Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) by Ambrose Ibsen

sort of covert ops you see in movies. This beefy motherfucker who was now dropping into the driver's seat, dressed in all black and wearing sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had barely risen, was the kind who made people disappear for a living. What had I gotten myself into?
    I cleared my throat, the smell of my piss stinging my nostrils. I was too damn scared to be embarrassed, though. Sniffing, I wiped at my eyes and dried the last few tears that still crowded their edges. “So, uh,” I said in my steadiest tone of voice, “what the hell is going on, man?”
    The man removed his sunglasses, tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket. His skin was a little pale, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. His eyes, deep-set and intense, narrowed as he stared out of the windshield and tore onto the main street in a hurry. “Still trying to figure that out, Lucy.”
    I cringed. “Lucy”. I'd been called that before. Everyone and their mother liked to call me “Lucy” for short. Kids in school had done it when I was young as an emasculating insult, and still others had done it as a misguided show of endearment. My older brother, Conrad, had always called me that, too. I hated it, but wasn't about to correct him.
    He knew my name, though. How? I'd never met him before, I was certain.
    “Who are you?” I asked. Then, I added, “And how do you know my name?”
    “Chief Kubo,” he said without missing a beat. He slammed the accelerator and sped around a turn, starting for the highway entrance ramp. We were headed out of Flint in a hurry, though I couldn't say where to. “I'm with the Veiled Order,” he finished.
    The Veiled Order. Wasn't that the organization Amundsen had mentioned in the hospital? The one who'd done this to me, and which had such great plans for me in the future?
    I guess they'd sent those guys out to collect me, their precious possession. I was a dog that'd gotten loose, and they were the dog catchers, these guys who traveled in jet black vehicles and pushed the cops around. Did they have ties to the FBI or something?
    “So, are you a federal agent?” I chanced.
    Kubo didn't reply to that one.
    “Are you taking me back to that hospital?”
    Still no reply.
    We were on the highway, coasting along at a cool eighty miles per hour. Kubo eased it up to eighty-five. He was the kind of guy who could afford not to give a fuck how fast he was going. No one in their right mind was going to pull him over, even without plates on his car.
    “Why have you come for me?” I asked, exasperated by his silence.
    He sighed. “Because it's my job. I'm your boss, idiot. Your babysitter, whatever.”
    Now, what was that supposed to mean? “B-boss?” I tried the word out on my lips, but it didn't sound right.
    That must've been because, to the best of my knowledge, I'd never signed up to work for this guy. I watched the highway scenery as it was lit up by the dawn and dropped my hands into my lap. “I don't remember signing anything... interviewing for any kind of job,” I said quietly.
    Kubo smirked, but said nothing. He didn't give a damn.

TEN

    When we made it to the facility and had parked the SUV in a large lot blocked off by tall gates sturdy enough to keep Godzilla out, Kubo led me inside by the arm. We walked in through a set of sliding double doors. The way forward was locked tightly, and it was only after he swiped a keycard and entered a ridiculously long string of numbers into a keypad that the inner door finally opened, revealing a lobby of great extent, and furnished with sleek furniture.
    Not that there was anyone to be seen there.
      We stepped inside and the door closed behind us with a hiss, effectively blocking the outside world from view. This was the kind of place where intense shit went down; dangerous, experimental pathogens might be developed here. Maybe this was where the President kept that infamous red button of his, for launching nukes. It occurred to me, too, that this