The Archer's Thread

By Noel Zamot

Gold Medal, 2021 Florida Book Awards for Popular FictionSilver, 2022 Florida Authors and Publishers Association President's Awards.Finalist, ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Competition&n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atabey Group
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638374756

Noel Zamot

Noel Zamot is an author, former military aviator, aerospace expert, and public servant. He is the award-winning author of "The Archer's Thread," the 39th Commander of the US Air Force's elite Test Pilot School, and served in a Congressionally-appointed role as Puerto Rico's "Infrastructure Czar" in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria.

Book preview

Synesthesia

(noun) syn·es·the·sia |\ˌsi-nəs-ˈthē-zh(ē-)ə\

1: a concomitant sensation

especially: a subjective sensation or image of a sense

(as of color) other than the one (as of sound) being

stimulated

2: the condition marked by the experience of such

sensations

PROLOGUE

Kidnapped.

Kelly’s heart raced, and she found it difficult to focus. The fat man seated next to her showed no emotion beyond fake politeness.

I’m too gullible, she thought. They had approached her as she left the lecture, chatting about an overseas initiative for young girls in Turkey. She’d walked outside with them, lost in conversation, and realized too late that she was headed onto the street instead of toward the Boston gate. The man held her as he pushed her into a waiting car. Next thing she knew, two armed strangers were taking her toward the freeway.

She didn't have time to scream.

Terror kept her from calling for help. If they took her phone, it would all be over. They had not touched her since entering the car, but fear paralyzed her as they approached a parking garage.

If the men tried anything, she’d go out fighting. She took a mental inventory of her belongings, feeling sick thinking how she’d use them. Some keys, a pen, a small mace keychain somewhere at the bottom of her purse. She wished she remembered how to work that panic button on her watch.

She felt the watch vibrate as the car entered the parking structure, a text from her new phone.

Buckle your seatbelt

A wave of hope, warm and light, washed over her, and the jumble of sensory input collapsed into one task:

Buckle your seat belt.

She tugged at the belt with her left hand, hiding the message, and buckled it with her right.

We are almost here. The man racked his handgun and scanned outside. You may have to take that off—

A crash of glass cracked open the night. The car swerved and accelerated toward a massive concrete pillar straight ahead.

Oh, shit…!

The impact was brutal and violent, the aftermath eerily quiet. The fat man sat back, stunned, blood pouring out of his nose after hitting the back of the passenger seat full force. He muttered something unintelligible, and she noticed the parking garage had gone dark. Dim shadows from a street lamp spilled across the concrete ceiling.

Then the man’s window blew in, covering him with broken glass. The man yelled, trying to remove shards from his eyes. Someone undid the locks and pulled him out.

Only shadows moved in the darkness. The man crumpled to the ground screaming—she heard dull thuds and muffled cracks from where he was, someone speaking a strange language, and a desperate moan.

She undid her seatbelt in a panic, and opened the door. Her chest throbbed from the impact. The front of the car was crushed, the driver’s window missing. The driver slumped over the airbag, half of his skull caved in a bloody smear. Through the shock and nausea, she wondered if someone shot him. She stepped away from the vehicle and heard something crunching on the other side.

Help me! Help! She yelled at the top of her lungs, unsure where to run.

The thuds and cracking stopped. Someone spat and coughed through a moan. She heard a man’s heavy breathing, exhausted after a long run.

She stumbled around the trunk and saw him. The fat man lay on the ground in a heap, his leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. A familiar shape stood over him, eyes gleaming with something beyond hate.

In the dark, she saw his hands were covered in blood.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

Boston Common reeked of weed, piss, and sweat—the smell of August in the city. All of downtown emptied in the summer, idle and forgotten in the sticky heat. The college students were gone, and the city filled with tourists, concert-goers and the unlucky few who could not escape the summer hell. Simon stayed by choice. It was a hot night in Boston, and he was looking for prey.

He walked above the Common, east on Beacon Street, and watched the evening unfold. He gazed past the east side of the Boston Green, to the short stretch of Park Street up from the Freedom Trail, seeing the darkness develop in time. Young couples—out of towners, or perhaps college interns working in the city—walked the short distance between Tremont and Beacon Streets, not knowing the scum of Boston made their home on the nasty stretch of pavement. They were easy targets for the alpha predators of the Common, the crackheads and meth dealers who got their kicks by preying on the weak. Simon hated them, but unlike everyone else in the city, he planned to do something about it.

Who will it be tonight? he thought, and let his mind wander.

There.

He stopped and gazed at the slight downhill of Park Street near Tremont, where hawkers sold Red Sox souvenirs and cheap junk. Two huge men, probably crack dealers, were throwing their weight around the junkies and homeless. They were eyeing a young couple—Asian tourists or interns, Simon couldn’t yet tell—walking a few yards beyond. The couple held hands, enjoying the stroll, unaware of what was about to happen. Simon focused on the timelines where the thugs would intimidate them and make some cash.

Perfect.

He walked down as the couple strode behind one dealer, trying to avoid them. The larger one saw them and changed his line, bumping into them on purpose, then waving his hands.

Excuse me… The young man looked at the thug and tried to walk away, to keep his date and self-esteem intact.

Oh, I am SO sorry, motherfucker! Did I hurt you or your bitch? The dealer was big, over two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He was imposing and loud, with tattoos almost up to his ears and wild, matted red hair. His sidekick walked over, hand stuffed into his pants, faking a gun.

Don’t you walk away, bitch! I’m talking to you, motherfucker, don’t you—

Simon cut in front, blocking his path and allowing the couple to escape.

Shut up, asshole, he spat, eyes locked on the thug. The two men smelled like they hadn’t showered in days. Simon turned and smiled at the young couple, and motioned them with a nod to get the hell out.

You talkin’ to me, motherfucker? He turned back to his sidekick with an amused grin. Little faggot wants to be a motherfuckin’ hero.

I need a score. Not here. He nodded toward a tree in the middle of the Common, a popular place for drops. He noticed a gaggle of kids behind him capturing the aborted fight on their mobile phones. They wouldn’t capture anything in this light, he thought.

Motherfucker wants some ROCK after disrespecting me? The dealer inched closer to Simon. You a fucking COP? He weaved left and right while talking, the urban method of communicating a threat. Who the fuck are you?

I’m not asking, dipshit. Shut up and do as you’re told. Simon turned and walked away. He heard the jingle of chains and shivs behind him and chuckled. The sidekick went wide, by the fountain. They’d use the typical city takedown: one guy postured and threatened, while the sidekick nailed the victim from behind.

He shook his head and smiled. Idiots.

Darkness came late in the Boston summer, and it took heaven’s own time for the city to cool. Simon gazed at the night sky, replaying the next few minutes in his mind. The satellites would have a hard time seeing anything for the next twenty minutes, their prying eyes confused by the lingering summer heat. The rest of the cameras around the Common were out of commission.

Took me enough damn time, he mused.

You’d be so proud of me, Mina. I learned so much from you.

I hope someday you rot in hell.

He took stock of the layout by the tree, then looked north to Beacon Street. It was quiet out in Back Bay. The lights of MIT and Cambridge lit up the sky north of the Charles. He felt the loneliness of the summer on the Esplanade, when everyone left for the Cape, or the mountains, or Tanglewood, and beyond. The cops were far from here, somewhere in the Theater district. They would never arrive on time.

He faced the dealer after stopping at the tree. The ancient oak was wide enough to hide the next few moments from the sidekick—and anything flying overhead. Simon crossed his arms, right hand under his chin, and waited.

The dealer arrived, waving his hands and swaying from side to side. You sure you ain’t a cop, motherfucker? Cause I’m an upright citizen and got no time for your shit—

Shut up. Where’s your friend?

Listen, you little faggot, you disrespect me one more time and…

He saw every thread where the man would react. He adjusted his expression and posture to lure him in, to convince the thug his victim was afraid and vulnerable.

You don’t think I’ll fight back. Catnip for a predator.

It felt like watching a movie, except you picked your own ending. As the idiot rambled on, Simon sensed threads where the sidekick would seal the deal from behind. Simon stayed motionless, which his prey mistook for fear, drawing closer.

When he could smell the man’s breath and sensed no outcome where his victim would react, Simon struck the man’s throat. He felt the cartilage break, wet and hollow, as the man’s windpipe collapsed.

The dealer’s eyes opened in shock, hands at his mangled neck. He staggered back and fell to the ground, desperate for air.

Hypoxia would set in soon. Brain damage would follow. Sidekick is coming behind me right… now.

The sidekick peered from behind the tree. Simon skipped back and kicked low and to his right, following the one thread where his boot went into the man’s knee.

Tendons were loud when they snapped. Like a wet branch.

The man crumpled to the ground in a horrible scream, his left leg bent at the knee at an impossible angle. Simon stood over him and grinned, unable to hide the delight in his eyes.

Shut up, or I’ll cut you open.

The sidekick fell quiet, propped up on his elbow on the filthy ground. He sobbed in silence, face twisted in pain and terror, his pants wet from pissing himself. Simon had seen this look in people who knew they were going to die.

Motherfucker… The man talked in breathless spurts through the pain. When I get better, I’m gonna fucking hunt you down… fuck you up… He was tearing up, and Simon could taste his victim’s terror as he fell from predator to prey. He knelt close to the man’s face, smelling the filth in the heavy night air.

If I was some drunk college girl, you and your buddy would be raping me right now, you piece of shit. He sensed the man’s fear at the unknown pain ahead. Never threaten or hurt anyone again, you fucking scum. Ever.

The sidekick started shaking as he went into shock. The first thug struggled for air a few feet away, his breaths shallower and weaker by the second.

You deserve this.

He sensed no outcomes where the sidekick would react. Simon clapped his hands hard on the man’s ears, rupturing both eardrums, then brought his fists down on the man’s clavicles, snapping them.

Like branches. Bones breaking inside meat.

The sidekick fell back, wailing. But Simon was already walking up toward Beacon Street, crossing onto Walnut Avenue where all the nice, white startup millionaires and corrupt politicians lived, where the Boston cops would not bother an unremarkable white boy with messy hair and earnest eyes walking at night, lost in the bowels of Back Bay.

Boston PD wouldn’t make it in time. No prints. No video. No eyewitnesses.

No one would give a damn. The two scumbags would end up in a dirty emergency room, then discharged into the ranks of the handicapped homeless on the streets of Boston. They’d be dead within months.

He climbed Walnut Street, striding over the uneven red bricks on the ancient sidewalk he had cased so many times, eyes unblinking and hot, wondering how much longer he’d do this. One street away from the hell of the Common, the stench of piss and weed and sweat and vomit was gone. The wet summer air filled his lungs as he sprinted up the hill.

He turned left on Mt. Vernon Street, leaned on a tree, and threw up.

Any games on tonight? The man asked without taking his eyes off his laptop.

No clue. The only sport I follow is Italian soccer, and that’s because of Ronaldo, the woman droned while typing away on her laptop. When he retires, I’ll have to find something else to watch.

Their monitors turned blue in unison as a red box popped up on their screen with a ping.

"Tag from Haystack, the man said. Opening. Time: 0405 Zulu. Mark."

"Copy zero four zero five Zulu. Notification from the Haystack AI." The woman enunciated her words to ensure they were clear in the recording.

"Haystack reports… social media hit, sixty percent correlation with a 911 call for downtown Boston."

Copy social media hit, correlation to emergency services, vicinity of Boston, Massachusetts. Nature of call?

Automated transcript is poor quality… apparently two adult males were assaulted. Collapsed windpipe on victim one, dislocated knee, collarbone fracture and possible concussion on victim two. The man spoke in a practiced drone, ensuring the recording captured all the information properly.

Wow. Must’ve been a heck of a fight.

Both en route to Mass General Emergency Room. Condition unknown.

ID on the victims?

Let’s see… transcript indicates… looks like drug dealers. Meth, weed, and cash found on the guy with the windpipe. Knife, weed… unregistered firearm on the knee guy.

"Why is Haystack tagging this? Sounds like a dealer turf fight gone bad."

Not sure. He read the additional report from the AI as it appeared on his screen. Oh my god.

What? the woman asked.

"Holy shit. I think it might be him."

The woman turned from her laptop. Any other cameras recording this?

Searching… negative. The man sighed. Dude’s good. If it is him, he hasn’t lost a step.

The woman’s tone changed from routine to desperate. "How far did Haystack see him? Where did we lose him?"

About twenty meters after he started walking to a tree in the middle of the park. Boston Common. Video seems to be from a live mobile phone recording. Minimal detail… night video with poor quality. Not enough for an ID. That explains the low correlation.

Network? The woman read through a checklist normally used to track people overseas. Their organization had the rare authorization to use the same tools to track individuals in the United States. No one outside of a very small group in Washington knew they existed. Far fewer knew they had been on alert for the past month, searching for someone quite special.

Negative. Let me see. Reports that cameras and street lamps north and west of the Common have been vandalized. I think it’s the startup millionaires. They love their privacy.

Don’t think any of that was accidental. Any other traffic?

Nothing. Should come in as the event develops. This will be a low priority for the Boston Police.

Overheads?

Negative. Hot night in Boston, and he was under a tree. Thermal crossover was a bitch tonight. No infrared or multispectral worth a damn, for low satellites or high. He looked at her, confused. You think he knows all that? I mean, assuming it’s him.

I doubt he has the satellite ephemeris in his head. She tapped out the log entry on her laptop. If it actually is him. But he definitely knows how to hide from overheads. Airborne?

He shook his head. Negative. No commercial or private drone traffic anywhere nearby. They’re all trying to get video of Fenway while the Sox are away. Nothing over the target area.

The man tapped on his laptop and switched to local law enforcement traffic. Hospital reports were still coming in during an unremarkable night in Boston. In anything short of a mass casualty, these took the longest. For two crack dealers dying near a tree in Boston common, they might provide nothing more than the information in the 911 call.

Why would anyone do this?

The woman shook her head. I have no idea. He’s been silent for months. All of a sudden, this. Bored, maybe? If it’s him, of course.

The man shook his head and let out a sigh. Let’s hope not. He returned to his laptop and started typing. You want me to finish the report?

Yes, please. Oh, by the way, she stopped typing and turned to him. Anything on this target is classified as program.

Which one?

She paused for a moment, averting her gaze. "Relented."

The man turned to her, eyes wide with fear.

Jesus Christ.

For Thursday, please read pages 162 to 241 from Goldbach. Office hours are scheduled for tomorrow after four. Last week, ladies and gents!

A muted, friendly groan erupted from the classroom as the graduate students gathered their belongings and walked out. It was four o’clock on a late summer afternoon, which meant their classes were cutting into research or social time. Sometimes these were indistinguishable, which Paula Mendez knew all too well.

She gathered up her notes and configured the auditorium back to shut down mode. She had been a student here—in this very classroom—only two years ago. The soft whir of screens retracting and windows opening would always remind her of coming back to the real world. She secretly missed the class experience, the academic part of her PhD, and was probably the only grad student who’d acknowledge that. But she was working on a great project, enjoyed teaching, and had a wonderful advisor. She now understood why someone might choose to be a post-doc for life, a path she had once dismissed as settling.

One more year, and I’ll be defending. That’s crazy.

She walked into the late summer heat and made her way two buildings over to her office. Office was a generous term—the space was more like a closet she shared with her fellow teaching assistant, Harriet Morris, also an applied mathematics PhD student. Paula felt lucky to go through the program with an intense, fun, and brilliant woman, especially one so different from her. They worked well together and did not mind being cramped into a windowless room, even during the hell of teaching graduate students in the summer. Harriet worked on analytical modeling with vast data sets, trying to back out patterns from probability distributions, sort of playing back fate, but in statistics. Paula worked on probabilistic searches for large primes, developing predictive algorithms to identify patterns and clues on the distribution of these monstrous numbers. Their work was ultimately about finding the deep secrets that the universe hid in plain sight. They were fortunate to work for an awesome professor who looked after them and shared their passion for the unknown.

Harriet, I’m back!

Whassup, Paula? Harriet’s hair, unkempt on good days, was held up in an impossible bun by a pencil. She was glued to her laptop, working a huge model on the school network, which made their laptops feel like an abacus.

How was recitation? she asked in a motherly tone.

They’re so cute when they’re getting it. Paula put her bag down and flipped open her laptop. She tied her jet-black hair into a ponytail and cleaned her glasses while the computer spooled up. They really struggled with the alternative construct of ‘infinities between the rational and the real numbers,’ but they’re getting there. Hopefully before finals! She said the last in a sing-song tone, a prayer of hope so her students could avert a disaster of academic proportions.

Harriet turned to Paula, the pencil losing its purchase. I had the same problem last semester. I was like ‘constructed numbers, then reals—whaat? What do you mean there’s an infinity in between?’ She rolled her eyes and chuckled. You know what helped me?

What? Paula said, tapping away at her laptop.

"One of her YouTube videos. Hierarchy of Infinities or something. You should show it to your class next time."

Paula smiled but didn’t look up. Nooooo, no, no, no, I know which one. One of her better ones. She doesn’t need that box opened up again. She tapped the enter key with a flourish and turned to Harriet. Some first-year asshole will make a dirty comment about her hair or jeans or something. They both chuckled.

Paula stopped typing for a moment. I’m so proud of her for doing those videos. But girl, that can also be a curse. She turned around. There are some really weird people out there.

Amen, sister, Harriet said.

CHAPTER 2

He walked home with the flow of traffic, glaring at the invisible drivers hiding from the sticky night. It was late, he was drunk, and he didn’t care.

Come at me now, fuckers. Now’s your chance.

It felt like theater every time he hunted. He had finished a scene and walked off set, leaving the rest of the actors, the grips, and the staff on stage. He arrived at his apartment and fumbled his way inside.

I’m sloppy. They’ll find me soon. I don’t care.

He put his phone, still in the foil bag, in the microwave before collapsing on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, felt the room spin from the buzz, and cried.

He had walked away. No parachute, no gold watch, no going away party. No one cared. He imagined they were relieved. Ten years ago, he thought his life would be different. The loneliness cascaded over him, crushing him, making his gut empty and hot. Every night he did it, he wished he could finish it. He should’ve ended it long ago, but he wasn’t strong enough.

He stumbled drunk to the kitchen, opened the drawer, and pulled out a knife. He held it with both hands and pointed at his stomach.

In every thread, he saw the blade plunging into his gut, felt the sharp, crippling pain, the blood draining from his head and through the gash in his abdomen. He could smell the bile, blood, and feces from his body, the mess on the floor, and he could see himself falling and dying in the filth.

The stench of hell.

He flattened the blade in his hands, parallel to the floor, and touched it to his chest, to the left of his sternum.

This time he saw the blade slide between his ribs, straight into his heart, the shock of the pain causing him to stop breathing. He saw the stickiness of the blood and gristle between his ribs as he tried to pull the knife out and lost consciousness. In one thread, he saw the wound gushing bright red as he slipped on a puddle of his own blood and collapsed, unconscious.

He tried several more times: his wrist, neck, eyes, and through his open mouth. None of the outcomes were pleasant, especially as the protagonist.

The images of the horrors he could inflict on himself always had the same effect.

Not tonight. Not yet.

He tasted the rage and burning shame after he saw the dozen ways he could kill himself. Even in his drunken haze, he knew the anger would drive him tomorrow night, and the next. Every night the result was the same.

I want to end it. But I’m not strong enough.

Not tonight. Not yet.

I hate you, Mina.

I have you secure as well. Go ahead. The woman pulled the hair off her face and rubbed her eyes.

"Ma’am, we had a report from Haystack last night."

What? Where? The woman was now wide awake.

Massachusetts. Middle of Boston. We have about seven seconds of video from a camera in the vicinity of Suffolk University. No facial ID yet, but it may be him.

Him? Are we talking about…?

Yes, ma’am. The reason we’re on alert.

The woman took a deep breath and tried to bring her pulse down. How’d you find him?

"Haystack correlation. Low, but for a target this important it’s enough. Facebook live video kicked it off. Looks like he lured a couple of drug dealers into a park. We had minimal social media, no orbital or thermal imagery. But it could provide enough for further investigation. To see if it is him."

Updated location? Are we tracking him? The woman stood up and paced around her bedroom, her mind on fire.

No, ma’am. He got rid of any trackers right after he—

I know, the woman interrupted.

We haven’t found his new phone yet. He destroyed his issued one when he left. Last activity was in Nevada, five months ago.

I know, she whispered and ran her hand through her ebony hair. Did you try tracking phones that go out of cell coverage every night? He’s probably putting his phone in foil or a microwave as a precaution.

Difficult heuristic to run, ma’am, especially in a big city, but we’ll try.

Please. And thank you. Your team did a great job tonight. Please copy Miss Bennett on your report.

Will do, ma’am. One more thing?

Go ahead.

Why is he doing this?

Doing what?

If it’s him, he’s…hurting people for sport. We pulled up other non-attributed attacks and are doing an initial correlation. They’re all brutal attacks, almost sadistic. If they’re all actually him, he’s turned into a sick bastard.

Let’s first find out if it really is him. Then we can figure out the why.

Yes, ma’am. Good night.

Well, boss, you ready for the new school year?

Dr. Kelly Austin-Lake took off her reading glasses, ran her hands through her dirty blonde hair, and flashed Paula a big smile.

Absolutely. Here’s to year two. I can’t believe classes start in one month!

I think this year will be fun. Harriet stood next to Paula in Kelly’s tiny office. Along with Paula, she’d be assisting with two of Dr. Austin’s courses. Harriet would TA a senior-level class on data science, Paula a first-year graduate course on advanced analytical methods. There was a lot of cross-registration in the engineering department, which made it challenging to keep students on schedule. The last month before classes began was always hectic.

Kelly placed her reading glasses on her desk and smiled, her mind far away.

Boss, what’s up?

Ah, nothing. Kelly snapped out of the daydream and gazed out the dusty window into the late summer sky. The beginning of classes always reminds me of running away.

Paula nodded in sympathy. It’s going to be better this year. One more year removed from all the…drama from the videos. Some students in the data class were only freshmen when you finished.

It’s not a big deal. She managed to smile and frown at the same time. It’s just… She shook her head, trying to shake a memory loose. Sometimes I realize those videos are online forever. Never thought I’d be so excited to do anything in my life, and now be so…desperate to run away from it.

Boss, you’re talking as if you had done amateur porn videos!

Kelly winced and shook her head at the comment.

Aren’t you proud of what you did? I’m proud of you.

Thank you, Harriet. She sighed. It was fun, and we made a difference. But sometimes it adds to people’s expectations. Gets in the way of what we should be doing.

If it wasn’t for you, I’d never get my dissertation done, Harriet reminded her. I’m still laughing about you and that computer science professor last week…

Kelly waved off the comment. I’m only doing my job as your advisor, ladies…

You’re doing a fine job at it, Paula observed. It is a full-time effort keeping Harriet’s head out of her ass. Harriet flashed Paula a sweet smile and flicked her the finger. I thought you were going to rip his head off. What did you tell him?

Kelly frowned in embarrassment. You guys are making me out like some shrew!

Well, he outweighs you by a few hundred pounds, and he was scared shitless, Harriet said, beaming. Thank you for being such a badass.

You’re welcome, Harriet. She smiled sweetly. "Something…snapped when he said he couldn’t afford to give up computing capacity to…math PhD students."

Have you seen him around since?

Not really. I think he may be at the STEM event coming up. Might be awkward. Kelly shrugged.

Is that the one at MIT? Paula asked.

Yep. Kelly frowned. It’s kind of weighing on me.

Oh shit, I forgot. Harriet scrunched her eyes shut. Timing is horrible.

It’s right in the middle of the start of classes. But hey, one and done, and we’ll go back to normal, right?

Absolutely.

They walked out of Kelly’s office, through the warren of assistant professors’ offices and over to the small room, no bigger than a walk-in closet, where they’d hold office hours for the rest of the semester. In late summer, the halls were almost deserted.

She’s under a lot of pressure, and classes haven’t even started. Harriet shook her head. I don’t know how she does it.

Paula nodded. I know. Coming into a full-on academic job after all the work she did on that YouTube series…that would be a grind.

And now she’s putting her reputation on the line for two dumbass PhD students, Harriet said, motioning to herself and Paula. I really don’t want to let her down. Especially after she almost ripped that asshole’s head off.

"Professor Asshole, Paula remarked with disdain, and Harriet chuckled. I can’t let her down either. If I make it through my defense, I’m going to do my best to be just like her." She straightened her back and stared ahead.

"But I’m going to take it for a ride. I’m going to tell every damn person I meet I’m Doctor Paula Mendez. My grandmother used to say ‘a woman fulfilled is a force of nature.’ I’m going to sign ‘Doctor’ on every damn thing that comes my way."

Amen, sister. Hope I walk that path with you.

CHAPTER 3

Justin Asher and Marcy Bennett ran down the hall, side by side. This is one tough woman, he thought. He considered Marcy far too attractive to have ever been a Marine. Her blonde undercut gave him no clue what lane she swam in, but he was very thankful to work with someone so competent and pleasant.

They made it to the briefing room right before their boss, Minerva Ayala, walked in. Justin thought she seemed out of place in the Office. Unlike the rest of the team, she dressed simply but classy, with only a tiny crucifix on her neck for jewelry. Any woman who looked like her would saunter in here and expect to be adored, he thought. She demands respect.

Minerva sat down as Tammy, the office assistant, scrambled to put water in front of her seat. Justin took his spot at the end of the table farthest from Minerva, consistent with his standing as the new guy in the unit. Marcy sat behind and to the left of Minerva, a combination of action officer, bodyguard, and whatever else was needed. The team filed in quickly and silently took their seats.

Bennett, I need this room at program.

Yes, ma’am. Marcy pulled out her tablet and tapped out instructions to set the room up to the proper classification. Shades closed on command; the door locked