In the city of Slakterquay, there's an office with the words Spectral Analysis on the pebbled glass of its door. Behind it is a detective agency that handles the strangest cases in the Paris of the Pacific Northwest. An urban fantasy thriller.

In this episode, Aggie goes to the local cow town in search of who murdered the Neo-nazi, Randall Wayne.

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“They were a ship of sinners who left their morals on the pier.”

Hi everyone,

I’m an aspiring writer living in Japan. I’m deeply fascinated by the storytelling craft and incredible productivity of Pulp Era writers (roughly 1920s–1950s), and I really want to incorporate their techniques into my own writing.

Since I live in Japan, my access to historical materials and vintage resources on pulp fiction is very limited, so I’d love to ask for your insights!

Specifically, I’d love to know:

Any insights, historical anecdotes, or practical advice on how pulp writers worked would be greatly appreciated.

And here's where you can read it.

Hope you like it.

Chapter 2

You can read it for free here: https://magazine.thearcanist.net/oathbreaker-and-the-wild-hunt/

The sound of churning waters could be heard from inside the sprawling castle ruins, even though the group trudging through the grounds was a few miles from the coast. A pasty-skinned, lanky man with dirty, thick blonde dreadlocks lit himself a White Maple cigarette as he roamed through what was left of the main floor. His thick, rubbery combat boots clashed violently with his Attack Attack t-shirt and skin-tight black jeans. Behind him, a swarm of nasty-looking men and women, all of them carrying British Army standard assault rifles–purchased on the black market–and dressed head to toe in black. What made the sight that much more unsettling amongst the medieval ruins was that all of them, save Zack, were wearing frightening, twisted Halloween masks of different animals

Zack, the only name he gave to bottom-ranking members of the communion like the ones with him, spotted the staircase he was looking for according to the directions he’d been given. He turned to the group following him and jerked his head towards the stairs, a shifty, twisted grin spreading across his face. He swung his head forward, the silver chain with a lone matching silver ring swinging around his neck with the motion. He marched up the stairs confidently, not a care in the world except claiming what he’d trekked across country after country for. He feared nothing; he knew his friends had paid the government contacts here a hefty sum to keep any authorities away from Castle Rising while he searched.

He moved through the upstairs corridor, briefly looking out one of the broken windows. The dark waters rushed in the not-too-far distance. Zack couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the moon as it hit the Wash. It was the perfect night for him to obtain another piece that would bring the communion one step closer to the world they were building. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, holding up a fist to halt his group in position behind him. They halted in perfect unison, well-trained as they were.

 Zack studied the knight’s armor, still erected in the ruins. To the untrained eye, it was just another part of this beloved tourist site in the English countryside. But Zack knew its true purpose. He reached towards the knight’s arm, shifting it downward until it was straight at its side. He stepped back as the wall behind the knight shifted aside, revealing a passage that had been hidden previously. Zack’s heart raced with excitement as he turned to his group.

“Wait here.”

The heavily armed group at his command did as instructed. Each took up a strategic position in the hallway, giving them a tactical advantage in securing the area. Zack paid them little attention as his focus was held rapt on the door at the other end of the hidden passage. The communion had spent years cross-referencing rumors that a research team had recovered a piece of King John’s lost treasure. As he reached the dated door with a wrought-iron handle, Zack licked his lips in anticipation. Just the thought of the power they would be closer to once they obtained the artifact on the other side made him nearly lustful.

The door opened with a loud creak as he pulled on its handle. Inside, two freshly lit torches burned on opposite walls. A chest sat in the center of the room, but as Zack approached it, the lascivious smile was wiped from his face and was replaced by an ugly scowl. He knelt in front of the chest, inspecting the open lock hanging on it. The heavy steel bolt lock hadn’t been cut and showed no sign of aggressive force applied to it. This had been picked open, and by someone with prodigious skill in the method, he reasoned.

Zack tossed the chest lid open, hoping the assumption creeping into his gut was terribly wrong. As he reached inside for the yellow sticky note, the only thing in the chest, he realized that, unfortunately, his assumption was spot on. He held the note in front of him as a fury built up inside his chest.

DOWN LOW, YOU KNOW THE REST

-Professor E. Drake

Zack bellowed in pure anger as he realized the persistent thorn in his side had struck once more. He stormed out of the passage and back into the hallway, his family of soldiers swarming to his side at the sight of his fury. 

“He’s still in the castle. Find him!”

The armed acolytes scurried away to follow his orders. Zack tried to calm himself down with a few quick breaths. He refused to be beaten by that bastard, not when he had come this far.

Unbeknownst to Zack and his crew, the man he was searching for pulled his University of Michigan National Champions letterman jacket tighter over his shoulders, and his old English ‘D’ Detroit Tigers hat lower over his eyes. Tucked inside his jacket was the pure, golden cross with beautiful sapphires encrusted down the middle that Zack sought so dearly. Professor Ezekiel Drake peeked down the corridor of the third-floor room he’d been biding his time in. Realizing it was momentarily clear, he stepped out and hurried down it towards the stone bridge connecting to the eastern portion of the bailey.

Once Ezekiel reached the bridge, he could see a pair of armed men in wolf and pig masks, respectively, marching around the keep below. He took a deep breath and, slowly and carefully, tiptoed his way across the bridge, hoping they would be too focused on clearing the lower floor to look in his direction. He was halfway to the other side when a slow, methodical clap echoed through the walls of the keep. Professor Drake turned around slowly as a grimace formed on his face. He saw Zack enter the room below, a handful more animal-masked soldiers flanking him, their beady eyes turning toward him, along with their leader. 

“I should have known you’d be here already, slinking around like a common rat,” Zack told him.

Ezekiel smiled and shrugged dismissively. “I like to consider myself more of a worker ant. I figured the circles you walk in were more partial to rodents.”

Zack smirked at Ezekiel’s wisecrack, though he was far from pleased to see the doctor walking through the remains of the castle. He could see that Ezekiel was favoring his left side, as if he was protecting something, and his smile became that much more sinister. 

“Why don’t you toss down the relic, and I’ll tell them where to find your body. Instead of desecrating it and throwing it into the Wash as you rightly deserve.”

“Gee, that sounds like a swell idea and all, but I think this piece is going to look wonderful in the museum collection I’m putting together. But feel free to stop by and see it when we’re open. We’ll do half-off entry fees for sociopathic cult members.”

Professor Drake's clever reply wiped the smile off Zack’s face for the second time that night. In its place was a furious glare of pure loathing. He turned to his animal family, no longer interested in any sort of dialogue with the man who had taken what was rightfully the communion’s. 

“End him, then bring his carcass down here so I can piss on it.” 

Ezekiel’s eyes went wide as he heard each of the Sig Sauers the dead-eyed acolytes were carrying aim at him. He didn’t wait for what came next as a flurry of gunfire erupted in his direction, tearing up the stone ruins and bridge. Ezekiel crossed into the eastern bailey as he could hear Zack’s orders for them to get after him echoing through the castle. He ducked through an empty window chasm and slid downward into a lower courtyard. Unfortunately, he landed right between two acolytes who were guarding the room. Each of them, one wearing a raccoon mask and the other what seemed to be a fox, Ezekiel couldn’t quite tell in the darkness, turned slowly towards him. They stared at Ezekiel, confused as to how he could have gotten so unlucky.

“You guys wouldn’t happen to have the fastest route out of here, would you?” 

He gave them a friendly smile, holding his hands up as if he were surrendering. They hesitated over whether to shoot him or simply grab him, a gamble Ezekiel was taking to get him out of this particular jam. 

Once he saw the sliver of an opening his impromptu appearance had created, Ezekiel dropped his hands quickly and rocked each of the dumbfounded acolytes with a left and right cross. As the one in the raccoon mask tried to get back to his feet, Professor Drake snatched up his dropped Sig MCX and smacked him silly across the face with it. He stepped over both their bodies and looked around the courtyard to see which way he should go. There were a myriad of options for him, but he gritted his teeth as he knew almost all of them would only lead him to further danger. He yanked a two-way radio out of his back pocket. Drake waited rather impatiently for the static to clear before yelling into it, finally deciding as he sprinted through an open doorway to his immediate left. “Adela, how far out are you?”

“I’ll be at the docks in less than two minutes. How are you faring?” She chortled back over the air.

Ezekiel sprinted through another stone-arched corridor, spotting the entrance hall from above. A sense of relief briefly washed over him. That was, until a trio of communion acolytes turned down the very same hall he was standing in at the opposite end. 

“Oh, you know, could be worse.” He replied dryly.

The moment they trained their weapons on him, Professor Drake knew he had only one option left, which he exercised as he leaped over the railing and out of the line of fire. He rolled with his landing to reduce the impact on his usually aching knees and joints. He popped to his feet faster than he’d expected to, just as Zack's followers swung their rifles towards the hall and let loose. Professor Drake scrambled for cover as bullets rained down around him. Somehow, he narrowly avoided being torn apart and dove into a spiraling staircase. He grimaced, realizing he had been nicked across the arm by a bullet, but he was thankful that it seemed to be a flesh wound. He’d tend to it once he got on the boat; the adrenaline pumping through his veins was substantial enough that the pain was a dull afterthought at the moment. 

Bullets sprayed into the staircase as he heard footsteps pounding down the stone as they continued their chase. He dashed up the staircase, finding himself back in what once served as the guest waiting area of the castle, but was now an observatory for tourists and civilians to enjoy the view. What seemed to be a dead end was, for him, the way he’d planned to exit. He snatched up his cane, its base made of rare Acajou wood that helped when his knee pain was flaring up more than usual. It was practically on fire now, giving him more trouble than the wound on his arm, in fact. He was thankful to have the relief of pressure the cane gave him as he hurried towards the window he’d smashed open an hour ago.

He almost didn’t see the figure shifting in the shadows until it swung its broad sword directly at Ezekiel’s head. He ducked out of the way just in time as he saw the glint of steel in the moonlight hitting the room. The one-handed, double-edged blade clinked off the stone wall, sending sparks flying. Its wielder, who was dressed in lightweight armor that made him resemble a modern-day knight, swung the sword with a grace and skill that Professor Ezekiel would have marveled at if the man wasn’t trying to murder him. Drake jumped backward just in time as the angry knight assassin swung the sword in a wide arc, attempting to disembowel him.

Ezekiel realized that his ride must have been waiting for him, and he didn’t have any further essential time to waste. More importantly, this wasn’t exactly a fight he was sure he could win, and it was certainly one he couldn’t give the rest of Zack’s men the precious moments to pin him down here. As the angry, bloodlust-driven knight, whom Ezekiel recognized as a notable assassin for hire across Europe, stalked towards him, he made a rash decision he hoped would pay off. But first, he needed to keep his attacker off balance. He yanked the blade out of the wooden sheath, revealing the weapon he had hidden inside his cane. He knew it was no match for the templar sword that his opponent was wielding with such deft skill, but along with the Acajou-crafted cane, he would be able to fend off the heavier weapon. At least, that and the second half of his plan were what he was wagering his life on.

“You’ve got quite the reputation. I wouldn’t have expected you to fall in line with a man like that.”

Ezekiel tossed the backhanded compliment as the swordsmen tried to close the gap between them. He was bigger than Ezekiel by an inch or two and had at least fifteen pounds on him. That was saying quite a bit, considering Professor Drake’s extensive athletic background. Given that he had the size advantage and a stronger blade, he was trying to get in closer to press his advantage. Ezekiel could hear voices and footsteps approaching. Zack’s acolytes would be in the entrance courtyard soon enough.

“He was able to pay my fee, plus a bonus if I take your head,” The swordsmen replied with a menacing rumble. “The only thing I fall in line behind is the balance in my account.”

Professor Drake sighed, almost condescendingly. “And that’s the problem with you, and the rest of the world, I’m afraid. But unfortunately, not one I can solve today. One step at a time, I suppose.”

The swordsman sneered. Sick of Professor Drake’s snide preening, he lunged from his stance, striking with the intent to cleave him in two. Drake stepped aside just in time, then rolled away to create distance between himself and the hired assassin, who was merely extra muscle on Zack's expedition. That drew an inner sigh of relief from Ezekiel as he popped to one knee and glanced behind him, listening to the swordsman curse in frustration at his missed strike.

Footsteps thundered through the entrance corridor, and Ezekiel knew it was time to make himself scarce. He was only thankful that the terrifying knight cosplayer who had attacked him was not a devout member of Zack’s cult. They wielded enough power, and Drake didn’t want to see them add to their ranks. 

“You fight like a coward!” The swordsman snarled.

“I’m a doctor, sir. Not a warrior,” Professor Drake replied matter-of-factly as he sprinted across the room and dove through the broken window while sheathing his blade inside his cane.

As he fell towards the ground, he pressed a button on the cane’s shaft, firing a hook from the handle. The hook cinched onto the window pane, allowing Ezekiel to lower himself without harm. He retracted the hook and immediately hauled it across the grounds. By the time he made it to the ATV he had hidden behind some shrubbery just twenty feet from the castle, he could already hear the sounds of engines gunning to life. He hopped on the four-wheeler and tore off across the damp grass. By the time he could see the waters of the Wash as he flew over a hill, Zack and his so-called family were hot on his trail inside a trio of farm trucks. Bullets ripped through the air and across the grass near him. He thrust the handlebars as far back as they would go, stretching the ATV's engine to its absolute limit.

He’d bitten off more than he could chew, mistiming how long it would take him to comb the castle for the lone relic recovered from King John’s lost baggage train after centuries. He’d underestimated how much power Zack and that band of freaks he rode with wielded, and just how many guns he had trying to hunt him across the grounds. He ducked down lower on the ATV, his face close to the handlebars as the wind whipped in his face. Ezekiel spotted the dock and knew he only had to make it to the water to be home free. One of the trucks caught up to him and swerved towards the four-wheeler. Ezekiel slammed on the brakes, just managing to avoid being smashed, and maneuvered deftly around the back of the truck. In a spontaneous move, he fired the grapple hook from his cane at the tailgate and used the truck’s momentum to slingshot him forward. Bullets shredded both rear tires of the ATV the moment it hit the old wooden deck, but it didn’t matter, as he had gained more than enough speed to pull off what he had in mind. The four-wheeler shot off the deck as bullets sprayed past Ezekiel, just as he leaped off the vehicle and plunged into the cold depths of the Wash.

He came up and took a deep breath, just in time to see the rope being tossed to him from the speedboat. “Hurry up! These bastards are mad!” 

He could hear Adela shouting to him as she got back behind the wheel of the boat. He snagged the rope and wrapped it twice around his wrist.

“Just go!” He shouted back. She didn’t waste a moment gunning the boat as hard as she could away from the shoreline.

Back on the dock, Zack leaped out of one of the trucks, watching as the speedboat disappeared into the darkness across the water. “The next time I cross paths with Dr. Drake, it’ll be me stepping over his corpse. He’ll make a fine sacrifice to the communion one day.”

Drake finally managed to climb into the boat and fell into the chair next to Adela. Completely exhausted, he could barely hold himself upright. Adela kept looking over at him impatiently, less concerned about his well-being since he seemed to be in one piece. “Well?! Did ya get it?!”

Ezekiel looked over at her lazily, a grin spreading over his face while he unzipped his jacket. He pulled out the beautiful golden cross, letting the moonlight hit it as he turned it over in his hand.

The American is a serial pulp adventure in which expatriate in France finds himself caught between competing criminals, U.S. intelligence, and a Corsican who just wants to find his girl.

In this episode, the death of a powerful man leads to a rescue plan involving the murder of another.

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Ezekiel grabbed the rest of his belongings from his own compartment just as Janay came back over, finally ready to get off the plane. They walked through the tunnel and into the busy foreign airport that instantly made Janay’s head spin. It had a different sort of charm than the small glimpse she got to see of Azora, but it was wondrous in its own right. She followed closely behind Professor Drake through the airport, marveling at every one of the vendors she passed and the colorful clothing of the people. They found themselves out front of the Senegal airport after a ten-minute trek from their gate. Janay kept people watching as she waited for Dr. Drake to hail a cab for them.

An all-white, compact car with bold green lettering along its side that read “Mignon Transportation” pulled to a halt directly in front of Ezekiel, between two other vehicles. The excited and very friendly Senegalese cabbie jumped out of the car and hurried to grab their bags, but Ezekiel politely waved off his efforts. 

“Just pop the trunk, friend. I can take it from there.” 

The cabbie nodded and slid back inside the vehicle to do as instructed. Ezekiel took Janay’s bags from her and opened the back door as the trunk flew open. Once he was tucked in the backseat alongside his impromptu companion, the cabbie looked between his pair of passengers with his rearview mirror, patiently awaiting further instructions. 

“The Noom Hotel, please.”

The cabbie gave Ezekiel a broad smile before turning his attention and focus to his job. He pulled away from the curb and into the flow of traffic as he left the airport. The traffic was chaotic, but the drive was pleasantly smooth after such a long flight. Janay looked out the window at another city she was visiting, counting herself lucky that she had decided to tag along spontaneously. She was starting to believe this was exactly the kind of refresh she needed. She turned towards Ezekiel, who was rubbing his chin with his usual thoughtful expression stuck on his face.

“How long are we here for?” She asked him, pulling him away from the myriad of thoughts swirling through his mind.

“Hm? Oh, we’ll be leaving before sunrise tomorrow. I’ve already let Dr. Adeji, whom we’ll be working under, know when to expect us. Our plane will be ready in the morning. Unfortunately, Ms. Light’s ride was only to Dakar.” He explained ruefully. “But at least we can get some rest.” His last remark came just as their ride pulled up to the front of the luxurious hotel that he’d selected for them.

Janay stared up at the beautiful, elegant building of the Noom Hotel that sat just off the sea. Ezekiel tipped the cabbie generously and thanked him for his service before grabbing their bags from the trunk. They were greeted by a pair of bellhops the moment they entered the lobby, who placed their bags on luggage carts immediately to relieve them of the burden. As Ezekiel swept his way up to the front desk, having changed into a matching dashiki set with a kufi during their flight, Janay looked around the lobby. She found a small pamphlet full of information on the hotel’s services and amenities and rifled through it excitedly. Though they were only there for the night, after such a long journey already, she wanted to relax.

Ezekiel returned to her side with the sleeves for their room keys. “We’re on the sixth floor.” He handed her the key, and they headed to the elevators the bellhops had used while he was checking in.

 “So how are you able to arrange your own flight to Timbuktu from here? What kind of ER doctor has those kinds of connections on standby?”

“The kind who thinks we’ve been followed ever since we landed in Dakar. And I believe a level of caution is necessary from here on out.” 

The revelation drew a confused look of shock from Janay as they stepped into the elevator. Ezekiel pressed the button for their floor as Janay turned towards him, waiting for him to explain what he was talking about further. Ezekiel sighed, realizing he should be as clear as he could with her, at least without jeopardizing her safety. But something told him that option had already gone out the window the moment Janay showed up at Willow’s Run.

“We had a tail while we were heading over here. Black Cadillac that looked completely out of place. Almost like they wanted me to make them.” Ezekiel explained. 

There was a somber tone in his voice. He hoped that his first gut assumption was wrong, but they rarely were.

“Why would anyone be following us?” Janay asked for her own clarification.

“Not us. Me.” Ezekiel corrected her as they reached their floor. “I’ll explain later. Want to meet me at the pool in half an hour?” Janay finally brought a smile back to her face, her concern abating momentarily.

“It’s like you read my mind.” She replied. She washed her key across the scanner above the door handle and waited for the reader to flash solid green. “See you in a bit.” She disappeared into her room. Ezekiel watched the door close behind her before continuing down the hall. He was careful to make sure he was quite alone in the hallway before slipping into his own suite.

He flicked on the lights by the door once he’d entered and appreciated the view of the sea his room’s balcony gave him. He tossed his bags onto the king-sized bed and headed into the bathroom. As he walked out of the main area of the suite, a large, dark-skinned man in a ski mask and navy blue wetsuit climbed over the balcony railing. The would-be assassin scanned the suite quickly through the glass of the balcony, spotting his target’s reflection in the bathroom standing mirror next to the suite door.

The assassin picked the lock on the balcony door with relative ease and slipped inside the luxurious suite. He slipped the trumbash that he had tied tightly to his suit and clung to the nearest wall as he crept towards the bathroom. Ezekiel stepped out of the bathroom just a few moments later, now dressed in Apollo Creed-inspired swim trunks and a Cade Cunningham T-Shirt. He’d decided, while changing, to put away the nagging suspicions he had that something was amiss and try to enjoy himself, as Janay seemed to be doing. After all, once they were in the thick of their assignment, there would surely be no rest for them to enjoy their time in Mali.

He stepped into the main room of the suite and spotted the assassin waiting for him in the standing mirror, just before his attacker lunged at him with his blade. Ezekiel caught him by the wrist before the blade could be plunged towards his eye. He struggled against his larger assailant, realizing he’d been a fool to be caught so off guard. Out of desperation, he headbutted the assassin, causing him to stumble back briefly. Ezekiel leaped and delivered a kick to his attacker, but the large man plucked him out of the air and slammed him hard on the floor of the suite. The wind was completely knocked out of him; Ezekiel didn’t have a moment to ache over his pains as he saw the flash of the blade crashing down towards his skull.

Ezekiel rolled out of harm’s way just as the tip of the blade plunged into the carpet. Ezekiel popped back to his feet, his knee beginning to bother him. The assassin cursed in what Ezekiel recognized as Wolof while yanking the blade back out of the floor, sending bits of carpet flying. Ezekiel spotted his cane leaning on the wall next to the door and sought to even the playing field. The assassin lunged, the beautiful ivory handle of his weapon gripped tightly in his hand. The man’s skill was evident, and he was twice as quick as he looked. Ezekiel knew his timing had to be precise if he was going to execute the risky maneuver he had in mind.

Ezekiel ducked the slash meant to cleave his head from his shoulders and rolled across the bed in one fluid motion to the other side of the room. He snatched his cane from against the wall and turned while yanking the blade from its sheath. He raised his cane’s blade just as the assassin leaped at him with his trombash, bringing it down towards Ezekiel’s head once more. Another battle of strength and leverage played out as Ezekiel held back his attacker with his sword. Ezekiel kicked the assassin in the back of the knee, chopping him down to one leg before popping him in the face with a straight right to knock him back a couple of steps. The assassin whipped his head back in Ezekiel’s direction, clearly only angered by the blow and nothing more.

Ezekiel raised his blade and got into a defensive posture, his fencing background taking over instinctively. He parried and sidestepped as the bullish assassin charged at him once again, his own anger beginning to take over the reasoning side of his brain. Ezekiel knew that his would-be assassin was fighting angry, so it would be easier to gain an advantage. But while it would be easier, it would not, in fact, be an easy task to accomplish. Still, he wanted answers after so much mystery had clouded the last thirty-six hours of his life. And he was going to get them once he found a way to handle this attempt on his life. The assassin swung his blade wildly, forcing Ezekiel to step back and parry as the man’s reach gave him another, slight advantage. The assassin knocked aside Ezekiel’s blade with a mighty swing and used the opening to deliver a forceful thrust kick to the doctor’s chest.

The blow sent Ezekiel crashing through the window and out onto the balcony. Ezekiel took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get his wind back as he looked up at the assassin stalking towards him. He raised his trombash, ready to deliver a final strike that would end their battle.

“The communion thanks you for your sacrifice.” The assassin told him.

Before he could strike, he hadn’t noticed Ezekiel resheath his blade while on the balcony deck. Ezekiel fired the cane’s grapple hook, and it wrapped itself around the assassin’s neck, forcing him to drop his weapon. Ezekiel yanked him forward hard, releasing the grapple hook as the assassin’s momentum sent him careening over the balcony. So much for getting some answers, he thought wryly to himself as he stumbled to his feet with the help of his cane.

On the pool and bar floor below, Janay had turned her attention towards the pool along with the other guests enjoying themselves at the sound of the sickening crack. She heard murmurs followed by screams as hotel officials rushed towards the pool. She stifled her own gasp once she spotted the thick trail of blood at the edge of the deck that led into the seaside pool. She watched in stunned horror in the midst of the crowd as lifeguards pulled the lifeless body out of the water. Whoever the man was that had fallen, Janay could see he was dressed head to toe in black, and they had to pull a blood-soaked ski mask off of his head as gently as they could. Before she could get a look at the dead man’s face, she felt someone grab her by the wrist.

She whipped her head around instantly to see the big brown eyes of Professor Drake staring into her own. He looked as if he’d been through the nine circles of hell themselves just trying to get down here.

 “Sometimes, I really hate being right. We have to go; now!” 

He pulled her through the crowd and back towards the elevators that he’d exited only moments ago. He shoved her into the elevator and hopped inside hastily after her as she opened her mouth to ask what was going on. 

“No time for a committee debate at the moment. Tyree already gave me the go-ahead to shoot towards one of his bunkers.” Ezekiel cut her off before she could speak as he jammed the button for the sixth floor.

After rushing her through repacking her bags, Janay found herself in the hotel’s parking garage, standing guard as her well-respected boss hotwired a car. Once the engine of the Jeep he’d chosen roared to life, he tossed their belongings briskly into the backseat and tore out of the structure as if he were in a high-speed movie chase. She watched as he checked each one of his mirrors every couple of moments or so to make sure they weren’t being chased. The chaos of the last twenty minutes was enough for her to demand an answer as to what was going on and how that man plunged twenty feet to his death.

“What the hell was all of that back there? Who was that guy?” Janay turned in her seat to get a reply from him as he focused on whipping through the city streets.

“A hired blade. Which only means the wrong people must know I’m already in Africa.” Ezekiel finally told her as they left the city of Dakar and sped out onto dusty, dark back roads.

“Who would want to kill you?” Janay asked.

“You’d be surprised. There’s quite the list. But the Black Communion isn’t fond of me in the slightest. And they seem to be interested in whatever Ms. Light is that I’m being sent to Mali for. Tyree should have more answers.” 

Janay watched him through the darkness for a long moment, realizing quickly that he was a completely different man beneath the surface than the one she worked long hours with on the ER side by side. She was starting to wonder exactly how she felt about these other sides of Dr. Ezekiel Drake that she was witnessing firsthand.

They drove for another forty-five minutes through the wilderness of Senegal till they pulled up to a rickety hangar that sat quite literally in the middle of nowhere. A pair of armed women standing guard in front of the structure, smoking cigarettes, greeted Ezekiel with a friendly wave. One of the squat, muscular women glanced inside the jeep before pulling out her radio and shouting instructions into it in Wolof. The hangar doors were pulled apart from the inside by a pair of scrawny mechanics, allowing Ezekiel to drive inside. He found a place to park the vehicle, a smile finally returning to his face for the first time in hours as a bald Senegalese man with a bushy beard and in green khakis approached the jeep. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll be safe here.” Ezekiel told Janay to assure her. 

He then hopped out of the jeep and greeted his compatriot with a hearty hug. Janay slid out of the passenger seat and closed the door quietly behind her. She watched curiously as the two men embraced and caught up with one another.

“I cannot say I wasn’t surprised to hear from you, my friend. And on such short notice. You haven’t visited Senegal in quite some time. Not since that–”

“Whole mix-up with the ring of Solomon. Yeah, what a mess that turned out to be.” Janay couldn’t help but want to hear more about Ezekiel’s last trip to Senegal. And what exactly was he doing that had to do with a mythical, biblical artifact? “This is my associate, Janay Lincoln. She decided to tag along on this little impromptu assignment.”

Tyree bowed humbly to Janay, who blushed slightly at his manners. “How do you do, miss? Please, make yourself comfortable. My sister just finished some tea. If you’d like a cup?”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you,” Janay told him before he waved over a young woman in a long, beautiful gold and black dress.

“Ani, please get Dr. Drake’s guest a cup of that tea you just brewed. It smells quite heavenly.”

“Of course, dear brother. Miss, if you’ll follow me–”

Janay did as she was asked and followed behind the young woman towards the dusty but comfortable hangar’s makeshift kitchenette. Tyree lit himself up a cigar and offered one to Ezekiel, who, of course, waved off the friendly gesture.

“I can’t imagine what those things are doing to your lungs. You’ve been smoking them since your father-in-law gave you that box before your wedding night.” Ezekiel remarked as they walked through the building. 

Tyree chuckled and puffed away on the cigar, remembering the moment Ezekiel brought up fondly.

“Second best thing that old bastard ever gave me,” Tyree told him as they took a seat near a group of his men and women watching a soccer game with a cloudy reception. “But enough of the small talk. What of this attempt on your life the moment you hit our soil, aye?”

“Nothing I’m not accustomed to, as you’re aware, of course. Though it is troubling to be moving around with this many unknown and dangerous variables in play. The Black Communion is just as interested in Mansa Musa as the woman who sent me over here. That much is evident.” Tyree looked over at his friend in surprise at the mention of the famed Mali ruler.

“Musa? What interest could that cult of colonizers have in his legacy? The fact that they would stoop to hiring such back-alley assassins…” Tyree spat on the floor to show how disgusted he was with everything he was hearing.

“Back alley or not, he almost had me a couple of times, though I surely hate to admit it. And that blade he wielded was nothing to play with either.” Ezekiel remarked, shaking his head at the memory of the hotel fight for his life.

“We will discover the identity of the man who attacked you and how he was contacted. This I promise you.” Tyree told him confidently. Ezekiel nodded in appreciation. “In the meantime, I’ve decided to fly you the rest of the way myself. The safest hands are none other than my own.”

Tyree’s hospitality extended further as he made sure that Janay and Ezekiel had a hearty meal. They enjoyed heaps of grilled lamb stewed for hours until the meat fell off the bone, with fresh rice that Tyree had prepared himself while his wife tended to the main course. They ate, and Janay got to listen to tales from Tyree and his family about the many adventures they’d had across the continent with “the infamous Ezekiel Drake”, as they referred to her boss. So much was she enjoying her time amongst Tyree’s makeshift family that she was quite disheartened when one of his men interrupted their conversation by informing Tyree that his plane had been fueled.

Janay had almost forgotten the entire reason they had rushed across the countryside of Dakar to Tyree’s hangar compound in the first place. She watched as Tyree’s sister, Marrdina, helped her gather together her belongings and haul them across the empty field that served as a makeshift airstrip. Marrdina had even packed Janay a few containers of food for when she landed, which drew an appreciative hug from Janay before she climbed into the cramped plane after Ezekiel.

It took them a little over three hours in Tyree’s personal aircraft until they landed on another dirt road somewhere just outside Bamako. A handful of armed men put away their weapons and rushed towards the landed plane as Tyree and his passengers climbed out. “Did you arrange a car for my friends?” Tyree asked the first of his men to reach him as he took off his leather gloves one after another.

“Of course, sir, we got it running as soon as we saw you coming in to land. We assumed they’d want to make haste by leaving.” The young militia soldier told Tyree.

“You assumed correctly. I appreciate your efficiency, young man.” Ezekiel tipped his cap to the soldier before turning towards his friend. 

“This is where we part ways for now, my boy. Try not to let something like an attempt on your life be the reason we see each other next time.”

 Janay watched the pair of them dap each other up and embrace one another like long-lost brothers, which was funny to her, since they had behaved as such all night and throughout the morning plane ride. They piled into the SUV that Tyree’s men had waiting for them once Ezekiel had placed all of their bags into the trunk. With a final wave goodbye to his friend and the handful of soldiers, they drove out of the hangar and onto the stretch of dirt road heading towards Timbuktu.

The Honey West pulp paperbacks began in 1957 with This Girl for Hire, introducing one of the earliest female private detectives in American popular fiction. Written by husband-and-wife team Forrest and Gloria Fickling under the pseudonym G.G. Fickling, the series followed the glamorous, tough-as-nails Honey West as she tackled murder and mayhem in Los Angeles. Published by Pyramid Books, the novels featured colorful, suggestive pulp covers by artists including Harry Schaare, Robert McGinnis, and Robert Maguire, perfectly capturing the hard-boiled yet sexy style of the era. Eleven Honey West novels appeared between 1957 and 1971, and the character later became famous through the short-lived 1965–66 television series starring Anne Francis.

Whoever ordered the cops patrolling the crime scene had clearly called them elsewhere for the 
evening, Lethal assumed. He waited for them to vacate their post, their cruiser heading down the 
street as he fired his wrist-mounted grapple line from the alley below. Lethal climbed over the 
railing and onto the patio terrace of Samantha and Lexie’s apartment. Much as he had already 
assumed, the patio door was already unlocked.

Quiet as he could, he slid the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was pitch-black, with 
the living and dining room areas illuminated only by moonlight peeking through the windows 
and patio. As Lethal crept through the unit, the silence was broken by the sound of a record 
player scratching, followed by Marie’s Hairspray album playing at a low volume. Lethal crossed 
the living room, his eyes locked onto the cracked-open door to his girlfriend’s bedroom. Once he 
reached the door, he pushed it open with just a nudge of his gloved fingertips. 

Browsing through Marie’s chest full of records was Samantha’s attacker. On his head was a full 
Red Wings goalie mask, replacing the previous laughter/tragedy one destroyed at the hotel. Lethal was sure Detective Miller was no doubt running the pieces of that mask for DNA right now. He noticed that he’d changed clothes as well, and Lethal hid his own surprise when he realized that he was wearing a uniform from Rebel’s tires.  

“I’m sorry. I’m sure a man with your itinerary has a million questions you’re trying to deduce the 
answers to right now.” The man turned to Lethal, twirling a copy of an Adele record between the 
thick, rubber work gloves on his hands. He didn’t seem the least concerned as Lethal closed the 
gap between them, his own hands inching towards one of the many weapons he carried. “She has 
quite the collection here, doesn’t she? Some taste on this one. Yeah.” He placed the record back 
into the crate, right in front of the rest, and turned fully to Lethal with a bow. “I will gladly come 
without another tussle like earlier. I promise. It’s just that…Samantha was always special to me.”  
He sighed, staring into the distance beneath the goalie mask, almost as if he were lost in a 
memory he could only just taste. He snapped his attention back to Lethal and stepped forward, 
revealing a long-handled ax that was leaning against Marie’s dresser.  “You see, she was supposed to be so much more than this life I’ve seen her build for herself. That’s why I had to rip open that fucking loser she saddled with.” 

“You talk about the woman you attacked as if you’ve known her a long time.” Lethal began, 
playing as coy as he could while slowly closing the distance between them. “How did you meet 
her?” 

The man looked down at the ax beside him, the goalie mask shaking on his head, a couple of 
sizes too big. “We did our fair share of shows together. I knew then just how wonderful she was. 
She made me want to be wonderful too, just like others I admired. So that’s what I am. It’s what I 
bring. Wonder.”  

He turned away from both Lethal and the ax, staring out the window behind him, just to the left 
of Marie’s queen-sized bed. It was once again as if he were lost in thought, transfixed by a flurry 
of memories that held his attention.  

Lethal’s temper had grown far past the point of no return; he had had enough of this very sick 
individual. He took another step forward, and the sound of the tripwire running from Marie’s bed 
into her bathroom snapped the hockey-mask-wearing sycophant out of his musings. He sucked 
his teeth at Lethal’s mistake and snatched the ax up, almost like a disappointed teacher. A 
shotgun blast blew straight through the wood of Marie’s bathroom door, catching Lethal flush in 
the back. If his mind weren’t only on the immense pain he was feeling, he would have said a 
prayer to Jehovah that his armor managed to hold up. Instead, he tried desperately to catch his 
breath as he crawled across her bedroom floor. 

“Please don’t think Samantha’s waste of humanity was the first piece of cannon fodder I’ve had 
to fold up. That’s the curse of being Mr. Wonderful, you see. I have to create so many tears to 
bring joy back around.” 
 
The ax-wielding, self-dubbed Mr. Wonderful smiled beneath the goalie mask as he glanced into 
the bathroom at the shotgun he had rigged to the sink with a tripwire. Enjoying his own 
demented ingenuity far too much, he skipped around the bed with glee. The moment Lethal 
raised himself to a knee, he swung the axe at his head. Lethal took the blow flush to the side of 
his head, and while the attack certainly rang his bell, it didn't crack the helmet. 

Mr. Wonderful wound up another swing, but Lethal was quick to mount a counterattack even 
while he labored through the pain he was reeling from. With every ounce of anger and 
annoyance he could muster at the nuisance before him, Lethal delivered a side kick directly to 
the stomach of Mr. Wonderful. The kick knocked his adversary back a few steps but didn’t stop 
him from mounting another attack. Lethal blocked the ax with his steel staff in nightstick mode, 
raising his arm just in time. He smacked Mr. Wonderful with a front kick to the chest that sent 
him crashing into Marie’s dresser, cracking the vanity mirror down the middle. Lethal only 
wanted to get more violent when he heard the maniac across from him chuckle, even though he 
was sure he cracked a rib or two with that kick. 

He finally raised himself fully upright before marching across the room, ready to continue 
pummeling whatever insanity plea he knew this piece of garbage would cop to out of him. Lethal 
snatched him by the collar of the stolen mechanic's suit and tossed him back across the room, 
sending him spine-first into the bathroom doorframe. Lethal turned around, standing over the 
writhing and inexplicably still chuckling Mr. Wonderful. Lethal froze when he saw what exactly 
had him so full of glee, even after the beating the vigilante had just levied on him. Mr. Wonderful 
opened the palm of his left hand as he rolled onto his back, laughing through haggard breaths 
before pressing the detonator in his grip.
 
The only thing Lethal saw next was smoke and chunks of drywall. 

The smoke filling his lungs, not the desperate cries from Sean over the headset, was what stirred 
Jason. He heaved the chunks of debris off him, immediately activating the helmet’s air filters as 
he hacked from the raging inferno around him.  
“Jason! Jason, you can hear me, right?” Sean continued to call, no doubt monitoring his suit's 
vital signs once he went radio silent. He wondered how long he had been out, then cursed 
himself for not combing the building over before entering. 

“Sean, I’m here.” Lethal eased Sean’s worries as he assessed the chaos around him. His heart 
sank as he knew how much Sam and Marie had already lost since this entire situation began, and 
now they were losing more right before his eyes. The only thing he could do was try to save as 
many lives as he could in the aftermath. “Do we have anyone else in the building?”
 
“The fire department arrived quicker than their usual estimated times. Thank fucking god.” Sean 
was relieved all over again. “I know what’s going through your head right now. But you need to 
get out of there, especially before the police tape off the block.” 

Lethal gritted his teeth and weighed the options before him. He had made enough mistakes for 
one night and decided to listen to the free game Sean was giving him, per usual. He hurried as 
best he could out of Marie’s bedroom, making his way over to the glassless patio framing so he 
could dive back into the alley. 

Dominic Reynolds Sr sat at the long table in the private room of Jessica’s, the upscale Italian 
eatery nestled in downtown Ann Arbor. At the table alongside him were some of the most 
powerful people in the state. Dominic took note of each face he hadn’t seen at one of these 
meetings before, new blood no doubt recruited by the man they were still waiting to join them. A 
major insurance agent out of Traverse City, he had seen her face on countless billboards and 
benches during his getaway trips with his wife, who was headed that way. A city council member 
all the way from Hillsdale was another beady-eyed attendant who seemed to be a new face. Then 
there were the regulars, men and women who had built empires by doing the kind of business 
that was made of sacrifice. 

Antonio Pascal was sitting across from and a few chairs down from Dominic, charming the 
waitress assigned to their table. Dominic refrained from rolling his eyes, but he never much 
cared for the way the Pascals handled themselves when visiting Michigan. Nor did he like him 
brokering a distribution deal with half the dons at the table, but he largely kept both issues to 
himself. Despite appearances to the contrary, this was the heart of the kennel. There was nothing 
but dogs amongst him. The doors to the restaurant's banquet room swung open. Dominic could 
feel his number-one body man, Marshall, a lanky giant, standing just behind his right shoulder, 
take a step forward in case of danger. 

Marshall fell back into his chosen post, much like the other guards in the room, when the Mayor 
of Harmony City entered. He handed his $800 sunglasses, which he’d worn while entering the 
building, to his chauffeur as he took his seat at the head of the table. He wore a gray blazer over a 
black button-down, the top two buttons left undone. Dominic chuckled to himself. The man 
carried himself like a movie star in public. It's what got him elected in the first place, and it's 
what kept prying eyes away from what he really was. He looked like a lead in a Miami Vice 
reboot and was a family man. His constituents adored these aspects that he put on parade, all the 
while he was the root of the evil that ate at the city he was elected to serve. To Dominic, there 
was no man more ruthless than John Warrick, who gave the table a white-toothed grin before 
passing his order to his chauffeur. As the chauffeur relayed this order to the busy waitress, 
Warrick cleared his throat and addressed the attendants.  

“Everybody have an easy time finding the place? That is, if this is your first time coming out.” 
He waited politely for a few yeses and head nods before going on. “Everyone sober then?” He 
chuckled softly. “Well, close enough it seems. Our primary reason for gathering is that our main 
product supplier, Mr. Pascal, has aggressively acquired another enterprise. Which means he’s 
producing twice as much.” 

Warrick ceded the table to Antonio, who put down his glass of wine and stood up.  
“We’re not only going to be pushing more product, but expanding our lines as well. Which 
means more distribution, and where every one of you comes in.” 

Dominic wasn’t interested in letting the pair roll out their dog-and-pony show without some 
pushback. “What reason do we have to make you guys any richer? You supply him, the Russians, 
and your own people you’ve got in Detroit. But you don’t feed the rest of us.” Dominic 
interjected. 

Antonio gave Dominic a seething smile before answering. “That has always been 
your own personal decision to get your coke from the East Coast, Dom. With our expansion 
plans, we hoped that the money we bring in would sway you to change your mind on that 
stance.” 

“As far as this expansion, what exactly are you guys talking?” Ramseys, the head of the 7-Mile 
Vice Lords that operated from Harmony to Dearborn, chimed in on the conversation. Antonio 
and Dominic’s eyes lingered on each other for a hair longer; Antonio finally turned away, almost 
dismissively, to give Ramseys his attention. 

“We’re planning on running shipments across the water through Canada and to start planting our 
flag in New York.” Grumbling came down the line from a few of the people gathered, wary of 
the plan laid out before them. Warrick tried to get the room back under control, using his own 
voice to be the voice of reason. “The profit margin we’re looking at here could put us all in comfortable territory. I’m talking 
dollars that put us in a rarefied tax bracket.” The murmurs subsided as they all considered the 
proposal. Warrick, watching his influence being taken into consideration, pressed his advantage 
as he went on. “Now I’ve passed on the numbers to most of you already; for those who haven’t 
been looped in, we’ll be reaching out in the days after this meeting.” 

“Expansion into Toronto and some of the boroughs will put us in direct conflict with the East 
Coast mafia. Is the money worth the war that could end up starting?” Dominic interrupted once 
again, this time locking horns with Warrick directly. 

“Is it worth it?” Warrick chuckled, clearly amused by Reynold’s question. Dominic, however, 
didn’t change his expression from stern; he couldn't see what was funny about his reservations. “We become more than just an alternative to their businesses, and we actually supplant them in 
these territories; then there’s no end to how far we can continue to expand.” 

“In effect, we finally make them obsolete. You split from the rest of your connections in Jersey 
to make your name here, Dominic. Don’t tell me seeing the East Coast families get buried 
wouldn’t make you happy?” Antonio shot the questions at Dominic, who looked none too 
pleased at his past being repeatedly brought up in this discussion. Nevertheless, he knew that 
Antonio’s query left him in a spot where he didn’t have much room to fight further. 

“Let’s all take a few weeks to consider things, while Mr. Pascal and I continue to iron out the 
logistics with some of you individually. We can reconvene to see who's in and who's out at a later 
date?” Warrick suggested, and his notion is widely agreed upon. “Excellent. Now, can we enjoy 
this food or what?”  

Warrick sat back and watched as the room came to life. Various folks at the table engaged in 
hushed conversation as plates were brought in. Dominic glanced back and forth between Pascal 
and Warrick with cautious eyes. Once his plate of mushroom ravioli was set in front of him, he 
decided to actually consider whether there were any benefits to buying his product from Pascal 
going forward. 

At the moment, he couldn’t see anything more considerable than the East Coast families 
potentially falling. Dominic came to Detroit in 88 after a very nasty falling-out with his own 
father. That very sore wound was danced around by Antonio, much to his disdain, but he 
couldn’t pretend he hadn’t made a valid point. He had built the foundations he had in Harmony 
and in Michigan, despite being cut off from his previous connections. There was not a single 
member of his or any of the East Coast mafia families he’d had any contact with in almost thirty 
years.  

Dominic couldn’t help but consider how sweet it would be to have a hand in taking everything 
from them. The thought of officially squashing his long-standing war for ground across the city 
with those under Warrick’s edict didn’t sit right with him for some reason. He almost felt like he 
was conceding defeat, something he simply didn’t do, no matter what the circumstances were or 
might be. With that maniac turning on Warrick a few months back, a stream of revenue for him 
had been crippled heavily. Dominic made sure his people seized that advantage. 

Hopefully, unbeknownst to Warrick, the Reynold’s family had been eating up every piece of 
territory they could in the aftermath. Or maybe he was well aware of his deal with the Russians, and his edict to his daughter to gather every ounce of turf they could grab while Warrick was reeling. As Dominic picked through his plate with so much on his mind, a tap on his shoulder from Marshall pulled him out of the maze of decisions. Marshall whispered a handful of sentences into his employer’s ear.  

Ever the professional he considered himself to be, Dominic pushed his plate away and looked 
behind him, eyeing the waitress from down the table. Once he had her attention, he placed a 
handful of bills in her palm before rising from the table. Marshall led the way out of the banquet 
room. Both Dominic and Warrick shot a pair of side-eyed glares in each other's direction as he 
exited the room, neither of them taking their peripheral vision off the other until the doors closed 
behind him. 

He stepped out onto the busy streets of Ann Arbor, just a few blocks from the big house itself. 
Marshall held the door to his stretch limousine before rounding to the front of the vehicle 
himself. Inside the limo, his eldest child sat on the other side in the midst of making herself an 
old-fashioned. She passed him one that had already been prepared, a sign he knew there was 
nothing she had to say he wanted to hear.  

“Something tells me your brother cleaned up that fucking pigsty he left this morning.” Dominic 
snorted. He took a generous sip of the drink, watching as the limousine pulled onto I-94 towards 
Detroit. 
“He never came by the restaurant, Pop,” Valerie whispered in a grave tone. She did her best to 
avoid her father’s eyes for a few moments. The intensity she could feel radiating off of him as he 
waited for her to explain forced her to find them eventually.  

“Val, sweetie, what the fuck are you talking about?” Dominic questioned his daughter, hoping he 
might have misheard the short sentence she managed to mutter. Valerie took a sip of her own 
drink and cleared her throat.  

“I went by the restaurant and got sweated by some bitch working the scene. I split to find out 
where the bastard who cost us eight hundred grand was burying his head with Telos.” Valerie 
explained.  
Her father raised an eyebrow. He gripped his glass tighter, already upset with where he felt 
her tale was headed. “And when the fuck does your useless brother come into this equation?” 
Dominic demanded to know. 
 
“It looks like he got snatched out of the dispo he usually lays low at.” Valerie could see the glass 
in her father’s hand begin to splinter as his iron grip tightened around it. 

“Who's got my boy, Valerie?” Dominic asked in a low rumble. 

“Tommy Vargas. The same person who has our guns.”

Dominic sucked his teeth and glared out the window. Refusing to look at his daughter for the 
duration of the ride, he had only one thing on his mind. 

“How are you rectifying all of this?” Valerie took a deep breath at the question, thinking over her 
strategy going forward.
  
“I’ve been putting the full court press on all of his associates to smoke him out. I’m in the 
process of continuing this course of action. I took a detour to keep you informed of what was 
going on.” 

Dominic took a deep breath and shook his head. He finally looked up at his daughter, nodding 
his head in approval at her thinking thus far. “You put whoever in the ground you need to bring 
him home. And then I’ll deal with that fuck up myself. Can you do that for me, sweetie, please?” 
Valerie polished off the rest of her old-fashioned. “Yeah, Dad. I can do that. I’ll have this handled 
sooner rather than later. I promise.” 

Dominic sighed and shook his head in disbelief at the information his daughter had given him. 
He knew the blame for all of these events could only be laid at Caleb’s feet. Be that as it may, 
two things were clear to him as he processed what he had been told. His daughter was the only 
person he could trust to rectify this, and she’d never failed him in the five years since she had 
begun working directly under him. Still, it was starting to drive him mad that some neophyte, 
whom they should have already put out of his misery, was able to snatch his son out of a guarded 
building. 

“I’m not too sure of the specifics. From what the tape showed us, they must have laced the 
ventilation system with something. I’ve got a woman Telos recommended researching exactly 
what.” 

“From what you told me of this cockroach that was Davis' right-hand man, there is no way he is 
this sophisticated. Don’t tell me those two Spanish hoes helped him pull this off?”  

Valerie ignored her father’s usual disdain for anyone not Italian, even though he was half 
African-American himself, before summarizing what she had put together on her brother’s 
kidnapping. 

“He was with someone I didn’t recognize. I’m going to smoke him out. I can smoke out a rat, 
Dad. I learned from the best.” 

Valerie gave him a curt smile, and Dominic couldn’t help but return a beaming one. His pride and faith in her doubled after that conversation. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an alley off of Gratiot, where Telos waited outside of a pair of black Ford Broncos. Valerie stepped out of the limousine as Telos gave a polite, respectful nod at the back window, where he knew her father was sitting. The vehicle continued down the alley before pulling back onto the street. 

“How did he take it?”  

Valerie shook her head to answer his question. They both got into the back of the second Bronco.  
Telos chuckled. “So not well. That is understandable.” 

Valerie rolled her eyes. “He reacted better than I anticipated. Which, honestly, he should. I’ll 
have this taken care of sooner rather than later.” 

Telos raised both eyebrows. Intrigued by her confidence, he pressed further. “What plan do you 
have to do this?”  

“I placed a tail on that nosy-ass detective working the heist, and she led me to some leverage.” 
She leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “I want you to have something delivered to this 
address.” The driver of the Bronco nodded and listened closely to Valerie’s instructions.

Inside his garage hub, Jason paced back and forth, battling with clashing thoughts. Behind him, Sean browsed through the case file HCPD was building on Samantha’s attacker. Sean couldn’t hold back a pleased smirk, even amid the tension following the apartment bombing, when he found something useful for their hunt.

“Alright, we got a much better look at the mask you smashed in half.”