“We’re all alive,” I say. “And well—ish. My body disagrees.”

  “What do you need?” he asks.

  “Where is she?”

  “Headed north, but not inland. Moving fast, but not fast enough to suggest she’s got a lock on a target. Hudson of four point two.”

  “Good,” I say. “We’ve got a few Divine types in the wind. We need to figure out where they’ll go to regroup…or start again. Preferably before Nemesis figures it out. Uncover every temple they have. Old. New. Everything. I want the information ready by the time I get there.”

  “You’re coming in?” he asks.

  I lean forward and let Betty scoop me off the deck. We buzz up into the sky behind Maigo and Blackwater, en route to join Munk and Tammy. “Already on my way.”

  32

  Walking through the front door of the NSO’s headquarters feels a lot like strolling back into the underground. All eyes are on us. Everyone we pass looks like they have night jobs as catalog models. Professionally dressed, hair product keeping every wisp in place, shoes shinier than marbles.

  And yeah, I might be cleaner than usual, and wearing khakis and a button up shirt, but I still look like a guy who’s just battled Golyats, witnessed the destruction of an island, along with the deaths of 20,000 people, and just flown over half of New England in a drone.

  Luckily, the weather was nice, and it gave me time to sleep. Probably looked funny, arms and legs limp and dangling, but no one was watching.

  My entrance is made all the stranger by the presence of Blackwater and her steely-eyed gaze, who is recognizable to every agent we pass. Even if they don’t know she’s the leader of the Nemesisters, the big patch on the back of her leather jacket does little to conceal her affiliation. The ‘Sisters aren’t viewed as the enemy by the NSO. More like a nuisance. And you can see it in the stares of everyone we pass.

  Happily, Tammy opted to wait outside and have a smoke. One Nemesister gets looks. Two might cause problems.

  Munk is the most normal looking person in the towering lobby. I swear, whoever designed this place thought they might be able to squeeze Nemesis inside. Munk probably could have walked right through without being noticed. Instead, she cheerily greets everyone who looks our way, like a biped Golden Retriever. “Hey! Hello! I’m Munk. I love your tie.”

  Maigo, despite everything we’ve been through, looks put together and professional, like she had time to change while being carried by the drone, like the wind itself was her hairdresser. She greets the few people she knows with a silent nod, leading us to the elevators on the far side of the lobby.

  We pass through security without a hitch, my face alone vouching for our guests. As we approach the elevator, the doors open for us. Never a good sign. Means we’re being watched. Means our destination has been predetermined.

  I sigh and step in with the others.

  “This place,” Munk says, “is so cool.”

  “Make sure to take photos for your Insta,” I say.

  Munk gasps. Pulls out her phone. Maigo stops her with a gentle touch. “He was joking.”

  “Dang it,” she says. “Not cool, Spider.” Then she’s sidled up next to me, wearing an enormous smile. In the time it takes me to grimace, she lifts her phone, frames us both, and snaps a photo. She looks at the image and barks a laugh. “Oh my god, classic Spider Graham face.”

  She shows the image to Maigo and Blackwater. “Look. Is that not classic Spider Graham?”

  “Classic,” Maigo says, giving me a smirk.

  “You should get that put on a T-shirt,” Blackwater says.

  I lean forward to thump my head against the elevator doors, but they split before I make contact, and I stumble out of the elevator car and into the NSO’s operations center, known as the ‘Crow’s Nest,’ adopted from the early days when the FC–P and Jon Hudson still ran the show.

  This is where Owens works, and it was my intended destination, which is nice, but the woman standing outside the elevator, arms crossed, red hair tied back, doesn’t look like she’s going to be.

  “Is that Director Collins?” Munk whispers like a tea kettle about to burst.

  “Not now, kid,” I grumble, and force a smile for the director.

  Collins reaches past my head, points to Munk and then Blackwater. “You two, here.” She shifts her stabby finger to a bench beside the elevator doors. Then she backs up a step, leveling the finger at me and Maigo. “You two, with me.”

  She turns and starts walking away.

  Munk leans out of the elevator. “I thought the memes of her backside were Photoshopped, but man, look at th—”

  “Munk,” I say. “Do what she said.” I look at Blackwater. “Both of you. This is not the place or time to fuck around.”

  Munk sobers up and nods.

  While they take a seat, Maigo and I hustle after Collins.

  As we walk down the hall outside the ops center, walled off from the rest of the floor by soundproof glass, I hear Munk’s voice fading behind us. “I mean, she was totally thick, right? No, not thick like me. With two Cs. It means…”

  A door opens ahead of us, allowing Collins to walk into a dimly lit room without breaking her stride.

  “What’s this?” Maigo asks.

  I shrug. “Never been in this room.”

  “You’ve been here for more than a decade,” she says.

  “Don’t come to the office much.” I step through the door and find a large square room, lit only by the ten-foot square table at its center, projecting a holographic map of New England and the ocean to the east. Owens stands on the table’s far side, the reflection in his glasses hiding his eyes.

  “You made it,” he says, sounding relieved.

  “You tracked our whole flight,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, but still. Saw you sleeping, too.”

  “Creepy,” I say.

  “Anyways,” Owens says. “There were some close calls today. Had me worried.”

  Had him worried..? Isn’t that something friends would do? Does Owens think he’s my friend?

  Is Owens my friend?

  Uncomfortable questions for another time.

  I decide to play it cool, like there’s no trouble brewing for me or Maigo, like I’ve been in this room a hundred times and have seen this three-dimensional future map before. “What have you got for me?”

  “Seriously?” Owens says, and I worry I’ve missed something important while sleeping. “You’re not even going to comment on the holographic map? I mean, this cost us like—”

  Collins clears her throat.

  “It’s a nice map,” I say. “Where is Nemes—” I spot an animated Nemesis off the coast of Massachusetts, heading north. A display over her head displays relevant stats. The one I pay attention to is the Hudson rating. Just a four. She’s elevated, but still doesn’t have a target. “Nevermind.”

  “We think she’s doing a sweep,” Owens says.

  “Doing a sweep?” Maigo asks. “Like…”

  “Methodical,” Owens says. “Yes. She’s backtracked several times. Working a coastal grid. Being…careful.”

  “She knows they’re out there,” Collins says. “But can’t find them.”

  “Any reason why?” Maigo asks.

  “Can’t be because they’re those Golyat things,” Owens says. “Those set her off like nothing we’ve seen before.”

  “It’s the water,” I guess. “If earth can hide us from her completely, then maybe water distorts the signal. Far as we know, she’s never had to track anyone in the ocean before, right?”

  “Huh,” Owens says, grinning. “That’s my theory, too.”

  “Doesn’t mean we’re simpatico or some shit,” I grumble, and am relieved when Collins smiles. “What do we have on Divine Retribution?”

  Hundreds of red dots appear on the map.

  “You’re shitting me,” I say.

  “They’ve got chapters in nearly every city,” Owens says, “some more active than others. Some just a few people. But they’re widespread—”

  “—and growing,” Collins says. “Since the events on Martha’s Vineyard, Zoomb searches for Divine Retribution and their end-of-days teachings have gone up by more than a thousand percent.”

  “The catastrophe they created fulfilled the prophecy they wrote and lent credence to their teachings.” I shake my head. “Convenient. This is why I say never believe a prophecy that isn’t at least 1000 years old.”

  My attempt at a joke falls flat.

  “Can you remove the chapters that have less than a hundred people?” Maigo asks. “Damion Dunn would have had to organize this himself. I doubt he associates directly with the smaller churches.”

  “Don’t call them churches,” I say. “They’re a cult, not a religion.”

  “Not sure I see the difference,” Collins says. “Not lately at least.”

  “Mmm,” I say and watch as Owens uses a keyboard to quickly make changes to the display. Ninety percent of the dots disappear. Those that remain are in major cities. Neo-Boston, Massachusetts. Portland, Maine. Burlington, Vermont. But there are a few dozen outliers, especially in wealthy areas along the coast.

  “Could we raid every single one of these simultaneously?” Collins asks.

  I like the way she’s thinking—big action, take down the whole organization. They’ve given us enough reason to, now.

  “Well, yes,” Owens says. “Coordinating with local PD, FBI, and others via the Fusion Center network, we have the resources to kick down all of these doors by the end of the day, but—”

  “But,” I say, “if we get it wrong, they’ll know and probably won’t surface again.”

  “We are so simpatico today,” Owens says.

  I sigh. “Can you show me new construction? Or newly purchased land? Even if there’s no reported congregation on site?”

  “One second…” Owens types furiously. Then a series of blue dots fills the hologram. More than there were red dots.

  “Fucking hell…” I grumble. “Can we not stop them from buying land?”

  “Until today, they hadn’t actually committed any crimes we could prove,” Collins says. “They’ll be dismantled now, but first things first.”

  “Remove everything not on the coast,” I say. “And I mean, right on the coast. Ocean front.”

  Ten blue spots remain. Five of them are near cities with red dots.

  “We could raid all five easily,” Maigo says.

  “We could still get it wrong,” I say. “We can’t set off any alarm bells. We need to do this ourselves. And quietly. Which means we need the right location the first time.”

  “I’m not sure how that’s possible,” Collins says.

  “Ye of little faith,” I say, and then to Owens, I say, “Show me properties owned by Damion Dunn himself.”

  Three green spots appear. One in the Berkshires. One on the Cape. And one on Prouts Neck, a peninsula in Scarborough, Maine. It’s just south of the red spot in Portland, and just north of the blue spot in Old Orchard Beach.

  I point to the blue spot. “What’s this?”

  Owens does some quick research and then says, “It’s a pier. Used to be a tourist attraction. Games. Carousel. Things like that. Got taken out early when Nemesis moved south from Portland.”

  “The first city struck by Nemesis,” Collins says.

  “You were there for that, right?” Maigo asks.

  “I was,” Collins says, looking off into the distance like she can still see it. Then she’s back. “Sorry.” She turns to me. “I think your instincts are guiding you right again.”

  I nod. “Can we get a satellite tasked to—”

  “Already in progress. Three, two…”

  The holographic map shifts from whatever was in the database to a live, expanding view. As the image zooms closer to Earth, it feels like we’re falling. Then it centers in on Maine…Old Orchard…the pier.

  “What is that?” Owens asks, looking at the strange structure.

  “That,” I say, “is a god damned altar.”

  33

  “You’re sure about this?” Collins asks. She asked me to stay behind a few minutes after I laid out my plan and the others left.

  “I’m sure about everything I do, ma’am.”

  She smiles.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m always right, but if I’m wrong, I’ll be dead and won’t have to listen to you chew me out.”

  Her smile becomes a laugh. “Would be a shame to die just before you retire.”

  “Mmm,” I grunt.

  “Why are you?” she asks. “Retiring. In all my years here, working with Extractors all around the world, no one has taken to the job like you. Most don’t make it three years, never mind a decade. And what you’re doing now? This is above and beyond, Graham.”

  “This why you’re making me linger while the fate of the world is at stake?” I ask. “To pat my back? Save it, ma’am. You know I don’t need it.”

  “What I want,” she says, “is to make sure you have the authority to do whatever might need doing. Owens broke a lot of protocols on your behalf, and if any one of them had turned out to be bad, you’d both be retiring. You rolled the dice and got lucky. I want to make sure the odds are stacked in your favor next time around.”

  “And if this is my last time around?” I ask.

  “Blaze of glory,” she says.

  Those three simple words hit hard. “That really what Jon said? I’ve always meant to ask.”

  “Right before he jumped out of the plane in a wingsuit, straight into central London.” She smiles at the memory. “He saved a lot of people that day. Did good. But I think he got too comfortable around her. Believed they had some kind of connection. Like she’d know he was there and avoid him.”

  Collins sits.

  “They didn’t, and she didn’t. You need to be careful of the same, Graham. I saw what happened on the boat. The look in your eyes when she leaned down. Saw the same look in Jon’s eyes.”

  “And the kid?” I ask, looking out the door and down the hall to where Maigo is waiting with Blackwater and Munk.

  “That…” Collins says. “I don’t know. That was different. Don’t encourage it but keep an eye on it.”

  “You know who she is, right? Know her history?”

  She nods. “Hell of a thing. And it’s why I partnered her with you.”

  “How ‘bout a head’s up next time?” I ask.

  She waves me off. “Nah. I enjoy your befuddlement.”

  I head for the door.

  “Hold on, Graham.”

  I stop and sigh, turning around slowly. Nearly dodged the bullet.

  “Director of Operations,” she says. “You can sit behind a desk or kick down doors. But you’d be calling the shots, and you wouldn’t have to sit in your damn house all by yourself. Look…Spider… I know you lost your family to this mess. I did, too. Doesn’t mean we need to wallow in it, right? You’ve done a lot of good, and it would be a shame for you to call it quits now. Especially since you seem to be making friends.” She leans over, looking down the hall as Munk says something that gets the other two chuckling.

  “Director of Operations,” I say. “Isn’t that your job?”

  “I’m moving up,” she says. “Director of the NSO, as of today. Lee Willie couldn’t handle the fallout from Martha’s Vineyard, but I’ve been in the fallout of this mess since it began. I’m at home in it. Like you.”

  “Well, we’re in better hands now. Never did like Willie. I mean, how many Hawaiian shirts can one guy own? I know juxtaposition is supposed to make things interesting, but the NSO never struck me as a place for bright red florals.”

  She smiles. “Thanks.”

  “Can I think about it?” I ask.

  “Offer is on the table,” she says. “But don’t think too long.”

  “Length is never an issue for me.” I crack a smile and give her a wink. “Girth on the other hand…” I give her a wave and step out of the room.

  She calls after me. “Good luck with Blackwater. She seems like a good match.”

  I hold up my hand and extend a middle finger as I walk away.

  “How’d it go?” Munk asks. “Big meeting with the big boss, huh? You guys are so lucky. Ashley Collins. I mean, wow.”

  “You have her on a T-shirt, too?” I ask.

  “Anime body pillow actually.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You just said that out loud like it was totally normal. Good for you, kid. Now let’s—”

  I spot Owens standing a few feet away, kind of bouncing on his toes like an eager kid about to see boobies for the first time. Suppose I should be nice.

  God damn, what is happening to me?

  “Owens, this is Blackwater.” I motion between the two of them. She shakes his hand. He flinches from the interaction. “You already know Maigo. And this is Munk.” I motion to Munk, who’s wearing a big smile. Owens is not a recognizable member of the NSO, but I think she’s excited to meet just about anyone with a badge.

  “Like a chipmunk?” Owens asks.

  Munk puffs out her cheeks, extends her front teeth and acts like she’s chewing a nut. They both laugh and Owens extends his hand. When she takes it, he says “Milady,” and kisses the top of her fingers.

  “Ooh,” she says, and then curtsies. “Charmed.” She gives me a nudge and adds, “If only all NSO agents were this polite.”

  “The fuck did I just witness?” I ask.

  “C’mon…” Munk gives me a playful backhand. “Lighten up. We’re just—”

  “Twenty thousand people died on our watch…” I step into the elevator and press the close door button. As the two sides converge, I say, “And this is far from over.”

  As the doors close, I hear Munk ask, “Did you guys get bad news in there?”

  Not bad news…just a heavier weight. Because Director of Operations is a global post. Not just Neo-Boston. Every major city with an altar and an NSO office would be under my command. Sure, I’d heavily delegate just about everything, but every fuck up along the way would be my burden to carry.

  I’m not sure I’m built to carry the weight.

  I feel crushed by it already.