Page 29

Infiltrate a cult. Find a killer. Don't get made in the process.

Just another Wednesday night.

Luca found Madame Butterfly's lurking between a defunct Chinese place and what used to be a video store. The building reminded him of crime scene photos – everything preserved exactly as it died. Plywood sheets covered most of the windows like cheap bandages on old wounds. There were graffiti tags that might or might not have been left by the Order. What glass remained hosted a collection of mannequins with dead eyes that judged anyone stupid enough to be in this part of the city after nightfall.

Four months as a Special Agent. Four months of desk work and crime scene photos and helping Ella chase serial killers. Now, here he was, about to walk into a room full of potential murderers while pretending to be someone else. The FBI Academy had courses on undercover work, but nothing prepared you for the real thing. Nothing prepared you for wearing another man's clothes while a voice recorder pressed against your ribs like a tiny cold hand.

Felix's boots felt wrong on his feet. The hoodie was too tight across the shoulders, and the airsoft mask made every breath sound like he was dying of consumption. But the worst part was the silence. Usually Ella filled these moments with jokes or trivia or stories of how she’d done something like this before and it had all turned out fine. Tonight he had nothing but his own thoughts for company.

And now it was nine PM. Showtime.

Up the block, Ella's SUV blended with the shadows. He fought the urge to look directly at it. Even rookie agents knew that much - acknowledge your backup and you might as well wear a sign saying ‘Hello, I'm a cop.’ But knowing she was there with Ross helped. A little.

Luca killed the Honda’s engine, stepped out and made his way down the road, past the video store. November in New York didn't mess around - it went straight for the bone and set up camp there. His burns throbbed against the cold. Two weeks wasn't long enough to forget what fire felt like.

Luca felt his Glock against his hip and his voice recorder against his chest. Latest tech, according to the Manhattan Police Department. Thin as a credit card and good for six hours of recording. They'd taped it carefully, tested it a dozen times, but what if it failed? What if it picked up nothing but static? What if it made a noise?

Stop it . This wasn't helping. Focus on the mission. Get in. Record everything. Get out. Simple.

At least this building was brick. No wood, no hay, nothing that could catch fire. His mind kept circling back to that, no matter how many times he told himself this wasn't Oregon.

Yeah, simple. Just like brain surgery. Pretend to be a guy ten years younger than you, who looks and acts nothing like you. God damn, why couldn’t Ella just take the easy route? Why did she have to be so theatrical about all of this? The woman had transformed his life for the better over the past few months, but he wished she’d do things by the book sometimes. Sure, rogue tactics sounded great, right up until the director was stringing you up by the balls because all evidence you found was inadmissible in court.

Luca arrived at his destination. No lights inside. No sign of movement. Just an old glass door with Madame Butterfly's Vintage Clothing etched in fading gold letters. Below that, someone had scratched what looked like symbols into the glass. Triangles and circles that hurt his eyes if he looked too long.

Just another lost soul looking for meaning , he told himself. Act the part .

He touched his Glock again. Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. If things went sideways, he had options. Loud, messy options that would definitely ruin everyone's night, but options nonetheless.

What was the procedure here, anyway? Felix hadn't mentioned protocol. Did cultists knock? Just walk in? Was there some secret handshake he should know about? Stupid Felix. Couldn’t he have given him a little more to go on? The handbook on infiltrating alchemical societies was surprisingly thin on details.

But then a face appeared in the window: a pale moon slice bisected by a slash of green. A mask, the same as his own. Eyes glittered behind the plastic. Luca's hand twitched toward his gun before he could stop it.

Easy there, cowboy. Blowing your cover in the first thirty seconds would be a new record.

The door creaked open, but the figure said nothing. Just stood there, waiting, like death's substitute teacher.

Luca's throat went desert-dry. The password. What was the password? Blood-something. No, Latin for blood .

‘Sanguine.’

The word felt ridiculous coming out of his mouth, like he was auditioning for a high school production of Macbeth. But the figure stepped aside. No secret handshake. No cosmic response. Just silent permission to enter what had once been a vintage clothing boutique.

The guard - if that's what he was - stepped aside. No pat-down, no weapons check. Either these guys were very trusting or very stupid.

One last deep breath, one last moment of sanity.

And he was inside. Over the threshold. No going back, at least not for another two hours – or until someone busted him.

The store's front section still contained racks of ancient dresses and suits entombed in plastic. Their empty sleeves pointed the way toward a back room - probably stock storage in the building's previous life. Luca stalked his way through, trying his best to look like he'd done this before. Light leaked around a partially closed door, and Luca pushed through into a space that had been cleared of everything except chairs arranged in a perfect circle.

Five were already occupied.

Each person looked identical – black hood, green mask, military-straight posture. No way to tell who was who except for the numbers on their backs. Luca quickly took stock. Two. Three. Five. Six. Seven.

Which one's the killer?

Some nodded at his entrance. Others remained still. Every instinct screamed at him to memorize details, but that wasn't what Felix would do. Felix would just take his seat, keep his head down and wait for instructions.

So that's what Luca did.

Every breath through the mask's filters sounded too loud. Luca felt eyes on him through identical masks. Did they know? Could they sense the impostor in their midst? His hand itched to touch his weapon, but he kept still. Any second now, someone would realize he wasn't Felix. Any second now the whole thing would go sideways and he'd have to shoot his way out.

But nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The silence had weight, like something you could drown in. The only sounds were breathing and the distant wail of sirens - this was still New York after all, even in this pocket of unreality.

Two more figures entered together. Four and eight, judging by the numbers on their backs. They were joined at the arm like teenage sweethearts, and Luca could only imagine what kind of relationship was typified by cult participation. They took seats beside each other. By Luca’s count, that made eight bodies in the room so far.

His training kicked in, hesitant as he was to utilize it. Study the targets. Note details. Conspicuously.

Three was tall, lean. Five had thick forearms visible below rolled sleeves. Six kept touching their collar like it was choking them. Seven's right shoe had a scuff on the toe. Four had a tattoo on their wrist and flakes of skin on their mask and shoulder. Aside from the surface details, he couldn’t make out a whole lot.

Luca felt eyes on him through identical masks. Did they know? Could they sense the impostor in their midst? His hand itched to touch his weapon, but he kept still.

They know. The thought crept in uninvited. They can tell you're not Felix.

But that was paranoia talking. He had his gun. He had Ella and Ross outside. He had training none of these wannabe occultists could match.

His burns chose that moment to flare up like they knew he was lying to himself. Same way they'd screamed at him back at the farm, right before he'd frozen.

Not this time. He wasn't that rookie anymore.

Still. Something about the silence got under his skin.

The temperature dropped. Or maybe that was just Luca's imagination working overtime. But something changed in the air. The others sensed it too. Footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the shelving units. Backs straightened. Heads turned toward the door.

He appeared like an apparition.

Ezra Crowley looked nothing like the others. No mask, no hood, but he didn't need a mask to look inhuman. Six and a half feet of lean muscle wrapped in what looked like designer tactical gear. Blonde hair hung past his shoulders, sides shaved to reveal tattoos that might have been circuit boards or ancient runes. He wore what appeared to be modified welding goggles with multiple lenses that caught the light like insect eyes. He had a face that belonged on ancient coins, with sharp angles and hollow cheeks.

His clothes were all clean lines and dark leather, more cyberpunk messiah than traditional cult leader.

Murmurs rippled through the assembled faithful. Luca kept his posture neutral, but his mind raced. This was not what he'd expected. He'd imagined some wannabe wizard in robes, spouting nonsense about chakras and crystal energy. Instead, he faced someone who looked like he'd stepped out of a future where technology and mysticism had merged into something new.

Ezra raised his hands.

‘Brothers. We have much to discuss. But first, place your tools to the ground. We’re all safe here.’

Tools to the ground? The hell did that mean?

The words didn't make sense until the first one appeared.

Each cult member reached into pockets, waistbands and jackets and produced a lethal harvest.

Guns.

Cold sweat prickled Luca's spine as the weapons clattered to the concrete. They made a ring of steel around their circle. A semi-automatic, two revolvers, one Smith & Wesson, one Beretta.

Jesus fucking Christ. Felix hadn't said a word about this. Not one goddamn word about everyone being armed. If they made him as a fed, this wasn't just going sideways – this was turning into a firing squad with him as the guest of honor.

No way to warn Ella. No way to signal that he was sitting in a room with enough firepower to start a small war. He had the sudden, vivid image of his obituary: Rookie FBI agent gets ventilated playing dress-up with cultists.

Ezra turned those insect-eye goggles toward him. Luca's instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there like a rabbit in the hawk's shadow.

‘Welcome back, Brother Nine. The Order forgives. But please, put your tools on the ground. We're all family here.’

Shit shit shit . Felix, you fucking weasel, you couldn't have mentioned this little initiation rite? Luca's mind raced, desperately seeking an out, an excuse, any way to avoid this test of twisted faith.

But there was none. Ezra's gaze bored into him, through him, stripping flesh from bone and lie from truth. Slowly, feeling like he was moving through molasses, Luca reached for his gun.

He placed it on the floor with the others, trying to keep his movements smooth, practiced, like he did this every Wednesday night.

Seven guns plus his made eight. Eight chances for this whole thing to go monumentally wrong.

He was in the belly of the beast now, unarmed, with nothing but his wits and his wavering will to see him through. This was not what he'd signed up for. This was not what any of them had signed up for.