look back up at her face, tears form in her eyes. Before I change my mind, I leave Elena's room. It may be the last time I see her.

I'll leave it up to fate.

***

I spend the entire two-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami to Philly thinking about what I am going to say to Donald Richardson. Elena's right. Richardson's unlikely to spill his guts about the Arrowhead's location. Even after a forced retirement, I'm sure his loyalty staunchly remains with the Agency of Influence. Cutting the guy a steady pension can't hurt, either. I ultimately decided that I should just be straightforward with Richardson. The man should be rational enough to see the inherent danger that exists as long as the Arrowhead is intact.

I pick up a new rental sedan upon arriving in Philadelphia. When I left South Florida, I was able to explain the wrecked SUV as a casualty of the causeway incident.

Traveling is a breeze, too. Thanks to the Agency of Justice's mastery of the Change Machine, I no longer have to worry about being exposed as Philly's persona non grata. Too bad that's a luxury I won't enjoy for long. I intend to destroy the Arrowhead or die trying.

With my flight landing in the early evening, I immediately drive to East Falls. Richardson's house is where it all started fourteen months ago. When I pull up to it, I think of Elena. We both have changed so much since our first encounter.

I get out of the car and approach the house without hesitation.

Déjà vu.

I traipse up the colonial's three small steps, leading to the long path through the home's sizeable front yard. The home's two large trees remain, standing tall on either side of the building. And, once again, I hear the kazoo-like call of a bird. It sounds like the same bird that squawked and warned me of my impending poisoning last year.

When I ring the doorbell, I take a deep breath. I feel like a Jehovah's Witness, unannounced, uninvited, seeking an awkward conversation with the home's residents.

The door swings open. An older woman stands in the doorway.

"Hi," she says.

"Uh, hi. I'm here to speak with Donald Richardson. Does he still live here?"

"Yes, of course." Her Southern drawl might be thicker than the old man's. "Whom shall I say is here?"

"Kevin Stewart. I'm an old associate of his."

"Who's at the door?" I hear Richardson ask in the distance.

When she tells him who I am, Richardson appears from around the corner, emerging from the kitchen in which Elena poured my poisoned glass of water. It's odd not to see the man in a suit and tie. Instead, he wears a Hawaiian button-up shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. He also walks with a cane now.

"Kevin," he says, approaching the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you busy? Can we talk?"

"Sure," he says, waving me in.

The woman widens the door for me to enter.

"Charlotte," Richardson says to the woman, "this is Kevin. He used to be one of my agents. Kevin, this is Charlotte, my wife."

"Nice to meet you, Kevin," she says, shaking my hand.

"Step into my office," he says, limping away from the door.

I'm surprised that Richardson is so candid with his wife about what he does, although he never specified what kind of agent I was. Still, when you're the director of an agency's branch, it would be difficult to hide it, especially when you make as much as he does.

"Would you like some water or coffee?" Mrs. Richardson says. The last time I was offered a drink in this house...

"Do you happen to have any tea?"

"Yes, of course." Charlotte breaks away from Donald and me.

The two of us slip into an office immediately off the home's entrance. Richardson's is an old man's office. Cherry wood floors, a cherry wood desk and a large leather chair. Even the window frame is cherry wood. The office also features two large bookshelves stocked with a variety of books. Classics, contemporary fiction, and movie adaptations can all be checked out of the Richardson Library. I'd spend months in here if I had this office.

"What happened to your leg?" I say.

"Oh," he says waving it off, "had knee replacement surgery a couple months ago."

"Damn."

"It's nothing big. That's what happens when you get old," he says. With a mighty grunt, he sits down in his chair behind the desk. "But you didn't just come to ask about my knee now, did you?"

"No," I say, looking at one of the chairs in front of the desk. "May I?"

"Oh, yes. Be my guest."

I tell him everything starting with Elena's phone call while I was in Montreal. I tell him about the riot, the Agent of Justice sent to my apartment, Valerie Darling, and the Change Machine. The only thing I don't tell him is of the fate that befell his protégé.

"I knew about the Change Machine," Richardson says. "That they had perfected it, I mean. It sent shock waves through the A of I." He goes on to tell me that despite his forced retirement, he maintains steady contact with those still within the Agency of Influence. That could prove bad.

"Can I ask you a question?" I say.

"Fire away," he says with a smile on his face.

I take a deep breath. "Well... I, uh, was wondering if you could tell me the location of the Arrowhead."

"What?" he says, his smile quickly turning sour.

"The Arrowhead of the Seminole," I say, feigning a sudden sense of confidence. "Where can I find it?"

"You've got some balls," he says. He looks me in the eye before turning his attention out to the front yard. "I can't tell you that, Cal."

"Why?"

"I just can't," he says, lowering his head. "There's just too much at stake."

I snicker and shake my head. "You're damn right there's a lot at stake. What's the problem? Afraid you might lose your pension?"

"Hey," he says, pointing a finger, "I've been saving money since before you were conceived. I don't need their money."

"But they do."

"It ain't all about money, Cal. I know what you plan to do with the Arrowhead. It's not worth it."

"Not worth it? For who? The agencies?"

Richardson shakes his head. "No. For the person who destroys the Arrowhead. Look, it's a great idea and I'd admire your gumption, but you have no idea what kind of shitstorm you'd be bringing on yourself."

"That's nothing new for me."

Richardson's face is reddening. "This is different."

"How so?"

"Think, Calvin. All the money and power these guys have, if you destroy that Arrowhead—"

"I've had people pissed at me before."

He slams a fist down on the desk. "Dammit, Calvin, listen to me." The old man stares me in the eye. "There's something you need to know."

I nod my head, urging him to continue.

"I shouldn't even be telling you this but..."

"What? What is it?" I say, sitting up in my seat.

"Remember what I told you about the Arrowhead?"

"That it'd be catastrophic if it broke? Yeah, I know. Jimenez explained it to me."

"Well, no. You asked me if anyone broke it. I said no."

I can't suppress a grin. "Son of a bitch." He lied to me.

"Daphne Tierney did it in 1887."

"Was she an A of I?"

"A of J, actually. Mean little spitfire, too. Cussed and chewed tobacco."

"Why'd she do it?"

"She was already disenchanted with the agency; she didn't like eliminating outlaws. In fact, she saw herself as an outlaw. But the last straw was when they eliminated her father."

"Let me guess, an outlaw?"

"Yup. She stole the Arrowhead, broke it, and ran and hid. Took the agencies four years to find her. She came up with lots of detailed disguises and stunts to get away whenever the agencies were close. They called her Disappearing Daphne."

"Clever."

"They chased her clear across America, even obtained the help of local sheriffs and bounty hunters to track her down. When they finally got her, they tortured that girl until the cows came home."

"Why?"

"As the relic's last carrier, she was the only one that could build them a new, functioning Arrowhead. But she wouldn't. She spent eight months in captivity—no food, barely any water—until she finally gave in."

"She held out for a while."

"Yeah, she had a little fight in her. Guess you could say it was in her genes. Got it from her daddy."

"Really? Is he well-known?"

"She never met him until right before he died. Daphne Tierney was her adopted name. Her birth name was Daphne Holliday."

"Holliday... as in Doc?"

"Yup. She was a love child. She was seventeen when he died. He was thirty-six."

"Wow, the A of J started them young back then," I say. "After she made the Arrowhead, did they let her go?"

"No," the old man says quietly. "They took a shotgun to her head. Point blank. That's what's in store for you, Calvin. They'll stop at nothing to get what they want and they'll punish you after they get it."

I swallow hard. "I still need to know where it is."

He chuckles. "Cal, I'm not going to tell you. For your own good."

"You're just as guilty as they are, then."

"Don't guilt trip me," he says. He tries to stand but his knee buckles. "I'm doing you a favor."

"It's not about me."

"It will be if you destroy the Arrowhead. Look what happened to Disappearing Daphne. What do you think the agencies did all that time without their powers? Their focus will be on you."

I exhale loudly and look at the bookcase behind Richardson. On the top row sits a blue binder labeled DIRECTOR'S MANUAL. Before drawing too much attention to my gaze, I look back down at Richardson and decide to give it one last shot. "Donald, I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you this, but they killed Nick in Miami."

The old man's eyes fill with sadness, his face locks into a state of shock.

"And there'll be countless others unless you tell me where the Arrowhead is." I look Richardson in his moistening eyes and wait what feels like an eternity.

"Leave. Now."

I stand up and walk out of the office before passing Mrs. Richardson in the hallway. She carries a cup of tea.

"I'll have to take a rain check on that tea," I tell her. I open the front door and slam it behind me as I step back out into the warm Philadelphia evening.

Damn you, Richardson.

Being singled out is nothing new for me. That's been the story of my life since I was in sixth grade. If what Richardson says is true, I'm going to be on the run regardless. And wouldn't it make more sense to be on the run after ensuring the long-term security of our society?

I climb into my rental and slam its door shut. There must be a way to get the information I need. Richardson clearly knows where the Arrowhead is; he hasn't denied it. Perhaps an associate or a fellow director knows. Or maybe it's in his director's manual. At the very least, it might lead me in the right direction. Despite what the old man might say, it's worth finding out.

I look back at the colonial. Richardson's mug stares out at me through his office window. I turn the ignition and pull out into the street.

I have to get that manual, but how? I could knock on his door and pretend to be a repairman. No, Richardson's not senile enough to fall for that. If I'm going to get my hands on the manual, I'll have to do it without him seeing me.

After driving down a block, well out of Richardson's view, I park the car.

Swoosh!

I change into the ten-year old version of myself, glasses, Star Wars t-shirt, and all. I wasn't a very strong kid, but that's okay. In this instance, it's more important to be quick and small. I'll need to squeeze in and out of the old man's window. My size, or lack thereof, will make it easier to hide, if necessary.

I make sure the coast is clear before leaving the car—no need to draw attention to the little kid hopping out of the driver's seat. I close the door behind me and start the short walk to the Richardson house. When I come to the property line, I plod up the inclined front lawn, making sure to stay low. The light in the office has been turned off. I assume the old man has returned to his normal activities.

Once again, I make sure no one's watching before leaning on the brick wall next to the window. With the front of the house exposed to the street, I peek around the window frame to get a good look into the office. No lights, no Richardson.

My legs suddenly turn to Jell-O. I sit down in the mulch surrounding the house when I hear a police siren from around the corner. The cruiser—with its red, white, and blue lights flashing above it—flies down the street, passing the Richardson house.

Thank God.

When my heartbeat finally subsides, I take one more peek into the office.

Nothing.

With a couple waves of my hand, I disengage the two locks on the old, drafty window. Next, I open it with a subtle raise of my arm. I then settle onto the balls of my feet as I prepare to jump through the opening. But when the light comes on in the office, I abort my jump, letting myself fall back down into the mulch.

"What the?" I hear the old man say. He shimmies the window shut and locks it.

I watch another car pass the house before peeking into the office again. His back to the window, Richardson pulls a book off of one of his shelves, takes it to the other end of the room and plops down on a couch.

Damn it.

Pondering my next move, I sit in the mulch and look over at the front entry, its door set about five feet back from the rest of the home's façade. I take a deep breath and, with a point of my finger, ring the doorbell.

"Lottie," I hear the old man yell. "Can you get that?"

I ring the bell once more before I see a glimmer of light spawn in the entry.

"There's no one here," I hear Charlotte say.

I ring the bell three more times.

"Donald, I think there's something wrong with the doorbell."

I hear the old man grunt and I peer into the office. He's off the couch and limping out of the office. I ring the bell once more before unlocking the window again and sliding it up the frame.

"I think we need to call the repairman," I hear Mrs. Richardson say. The old man grunts again.

I slowly stand up and focus on the bookshelf behind the old man's desk.

"No need to do that," the old man says. "I can fix it."

"You?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I fix it?"

"Remember what happened when you tried replacing the garbage disposal?"

I lean into the window, reaching for the manual with my right hand.

"See, now it's stopped," Charlotte says.

The old man grunts again, swearing this time.

With a flex of my outstretched forearm, the manual slides out of the bookshelf and floats across the room and into my hand. I pull myself out of the window and put the binder under my shirt before jumping at the sound of Richardson's voice behind me.

"What are you doing on my lawn?" I hear him say. He's still near the front door, a good fifteen yards behind me.

I make a run for it, through the yard toward the sidewalk, convinced that the old man and his balky knee won't catch me.

"Come back here," the old man says. "Come back here, you little—"

When I reach the sidewalk, I feel myself fall forward. I land on the concrete but the binder breaks my fall. I roll onto my side and see the old man limping down his yard.

"Come here, you little bastard."

With a subtle wave of my hand, I knock Richardson's cane out of his hand, forcing him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. When I stand up and look back once more, the old man is on his back, grabbing at his knee, writhing, and groaning in pain.

Shit. I injured the old codger.

Mrs. Richardson comes to her husband's aid as I turn my back to them and start running for it again. My cruel maneuver probably cost me any cover I had. When he sees that his window's been opened and his manual's been pulled off the shelf, he'll put two and two together and realize that it was me. That's fine, though. Provided the manual contains any helpful information, I'll be well on my way to finding the Arrowhead.

***

I check into a hotel in East Falls. As soon as I enter my room, I waste no time throwing the binder open on my bed. Initially, the manual reads like a directory. It lists the location and contact information of every A of I branch director in North America. Next, a table of contents lists the Arrowhead of the Seminole as being on page eleven. Never minding the threat of a paper cut, I flip through several pages, overshooting the eleventh before finally flipping back.

The section begins by explaining the Arrowhead's origins in greater detail. While engaged in friendly conversation with the Seminole tribe and its shaman, Ponce de Leon caught a glimpse of the relic and instantly became enamored with it even though he didn't know of its power. He tried very hard to barter with the shaman for the Arrowhead but the shaman would not give it up.

One day, de Leon snuck into the shaman's personal effects and stole the Arrowhead. The shaman caught him and put up a fight but de Leon stabbed him, killing him instantly.

When de Leon returned to Spain, he then realized the power that the Arrowhead contained. Instead of keeping this power for himself, however, he tried to use it for financial gain. He had some of Spain's finest handcrafters replicate the Arrowhead only to find that the replicas never worked. De Leon was ready to give up on his scheme until he one day decided to carve a replica Arrowhead himself.

It worked.

The manual explains that, as the original Arrowhead's then-current possessor, de Leon organically held its power, allowing him to successfully make more Arrowheads. He made a handsome profit by selling the replicas, but only to people he knew to be good citizens.

On his last voyage to Florida, however, de Leon was killed in an ambush by native warriors. His second mate, who knew of the Arrowhead's power, took it and never returned to Spain.

The manual then reads: Today, the branches of both agencies each have one replica Arrowhead and harness the original's power into their Change Machine, which embeds the power into the cells of any human being.

Yada-yada-yada. I already know that.

At the bottom of the page, the manual states that, to guard against tampering, the location of the Arrowhead alternates every five years between the two agency's international headquarters.

Interesting.

As the manual starts to provide information regarding the Arrowhead's history, I continue reading until the next page, located on the right side of the binder, randomly jumps to a section about the rules governing the use of power. I look at the page number at the bottom. Fourteen. Pages twelve and thirteen are missing.

I do a double take. "Huh?"

I flip back to the table of contents and into the directory, which lists the location of each branch of the Agency of Influence, including its international headquarters.

"Of course." New York City. Central Park. The Jackie Onassis Reservoir.

I pull out my phone and dial Elena as it occurs to me: the Agency of Influence has the Arrowhead of the Seminole and know about the A of J's treachery but have done nothing about it. They're just as irresponsible.

"Calvin," Elena says. "How are you?"

I can barely contain myself, "I think I know where the Arrowhead is."

"Richardson told you?"

"Sort of," I say. "I have a question first."

"Sure."

"The Arrowhead is currently in the A of I's possession, yes?"

"It changes hands every five years but, yes, the A of I has it."

"Then I know where it is."

"Miami?"

"No. A of I Headquarters in New York." Silence on the other end. I close the binder backwards, its front cover lying flush against my bed.

"Of course," she says. "Makes the most sense."

"You guys made it sound like it was in Siberia. You know, that location's in Central Park, not nearly as obscure as FDR Park. How do they stay hidden?"

"No clue. I've never been."

"I guess I'll find out tomorrow."

"How will you get in?"

I shrug. "I'll charm my way in."

"Be careful, Calvin."

"I will."

"Goodnight."

I hang up the phone and place it on the nightstand as I start to think of the persona I'll assume tomorrow. In the eyes of the A of I, Richardson's retired, not fired. But who's to say they would let him in? At worst, they'd turn me around and I'd have to figure out another way to get inside.

I've never been much of a fan of New York City. It's loud, it's crowded, and its citizens have a proclivity for rudeness. Be that as it may, I've never been so anxious, so restless to visit the City That Never Sleeps.
Chapter Twenty

Riddled with anxiety, I don't get much sleep. I leave the Hampton Inn at the first hint of the rising sun. Due to the ongoing reconstruction of Philadelphia's rail system, one can no longer take the ninety-minute train ride from Philly to New York. I ditch the rental car and take Greyhound up to the Big Apple. After arriving in New York just before noon, I check in early at a hotel on the Upper West Side, close the blinds, and finally fall asleep.

Although my plan was to search for the A of I's headquarters as soon as I arrived, stopping for a nap works out for the best. Since I'd no longer be a shape shifter upon destroying the Arrowhead, it might be nice to escape into the chaos that is rush hour. That is, of course, assuming I get into the facility, find the relic and get out.

I stop to eat at an outdoor café and enjoy a salad and a turkey sandwich. I so badly want one of New York's renowned slices of pizza but I didn't want all of that fatty goodness slowing me down. I'll need to be light on my feet.

Upon arriving at the park's western boundary, West Drive, I thank my lucky stars that the old man's manual was as specific as it was about the facility's location. Central Park stretches two and a half miles long and a half a mile wide.

I take note of the time. It's nearly four o'clock. With the summer solstice quickly approaching, the sun won't vanish for another four hours.

After crossing West Drive, I enter a walking trail that runs along the circumference of the reservoir and head south as I look for a possible entry point. There are a couple of stone structures overlooking the south end of the reservoir. Beyond the structures is also a narrow bridge—presumably for walking—that runs over another walking trail.

You can find diversity at almost every corner of the United States, but even Miami doesn't have anything on New York in that regard. And it's more than just race, too. I've passed hipsters with flannel shirts, punks with red hair, and Asian people covered with tattoos.

Before walking much further, I decide that now is a good time to change into Richardson. When the foot traffic along the trail dissipates, I walk off of the path and find a grouping of trees behind which to hide.

Swoosh!

My last two transformations have been the most extreme I've undertaken. Last night, I was the youngest person I've ever changed into. Today, having changed into Richardson just once before, this is the oldest form I've taken and I feel every bit of sixty-something. And although I've been spared the hindrance of the old man's balky knee, all of my joints do feel sore. This disguise will prove impractical once I have the Arrowhead.

I get back on the trail and stop dead in my tracks when I hear a voice behind me.

"Donald!" a man says. "Donald Richardson!"

I turn around and see a younger man, perhaps in his early forties, wearing a suit and tie and a big smile on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he says, now just steps from me.

"Oh, you know," I say with a shrug, trying my best Southern accent, "just couldn't stay away."

"Ah, you must be here for the meeting."

"That's right, I am here for the ... the..." I try my best to look senile.

"NA quarterly budget meeting."

"That's it. Yeah. Wait, what's NA?"

The man laughs. "You going senile on us?"

"I must be. Haven't been the same since I retired. Hey, you think you could get me into the meeting?"

"Oh, of course," the man says with a snicker. "You're Donald Richardson."

I nod and smile.

"It's good to see you, old friend," he says with a firm handshake.

My hand feels like leather in his. "Same here. Always good to see a familiar face."

As we walk further south down the trail, I glance at the man, hoping to catch any glimpse of identification. As brilliant as this is, it feels too easy. Richardson could have called the A of I to warn them that I was coming. Still, the primary goal right now is to get into that building by any means necessary.

The man's cell phone rings. "This is Mayne... Uh-huh... Do what you need to do, just make it happen... Bye."

I breathe a sigh of relief. That call didn't sound like it had anything to do with me.

We merge onto another walking path, passing the stone structures.

"How long did it take you to get here?" I say.

"Not long. I flew. The hardest part was getting through the airport. Pittsburgh's is the worst."

"Isn't it?"

We approach the bridge and Mayne pulls a key out of his pocket. "Hey, whatever happened to that one girl you hired?"

"Valerie?"

"No, the military girl. Eva? Ella?"

"Elena."

"Yes," he says. "That one. Elena Jimenez. Did you ever pursue that?"

"Yeah, I hired her."

"No," he says with a laugh, "I mean, did you ever, you know, pursue that?"

I look at him with a blank gaze. I'm not sure what to say. I can't imagine the real Richardson having this conversation. "Uh, no," I say with a nervous smile. "I can't say I did."

"Dammit, man. What a waste. I thought the Philly girls weren't cutting it for you."

My smile quickly fades.

"Remember how you fought me over her?" he says.

I respond with a shrug. "I guess I changed my mind."

"I wonder if she still remembers me. Hey, do you think you can you get me her number?"

"I'll work on it." I turn away for a moment and roll my eyes. I really hope Richardson didn't hire Elena for her looks. I'm having difficulty believing that the old man would be that type of guy.

We stop under the narrow walking bridge with Mayne moving over to the right side of the enclosure. He looks both ways before kneeling down to the small space where the underside of the bridge meets our walking path. He brushes some grass aside, uncovering a keyhole in the ground, puts his key in the hole and turns it. Mayne then stands and steps back as a hydraulic system raises the patch of grass slowly like a gull wing door.

"What happens if there are civilians under this bridge?" I say.

"Haven't you been here before?"

"Long time ago," I say with a smile. "Before your time."

He nods, accepting my explanation. "If there ever are civilians around, we just wait them out. No one goes in or out."

"That's simple."

"Yeah, well, they don't get many visitors here."

I look into the opening under the bridge. A wide staircase leads down into an open lobby.

The door closes behind us as we start walking down the stairs. Agency of Influence Headquarters is like a warehouse. The gray masonry walls are barebones and the lighting is simple. The lobby is equipped with a stage and chairs, presumably for large gatherings while a long, rectangular wooden box is affixed to the wall at the far side of the lobby. The facility's lone visible hallway is situated to our right. Several men in suits and ties walk in that direction.

Mayne puts a little more pep in his step. "I think they're starting."

When we reach the bottom of the staircase, I turn around and notice a video monitor on the wall to the left of the stairs. The monitor shows the area right outside the entrance, under the bridge. Below the monitor is a silver button. On the other side of the staircase is a plastic case stuffed with leaflets. I grab one and look at the cover. It's a map of the entire facility.

"C'mon," Mayne says. "We're going to be late."

When I start to follow him, I feel a rumble under my feet. "Is that an earthquake?"

Mayne shakes his head and I think I see him roll his eyes, too. "That's the subway underneath us."

I continue to follow him into the hallway. We pass a couple of small offices before entering a conference room. In the middle of the room lies a large conference table, one with the capacity to accommodate close to twenty people. A teleconferencing device sits in the middle of the table and all of the chairs at the table are full. It looks like Mayne and I will be standing through this meeting.

Also, forget what I said about diversity in New York, it doesn't apply here. Presuming the other men in this room are all branch directors, I wouldn't exactly call the Agency of Influence an equal opportunity employer. I've never seen so many older white men in one room.

As we enter the room, all eyes turn to me, including those of the man standing at the front of the room.

"I see we have a special guest," the man says with a German accent.

"I found the poor schlub sleeping in a cardboard box on Fifth Avenue," Mayne says.

The entire room bursts into laughter and then applause.

"Well, welcome, Mr. Richardson," the German says.

A man seated in front of us stands up and motions for me take his seat. I thank him and sit down.

"And how is retirement treating you?" the man at the front of the room says.

"Oh, it's good," I say with a smile. "The worst part is having to actually spend time with my wife."

More booming laughter, more applause. Did these guys throw back a few before the meeting?

"Well, we're glad to have you."

After all of Richardson's underlings in the Philadelphia Branch were sacked and disavowed, it's pretty telling that the old man is welcomed back by his old employer with such open arms.

"As I was saying," the German says, "our investments and donations are doing well as the second quarter and fiscal year come to a close. Because of this, and a steadying of our operating costs, we're actually on pace to double our surplus this quarter."

The man pulls up a PowerPoint slide on a screen behind him, showing how the A of I fared financially over the past three months in comparison to previous quarters. Sitting here and listening to this presentation takes me back to my days at Maxwell.

I wave for Mayne to lean in to me. "Who's this man speaking right now?"

Mayne looks at me as though I had just told him that I was born without testicles. "Lasse Gantert, executive director of the A of I. That's the man that let you retire."

"God, I'm so senile." Shit. I suspect I'm one more false step from blowing my cover.

"As you can see," Gantert says, changing slides, "over the past year, we've done quite well, despite some unforeseen expenditures."

The slide depicts continuous cost and revenue increases over the past twelve months. On the cost side, there were particularly large increases last June—about a month after the Suburban Station attack—as well as this past February.

Gantert gives me the floor when I raise my hand.

"What on earth are those two large jumps in cost?"

He looks back at the screen before turning back to the audience with a wide smile on his face. "Well, the first one should definitely be familiar to you. Those were the severance packages we had to give to every member of your staff, including all the concessions we made to the one agent—what was his name?"

"Calvin Newsome."

"Right. You know, I still don't know how you convinced me to give him all of that. He got lucky."

I was lucky? How could I forget? Never mind that I had my face reshaped like it was made of Play-Doh. No, the Agency of Influence owed me absolutely nothing at all.

"The other jump, as most of you might recall," Gantert says, "was the amount of resources we had to pour into sprucing up our Detroit branch."

I look down at my hand and remember the map I picked up at the entrance. I open the first page and see an alphabetical listing of offices and points of interests highlighted on the map by a corresponding number. At the top of the list is the Arrowhead of the Seminole.

"As the overall numbers show, however, we're doing very well. That's a testament to the sound leadership we have in this room. Give yourselves a round of applause."

The men in the room respond with thunderous applause. I, too, clap my hands in an effort to blend in.

Gantert goes to the next slide with the click of his presentation remote. "Here are our influence rates for the quarter that no one gives a shit about." He breezes past the slide before anyone can see its content and the directors all share a good laugh.

I try hard not to let my perplexity show. These guys really have no interest in seeing how their branches have actually performed?

"And now, the part of the meeting you've all no doubt been waiting for." Gantert pauses a moment to swallow, letting his words wash over the room. All of the directors sitting around the table sit up, almost in unison. "You all did a very good job of keeping your operating costs down starts. Because of this, everyone here will receive significant increases to their quarterly bonuses."

He clicks the remote once more and unveils a list. All of the information crammed on this slide is illegible from my vantage point.

Gantert then leans toward the teleconferencing device. "For those of you that aren't here, you'll be emailed this information," he says before passing around sheets of paper.

A man sitting next to me hands me a copy of the information listed on the PowerPoint slide. I look at the sheet and study its information. It lists numerous North American cities in alphabetical order with a dollar amount next to each of them.

My eyes quickly scan the cities I've become most familiar with. Philadelphia has $650,000 listed next to it. Miami has $487,000. Montreal, $329,000 Canadian.

The room fills with the sound of pleasant surprise. Some in the room gasp while others cheer loudly. Some of the men simply sit back in their chairs and smile.

"What is this?" I say to the man who gave me the sheet of paper.

"Oh, these are our bonuses for the quarter."

"For the quarter? Who gets this money?"

"Oh, we do," he says, as though there were no other alternatives. "It's our director's bonus."

"Keep up the good work, gentlemen," Gantert says over the merry din in the room.

I stand up and look behind me. Mayne has left the room. I squeeze my way out of the room, leaving the bonus sheet on the table but taking the map with me.

Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall, trying to keep my blood from boiling. I love a substantial salary as much as the next guy, but these directors are millionaires on bonuses alone. Wouldn't an agency that prides itself on its generosity want to allocate this large of a surplus elsewhere? Anywhere? No wonder the Philly branch had so few employees. No wonder this facility is so damn drab. No wonder no one has sought to put an end to the Agency of Justice's terror campaign.

What if the A of I's donors caught wind of this? They're practically throwing their money away. Because of the secretive nature of the agency, those donors can't claim any kind of tax benefit. These wealthy people, who otherwise believe they are making sizeable contributions to society, are simply filling these assholes' wallets.

Valerie was right. The Agency of Influence's mission is utter bullshit. I do believe that Richardson genuinely cared about his staff and its work. But, at the end of the day, he was content collecting abnormally fat checks, not that I totally blame him. It's still shocking that out of however many North American branch directors there are in this agency, there wasn't one that couldn't accept this money in good conscience.

Don't hate the player, hate the game. I understand that concept. If you put a half a million-dollar check in front of someone every three months, they're going to take it.

I would.

Thankfully, I wasn't an A of I for very long. I'm not blind to the truth; I'm one of earth's endangered citizens. The Agency of Influence has essentially taken a collective piss all over the purported vision of its founding fathers and is now defecating on the human race. I'll feel no remorse upon destroying the Arrowhead.

I open the map and find the Arrowhead's location. It is at the bottom of a stairwell located at the end of this hallway. How arrogant can these people be? According to this map, their power source is on full display, exposed to the facility's visitors like a museum exhibit. My fault. I'm being too logical. Who here would actually want to destroy the relic?

Plodding down the hallway, I take a look back. Nobody's following me. As I descend down the stairs, I hear the men begin filtering out of the conference room and back into the main lobby.

When I reach a half-landing, the bottom level calls out to me. My heart rate jumps. What sort of Indiana Jonesian traps await me downstairs? I take a deep breath and continue down the stairs, this time taking it one soft step at a time. As my head clears the top floor, I look at the ceiling. No cameras. I reach the landing and turn to my left.

There it is.

The Arrowhead of the Seminole sits inside a glass case situated in the middle of a room. The chamber is the first of many rooms along a narrow hallway. At the other end of the hall is a nondescript, unmarked door.

I could destroy the relic where it sits right now, ending all of this madness. Given the throng of men upstairs, however, that strategy would not prove prudent. I'm better off quietly swiping the Arrowhead and then leaving the building, destroying it once I'm in the clear.

When I enter the room, I behold the Arrowhead, its precious stones glistening in the room's exhibition lighting.

I hold out my right palm and raise it, lifting the relic's case about a foot or so; just enough to float the Arrowhead into my left hand.

"You know..." I hear a voice say behind me.

My heart jumps up into my throat. I drop the case and watch it shatter into countless pieces. I turn around to look at the voice. It's Mayne.

"... the first rule of being an Agent of Influence is that you never, ever use your power in an A of I facility, unless necessary."

"Well, I'm not an A of I anymore," I say after taking a deep breath, "and I'd say this qualifies as necessary."

"You know, you really had me fooled. Until you opened your mouth."

"Richardson call you?"

"I called him. We might be greedy but we're not stupid."

I purse my lips. "That's one mistake I'll never have to worry about making again, is it?"

"You don't know what you're doing. Give it to me," he says, stepping into the room with his right hand open and outstretched.

"Don't come any closer. I'll break it."

"Those men upstairs will kill you."

"You guys have your money."

"It's not just about money."

I tighten my grip on the relic. "Of course not. If your precious donors only knew."

"Give it to me!"

Suddenly, I feel myself thrust backwards. I close my eyes and brace myself. With a thud, the back of my head hits the wall. The room goes fuzzy as I land face down on the cold floor. I feel a force pull at the Arrowhead in my left hand. I tighten my grip, no longer afraid to break it.
Chapter Twenty-One

Mayne starts walking toward me. With a quick wave of my right hand, I lift the shards of the broken glass case off the floor and throw them into his face. His pull on the Arrowhead stops as he falls to the floor, grabbing his face as he writhes and screams in pain.

"Story of my life," I say.

I get up slowly, still uneasy from my collision with the wall.

Swoosh!

I trade my suit and tie for a T-shirt and jeans as I change back into Calvin. I want to give everyone a vivid illustration of some of the physical and mental pain that's been caused by the Arrowhead's mere existence. The next time Mayne looks in the mirror, he'll get a good idea of where I'm coming from.

In the hallway, I put my foot on the first step and look up into the stairwell. Three men skip down the stairs with smiles on their faces. Their grins disappear when they see me and the mess I've left behind.

"Code twelve!" one of the men yells up to the top floor.

I throw the trio of men against the wall, knocking them to the ground. I start racing up the stairs until I hear a cavalcade of footsteps coming from the level above me. I turn around, hop off of the stairs and run toward the other end of the hallway, passing the Arrowhead's display room while Mayne continues tending to his facial wounds.

As the commotion draws nearer, I begin to fall forward.

I'm getting a little tired of this.

When I open my hands to brace myself for another fall, the Arrowhead falls out of my hand and skids a short distance away from me.

Behind me, the Three Amigos' footsteps grow louder.

I telekinetically reach for the relic and catch it with my right hand before rolling onto my back. The three men now five yards away from me, I look to my left and focus on a door next to me. I use my feet to push off of the linoleum floor, sliding a few more feet away from the men.

With a grunt, I break the door off of its hinges. It slams into the trio and knocks them unconscious. Meanwhile, the shadows of more men grow larger in the stairwell. I stand up and sprint to the end of the hallway, reaching the plain door.

I turn the doorknob, surprised that it's not locked. When I take another look back, the first of the stampede's legs hits the landing between the top and bottom levels. I step inside the antechamber and close the door.

I flip on a light switch and discover that I'm actually in a utility closet. A fire extinguisher sits on the wall to my left. On my right is the circuit breaker and hot water heater.

"What the hell happened?" I hear a man say.

"Somebody's taken the Arrowhead!" says another.

"Check these men's pockets. Search every room," another man says. It sounds like Gantert.

Once again, I'm presented with an opportunity to destroy the Arrowhead but I can't. I have a better chance of getting out of here with the relic intact than I do with it destroyed.

Out in the hallway, I hear the other doors being opened and closed, accompanied by the occasional worried grunt.

The footsteps draw closer, inevitably leading to the utility closet. I turn to the fuse box and clutch the main power switch before thinking twice about it. If I cut all of the facility's power, I won't be able to leave the facility. I search the breaker for the switch that controls the entrance and find it down at the bottom.

I put the Arrowhead in my pocket, turn around and rip the extinguisher out of its holster. I then go back to the fuse box and flip every switch, save for the main and the entrance.

Out in the hallway, the men curse the power outage. I flip the three remaining switches in darkness, doing it softly so as not to be heard.

"Check the utility closet," Gantert says.

I turn my back to the fuse box and hold the extinguisher in my arms. The closet door opens slowly, the hallway's backup lights illuminating part of the closet. The shadow of man's head enters the closet.

"There's nothing in here," he says.

"Check the fuse box," Gantert says. "It might have been tripped."

"But it's dark, sir. I can't see a thing."

"McNeely, stop being a baby and check the damn breaker."

He groans before finally stepping into the closet.

I slowly raise the extinguisher with both hands, pulling it back over my shoulder. As McNeely blindly reaches out with his right hand, I hold my breath. His hand touches my chest.

"What the...?" he says, quickly pulling his hand back.

I drive the extinguisher into his face, knocking him to the floor on the other side of the closet.

The loud pang of the extinguisher meeting the man's skull carries into the hallway. I turn out of the closet and, illuminated by the facility's backup lighting, start spraying the extinguisher. The shadows of the men, six of them, stop dead in their tracks.

"Oh my God!" one them yells.

"I don't see him," says another.

With a wave of my free hand, I form a cloud with the extinguisher's foam as I spread it across the hallway and hold it in a levitated state. Gantert and his men back away as I step slowly down the hall and eventually stop spraying, hoping to save some of the extinguisher's contents.

I then toss the extinguisher itself around the hallway, filling the corridor with the orchestral sounds of the extinguisher smacking against the heads of the men in its path. As they fall to the floor, I start picking up the pace, moving toward the stairwell. Presumably in the clear, I take my cell phone out of my pocket and use it as a torch. The stairs are only a few short feet away.

I stop, though, at the sound of footsteps and a snarl before being tackled to the floor.

"Give me the Arrowhead," the man says, straddling me as he holds down my arms. It's Gantert.

I wrestle with the German, trying to break away. Surprisingly strong, he delivers a right hook to my jaw.

"Give it to me!" he yells in a ravenous growl. He then pins my head against the floor with his forearm.

I turn my telekinetic focus on Gantert. As I lift him off of me, the man holds me by the collar of my T-shirt. We both fly into the stairwell, falling onto the landing between the top and bottom levels. This time, though, I land on top of him. As he holds my arms, preventing me from punching him, we wrestle once more, this time directly under a backup light.

Gantert stops for a brief moment to observe my face.

"Take a good look," I say.

"You have no idea what you're doing," he says with a smile, now pushing my face away from him with the palm of his hand. "Just give me the Arrowhead and we'll leave you alone."

"No, I'm pretty sure I know exactly what I'm doing," I say, standing up.

He pushes and holds me against the wall. "What is it that you want? More money?"

I scoff. "You guys and your money. What would your donors say?"

Gantert grins, as though he knows something I don't. "You wouldn't be telling them anything they don't already know."

"Huh?"

"You're a businessman. You understand supply and demand, don't you?"

I hold Gantert's gaze as his revelation washes over me. Richardson lied; there are no donations. His buddy Mayne, meanwhile, was right—this isn't just about money.

"Our donors, as you call them, are really our customers," Gantert says.

My eyes narrow. "You're selling replicas?"

"To the highest bidder."

"What do you do after your five years with the Arrowhead is up?"

"Oh, I have a special agreement with the executive director of the Agency of Justice."

Unbelievable.

No wonder the A of I is so eager to turn a blind eye to the A of J's attacks. Both agencies extort money from each other by agreeing to ignore one another.

When I punch Gantert in the face, his smirk turns into a laugh. "By the time we finish with you, you'll be begging us for mercy."

"I'll take my chances."

"You're crazy."

"Exactly." I thrust Gantert backwards in an attempt to slam him against the stairs.

He grabs on to my shirt again and brings me with him. Before we hit the stairs, I lift us higher, causing us to flip in unison before eventually landing on the top level, down the hall from the conference room.

On top of me again, Gantert punches me in the face before reaching for my pockets. I kick my leg upward, driving my shin into his crotch and causing him to fall into the fetal position.

"Code twelve! Stop him!" he yells with a suddenly high-pitched tone.

His plea carries through the hallway and out to the lobby. A quartet of men in the lobby turns to look down the corridor before standing up and running in my direction.

I stand up and feel my face. My scar is now bleeding.

Running down the hallway, reddened by the backup lighting, I feel myself falling again. This time, I keep my balance and turn around. Gantert continues to roll around in pain, suffering too much to actually knock me down. I give him one last thrust down the stairwell, pushing him out of sight.

As I continue toward the lobby, the men from the lobby run toward the hallway before veering off to the side, out of sight.

I pass the conference room. Empty.

When I clear the hallway and finally reach the lobby, though, my instincts take me into a slide across the linoleum. A table is hurled in my direction and cools the air above my head as I slide underneath it.

I notice that the rectangular wooden box against the wall is now open and my heart skips a beat. One of the men has a shotgun in his hands.

This definitely complicates things.

Click-Click, Bang!

The first shot whizzes past my head and disappears into the masonry behind me.

"Give us the Arrowhead," says the man with the gun, "or the next one will kill you."

I pull the relic out of my pocket and hold it tightly in my right hand. "Put the gun down or I swear I'll break it."

Click-Click.

The man holds the cold barrel of the gun against my warm scalp. If I try to break the Arrowhead now, I'll no doubt be dead before I finish the job. When I dreamt of my name being associated with Daphne Tierney's, this isn't exactly what I had in mind.

"Give it up," he says, "and I'll let you go."

Maybe I should hand over the Arrowhead, let bygones be bygones. I have no problem living in obscurity and, with Elena's help, I'd be able to avoid all of the Agency of Justice's planned acts of terrorism.

It's not like it would matter much to the public if I broke the Arrowhead and died a hero. Although I will have saved millions of lives, unlike most heroes, no one will ever know what I've done. And, as someone who doesn't believe in the afterlife, I can't say I'd get to enjoy the fruits of my labor. As a former businessman, I like to see results. Tangible results are even better. "If I give it to you, will you put the gun down?"

He nods.

I start extending my right hand to the man but stop. The gun remains flush against my scalp. "How do I know you won't shoot me?"

"Fine. No funny business."

"None."

"Careful, Steve," says one of the directors behind him.

While I start extending my hand again, the gun falls away from my head as the man takes his left hand off of the barrel of the gun. But it's not until I start to put the Arrowhead in his hand that he takes his finger off the trigger.

Got him.

With a nod of my head, I thrust the gun out of his hand, sending it into the air. With the gunman stunned, I pull the Arrowhead out of his hand before quickly smashing the back of his head with the butt of the shotgun.

As the gunman falls to the floor while grabbing the back of his head, I snap the gun in half and send it down the darkened hallway and into the conference room.

One less projectile to worry about.

The other three men move in on me as I run toward the entrance. I look to my right and see all of the chairs leading up to the stage. In one singular motion, I hurl a row of chairs at the men, knocking one of them on their back.

Then, with a wave of an arm, one of the men knocks me back down to the floor and another table flies toward me. Directly in its path, I can't get out of its way this time. I cower and let the table hit me. It drags me across the floor and slams me against the wall.

My ribs and face sore, I hear the men approach as I lie hidden behind the table. With the entrance less than twenty yards away, Central Park never seemed so inviting.

Why did it have to come to this? Damn Ronni and her train wreck. It's funny what drives a man. Ronni's smile gave me my last push during the chase at Independence Hall and...

Independence Hall.

Perhaps it's only through losing something great that we learn what we must do to never lose again. With the three remaining men bearing down on me, I say a brief prayer. This'll be painful, if not life-threatening.

I close my eyes and recall the most painful moments of the past year. The embarrassment I felt in front of Independence Hall. The resentment I felt upon hearing Elena's conclusion that our branch had been infiltrated. My conversation with Valerie on Clearwater Beach and learning the truth about Ronni. Nick. The Causeway. Josh Jenner. Suburban Station. Justice will be done.

My blood boils. My heart beats at an astronomical rate. I let out a snarl as I burst with rage.

The lobby begins to shake with a rumble louder than that of the subway below. The table is thrown away from me. The three men tumble backwards toward the stage like debris swept up in a sandstorm. The linoleum begins to peel off of the floor. The chairs follow the men up to the stage. The glass in the nearby office windows shatters. The screen behind the stage rips in half. The stage itself collapses on top of the three directors.

Gasping for oxygen, I discard my rage and rise to my feet. I take one step toward the entrance before I realize that something's not right.

I feel weak.

The room is severely tilted.

It's hard to breathe.

Spent, I fall back down to the mangled floor.

I can finally leave with the Arrowhead in hand but I can't. The room's spinning too fast. It's hard for me to move.

Where am I again?

Lying face down, I look up and see the stairwell, the silver button.

I remember now.

I slowly rise to my feet, widening my stance in order to keep my balance. I stagger over to the wall near the hallway and lean against it until I reach the silver button. I hit the switch to open the door and look over my shoulder for the last time, expecting one more director to rise out of the wreckage.

Nothing.

As the door reaches its apex, I grip the handrail and plod up the stairs and back out into Central Park. I double over to catch my bearings. I need a bed. I also need a rock.

With no way to close the door from the outside, the Agency of Influence's international headquarters are open to the public, not that it would find anything of interest.

I take one more look at the destruction down in the lobby.

Tangible results.
Chapter Twenty-Two

With the sun descending toward New York's western horizon, the foot traffic in Central Park has lessened substantially. Through my wobbly haze I find a sharp rock just outside the Agency of Influence's not-so-hidden entrance and bring it to a more secluded area on the other side of the reservoir.

On my way there, I catch a glimpse of what life will be like post-Arrowhead. Everyone I pass at least takes a peek at my jumbled, bleeding face, if they aren't blatantly staring. I didn't even think about plastic surgery after Suburban Station but I may have to reconsider. I'm not usually the self-conscious type but, when you have a face like mine, you lose confidence real quick. I wonder how Ronni, with all of her vanity, will deal with this new development.

Surrounded by lush green grass and tall, towering trees, I place the Arrowhead on top of a large rock. The rock is so large, so firmly embedded into the ground that it could easily pass for a tree stump.

I kneel down and study the Arrowhead. Its design is so intricate; I wonder how long it took the shaman to make it. If there were an afterlife, what would the shaman say if he observed me doing what I'm doing now? Would he be pissed that his work is going to be defaced? Or, considering the manner in which it was taken from him and used thereafter, would he be happy to see it destroyed?

I transfer my jagged tool from my left hand to my right hand.

Richardson and others spoke of an impending blitzkrieg that would befall me upon destroying the Arrowhead. Was there something to that? Did Daphne Tierney actually exist? Or was that just another whopper on a long list of dishonest yarns that were spun to discourage me from destroying what has become a major cash cow?

Fuck Richardson.

I squeeze the rock in my right hand and take one hard rip at the Arrowhead.

No damage.

I pull back and attack the Arrowhead three more times.

Still no damage.

Suddenly, I grow angry at the relic, angry for all of the anguish it's caused me and the people I love. I'm also pissed because the damn thing won't break.

"What... the... hell," I say with each of the next three swings.

I stop to give my hand a break and to look at the relic. Nary a scratch.

Don't tell me this thing's indestructible.

Feeling wobbly again, I put my head down a moment to recover before trying again.

This time, I squeeze the rock extra hard in my hand, making sure to leave its sharpest edge exposed. I pull my right hand over my head and bang on the Arrowhead three more times.

On the third rap, the Arrowhead finally cracks.

I wipe away a layer of sweat forming on my brow and center the Arrowhead on the rock again.

If I were still recruited as an Agent of Influence but the agency's Philadelphia branch had not been compromised, would I still be doing this? What if another A of I had been framed? What if someone else's case subject suffered the same fate as that of Josh Jenner? Would I still be doing this? What if it was a nondescript Agent of Justice who authored the Suburban Station attack? Would I still be doing this?

I suppose Richardson and I were both right; everything does happen for a reason... but we also get to choose our roles in life. Life's roadmap puts us in positions to make life-altering decisions. Given another opportunity, I just as easily could have handed over the Arrowhead to the gunman.

I squeeze the rock one last time and swing down with a mighty cut.

Broken.

The Arrowhead of the Seminole lies on the large rock, lifeless and divided.

I let out a loud, high-pitched laugh as I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Elena.

"Calvin," she says after one ring. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great."

"Did you get it?"

"Destroyed it."

"Ay dios mio," she says with a gasp. "That's—that's—wow."

Silence.

"It worked," she says with a laugh.

"Huh?"

"It worked! I just tried moving the TV. It wouldn't budge."

I breathe a sigh of relief before allowing myself to fall into the grass.

"I even tried lifting my glass of water," she says. "Nothing."

Silence.

"Calvin, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I just..." My voice catches. "When do you get out of the hospital?"

"The doctors are going to run a test tomorrow morning. If everything checks out, I'll be good to go."

"Awesome," I say, placing my hand on my forehead as tears form in my eyes.

"When are you coming back for me?"

"Tomorrow. Maybe even tonight if I can catch a last minute flight."

"Well, have a safe flight, then."

"I'll see ya."

After hanging up the phone, I take a moment to lie in the grass in silence, save for the din of pigeons and taxis behind me on East Drive. I then spring to my feet and grab the two pieces of the Arrowhead.

My head hurts. Badly.

I grit my teeth and jog out to the trail along the reservoir. I toss both pieces of the relic into the water and watch them sink into the million-gallon basin. I turn around and face New York's east side.

Needing a cab, I walk away from the basin and head for East Drive.

I was only a shape shifter for a little over a year, so not much readjusting there. But I will miss being able to move things with my mind. I probably could have found constructive ways in which to use that power, too. For example, if that squirrel sitting way up there on that tree branch were a cat stuck in a tree, I could simply—

Holy shit.

The branch breaks, sending the squirrel to the ground.

Weird.

What if I presented Elena with a nice bouquet of freshly picked flowers? If we take a stroll through the park, I could simply pick some of those cherry blossoms off of that tree over there and—

Are you kidding me?

I motion for a patch of grass to come up out of its soil. It obliges.

With a slow wave of my hand, I pick up a rock and wing it into the reservoir.

No. This can't be. This is making my brain hurt.

I run and hide behind a tree.

Swoosh!

My face feels normal. I'm Kevin Stewart again.

Did Elena lie to me?

She wouldn't.

I pull out my phone and dial Richardson. The phone rings three times before he picks up.

"Hello?" he says in his unmistakable twang.

"Richardson, you lied to me."

"I was wondering if I'd be hearing from you."

"You told me everyone would lose their powers if I destroyed the Arrowhead."

"Well, that part is true."

"Then why do I still have my powers?"

"Because," he says, "as the power came from the Arrowhead's creator, it, in turn, stays with the Arrowhead's last possessor. You're the last of a dead breed, my friend."

Feeling hazy again, I lean against the tree. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did, if you listened carefully. There's a reason she got the name Disappearing Daphne."

"Son of a..."

"I couldn't just come out and tell you. I didn't want to give you any extra motivation," he says. "I thought I could scare you off."

"That worked out, didn't it?"

"That's why the page was missing from my manual. The agency made me shred it when I retired."

"In case the manual fell into the wrong hands."

"Exactly," he says. "Calvin, you should look at this as a reward."

"How the hell is this a reward? What makes you think I want this?"

"Most people go looking for the Arrowhead out of greed. You were willing to make a significant sacrifice, one that many others would not have made if given the same information as you."

"The only information I had is that it sucks to be the one who destroys the Arrowhead."

"Yes, and that's still somewhat true. You're the only one who can rebuild the Arrowhead to its full power."

Of this, the old man did truthfully warn me. It didn't seem like such a big deal before but, given everything I've learned today, a life of constantly looking over my shoulder suddenly seems disconcerting, even if I have uncanny ways of protecting myself. "Hey, out of curiosity," I say, "why'd you hire Elena?"

"Well, when I first met her, she was very quiet, very guarded and rigid. And even as she moved up the chain of command, we never saw her pleasant side."

"But it was always there."

"Correct. Her present openness paired with her intelligence gathering skills is what we were hoping to get when we hired her. She would make the perfect Agent of Influence now."

I was right about what I said when I was hired. Richardson hired skilled people who also had faults that might not lend themselves to an agency such as the A of I. When those negatives were flipped to a positive, they all served a purpose. The old man might have been greedy but he had a plan and a vision.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, this guy—Mayne, I think his name was..."

"Oh, Dennis?" Richardson says with a chuckle. "I took Elena fair and square. Anything else he tells you is a bold-faced lie."

I'll give the old man the benefit of the doubt.

"What are you going to do now?" he says.

"Adapt or die."

He chuckles. "Very good, Cal. Hey, if you ever need anything, give me a ring."

"Don't hold your breath. You're still one of them."

"Smart man."

I hang up the phone and look across the reservoir. Lasse Gantert emerges from the entrance, stoops down and closes the mechanical door with his key.

And so it begins.

I calmly turn around and continue walking toward East Drive, keeping my eyes out for a taxi.

For most of my adult existence, I've searched for a life greater than that of an ordinary man. I thought I had found that when I was hired by the Agency of Influence. Instead, there's no greater opportunity for significance than when you can accomplish things no one else can.

The possibilities are endless. I could go back to being a matchmaker, only working cases similar to that of Mark at Phil's Coffee. Maybe I'll be a businessman by day and a crime fighter by night. Maybe I'll be an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Or maybe I won't have time to do anything but live life with my head on constant swivel.

I wave down a taxi and climb into its backseat.

"Where to?" the driver says.

"Hudson Hotel, please." I suddenly don't feel so good. The cab feels like it's spinning. I put my arms around my stomach and sit back.

"You okay, pal? You don't look too good."

I shake my head.

"Hey, don't puke in my cab!"

My headache intensifies. The interior of the cab spins at a frantic pace. My vision blurs. I hear a ringing in my ears. As I lay down across the backseat, I hear the driver say something but I can't make out what he says.

Suddenly, my eyes start to close as they meet the driver's in the rearview mirror.

A worried expression on his face, he stops the taxi and turns around to look at me right before my eyes finally close.

***

"Hold me," Elena says between sobs. "Please."

I wrap my arms around her, pressing her body firmly against mine. I muffle every cry and absorb every sob. When her cries subside, I pull away, hoping to gaze into her eyes. Elena's face is a beautiful disaster; cheeks flushed, eyes swollen, and hair scattered across her moistened features. She peeks over at her parents' tombstones before returning her gaze on me.

We share a laugh as I set her hair aside and she wipes her tears away. I hold the side of her face with my right hand and we trade smiles. When I draw my face closer to hers, she doesn't back away.

She covers the rest of the distance, softly overwhelming my lips with hers. I savor the moment. It's the kiss I never want to end.

And then it stops.

As she lowers her head, I pull back, hoping to see Elena's face once more.

But I'm horrified when the woman lifts her head. Her face is now bloodied, scarred, deformed beyond recognition. This isn't Elena. I can tell by her eyes.

"I still love you," Ronni says. She then grabs the back of my head and pulls my face closer to mine.

I let out a scream as I awaken to darkness and study my surroundings. It's nighttime at the hospital and mine is the only bed in the room.

A shadow emerges from the dimly lit hallway. It's a doctor, maybe a nurse. This guy's certainly not dressed like a doctor. He wears a light blue tunic.

"Mr. Stewart," he says, entering the room with a smile. "Welcome back."

"Where am I?"

"West Side General. Manhattan. You've been in a coma for four days." He jots down a few notes on a clipboard. "We'll need to run a few more tests in the morning before we decide what your next step is. But I can tell you this: you're lucky to be alive."

"Where's Elena?"

He responds with a look of pity. "Try to get some rest, Mr. Stewart. The doctor will stop by in the morning." He places the clipboard back in the compartment at foot of my bed and turns to leave the room.

"What'd you say my name was?"

"Stewart. Kevin Stewart."

I nod as the nurse leaves the room. I feel my face. No scar. I check my skin. It's darker. I still look like Kevin Stewart.

To my left is a tray upon which sits a clear plastic bag containing my cell phone and wallet. When I sit up, I take my wallet out of the bag and find all of Kevin's identification still in there. I attempt to check my cell phone but the battery's dead.

I lie back down and sigh as I stare up at the ceiling.

Elena has to be out of the hospital in Miami by now, but she's not here, either.

I need to find her.

End of Book One

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About the Author:

Guy Harrison is a Phoenix area-based author raised in Philadelphia. Once an aspiring sportscaster, Harrison has been a public relations professional in higher education for the past six years. He currently lives in Maricopa, Arizona with his wife Lindsay and their son Vance.

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www.GuyMHarrison.com

On Twitter: @guymharrison

 On Facebook: Guy Harrison, Author

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Also Available in Ebook and Paperback Format:

Agents of Chaos (Book Two)

Agents of Destiny (Book Three)

Available Only in Ebook Format:

The Scorpion Nest: A Short Story

Excerpt from Agents of Chaos

Lasse Gantert looks up from his notes at the podium and studies the assembled mass, its attire homogeneous and its skin tone monochromatic. Some forty Agents of Influence, all without local branches to direct, stand before the German and scream at him with fire in their eyes and nothing but oxygen in their wallets.

Gantert holds up a hand in a meager attempt to quiet the enraged. "You have my assurances. Your money is safe."

"Not for long, it's not," one of the directors shouts. The rest of the crowd chimes in, roaring in agreement.

"Our clients have voted to give us two weeks before pulling their funds," Gantert says.

"Two weeks?" another director says. "He could be anywhere!"

Careful not to acknowledge his heckler with a nod, Gantert swallows hard and looks over the crowd filling the facility's lobby. He rests his eyes at the camera behind the horde broadcasting this event to the many Agency of Influence branches around the world.

"It's true," he says before waiting for the crowd to calm itself. "Two weeks is not a very long time."

"What are we supposed to do? Sit around and wait?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do." As the crowd dissents again, Gantert takes a remote off of the podium and turns on a video projector. "Finding him in two weeks may be difficult. But it's not impossible. That's why the Agency of Justice has agreed to help us in our search for Calvin Newsome."

Appearing on the recently-torn projection screen behind him is a man nearly thirty years Gantert's junior. Despite his smallish features and a thick set of curly hair, both of which belie his current role, Heath Pendleton boasts three years of service as the Agency of Justice's executive director. He stands at a podium, which looks almost identical to the one Gantert stands behind.

"Before escaping our facility," Gantert says, "Newsome summoned a very powerful telekinetic rift. Assuming he's still alive, he couldn't have gone far; he'll have needed medical attention. If we can't find him in two weeks..." Gantert allows his quasi-announcement to hang in the air before turning to look at the screen. "Heath, can you hear me?"

Pendleton quickly primps his hair and responds with an awkward gaze into the camera as he holds an earpiece firmly in his ear. "Yes, Lasse, I can hear you." His British accent echoes through the A of I lobby. "Shall we begin?"

Gantert nods in approval and turns back to the crowd of branch directors. "The question on many of your minds at this point, I'm sure, is how we intend on finding Agent Newsome. Finding a man like this requires a special person, someone trained to find those that others cannot see. That is why," he says, motioning to the left of the crowd, "I've called upon on old friend."

The directors in the crowd follow Gantert's gaze to a diminutive, yet dignified man with graying hair and hardened features. The man walks up the three stairs on the way to the stage and saunters over to the podium with the swagger of a man all too aware of himself--twenty successful years in the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany's foreign intelligence agency, will cause that kind of hubris. His boots tap the hollow stage as though it were a bass drum.

The two gentlemen shake hands and embrace. Before pulling away, Gantert leans in toward the man's ear.

"Good to see you, old friend," he whispers in German.

The newcomer nods and smiles, then stands beside Gantert.

"Max Krueger made a living protecting Germany's interests for two decades. He's one of the most lethal assassins I know. But since he's not actually trying to kill anyone this time, this should be—oh, how do you call it? A piece of cake."

One of the directors claps his hands before the rest of the crowd wholeheartedly follows suit. Applause can be heard coming from the facility's sound system. A similar throng is watching on Pendleton's end.

"Of course, the only thing better than one bounty hunter is two of them." Gantert turns to look at the screen again.

Pendleton cracks a self-assured grin. "Impressive, Herr Gantert. We, however, have taken a much different approach. No outsourcing. I believe this requires a more... personal touch."

He waves to someone off camera before stepping away from the podium. Applause can be heard through the speakers again. At the Agency of Influence, a murmur spreads through the crowd as a hooded figure, someone of a much smaller stature than Pendleton, appears onscreen.

"Why not take off your hood so everyone can see you?"

The assembled Agents of Influence gasp as the shrouded figure pulls back the hood to reveal a full head of long black hair. The woman tilts her head in a severe angle to look up at Pendleton as they shake hands.

He then motions for her to turn toward the camera. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

The camera slowly zooms in on the woman's face, silencing the growing dissention from the Agency of Influence. Scarred and deformed, the woman holds the camera's attention with a steely gaze.

"Veronica Lee is one our most prolific agents," Pendleton says. "She has carried out some of our most important missions."

Ronni offers an unnatural grin as they trade glances.

"And I don't think there's any doubt about her motivation in this campaign, is there?"

As a hush continues to permeate throughout the Agency of Influence, the camera at the Agency of Justice goes back to Pendleton. "Thank you. Your silence speaks volumes."

The Agents of Influence reluctantly applaud.

Gantert leans into the podium. "Now, to put your minds at ease, I'm happy to tell you that Director Pendleton and I have agreed to resume our profit-sharing model upon the creation of a new Arrowhead."

The crowd applauds yet again.

Gantert smiles and raises his voice to speak over the applause. "Both agencies shall prosper upon the capture of Agent Calvin Newsome." He joins in the applause before turning to face the screen. "Good luck to you, Director Pendleton."

"And to you."

The screen turns blue before Gantert turns off the projector. He motions for the crowd to temper its zeal. "Lastly, I have appointed one other person to assist us with this campaign."

The directors look amongst themselves before an older man with white hair and days-old stubble emerges from the crowd and slowly, with the assistance of a cane, takes his place onstage to Gantert's left. The crowd soundly approves of the man.

"When Agent Newsome infiltrated our facility, he impersonated Donald Richardson. Nobody was angrier upon learning the truth than this man. I immediately knew I had to ask him out of retirement. Agent Richardson hired Newsome, studied him for months. Nobody knows him better."

Richardson waves to the crowd like a politician on election night.

Gantert places both hands on the top corners of the podium. His eyes turn serious as he looks at the directors scattered around the lobby.

"Make no mistake, Calvin Newsome may have already paid dearly for his actions, but his suffering has just begun."

The directors cheer, some whistling.

"This meeting's adjourned." Gantert looks at the two men that have accompanied him onstage and nods to the back of the lobby.

As the crowd files out and onto the stairwell leading up to the facility's hydraulic-powered door, the three men step down from the stage, walk across the lobby and enter a large office.

Situated on the wall beside Gantert's desk—cherry wood in color, fit for an executive—is a framed jersey from his hometown football team, FC Bayern Munich. Next to the jersey is a photo of Max and Gantert taken many decades ago in front of a pub in downtown Munich. In the image, the Gantert's arm is wrapped around the Max's shoulder.

Gantert slips behind his desk, pulls out his chair and sits. "Thank you for joining me, gentlemen. Have a seat."

Max and Richardson each sit in chairs in front of the executive director's desk.

"I wanted to give you both a chance to get to know each other before we started this campaign. I'm going to be relying heavily on the both of you."

Gantert's two guests turn to look at one another, but before they can exchange pleasantries, he speaks again.

"Since you both got here on short notice, I also wanted to formally gauge your commitment to this campaign. In person."

Richardson grins and furrows his eyebrows as he straightens his tie and wipes down the wrinkles in his suit jacket. "Well, I don't have much to gain by cheating you, if that's what you mean."

"Of course you do. Whoever controls the Arrowhead controls the world. But, no, that's not what I meant."

The old man gives Gantert a look of puzzlement.

The executive director sits forward and stares into Richardson's eyes. "Where does your allegiance lie?"

Richardson holds Gantert's gaze, never letting it waver. "With the Agency of Influence, of course. Agent Newsome deserves to pay for what he did."

Gantert continues to peer into Richardson's eyes for a few uncomfortable moments longer. "Good." He then turns to Max. "And you, old friend?"

The bounty hunter shrugs. "I don't even know what the Arrowhead is."

Gantert waves him off. "That's not it, Max. Your situation's different. You're a changed man."

Uncomfortable with the turn this conversation has taken, Max glances away briefly and sighs. "That has nothing to do with this."

"The loss of your wife and daughter is not insignificant."

"It won't keep me from doing what needs to be done."

"Well, I hope that will include killing the girl, this Veronica Lee."

Max's eyes meet Gantert's. "That wasn't part of our agreement."

"It is now, especially if she gets in your way. Believe me, they're having the same conversation about you as we speak."

"I thought you guys had a deal," Richardson interjects.

"In name only. Our customers loved the idea." Gantert sits back and folds his hands before turning his attention back to his fellow countryman. "There's no one else I trust to carry out this mission, Max. For your sake, I just hope you're not... compromised."

Max shakes his head. "I'm here to do a job."

