“But what about the human trafficking ring that was hit?” Collins asked. “All of the clients were killed, not to mention the ringleader. That’s a lot of very bad guys. It fits Nemesis’s M.O. of doling out justice.”
I nod. She’s right about that. And other than Nemesis, nothing else I’m aware of is capable of this. Aware of is the key phrase. “There’s something more going on here. What if we were supposed to blame Nemesis for this mess.”
“Please don’t tell me you think someone is setting up Nemesis.” Her voice oozes with doubt.
“You saw the news on our way here. There isn’t any doubt in the world’s eyes that this was Nemesis.”
Collins purses her lips. I can see she wants to believe me, but she’s struggling. In part, because the evidence is damning, but also because my belief that Nemesis isn’t entirely bad irks her. Not enough to create a divide between us, but certainly enough for her to cast doubt on my judgment of the beast. Which I appreciate. People who aren’t held accountable tend to make really poor choices. But this time, I have support.
“He’s right,” a voice says from behind.
We both turn to find the silhouette of a woman. The day is overcast and a brown-tinged haze fills the air, but it’s by no means dark. Yet this woman has found the perfect spot between two shipping containers to cloak herself in shadow. I squint, trying to see through the gloom, but she’s dressed in black. The only color I can see is her blonde hair, which hangs over her face. She doesn’t want to be seen.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Can’t tell you that,” she says. Her voice is confident. American. “But you hitched a ride on my plane.”
That’s all I needed to know. The plane that brought us here—some kind of classified stealth transport—is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The special-ops group it belongs to has got to be the best of the best. And apparently, this woman is one of them.
“How is he right?” Collins asks, all business.
“This wasn’t your monster,” she says.
I’m not sure I’m comfortable with her emphasis on the word your, like Nemesis belongs to me...or is somehow my fault. Though she is certainly my problem, as I’m in charge of preventing a repeat of Boston.
“Then what was it?” Collins asks.
The woman shrugs. “Something else. Smaller. I didn’t get a good look at it.”
“Why not?” Collins’s tone suggests she doesn’t trust this woman.
“Because I was running for my life with thirty doped-out sex slaves, that’s why.” The woman pauses, composes herself and continues. “Look, all I know is that it was big, but not three-hundred-feet tall big. It cast a bright orange light and it was hungry.”
“Hungry?” I ask.
“You won’t be finding the missing,” she says. “They were eaten. All of them.”
“How do you know they were eaten,” Collins says, “if you were running away?”
The woman twists her neck to the side, and I hear her vertebrae pop.
I had a friend that did that too much. Neck got all screwed up. “That’s not good for—”
“Shut the fuck up and listen,” she says. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of monsters before. I understand that you two are new to this, but let me assure you, I know what someone being eaten sounds like. Fuck, you two are way more bitchy than your partners.”
“Partners?” I ask.
“Two DHS-P agents. Man and a woman. North side of the port.”
Shit. Right now, Collins and I are the only field investigators at DHS-P. I’ve been given the green light to hire more, but haven’t. And not because I’m lazy. The low-key, don’t-give-a-shit Jon Hudson is on vacation. Collins and I have just been so swamped with calls since Nemesis, that I haven’t had a chance to even look at applications. Cooper has been trudging through them with Watson back at the office, but they can’t conduct the interviews or hire people. So, I know without a doubt, that the two people this woman has just described are imposters.
And I’m pretty sure I know who one of them is. I pull out my phone and open the photo app. “Hold on a second,” I say, scrolling through the images like I’m trying to show her a photo of my kids, which I don’t have. When I find the image I’m looking for, I hold it up to the gap between the crates.
The glowing screen illuminates the woman. She’s not dressed like a soldier. In fact, she’s dressed kind of slutty, in a tight black skirt. Lots of cleavage. Her blonde hair is dirty and hangs over her face, though I can see one of her piercing blue eyes. Perhaps this is why she wanted to remain in the dark. Who would take her seriously?
She must see all this in my eyes, because she glances down at herself and explains. “I was undercover.” Then she looks up at the phone and adds, “That’s the guy.”
“He give a name?” I ask.
“Collins,” she says. “Jon Collins.”
I grunt in annoyance. “Son-of-a-bitch.” That asshole. Endo is mocking us.
“There a problem?” she asks.
“I’m Collins,” Collins says.
“And I’m Jon.”