guys and sob so hard that I can’t even throw up. My mom says my name, and even though I’m all covered in dirt and gore, she kneels down and throws her arms around me.
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my mother, but I do know she has the best daughter in the whole fucking world.
Washington Times-Herald
, May 3, 1980
Residents Mistake Planned Demolition for Gun Battle
QUANTICO, VA—The Quantico police department was flooded with calls from local residents reporting gunshots and explosions at a nearby office park yesterday afternoon. Liam Parrish, a longtime Quantico resident, said, “It sounded like World War III over there.”
Apparently, an out-of-state construction crew simply forgot to notify the town of the planned demolition. The police are investigating the incident to ascertain if the crew had the required permits. Police Chief Gary Ren told reporters last night, “We’re definitely looking into this. It’s not like we just let people come into our town and blow things up.”
C HAPTER 7
N EXT MORNING , S ATURDAY , M AY 3, 9:00 A.M. EST E X O PS H EADQUARTERS , H OTEL B ETHESDA , W ASHINGTON , D.C., USA
Overkaine is funny stuff. I normally run it in the middle of a mission, when my pulse is up and its effects are muted by the other drugs sloshing around in my brain. Now, sitting in Director Chanez’s sleek and spacious conference room, I can really tell how strong this shit is. I can’t feel my broken right hand at all. The painkillers have even affected my taste buds, because the doughnuts I’m noshing on normally seem a lot sweeter than this. I’m on a strong localized dose of Overkaine until I can get into surgery.
My hand is ruined from punching that last kidnapper’s head so hard. Dr. Herodotus has me scheduled late tonight for a complete replacement from the wrist down, which I have mixed feelings about. Losing this piece of me feels like I’m dying a little bit. But having a synthetic hand could be a great boost for my career, because the next time I smack some fool in his head, it won’t be my hand that breaks.
Meanwhile, my head swims and my right arm is all pins and needles. My undamaged left hand pops a bite of doughnut into my mouth and picks up my third cup of coffee this morning. I slept like crap last night. I’ve built up so much Post-Stimulant Sleep Disorder over the last two days that it feels like I’ll never sleep again. I guess I’ll get some rest during my surgery, if that even counts.
The door to the conference room opens, and everyone else streams in: Cyrus, Cleo, Patrick, and Patrick’s immediatesuperior, Information Coordinator William Harbaugh.
“Oh,
there
you are,” Cleo says as she pulls out the chair next to me.
Patrick sits on my other side. “Look at you, first one here.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I thought I’d get a head start on the doughnuts.” Everyone chuckles as they all take their seats. Levels are notoriously late for meetings, and greater incentives than free pastries have been employed to encourage punctuality.
Director Chanez walks in with his arms full of paperwork. He chats with a fiftysomething man I’ve never met. The mystery man is medium height and slim, has salt-and-pepper hair, and wears an expensive-looking suit. His lined face is very sharp and hard, like it could split firewood. He’s familiar somehow.
Chanez sits at the head of the polished table and lays his papers down in front of him. Cyrus and Harbaugh arrange themselves on the opposite side from me. The fiftysomething man graces the chair at the foot of the table with his Brooks Brothers butt.
“Welcome, everyone,” Chanez says. Then to me, “How’s that hand, Scarlet?”
“Pretty numb, sir.”
“Hmm, yes.” He nods. “Will you be able to get into surgery?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight, at twenty-three hundred. It’s the best they could do on such short notice.”
“Well, let’s get started, then.” Chanez holds his hand toward the man at the foot of the
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my mother, but I do know she has the best daughter in the whole fucking world.
Washington Times-Herald
, May 3, 1980
Residents Mistake Planned Demolition for Gun Battle
QUANTICO, VA—The Quantico police department was flooded with calls from local residents reporting gunshots and explosions at a nearby office park yesterday afternoon. Liam Parrish, a longtime Quantico resident, said, “It sounded like World War III over there.”
Apparently, an out-of-state construction crew simply forgot to notify the town of the planned demolition. The police are investigating the incident to ascertain if the crew had the required permits. Police Chief Gary Ren told reporters last night, “We’re definitely looking into this. It’s not like we just let people come into our town and blow things up.”
C HAPTER 7
N EXT MORNING , S ATURDAY , M AY 3, 9:00 A.M. EST E X O PS H EADQUARTERS , H OTEL B ETHESDA , W ASHINGTON , D.C., USA
Overkaine is funny stuff. I normally run it in the middle of a mission, when my pulse is up and its effects are muted by the other drugs sloshing around in my brain. Now, sitting in Director Chanez’s sleek and spacious conference room, I can really tell how strong this shit is. I can’t feel my broken right hand at all. The painkillers have even affected my taste buds, because the doughnuts I’m noshing on normally seem a lot sweeter than this. I’m on a strong localized dose of Overkaine until I can get into surgery.
My hand is ruined from punching that last kidnapper’s head so hard. Dr. Herodotus has me scheduled late tonight for a complete replacement from the wrist down, which I have mixed feelings about. Losing this piece of me feels like I’m dying a little bit. But having a synthetic hand could be a great boost for my career, because the next time I smack some fool in his head, it won’t be my hand that breaks.
Meanwhile, my head swims and my right arm is all pins and needles. My undamaged left hand pops a bite of doughnut into my mouth and picks up my third cup of coffee this morning. I slept like crap last night. I’ve built up so much Post-Stimulant Sleep Disorder over the last two days that it feels like I’ll never sleep again. I guess I’ll get some rest during my surgery, if that even counts.
The door to the conference room opens, and everyone else streams in: Cyrus, Cleo, Patrick, and Patrick’s immediatesuperior, Information Coordinator William Harbaugh.
“Oh,
there
you are,” Cleo says as she pulls out the chair next to me.
Patrick sits on my other side. “Look at you, first one here.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I thought I’d get a head start on the doughnuts.” Everyone chuckles as they all take their seats. Levels are notoriously late for meetings, and greater incentives than free pastries have been employed to encourage punctuality.
Director Chanez walks in with his arms full of paperwork. He chats with a fiftysomething man I’ve never met. The mystery man is medium height and slim, has salt-and-pepper hair, and wears an expensive-looking suit. His lined face is very sharp and hard, like it could split firewood. He’s familiar somehow.
Chanez sits at the head of the polished table and lays his papers down in front of him. Cyrus and Harbaugh arrange themselves on the opposite side from me. The fiftysomething man graces the chair at the foot of the table with his Brooks Brothers butt.
“Welcome, everyone,” Chanez says. Then to me, “How’s that hand, Scarlet?”
“Pretty numb, sir.”
“Hmm, yes.” He nods. “Will you be able to get into surgery?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight, at twenty-three hundred. It’s the best they could do on such short notice.”
“Well, let’s get started, then.” Chanez holds his hand toward the man at the foot of the
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