long before he’d been traumatized by vampires, and that experience hadn’t exactly improved his outlook. He tried to hide it, but he had a chip on his shoulder. His fellows didn’t completely trust Grant because he was by nature a political animal, the former acting director’s golden boy, and he’d been MHI. But that time at MHI also meant he was passable in a fight. If anything interesting happened, Jefferson would probably suffice, or at least not die badly. Franks might not have been able to grasp all the nuances, but he had plenty of experience judging humans, and they seldom surprised him.
Franks got out and didn’t wait to see if Jefferson was following him. Myers had them working in shifts so that he’d always have at least one handler nearby. Normally Franks would only have a single partner, usually an experienced agent of his choosing. His partner would handle all of the messy business that Franks wasn’t suited for, like anything that required empathy. However, this was an abnormal situation, so Myers obviously felt he needed a support team. Jefferson, Archer, and Radabaugh were experienced combatants and were skilled at running interference. Strayhorn was an unknown, but Radabaugh was his training officer, so he would tag along when it was his turn. Franks didn’t know why Myers had stuck him with a rookie, but he would either succeed or he would fail. If he was lucky failure would occur in the bureaucratic arena rather than in combat. Either way, the outcome wasn’t Franks’ problem.
Most of the federal agencies around the city had fancy lobbies with useless decorations and expensive statues, all paid for by tax money that could be better used for important things, like weapons or training. The MCB building’s lobby was as plain and small as possible. It was because of the secret nature of their duty, but Franks appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t one for flash . The security checkpoint was manned by a fat old man who looked like a typical rent-a-cop. His name tag identified him as Terry. There were a couple of video monitors and a clipboard to sign in. There was nothing special enough to get anyone who blundered inside curious about the nature of this particular office building.
“Welcome back, Agent Franks,” Terry said. The guard was old now, but Franks remembered when Terry had been a young agent, crippled in the line of duty almost thirty years ago. He was one of the hundreds who had been hurt serving with Franks. “You’re looking well, sir.”
The pleasantry was useless, as Franks had gone through a dozen different faces since the two of them had first met, but ritual greetings made humans more comfortable. “You’ve gotten fat.”
“Ouch.” He patted his gut. “It isn’t like nightshift desk jockeys have to do PT.” Terry wasn’t completely for show, as there was a SCAR battle rifle hidden under the security desk, but the real security was inside. They were being observed. A red light flashed on the desk. “You’re clear to enter.”
He and Jefferson went into one of the elevators. It looked like any other elevator, but dozens of hidden cameras were studying them in every spectrum, including ultraviolet and infrared. If a visitor was running a temperature, they’d know. If they were too cold, the chamber would be flooded with powdered silver right before it was filled with fire. Body scanners bombarded them with low levels of radiation to see through their skin. Franks didn’t mind. If he got a tumor he’d just replace that part. The regular agents made it a habit not to leave and reenter headquarters more often than necessary. They ate lunch at their desks or in the cafeteria.
There was even a scale in the floor to make sure they were massing correctly. There were all sorts of interesting creatures that would have loved to sneak into MCB headquarters. A voice came out of nowhere. “You’ve put on a few pounds since your last visit, Agent Jefferson.”
“You get
Franks got out and didn’t wait to see if Jefferson was following him. Myers had them working in shifts so that he’d always have at least one handler nearby. Normally Franks would only have a single partner, usually an experienced agent of his choosing. His partner would handle all of the messy business that Franks wasn’t suited for, like anything that required empathy. However, this was an abnormal situation, so Myers obviously felt he needed a support team. Jefferson, Archer, and Radabaugh were experienced combatants and were skilled at running interference. Strayhorn was an unknown, but Radabaugh was his training officer, so he would tag along when it was his turn. Franks didn’t know why Myers had stuck him with a rookie, but he would either succeed or he would fail. If he was lucky failure would occur in the bureaucratic arena rather than in combat. Either way, the outcome wasn’t Franks’ problem.
Most of the federal agencies around the city had fancy lobbies with useless decorations and expensive statues, all paid for by tax money that could be better used for important things, like weapons or training. The MCB building’s lobby was as plain and small as possible. It was because of the secret nature of their duty, but Franks appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t one for flash . The security checkpoint was manned by a fat old man who looked like a typical rent-a-cop. His name tag identified him as Terry. There were a couple of video monitors and a clipboard to sign in. There was nothing special enough to get anyone who blundered inside curious about the nature of this particular office building.
“Welcome back, Agent Franks,” Terry said. The guard was old now, but Franks remembered when Terry had been a young agent, crippled in the line of duty almost thirty years ago. He was one of the hundreds who had been hurt serving with Franks. “You’re looking well, sir.”
The pleasantry was useless, as Franks had gone through a dozen different faces since the two of them had first met, but ritual greetings made humans more comfortable. “You’ve gotten fat.”
“Ouch.” He patted his gut. “It isn’t like nightshift desk jockeys have to do PT.” Terry wasn’t completely for show, as there was a SCAR battle rifle hidden under the security desk, but the real security was inside. They were being observed. A red light flashed on the desk. “You’re clear to enter.”
He and Jefferson went into one of the elevators. It looked like any other elevator, but dozens of hidden cameras were studying them in every spectrum, including ultraviolet and infrared. If a visitor was running a temperature, they’d know. If they were too cold, the chamber would be flooded with powdered silver right before it was filled with fire. Body scanners bombarded them with low levels of radiation to see through their skin. Franks didn’t mind. If he got a tumor he’d just replace that part. The regular agents made it a habit not to leave and reenter headquarters more often than necessary. They ate lunch at their desks or in the cafeteria.
There was even a scale in the floor to make sure they were massing correctly. There were all sorts of interesting creatures that would have loved to sneak into MCB headquarters. A voice came out of nowhere. “You’ve put on a few pounds since your last visit, Agent Jefferson.”
“You get
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