The Man Who Crossed Worlds (Miles Franco #1)

Chapter One

“Contrary to statements made by some commentators, the Tunneler’s role is not merely one of transport. He is the ambassador of all humankind…If the Tunneler is to succeed, he must be charismatic, moral, and above all, lawful.”

Interdimensional Ethics: A Guide for Tunnelers, 2nd ed.

Not many things scared me. Well, all right, a hell of a lot of things scared me. In my line of work it came with the territory, same with dismal pay and unsavory customers. But only one thing made me so nervous you could use my forehead as a swimming pool.

Beautiful women.

They looked innocent enough, sure, all warm and soft. And if you were lucky, maybe one of them would cuddle up to you real nice, purring like a kitten, and you’d think you were finally being rewarded for all those good things you did in your life.

Of course, it was around that time you realized you’d done no good things in your life, there was no way you deserved this, and before you could scream she would reach into your chest, pluck your heart out, and neatly rip it in two.

So when Detective Vivian Reed sashayed into the interrogation room on those long legs, wearing a slender pantsuit that gave me a pretty good idea how impressive all her curves were, my heart dropped somewhere into my intestines.

She let the thick manila folder drop to the table, sending a resounding bang echoing through the interrogation room. Through supreme force of will I managed to avoid flinching, instead making a show of picking the dirt from under my fingernails.

The room didn’t do much to inspire confidence. It was dark as a coffin and even less friendly. A video camera on a tripod sat in the corner of the room, switched off, while a dull fluorescent light bulb hung above my head. I could feel the heat radiating off it. It wasn’t the only thing making me sweat.

Detective Reed put her hands on the table and leaned over me, her face set in a look that suggested I was a mauled rat brought in by her dogs. Which I supposed, in a way, I had been. She had the sort of slender face you felt you should have to pay to look at, and dark hair trimmed into a neat bob cut. Her dark skin was cast into shadow, but her eyes glinted as she fixed me with a look.

“Mr. Franco,” she said, while I busied myself staring at the way her lips moved, “We’ve got some questions for you.”

It was the standard cop line. What it really meant was: “We know what you did, or we want you to think we do, and by God you’re going to tell us or you’ll be facing the hurting end of our boots.”

I swallowed. The folder she’d dropped onto the table between us had my name on it, Miles Franco, in clean black text on a white label. I couldn’t work out for the life of me how it was so thick.

A page had spilled out, showing a mug shot of me from when I was about thirteen, after an alleged theft that was almost entirely not my fault. I looked a lot more pimply in the picture than I did now, but I still had the same narrow face and the mop of dark, curly, maddeningly uncontrollable hair.

Sweat pooled in the armpits of my shirt, but I tried to play it straight. “Vivian—”

“Detective Reed.”

I shrugged as if the difference was unimportant. “I’ve been asked many questions by your fine police department over the years. But I can’t say I’ve ever come out of a Tunnel with that many officers pointing guns at me before.”

She didn’t speak. Instead, she pulled out the chair opposite and calmly sat down. Tenting her fingers, she stared at me like a lioness about to pounce. Hell, she could probably smell my fear. Since I’d been working when they hauled me in here, I was still in my old suit, and now the tie around my neck felt a hell of a lot like a noose.