Page 10 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

A chilles did not take kindly to being fucked with.

He hadn’t wanted to rejoin the goddamn Bureau, and he hadn’t wanted to drag his carcass up to Portland and then out into the middle of a desert, and he abso-fucking-lutely hadn’t wanted someone screwing with his brain.

Because that was what had happened—he was sure of it by the time he’d driven halfway back to El Centro.

And look, he didn’t give a shit if some crazy zillionaire decided to build an ugly mansion somewhere it didn’t belong. The Bureau most likely didn’t give a shit either. Idiotic architecture wasn’t within the scope of their jurisdiction.

But apparently the Bureau did give a shit about Martell, who, according to the fancy-tech info, was inside that ugly mansion.

The Bureau also gave a shit about anyone fucking around with other peoples’ minds.

That sort of thing was very much under their jurisdiction.

And Achilles, when it happened to his head, cared especially much.

It was bad enough when monsters wanted to gut, exsanguinate, or poison him, but mind control was a giant step too far.

As these thoughts stampeded through him, he realized that he needed to turn the damn vehicle around. Which he did, abruptly, squealing tires and all.

Achilles wasn’t a complete dimwit. While he sped back to the mansion, he instructed his phone to dial HQ. Henry picked up on the first ring.

“Have you found the subject?” Henry asked. He sounded tired.

“Maybe. But things got complicated.” Achilles gave a quick rundown of what had happened. Talking about it didn’t make him feel any better.

“The woman forced you to go away?”

“Not… exactly. She suggested it, and it seemed like a perfectly good idea. For a while.”

“How did she do that?” At least Henry wasn’t criticizing Achilles for being so weak.

“No idea. Look, I’m on my way back there. Can you maybe have Afolabi dig into this in the meantime?” It was unlikely she’d find information so quickly, but it was worth a shot. “And I don’t suppose you can send me some backup?”

“Gods, Achilles, there’s nobody. You don’t even want to know what a mess things are. The chief and Tenrael are in DC, meeting with the East Coast chief, and…. Well, none of that’s your problem. But you shouldn’t go back into that situation alone.”

That was excellent advice. But Achilles was pissed off, impatient, and itching for a fight. He also felt somehow responsible for Martell, though for all he knew the guy was a perpetrator rather than victim.

“I guess I’m being stupid today, Henry. Look, Con Becker knows where I’m going and can track me. If I don’t check in with you in a couple hours, let him know, okay?”

After a moment, Henry responded, sounding doubtful. “I guess. Be careful, okay?”

Despite everything, Achilles smiled. It felt nice that someone was a little worried about his welfare. “Thanks. Talk to you later.”

He half expected to drive down that road and find the mansion gone, but it was still there—both improbable and, now that he took a closer look, vaguely foreboding.

He’d been to genuine haunted houses that felt more welcoming.

But he parked the SUV, quickly checked his weapons, then marched to the door and knocked, hard.

It took a few moments, but the door swung open and the woman glared at him. “I told you to leave.”

Achilles put on an expression he thought of as Neutral Thug. “Ma’am, I need to ask you a few questions.” He took a step forward, nearly into the doorway.

“You’re not the police. Now go.” She frowned and made a shooing motion.

Something about her actions triggered a memory, and suddenly Achilles recognized her.

A couple of years ago, she’d been on TV and social media a lot.

He couldn’t quite recall her name—Allison Something, maybe?

Alissa?—but he did remember that she’d been a congresswoman from a Southern state.

She’d spouted a lot of right-wing conspiracy theories, then there was a fraud-and-bribery scandal, and she’d finally lost her incumbent seat in the next election.

Beat by someone who hated everything she stood for.

None of which explained what the hell was going on now.

As she frowned at him, he felt a little tickle in his brain.

Like when he’d forgotten something important and was on the verge of recalling it, or maybe like when he had a sudden craving for a gooey cheeseburger.

A little voice whispered, Let’s go home .

Which sounded like a reasonable idea, and he almost backed away.

But instead he took another step forward. “Ma’am, this is important.”

She looked pissed off. “This is my house. You’re trespassing. Go away.”

“I very much doubt that you have legal possession of this property.” He paused, considering whether to divulge his identity. It was risky, especially without backup. But Christ, unless he pulled out his gun—which he didn’t want to do—he was going to be stuck arguing with her forever.

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Spanos with the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. I need some information.”

Most civilians had never heard of the Bureau, which preferred to keep a low profile. But her eyes widened in recognition. Then a smile that he definitely didn’t like appeared on her face. “Really?” she purred. “This is my lucky day. Come on in, Agent Spanos.”

He shouldn’t. Not with her unknown powers and his nearest colleague hours away. But he felt the tickle again, and this time he gave in to it and walked through the door.

She closed it as he glanced quickly around the ostentatious foyer. Nobody else seemed to be in the room, but a pair of intricately carved doors were straight ahead, one of them slightly ajar.

“Why are you here, agent?” she asked sweetly.

“I told you. I need some information. Let’s begin with?—”

She made an odd little motion with her fingers, and Achilles was racked with pain. It hurt worse than being gutted by the bear shifter, and every nerve in his body shrieked in agony.

He might have shrieked too; he couldn’t tell. His last awareness was collapsing to the hard floor as the world went dark.

* * *

Goddammit, they needed to let him out of this fucking hospital and?—

No.

As awareness gradually dawned, so did the realization that he was not in a hospital bed.

Not in a bed at all, in fact, but rather on a cold, hard surface that felt like very firm rubber.

There was no light, and he couldn’t tell the difference between eyes closed and open.

He briefly panicked, thinking he’d gone blind, but when he pressed gently on his eyelids, he saw some sparks.

He hoped that meant his eyes still worked.

His pain receptors still worked, that was for sure. They sparked and sizzled all over his body like earthquake aftershocks, and for a long time all he could do was curl into a ball, moan, and ride them out.

By the time they ebbed away, he was exhausted. But at least he wasn’t dead. He surveyed his body by touch, and even though he was somewhat dismayed to discover that he was naked, he was also relieved that there were no new additions to his decades-long collection of wounds.

Although it was nice to know that he wasn’t actively dying, his heart raced, his breath came in short gasps, and he was both sweaty and chilled.

All of these things were familiar, however.

He’d been in many terrifying situations and had years of training on how to deal with them.

He remembered a phrase, repeated often by one of his Bureau instructors: A little fear will keep you alive; blind panic will kill you .

Achilles laughed a little hysterically, because at the moment he was blind.

“Stop it,” he ordered brusquely. “Get those cortisol and epinephrine levels down pronto.” He began deep breathing exercises, at the same time mentally reciting the opening lines of The Iliad in ancient Greek.

Sing, Goddess, of the wrath of Achilles.

He’d devised that little trick back when he was a brand-new agent, and although it was silly, it still worked.

Eventually he calmed down enough to assess his surroundings, not that there was much to assess.

He couldn’t hear anything but the noises he made.

When he shouted, his voice didn’t bounce back as it would in an enclosed space.

The air temperature was comfortable despite his lack of clothing, and the only scent he could catch was a very faint plasticky odor.

Where the fuck was he?

Achilles slowly rose on legs as wobbly as a newborn colt’s.

He shuffled forward, hands held out in front of him, legs carefully testing each footstep before he put full weight on it.

He encountered… nothing. Just the floor below him.

When he jumped toward the ceiling, he wasn’t surprised that he touched nothing overhead.

He walked for what felt like a very long distance, although he had no good way to judge. For all he knew, he was walking in circles. He shouted now and then, but never received a reply. Eventually, deciding that these activities were fruitless, he sat down and wrapped his arms around his legs.

This situation was scarier than the goddamn bear shifter.

At least Achilles had known exactly what the shifter wanted—to tear him to bits—and what weapons the bastard had at his disposal.

Fighting massive claws and teeth might be difficult, but it was way more manageable than trying to fight nothingness.

Then a horrifying new thought capered into Achilles’ consciousness like a murderous clown: what if none of this was real?

What if that former congresswoman could use her brain-zapping powers to lock him in his own hallucination?

Achilles feared losing control of his mind more than he feared vampires, basilisks, or ghouls. More than he feared anything, in fact.

“Well, this isn’t helping.” His own voice was a comfort, even if it was slightly rough from his previous shouting. “Focus instead on what you know. Remember what Townsend once told you: information is power. Right now, information is your only weapon, so use it.”

Okay. So, he knew to a high degree of certainty that he wasn’t dead.

Furthermore, nobody had killed him when he was unconscious and vulnerable, which suggested that his captor—or captors—had an interest in keeping him alive.

He had some value to them. If he could figure out what that value was, he might gain some leverage.

He also knew that both Henry and Con Becker were trustworthy.

If he didn’t check in as promised, they would notice and take action.

They’d be able to track him to that stupid mansion in the desert.

Achilles had a strong sense that he wasn’t there anymore, and of course he no longer had his phone on him, but at least the Bureau would have a good start on finding him, and he’d never personally known any chief who would leave an agent hanging.

The rest of Achilles’ knowledge was spotty.

He assumed that the former congresswoman was at least partly responsible for his plight, and she clearly possessed some unusual talents that the Bureau tended to frown upon: The power of suggestion.

The ability to cause agony simply by wiggling her fingers.

There might be more. It was entirely unclear what role Martell played in all of this—was he an accomplice or a victim?

—whether other parties were also involved, and what the ultimate goal was.

Achilles acknowledged his own goal: to remain alive until the cavalry arrived. And if he could find out some details along the way about what the hell was going on, all the better.