Tom Jenkins, a.k.a Edward King — Special Agent in Charge, FBI jumped into a metallic blue Volvo, speeding off from the curb.

  Sister Marie’s Personal Thick Paddings, Jesus Christ.

  The phone rang. He looked at it and rolled his eyes. Aloysius Irwin, the Chairman. The Fat Man.

  –Yeah, King speaking.

  A squeaky voice met his already tortured ear.

  –King! How did it go? Did you get the notebook? Please, please don't tell me there were complications.

  –I couldn’t get in. Miller’s like a damn bear in hibernation.

  –What!? You didn't get the notebook? It's of utmost importance, Ed. You know that, don't you?

  –I'm not an idiot.

  He gripped the steering wheel tighter. –Listen, the neighbor mentioned a black man who seems to be tight with Miller. A mountain with a shaved head…

  A gasp interrupted him from the other end of the line.

  –King! The Syndicate doesn’t care about shaved guys, Irwin yelled. –Concentrate! Do what you have to do! Track down the book and bring Miller on board!

  Ed King swerved around a cyclist, irritation rising in sync with the pitch on the other end of the line. He could picture the veins popping out on Irwin’s neck— along with the buttons of his shirt.

  –And what if the Mountain is part of this?

  –Then recruit him too! God damn it! I don’t care how many shaved men we have to recruit. Everyone and anyone who knows something about that book. Join us or be removed from this earth.

  –You want Miller removed too?

  –NO. Jesus Christ! We want him to come to us willingly, but if you find any compromising material, don't hesitate to use it.

  –And you are sure Miller is our man? I mean, the man.

  –As sure as the ten Commandments are carved in stone.

  Ed King let out a long, tired sigh.

  –Alright. I hear you loud and clear.

  –Good, good. Can you describe his eyes?

  –His eyes?

  –His eyes, Ed!! What color are they?

  –Brown. Dark. Black? Like staring into an…an abyss.

  –Good. Good. Do I hear fear in your voice, King?

  –Fear? No.

  –Liar, don’t think for a second that your badge and gun will save you from the likes of him.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  –I know what I signed up for. What about yourself? Scared?

  A pause followed. Irwin let it linger, like he was savoring the sound of silence.

  –Call it a healthy dose of respect.

  Ed King parked the Volvo in the underground garage and rode the elevator up to the 14th floor, badge in hand, nodding to the security guard who gave a curt nod in return.

  He dropped into his creaky leather chair and propped up his feet. A city map covered one wall. An evidence board took the other—photos, clippings, red string in a spider’s web of paranoia. He took an apple from the ugly glass bowl on the desk and began sifting through documents. Within seconds, he found the one he was looking for.

  Confidential: Miller, Mark.

  Mr. Miller had always been spectacular, but this showed what he was really made of. He peeled back the cover. The man in the photo looked nothing like the reclusive wreck he’d just met. This was a Marine in his prime. A Devil Dog. Chiseled, lethal, grinning like the world couldn’t touch him.

  But the files told another story. Commendations. Heroism. Recklessness. Miller defied orders, rushed into danger, went off-grid, launched rogue ops, stared down his superiors like a feral dog. King muttered and turned the page. Baghdad. Ambush. The blast should’ve killed him, but he limped away. The rest of the unit didn’t. Miller re-enlisted a year later. No questions asked. One shrink suspected a death wish. Afghanistan. New unit. Same pattern. Ambush. He survived. Alone. Again.

  –What the hell…?

  King tossed the apple core in the trash. What followed was a slow collapse: suicide attempt, discharge, bar fights, DUIs, heroin, psych holds. Each file like a stair down into hell.

  Then there was one more folder. Manila. Stamped TOP SECRET. Blacked-out lines. CIA insignia.

  –CIA? What were they looking for?

  A knock on the door made him jump, Stephanie Wu’s face popped in, her hair neat and with just enough make-up.

  –Coffee? It’s decaf,

  –Thanks, King said to his ever-efficient P.A.

  She had nice legs, but he would never. No. What would the kids say? Not that he’d tell them — just the thought of it… no. He took the steaming mug, inhaling its aroma. Wu set down a plate of donuts on the desk.

  –You look like you need it, boss. Working late again? Need help?

  The less she knew at this point, the better.

  –No, just going over some old cases. I'm fine.

  –Well, don’t work too hard. You know what happened last time.

  –Yeah, I forgot to get the presents. King sighed, remembering when he’d almost missed his twins’ birthday party. –Thanks for the coffee, Wu, he said, setting the mug down. –And close the door on your way out.

  She left. Alone at last, King reached for his phone. The line buzzed twice before a middle-aged voice answered.

  –Medical New Bot, Phillips speaking.

  –Phil, it’s King.

  –Ed! Damn, I haven’t heard from you in ages. What’s it been? A year? Two?

  –Something like that. How’s everything on your end?

  –Busy, man, busy. You know how it is. Everyone wants AI for everything these days. My job’s basically playing cleanup for bad programming.

  –Sounds glamorous.

  –Oh, totally. Fixing bots that can’t tell the difference between a dog and a toddler? Living the dream.

  –Well, at least you’re keeping humanity safe from itself.

  –Trying my best. Hey, how’re the kids?

  –Good, really good. Jenny just started ballet, and Matt’s all about baseball these days.

  –Time sure flies, huh? Feels like just yesterday he was taking his first steps.

  –Tell me about it. Kid’s gonna be taller than me before I know it.

  Phil Phillips laughed.

  –Yeah, they grow up fast. So, what’s up, Ed? I’m guessing this isn’t just a social call.

  King hesitated for a moment.

  –Phil, uh… I need a favor.

  –Anything for you, buddy. What’s going on?

  –This AI business of yours… I need you to dig up everything you can on a Mark Antonio Miller.

  There was a pause on the line before Phillips spoke again, his tone more cautious.

  –Is it… for The Greater Good?

  –I’m afraid so, Phil. I need you to find out everything you can. Irwin thinks it’s our man.

  Phillips whistled.

  –So, it’s happening?

  –Possibly.

  –Well, if he is the man, we’re in for one hell of a ride. Alright, Ed. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find. But you know this is off the books, right?

  –I know. We gotta get him to our side, Phil. Before the government gets hold of him or kills him.

  –And if he doesn’t want to?

  –Then we do what we always do for The Greater Good.

  –Yeah. I understand. I’ll call you when I have something, Ed. Be careful, alright?

  –You too, Phil. I owe you one.

  King disconnected the call, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the file again, staring into those dark, bottomless eyes.

  –You’ve got my attention, Mr. Miller. Whatever you are.