Escaping Logan Airport was… an interesting challenge. By the time I was able to get away, the place was swarming with every cop in the city, actual Homeland Security agents, and the National Guard. I was wearing a set of civilian clothes I’d lifted from a stolen piece of luggage, which put me in a black leather jacket, blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a Red Sox ball cap. I had no doubt Persephone was going to chew me out for my part in the disaster, but given that I’d managed to take down five of the Carnevale’s assassins, I was hoping she’d be lenient. Fat chance of that.

The rendezvous point I’d texted to S and talked to Marissa about was underneath a highway bridge a safe distance away from the airport. It was five in the morning, pitch black, and S wasn’t present. Marissa was standing there, her arms wrapped around herself, still wearing her secretary’s attire and blood splattered on her blouse. Her pinkie finger was in a splint and I had to wonder if she’d done that herself and how she’d got the medical attention. I ignored both the gore and her finger to give her a comforting hug.

Marissa buried her head into my chest. “This is the shittiest night I’ve had since joining.”

“I’ve had worse,” I said, taking a deep breath. “We just need to get a car, get to the home office, and report in.”

The last text I’d sent S had been over a half hour ago and I hadn’t received any word from her since. She’d agreed to meet us here, but given the circumstances and the fact that we were only a few miles from headquarters, I wasn’t about to stay here to wait. The best-case scenario was she’d just become preoccupied with whatever was going on. The worst? Well, I had to prepare for the worst.

God almighty.

“I sent a text to send a car here,” Marissa said, taking a deep breath. “They told me to hang tight.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“It was just a few minutes ago but—”

Almost as if on cue, a black 2015 Ferrari pulled up behind us. It was a two seater and not the sort of vehicle for transporting people to safety. Then again, the individual inside wasn’t someone I considered to be very good at thinking ahead.

It was F’s car.

Stepping out of the vehicle was an extremely handsome blond-haired man with shoulder-length hair and bright green eyes. He was broad shouldered and probably had an extra fifty pounds of muscle on me. None of that mattered, though, because F was one of the least enhanced operatives in the Society.

A near-pure human.

Obsolete.

F wasn’t dressed like a typical Letter, wearing the best in high fashion at all times when off the job. He looked like he was returning from vacationing somewhere tropical. He had on the typical tourist’s Hawaiian shirt as well as a set of khaki cargo shorts with sneakers. It was a disarming look which, ironically, put me on my guard. The point, after all, was not to look like an assassin, but he was overcompensating.

“Well, you’ve made a jolly big mess of things, haven’t you,” F said, shaking his head. “Hello, Marissa.”

I kept my hands in my jacket pocket, keeping my fingers around the trigger of my pistol. I wasn’t forgetting that S had warned me about a potential traitor. I didn’t think F was the kind of man to turn on the Society, but at the end of the day, all of us were capable. That was what happened when you reduced empathy and increased a person’s ruthlessness.

Hostage memories or not.

“We have a problem,” I said, keeping my voice level. “A big one.”

F noticed my demeanor and stretched out his arms as if to show he had no weapons. “I know about the traitor, the attack on Logan, and what’s going on. Delphi filled me in on the details.”

“Traitor? What traitor?” Marissa asked.

“Long story,” I said, keeping my finger on the trigger. My gun was invisible to Marissa but F, undoubtedly, knew it was there now. “You can understand my hesitation about trusting anyone right now.”

“I know,” F said, keeping his hands raised. “I’m going to tell you some things that will be difficult to hear, too. However, once you know everything, I think you’ll agree with me about what has to be done.”

“Yes, because that’s reassuring,” I muttered.

“You weren’t the target at the airport,” F said.

“I’ve heard,” I said, staring at him. “So who was?”

“Marcus Gordon,” F said, giving me a look as if expecting me to be blown away.

I was. The man Marissa had found linked to my past.

Possibly my father.

I couldn’t let F know I recognized the name. Instead, I glanced down at Marissa, who gave me a look of confusion in return. Faking disinterest, I said, “Who?”

F gave me an expression approaching pity. “He’s the lead researcher at Karma Corp’s Special Projects Division. One of the men chiefly responsible for the creation of Black Technology.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding my head. “That’s why.”

Karma Corp was the seventh-largest corporation in the United States and the world’s largest producer of AI, cybernetics, positron-based satellite weapons, robotics, and other weird shit that had started to appear only in the past fifteen years. It was considered black because the governments of the world had made a universal agreement to keep it from the hands of the public at large until its full implications could be understood. It was why deniable assets like the Society were almost its exclusive users.

Everyone had a theory where Black Technology came from. Aliens, time-travelers, and a still-alive Nikola Tesla were popular choices. I had the idea that Karma Corp’s AI, Daedalus, was the party responsible. An inhuman intelligence thinking millions of times faster than any human mind would explain a lot. Finding out that there were inventors and scientists responsible, presumably with budgets and oversight, was almost disappointing.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Even if it was my father.

“Can I lower my hands?” F asked.

“Sure,” I said, ready to shoot him if he drew a gun. “You still haven’t explained anything about how this turned into the complete clusterfuck it is.”

F lowered his hands. “Delphi has records of dozens of communications between the traitor and the Carnevale. They’ve apparently wanted to defect for some time. The Carnevale promised protection if shown they were willing to burn all bridges, explaining the targeting of fellow agents, and brought something suitably valuable to the table. The Carnevale has access to Black Technology, but only Second Generation, even if they have Shells. We’re Third, approaching Fourth. Gordon was the perfect man to hand over to the Carnevale if the traitor wanted to give them everything.”

“Everything?” Marissa said.

“Everything,” F repeated. “The traitor good at covering their tracks. Delphi never would have been able to put it together if they hadn’t done something stupid and put some worms in her hardware related to Gordon.”

“I see,” Marissa said, grimacing. “Convenient.”

“Are you sure he’s been taken?” I asked.

“Sure,” F said, sighing. “The Carnevale had ten agents on sight originally but four of them were filmed by their CCTV cameras transporting Gordon away. The others stayed behind to take you. Do you know any reason why they would?”

“No,” I lied.

If Gordon was my father and they knew, they might want to take me as a leverage to ensure his cooperation. Ha!

“I have my own theory as well,” F said, taking a deep breath. “I think you may have been targeted simply because the traitor wanted to tie up loose ends.”

I blinked. “Oh?”

F looked me straight in the eyes without a hint of guile or deception. “G, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your wife, S, is the traitor.”

That was when a feminine shadow became visible behind F, followed by the sound of three silenced gunshots—which were never as quiet as the movies depicted them. F fell forward, onto his knees, three holes in his back. They’d only hit the vest he was wearing, though, which is why he went for his gun.

S then put a bullet into the back of his head, causing F to fall to the ground, dead.

S was wearing a woman’s BPD uniform fitted for a woman shorter and less—well, endowed—so she didn’t quite fit the mold of a woman disguised to avoid attention. Still, as she was holding the R71 standard-issue pistol with built-in silencer, I wasn’t about to tell her she wasn’t intimidating.

“So, what time are you doing your act at the local strip club?” Marissa said, obviously not feeling the same. I was amazed at how well she was taking the execution of a person she knew right in front of her.

Then again, Marissa was full of surprises tonight.

“Ha ha,” S said, putting her gun down. “I’m not the traitor.”

“Obviously,” I said.

S looked between us. “You think so?”

“He referred to seeing Gordon transported away via CCTV, but the system had been hijacked by the Carnevale. They also shut it down, which meant Delphi couldn’t have accessed it in order to inform him of what happened. Also, you killed the Yellow Spider in the bathroom, something he obviously wasn’t aware of my knowing about. The Carnevale might be willing to expend its agents to acquire a new asset, but I doubt this involves sacrificing one of their veteran agents.”

“Maybe they intended to silence me after they got what they wanted,” S said, taking the car keys from F’s dead body. She proceeded to open the Ferrari’s trunk and dump the corpse inside before closing it.

“The thought had occurred to me, but I like to think better of people.”

“That’s your mistake,” S said, frowning.

“Besides, F arrived too quickly. He had to have been at the airport the entire time.”

“I imagine he had the Carnevale’s hackers intercept Marissa’s messages,” S said, frowning. “Too bad he didn’t know about the backdoor signal we established for communication.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Marissa looked between us suspiciously, then shook her head. “Well, whatever the case, S, thank you for helping. I owe you my life.”

“I didn’t do anything,” S said. “I prioritized finding the traitor over your life.”

“I know, but you killed one of the assassins and that helped keep me alive. My hermanas always taught me to say gracias.”

S looked guilty. “You’re welcome.”

“Try not to be a psychopath. It doesn’t suit either you or G.”

S smirked then suddenly laughed. “I’ll try not to. By the way, get out of the secretary outfit as soon as possible. It really doesn’t suit you.”

“I prefer the punk girl thing myself. Can I catch a ride with you to the home office?” Marissa looked down at her bloody blouse. “I’m rather conspicuous here.”

“Sure,” S said, looking over at the Ferrari. “Get in.”

“I take it you’re leaving me here?” I asked.

“You’re a big boy. You can find your way home.” S smiled, walking to the driver’s seat.

“I suppose I can,” I muttered.

Marissa smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek. The two women in my life proceeded to drive off, leaving nothing but a bloody spot covered in brain matter where F had met his end. I couldn’t help but look at it and wonder about what sort of circumstances had led to him to this death. Had he decided getting his memories back wasn’t worth the compromises? Or was it like Redmond and he’d been offered a quicker way to get them back? In the end, it didn’t really matter. Whatever his reasons, his journey was over.

And mine was continuing.

Departing from the crime scene, I couldn’t help but think it was awfully coincidental that the information about Marcus Gordon had fallen into Marissa’s hands right before his kidnapping. It might not be a trap. After all, F implied Delphi only found out about the event because of Marissa’s snooping around. However, that answer didn’t sit well with me and I couldn’t help but imagine several scenarios where I was being played.

While Gordon and I had a family resemblance, I could just be seeing what I wanted to see. The information about him could have been left there for Marissa to find. It wouldn’t be the first time an agent had been taken advantage of by false “honey pot” information. I wanted so badly to know who I was, but there was simply no way to tell if this was a ruse or not.

The worst part? I didn’t feel anything about Gordon’s kidnapping. A sense of frustration at another lead drying up, perhaps, but nothing approaching the unease or terror someone who just had their father taken by psychotic killers should feel. He was a stranger to me, a person who had a maybe-possible relationship to my past self.

It was frustrating.

In the end, I pushed those feelings down and focused on making it back to the home office. I made it to Downtown Boston about an hour later. There the beige-stone International Refugee Society Building stood eight stories tall in the shadow of several larger glass buildings, our headquarters hidden in plain sight.

Our headquarters looked like a converted bank with a circular bronze plaque above the glass door entrance. The plaque contained the Temple of Solomon in the center with a sheaf of wheat being cut down by a scythe on the right and an ankh on the left. The Latin motto beneath it was Adsumus custodes pacis, or “I assume custody of the peace.” It was six in the morning and the night was being obliterated by the rising sun. Dozens of conservatively dressed men and women were already arriving, both to work at the building’s cover identity as well as to head down to its sub-basement levels to carry out the Society’s business.

Several of the employees gave me curious looks as I walked in, since I wasn’t exactly dressed for the part of working at an international charity organization, but those who recognized me quickly averted their eyes. Passing by Tom the receptionist, I headed to the private elevator reserved for Society members and walked on in.

A thin laser scanned me before the elevator started on its downward descent into the compound constructed during the Cold War as a bomb-shelter for VIPs. This was the home office, the center of the International Refugee Society’s efforts in the world. In a brief moment of whimsy, I wondered if they’d chosen identical initials as the IRS to go with the idea that the only certain things in life were death and taxes. I absorbed my surroundings. Like it or not, this was my home—which made the fact that the doors opened to reveal several armed soldiers pointing assault rifles at me all the more unsettling. It was the Discipline unit, the group which provided the Home Office its internal security and occasionally brought in reticent operatives for punishment or execution.

Raising my hands up in surrender, I said, “Hey guys. Long time no see.”

Their leader, a statuesque African-American woman named Sophia Deveraux, lifted up the end of her rifle and smacked me in the head with it. I hit the ground and stayed there. They dragged me off to the room I’d first awakened in.

I was going to Detention.