“That’s got to be really frustrating for you.” If there was ever anyone in dire need of extra-judicial killing, it was Stricken. Word on the street was that he had caused the government so much consternation that if they had dropped a Hellfire missile on downtown Atlanta to pop the guy, none of us Hunters would have blinked an eye. “How come?”
“Orders.”
“Orders for what? Why would the government possibly want that sneaky bastard taken alive?”
“Classified.”
I groaned. Now he was just leaving me hanging out of spite. “Considering your history, I’m surprised you didn’t just ignore orders and waste him anyway.”
“Things have changed,” Franks said.
“What? You’re turning over a new leaf? This is a kinder, gentler MCB?”
But he didn’t elaborate. Whatever had changed, it had to be one heck of a motivator to keep Franks from simply offing somebody he really didn’t like.
The rest of the ride was done in silence. Franks feeling bitter that he couldn’t just snap Stricken’s scrawny neck, and me wondering why the federal agency that had zero compunction about killing uppity witnesses who talked too much about monsters existing, was keeping that two-timing scumbag alive. But knowing Stricken, he had dirt on everybody important. He was like a supernatural J. Edgar Hoover, only without the cross-dressing.
Our destination was a very unremarkable building. The Atlanta MCB office had no signs. There was nothing to indicate it was even a federal building except for the uniformed security guards manning the gate to the underground parking garage. But the MCB was so small that their local office wasn’t even taking up the whole building, just the bottom floor. None of us Hunters actually knew how much staff the MCB had, but I bet the small army of MCB we’d seen earlier must have come in from other offices to help. We drove down a couple levels and parked by an elevator that had a few more guards posted. Amusingly enough, Grant’s undercover taco truck was parked there too. I couldn’t wait to ask Grant about his exciting new career path.
Franks got out, then opened my door and roughly dragged me out by the arm. Thankfully it was my uninjured one, not that Franks would’ve cared. One of the guards at the door immediately reported, “The others have already arrived, Agent Franks. They’re waiting for you in the briefing room.”
I didn’t know who others entailed, but now I was curious. Franks hadn’t harassed me further about what had been in the backpack, and I had no idea what he’d dragged me here for. That sort of confusion was normal when dealing with the notoriously taciturn agent.
From the reaction we got when we walked in, Franks was like a celebrity to these agents. It was Agent Franks the man, myth, and legend. The local Feds stared at Franks like he was some kind of rock star. A few even looked like they wanted to throw their panties on stage.
Despite being a field office of a top-secret government agency dedicated to keeping the existence of the supernatural secret from the world, the interior looked like any other generic law enforcement office, with cubicles, desks, computers, potted plants, and bulletin boards. The main difference was that most of the pics on their Most Wanted wall weren’t human. Ten through six were an assortment of charming types I’d never had the pleasure of meeting: some kind of succubus demon woman who was strangely attractive even with the horns and fangs, a west coast gnome who had to be pretty freaking hard core for a gnome to make the list, a necromancer, a mad scientist, and a scruffy-looking werewolf. Lucinda Hood would surely be disappointed to know she’d been bumped clear back to number five, but the Condition had been relatively quiet for the last year. Number four appeared to be a very surly-looking bullman. The vampire Susan Shackleford would probably be proud to know she’d made the list at number three. Second was some kind of translucent tentacle monster I’d never seen before. And of course, supernatural enemy number one with a bullet was Stricken.
In celebration, somebody had recently drawn a big X across Stricken’s face with a Sharpie.
“You know Asag should be the top priority on that list. Right, Franks?”
“I don’t set policy.” I took that as a yes. Then he shoved me down a hallway.
I couldn’t bag on the MCB’s list too much since Asag was usually incorporeal, and I’d killed the last body he had been inhabiting. Nobody knew what poor sucker he was currently wearing as a meat suit, so what picture would they put up? A blank sheet of paper? A question mark? He was the immortal embodiment of chaos, dedicated to dismantling reality. It was kind of hard to sum that up on a bulletin board.
Grant Jefferson was waiting outside the door labeled conference room, still dressed as the tacomeister, though he’d ditched the hair net, glasses, and apron. It turned out the beard was real. It actually looked good on him, not that I would tell him that. Dude already had a big enough ego as it was.
“Owen.” He gave me a nod. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a respectful one, more like, ugh, this asshole again.
“Hey, Grant.” I resisted my reflexive knee-jerk desire to be insulting to him, because when I’d been stuck in the Nightmare Realm and my family had been in danger, he had tried to help Julie get our son back. That sort of thing balanced a lot of scales. “Been a while.”
“Yeah. How’s the family?”
“Good. Julie’s holding down the fort in Alabama. Ray’s growing fast. He’s a smart and healthy kid.”
“Good for you, guys.” He almost sounded sincere about that. “And the gang?”
“Milo just had twins.”
“That’s those Mormons for you.” Grant laughed.
“How’s Archer? Is he around?”
Franks grew impatient at the annoying humans talking about our
