Chapter 161. Business as Unusual

“So I take it your sportbike’s in the shop?” Hawk asked, taking care to phrase the question with impeccable British politeness so he would not bruise my ego. “I can give you a ride to the P-SWAT compound if you want.”

He nodded toward the employee parking lot, where his unremarkable gray Ford Fusion stood out among the rows of vehicles. Most of the other operatives, including the female analysts, had gone all in on enormous, gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalades and Chevy Suburbans, courtesy of the generous salaries Awakened personnel commanded. Against that backdrop, Hawk’s modest Ford was a breath of fresh air. A pleasing sight, really. It was rare to find a pragmatic man in the military who had no interest in flashy status symbols or pretending to be something he was not.

Hawk immediately moved up several notches in my personal rankings. An ordinary guy, competent and dependable, with no interest in stirring up trouble to get ahead. Six months ago, before my Awakening and all the chaos surrounding the Corps, I had been exactly the same kind of office worker. That made turning him down a little harder.

“Thanks, Jimmy, but I’ve already called an Uber.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the app, with the map displaying my pickup location. “It’ll be here in eleven minutes. I’ll wait out here and enjoy the fresh air.”

“Oh, all right. No problem.” He shrugged, looking a little wistful, and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “See you tomorrow, then. Actually, next week. Almost forgot about your special schedule.”

“See you, Jimmy. One more thing.” I held his gaze until I had his full attention. “I haven’t forgotten who had my back during this morning’s incident. If you run into trouble or need a hand with anything, call me anytime. I’ll help.”

Hawk froze for a moment, clearly taken aback by such a direct offer from a combat officer. He gave me an awkward nod, turned, and headed for his car.

Twenty years old. The spitting image of me at that age, except that when I was twenty, I had been busy cramming tax law in college, never dreaming of captain’s bars, a government paycheck, or superpowers.

It was 5:02 p.m. Employees continued streaming out through the glass doors of the FBA office building. Young men and women barely into their twenties drifted onto the plaza, bathed in the golden light of the setting Washington sun. Ordinary office workers whose specialized mental abilities made them ideally suited to routine analysis and archival investigations. I had confirmed as much by casually checking their profiles with [Analysis].

As they passed me, they instinctively slowed down. Their eyes fixed on my dress uniform, where the Bronze Star with a V device gleamed faintly, marking valor in combat. To these desk-bound bureaucrats, frontline combat officers were an exotic sight. People with actual battlefield experience rarely showed up at their quiet government office, which looked more like an insurance company branch than a federal agency.

“Good evening, sir. Are you waiting for someone?” A young man in a starched white shirt and narrow black tie approached me hesitantly. “If you’re here to see Mr. Grimm, he’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

“Actually, I started working here today.” I adjusted the strap of my bag. “Nice to meet you all.”

It was amusing to watch their pale faces, belonging to young people who apparently spent their lives indoors, go slack with surprise. The Corps of Awakened had few operatives over thirty to begin with, so compared to them, I looked like a fossil from the special forces.

The usual polite greetings followed, along with the obligatory exchange of contact information on the office messaging apps. The whole process took about as long as smoking a cigarette. Having worked in an office myself, I understood their psychology perfectly. Chatting with colleagues over lunch or during a smoke break was practically a sacred corporate ritual. But once the workday was over, all you wanted was to get the hell out of there and avoid seeing those faces again until the next morning.

Gradually, the plaza emptied as my new colleagues headed for their cars. And there it was again, the same predictable sight: every guy seemed to have a massive, body-on-frame SUV with dark tinted windows waiting for him in the parking lot. Apparently, they had all been following the same playbook. An old military affliction. I had never understood the logic. Why compensate for personal insecurities with a huge, unwieldy vehicle that was a nightmare to drive around a city? Or was there some unwritten rule in the Corps that every officer, even a desk jockey who had never lifted anything heavier than a stapler, had to act like a tough guy from Texas?

Scott Grimm was the last one out of the building. He locked the heavy glass door with an oversized key, then gave it a firm shove with his shoulder to make sure it was secure.

The oldest employee at this branch, after me. And the most muscular, broad-shouldered man in the entire bureau, also after me.

I smirked to myself and slipped my hands into my trouser pockets. Apparently, my arrival had automatically bumped the local boss down to second place in every category that mattered. I could only hope Grimm had a healthy enough ego not to be one of those guys who felt compelled to prove he was the biggest dog in every yard.

“Oh, hey, Tom!” Grimm strode over and slapped me on the shoulder with a hand as heavy as a beer keg. “So, spill it. How was your first day in our little den of vipers? Like what you saw?”

“Can’t complain,” I replied, barely shifting under the impact. My voice remained calm and even.

“I just got your urgent request for a new keyboard in my inbox.” Grimm furrowed his thick brows and studied my face. “What’s the matter with you, kid? Can’t keep your temper in check at work? You wreck government property on your very first day?”

He paused for effect, then burst out laughing, his booming voice carrying across the empty parking lot.

“I’m kidding! Relax. I saw your numbers in the system. Almost two hundred cases closed in one day. That’s a damn agency record! You’re a one-man office machine gun! I like it. I’ll get you that keyboard next week. In fact, I’ll lean on Supply to get you a heavy-duty tactical model with a metal frame, so you don’t put it through your desk the first time you lose your temper. Ha-ha! Anyway, take it easy, Tom. Maybe we’ll get lucky and have an actual field arrest next week. Give you a chance to stretch your legs.”

Grimm twirled his keys around one finger and strode toward his car. Naturally, it was yet another massive Ford Expedition with windows tinted so dark it looked downright predatory.

“And here I thought the guy was halfway reasonable,” I thought dryly, watching the SUV roar away.

Silence settled over the employee parking lot. I was alone now, with exactly two minutes until my Uber arrived. Plenty of time to knock one high-priority item off my mental checklist.

My fingers, now slightly longer and more flexible than normal human anatomy allowed thanks to my evolution, flew across my smartphone's touchscreen. I opened a search engine and filtered the results for tactical thermal equipment. The options quickly narrowed down. Standard insulated shoulder bags offered plenty of room but required constant attention to ice packs and warmed up quickly whenever you opened them. I ruled out the bulky car refrigerators that plugged into a cigarette lighter right away. I did not have a vehicle at the moment, but even if I did, running out to the parking lot for every bottle of water in the middle of a hyperfocus session would be stupid and inefficient. My brain's personal cooling system needed to be within arm's reach.

Eventually, I found exactly what I needed: a hard-shell tactical cooler with active temperature control and vacuum insulation. It was compact enough that even a standard bottle of Coke would not fit inside, but there was just enough room for a couple of sandwiches or four packages of mint ice cream bars. I immediately reserved one at a twenty-four-hour supermarket along the route to the P-SWAT base.

The yellow Uber Chevrolet pulled smoothly up to the curb, arriving right on schedule. I climbed into the back seat without taking my eyes off my phone and handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill on top of the fare.

“Make one stop at the supermarket on Fifth Street. Shouldn't take more than five minutes.”

The older man behind the wheel glanced at the bill, nodded knowingly, and silently merged into the left lane. For a decent tip, this driver was willing to put up with just about anything.

As we worked our way through the evening traffic, I checked my personal email. Several notifications had piled up. The first was the official report from the authorized repair shop where the remains of my Buell Hammerhead 1190 had been towed after Dillon's morning collision. The mechanics' verdict was brief and clinical: bent frame, destroyed crankcase, beyond repair. Buying a new bike would be cheaper. Next came an email from the motorcycle dealership's enterprising sales manager, who had already gotten wind of the situation and assured me he could arrange the sale of an identical bike that very day, with delivery straight to the base gates. The guy was quick on the draw. I carefully saved the PDF of the technical assessment of my wrecked bike. That document would be a key piece of evidence for the military review board.

The second email was from Ted. My young, self-appointed adjutant had come through, sending me a neatly organized spreadsheet of orders from the guys in the barracks, formatted exactly as I had instructed. The columns listed full names, dates, and requested items, all small enough to fit inside a standard military backpack. Apparently, the troops were still testing the waters and sizing up their new commander, because the list was downright childish: Doritos, peanut butter, several cases of Dr Pepper, and chocolate bars.

I dashed into the supermarket, loaded everything on the list into a shopping cart, added my new cooler, and snapped a picture of the final receipt with my phone. The guys would reimburse me down to the last cent as soon as the goods reached the barracks. I was neither Santa Claus nor a charity service. Besides, according to the management books I had read, trying to win over subordinates by showering them with free gifts inevitably blurred the lines of authority. Pragmatism and a clean balance sheet were the foundations of a healthy working relationship.

We reached the P-SWAT base checkpoint after dusk had settled in completely. The same dreary, oppressive landscape greeted me: an endless wall of gray concrete, coils of electrified barbed wire, and massive automated gates. The guard in the watchtower spotted my rank insignia and straightened so abruptly he might as well have snapped to attention. He hurriedly pressed the button to open the gates.

Dillon was already gone. The only reminder of his morning stunt was a dark stain of transmission fluid on the parking lot asphalt that the duty crew had not yet washed away. The man had left for the day utterly convinced he was untouchable. Well, if General Crowley really was the de facto boss of the Corps and decided to personally protect his protégé, that could complicate matters. I stood little chance in a direct confrontation with a full-fledged Pentagon general. I would have to play this more carefully.

I went into the barracks and unloaded the grocery bags onto Ted's bed.

“Here.” I kept it brief as the young man sprang to his feet in surprise. “Distribute everything according to your spreadsheet. And make sure everyone transfers the exact amount on the receipt to my account before the end of the evening. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah, Tom, no problem.” Ted blinked at the mountain of snacks, looking bewildered.

“Good. Even if you don't plan on making a career in finance, I'll teach you the basics of accounting and auditing. It'll build discipline.”

After dinner in the mess hall, I headed straight for my bunk. I deliberately put off studying the P-EAR intelligence software until tomorrow. My mental storage capacity was tapped out for the day, and I still had to transfer all the personnel files into permanent memory.

I needed a good night's sleep to restore my neural connections and strengthen my mind. Tomorrow would be my first full workday under Selina Langstrom's direct supervision, and that woman clearly had no intention of cutting me any slack because of my unusual employment situation.

I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and shut down my consciousness in exactly four seconds.