Page 12 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

T ime was a funny thing, Achilles thought.

It was supposed to be linear—the past, the present, the future—and unless you were zooming through space in a sci-fi story, it was supposed to elapse in even increments.

But a week could fly by in the blink of an eye when you were caught up in something exciting or when a deadline approached, and a minute could last an eon when you were eager for some event.

Or you could simply lose track of time altogether, your mind and soul connected to it by no more than a tenuous thread.

That was Achilles’ situation now. He knew he’d been in this lightless place for a while.

But he couldn’t begin to measure how long it had been.

He’d dozed fitfully on the hard floor, wandered aimlessly, then sat and dozed some more.

He didn’t get hungry or thirsty. All of his scars, old and new, ached.

His body wasn’t the only thing to betray him; his brain attempted to fill the emptiness with nonstop memories of everything he’d ever fucked up.

It was like the opposite of a Greatest Hits compilation.

All the stupid decisions he’d made; the times he’d been too weak, too slow; the wise actions he’d failed to take and the poor actions he’d implemented.

Santiago Bautista’s death was in there, in Technicolor, but so were dozens of others.

Agents, NHSs, and bystanders meeting their ends in terrible ways that he hadn’t prevented.

Loved ones being let down. The grand finale of this trip down Misery Lane, of course, was walking straight into a trap when he hadn’t wanted to be working at all.

He tried to steer his way toward more pleasant memories, he really did, because wallowing and self-flagellation would get him nowhere. Somehow, though, it was just a lot easier to focus on the negative.

As he lay flat on his back and attempted to get slightly more comfortable, his thoughts inevitably strayed to the one place they were strictly forbidden: Orson Davis, whose parents had named him after their favorite movie director—and who had lived briefly but fiercely in Achilles’ heart.

Surprisingly, Achilles didn’t now find himself regretting what had happened between them or grieving Orson’s loss.

Instead, he smiled in the darkness and was grateful to have had Orson at all.

It’s not immortality, son . That was what Chief Townsend had said to Achilles not long after Orson died, when the loss was as fresh and raw as a claw gouge in the belly. But it’s a cousin to it. If someone is important to you, a part of them stays with you even after they die.

At the time, Achilles had listened sullenly to the lecture, knowing it was all bullshit. Orson was dead and gone, his body nothing but ashes and his spirit, according to official Bureau training, moved on to somewhere else.

“You should’ve listened to Townsend,” Achilles scolded himself firmly. “The old man was never wrong.”

If a part of Orson persisted as long as Achilles was alive to remember him, that was an extra incentive to not die. Which meant he needed to figure out what the hell was going on and formulate a plan for survival.

He rose to his feet and began to pace in hopes of stimulating sharper thinking. And he talked out loud too, because the silence was oppressive.

“What do you actually know , Spanos? Start with that. Okay. Well, I know that the former congresswoman possesses magical powers—nature and extent unknown. I assume she’s hostile ’cause this place ain’t the Ritz. But I also assume she has some use for me since she hasn’t killed me yet.”

Yes, good. Not a lot, but it was a place to start.

Magical powers weren’t common, thank goodness.

The Bureau frowned on them and kept close track of those who possessed them but didn’t actually provide much training on the subject.

He racked his brain, trying to recall anything he’d heard that resembled his current situation.

Then it came to him so suddenly that he stopped in his tracks. “Owen Clark.”

He should have thought of this earlier because it had happened barely over a year ago.

But he hadn’t been involved in the case, and after it wrapped up, Agent Clark ended up being reassigned to Wyoming.

Achilles hadn’t seen or spoken to him since.

But Bureau agents liked to gossip, so at least the bulk of the story had reached Achilles’ ears.

Clark had been sent on assignment to Wyoming, where he’d met up with a civilian who had strong empathic skills.

The civilian had sensed something spooky at an abandoned coal tipple.

Clark went off to investigate—solo, just like Achilles—and had gotten himself captured, also just like Achilles.

The captor was human, more or less, according to the rumors, but spooky as fuck.

He’d tried to get Clark to join his evil enterprise and, when Clark refused, tortured him.

By inflicting pain through mystical means.

Like the congresswoman.

There had been more to the tale, something about portals, but Achilles hadn’t paid much attention.

He regretted that now. Clark had been rescued via the intervention of the empath.

Together they’d killed the bad guy. Achilles wished he’d also paid more attention to the details of how they managed that.

Unfortunately, Achilles didn’t know any empaths.

And unless Henry and Con could track him down, nobody was going to come riding to his rescue.

But at least Clark’s adventures suggested that these opponents weren’t invincible, which was promising.

They also hinted at a possible motive for the congresswoman to capture Achilles: to recruit him.

So probably the best thing he could do now was decide how he was going to handle it when she tried.

Achilles sat back down and concentrated. This might not save his life, but it sure beat watching reruns of Spanos Screws Everything Up .

* * *

A bright light blazed on so suddenly that all Achilles could do was cry out and cover his eyes with his arms. He was just as blind now as he had been in the darkness, and the onslaught hurt, but change was an indication that new events would unfold.

He did his best to steel himself for whatever came next.

Which did no good whatsoever when crushing agony again tore through his body, so terrible that he couldn’t even draw breath to scream.

The pain ebbed very slowly. As it did, he became increasingly aware of voices.

“…lift him up here. He’s too heavy for me.” That was a woman’s voice, Achilles thought.

A man’s voice followed. “Jesus, Ashley. Jesus. He…. You….”

“Help me, goddamn it!”

Hands on Achilles’ body. And because his nervous system was still experiencing aftershocks of the torment, touch hurt too.

He groaned and tried to get away, but nothing seemed to be working properly, as if his brain were trying to distance itself from the mess.

The hands raised him up and then set him roughly on a cold, hard surface.

After a binding of some kind clicked around one wrist, he made another attempt to move but was too weak.

Within moments, both wrists and ankles were fettered to whatever surface he lay on.

And the conversation was still ongoing. The man said, “You didn’t tell me you?—”

“Did you think it was all cuddles and rose petals?” snapped the woman. “You know what our goal is.”

“But I don’t?—”

“Shut up, Dee. I’ll explain it to both of you when he’s capable of listening. Which’ll be soon. Bureau agents can take a licking and keep on ticking. Look at this scar collection.” A hand—the woman’s, Achilles presumed—trailed down a few of his newest wounds.

Then they stopped talking, although it sounded as if one of them was breathing harshly. Achilles moaned and slowly pried open his eyelids. Blessedly, the light was at reasonable levels, and his vision gradually came back into focus.

He was on his back, still naked, arms and legs slightly spread.

The ceiling was plain white and perhaps twenty feet above him, although it was hard to tell from this angle.

Two people stared down at him. One was the congresswoman—Ashley, he presumed.

The other was a fortyish man with hazel eyes and a disordered mop of curly dark hair.

Ashley beamed as if she’d just opened a wonderful gift, while the man seemed pale and shocked.

“Martell,” Achilles rasped. Speaking fucking hurt, and his voice came out weak and broken. But hey, at least he’d found his target.

The man twitched and gave Ashley a guilty look. “This isn’t right.”

“Says who, babe? Look, he showed up on his own—that wasn’t my doing. But he could turn out to be a nice bonus. I just needed to make sure he was in a position to listen carefully.”

“You’re… torturing him.”

Ashley heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Honey, do you know what these Bureau people do to people like you? People who are special? They murder them, that’s what.

And those victims are the lucky ones. The unlucky ones get locked up in teeny tiny cells in the middle of nowhere for the rest of their fucking lives. Isn’t that so, Agent Spanos?”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. While Achilles had never killed any humans who used occult methods in dangerous ways, he knew that other agents had.

In fact, Santiago had said that during his assignment before the bear shifter, he’d shot a necromancer who’d been attempting to raise a personal army of the dead.

And on a few occasions Achilles had been to the prison that Ashley alluded to, deep inside Nevada.

It was true that the inmates were kept in solitary confinement and, with only one exception that he knew of, were never released.

But her statement also wasn’t exactly the truth. “Not all of them,” said Achilles.

That brought another sigh. “You people are brutal for your purposes; I can be brutal for mine. Only difference is, I’m better at it.” She fluffed her hair.

“You won’t win.” Achilles hoped he looked more convinced than he felt.

“Oh, honey, we already have. All we need now is to get a few little details in place. Which I’ll be happy to explain. I’m even going to offer you a way out. Let’s call it salvation.” She chuckled. “But first, a teensy reminder of what I can do.”

She made an odd gesture with her raised hand. Before Achilles could say anything else, the pain flooded back.