Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

“The ocean view makes up for it,” I say, and then take a deep breath. Despite the heat, the night breeze is cool and smells of the sea.

“So,” she says, still looking up. “Where do you think this is headed?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “I’m kind of hoping Nemesis will drown or at least swim to Japan.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, and then figure out what she is talking about. “Oh! I, uh, where do you think it’s headed?”

“Well, you’re my boss now, right?” she asks.

Damnit.

“And I’m willing to bet the DHS has a policy about inter-office fraternization.”

“They do,” I say. “But I see it more like an insurance policy. Doesn’t cover pre-existing conditions.”

She laughs in a way that makes me think I’ll fire her if her joining the team screws things up on a personal level.

“Be serious,” she says.

“Okay. Serious.” I take a moment to collect my thoughts, and I have to admit, it’s a nice distraction from what I was thinking about before. “Sure, technically, I’m your superior now. But I would prefer to treat our professional relationship as more of a partnership.”

“I’m not sure I’ve earned that yet,” she says.

“In the past five years, I’ve basically sat on my ass and traveled around the country, taking mini-vacations while looking for various mythical creatures. The action we saw today constitutes the sum of my genuine experience dealing with the paranormal, and you were by my side for every second of it. So you’re just as qualified as me.”

“Which is to say neither of us is qualified.”

I laugh and say, “Exactly. But don’t tell anyone else.” I let out a breath, unsure of what to say next, but decide I can be upfront with her, which is one of the things I like best about her. “The truth is, I think that we should take it slow. We do need to work together now, and I don’t want to lose you—from the team, I mean. And...maybe I’m wrong, but I think you’ve got some...issues to take care of.” I raise my hands when she looks at me with serious eyes. “You don’t need to talk about it. Unless it affects your work here, it’s none of my business...until you decide to make it my business.” I’m not sure she gets what I’m saying, but then she replies.

“I was married,” she says, and then sighs. “The short version is that my husband was psychotic. Like actually psychotic. He nearly killed the mailman when he found the guy in the house. Thought I was screwing him. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t. The poor guy was sixty-two. He was in the house because it was hot and he looked close to passing out. I offered him a lemonade. My ex went to jail for aggravated assault. Got five years. He’s been out for two.”

“Wasn’t just the mailman, though,” I say, “was it?”

She shakes her head. “I was in the hospital for three days. Lots of damage. Nothing permanent. I wanted to be ready if he came to find me, so I became a cop and learned how to fight.”

I remember the way she handled the highly trained soldiers, and her brawl with Endo. “I think you’re more than ready.”

“Please,” she says, waving her hand like it’s no big deal. “I’ve faced a giant fucking monster. I’m not afraid of my ex anymore.”

We both smile a little, but then I get serious. I’m an observant guy, so I’m pretty sure I understand what’s just happened, but I need to be sure. “So...did you just make it my business?”

She puts her hand on mine. “I did, but we’ll still take it slow.”

Her hand feels like an electric charge on top of mine, and all of my pent up stress and fear and anger is transmogrified into desire. Screw taking it slow, I think, but then a window on the floor above opens and I say, “That better be Mrs. Rosen.”

“We’ve got something,” Cooper says.

“Be right up,” I say.

“Don’t come here,” she says. “Get to the roof instead. I’ll give you the details in the air.”

I hear the helicopter’s engine warming up above us and wonder how long it will be before we get complaints from the neighbors. I hop down from the wall. “Where are we headed?”

“West Beach,” Cooper says.

I freeze with my hand on the sliding door to my room. I turn my head up. “That’s—”

“—Beverly Farms,” she says. “You can be there in ten minutes.”





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