A glass ball the size of an orange rolled through the doorway and exploded in white smoke. While Theo covered his mouth and nose, Amanda breathed a pungent gas that tasted like nail polish remover. Her senses went topsy-turvy. The tempic walls of every tent rippled like liquid for four eerie seconds, until the widow fell unconscious to the grass.
Half-blind, mindless, Theo fled the tent. He only made it a few feet before he was tackled to the ground by three men in black fiber armor. They subdued him like spiders, rolling him around and binding his limbs in sticky white string. Six arms hoisted him above the ground and strapped him to a floating gurney.
Theo looked at his captors—over a dozen armed agents, all wearing the same protective gear. Their faces were obscured by long white gas masks with dark eyeholes. They looked frighteningly surreal, hulking black panthers with possum heads.
Soon the slimmest figure approached and removed her mask. Even with rain in his eyes, Theo had no trouble recognizing the dreadlocked woman in front of him. His lips curled in a feeble smile.
“Melissa Masaad.”
Though the Deps within earshot all traded baffled looks, Melissa wasn’t entirely shocked to hear her quarry say her name. She’d seen the man’s work in two different states. It was because of him that she now believed in augurs.
“Hello, Theo.”
He muttered something under his breath before falling unconscious. Melissa looked to her team in confusion.
“Did you hear that?”
“No, ma’am. I couldn’t make it out.”
Neither could she. The part she heard was nonsensical. She could have sworn she heard him say “private school.”
Disturbed, Melissa wiped the rain from her face. “Take him to the hospital. Call me the minute you learn what’s wrong with him.”
A trio of agents emerged from the tent with Amanda strapped to a stretcher. Even in her unconscious state, the other Deps kept their rifles fixed on her. No one wanted to take any chances.
Melissa approached the gurney and checked her prisoner’s pulse. After four weeks of chasing ghosts, it was a marvelous thing to finally touch the real Amanda Given.
She rooted through Amanda’s pockets, procuring a handphone. The tiny light flashed green in announcement of a new text message from David’s phone.
We haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything all right?
Melissa smiled. She’d just captured two dangerous criminals without spilling a drop of blood. Now she had the tool that would lead her to the rest of the group. Everything was more than all right. It was a beautiful day.
TWENTY-SEVEN
She’d grown used to her conspicuous nature. Everywhere she went in her great adopted nation, she could feel the heat of inquisitive stares. She was a dark-skinned beauty with overpronounced cheekbones, exquisite almond eyes, and a flowing hairstyle that was far too exotic for uncultured minds to process. She spoke with an accent that few Americans had ever heard before. To top it all off, she carried a badge.
Her fellow Deps were no closer to cracking the enigma that was Melissa Masaad. Even those who saw beyond her standing as a dusker, a limer, and an occasional erection-inducer couldn’t get around the fact that she was a little bit off. She talked to herself in hallways, chewed on her hair in meetings, and derailed conversations with peculiar non sequiturs. Though she scored her fair share of acrimony for her early rank advancement, it seemed rather fitting that Melissa would seize the reins on the Bureau’s strangest case to date.
Now fifteen agents watched Melissa with muted puzzlement as she lay atop her guest desk in the bullpen. She’d spread herself out like a bearskin rug, her chin propped on a thick phone directory. Her handtop rested on the edge of the neighboring desk.
“Advance.”
The screen displayed a new page of transcribed dialogue. Through ghost drills, the Deps had reproduced more than seventy hours of fugitive chatter, every word the Silvers had uttered in the Ramona motel and the Evansville resort. Melissa had read all twelve hundred pages. She had enough questions to keep her captives busy for weeks.
Howard Hairston stood at the hallway junction, glaring at the two local agents who peered up Melissa’s skirt. She raised her head to look at him.
“Is everything ready?”
“We’re all set.”
The skinny young Dep had become Melissa’s right-hand man in the wake of her promotion. You can’t do it all yourself, Andy Cahill had warned her, on his last day of work. The minute you become the new me, you need to find a new you.
“How is she?”
“Surprisingly calm,” said Howard.
“Did you find a—”
He held up a tempic screwdriver. Melissa smiled.
“Wonderful. Thank you, Howard.”