In front of me is hundreds of paper sheets signed off by Special Agent Oliver Quade, many of the cases aren’t linked to Angel Blue―but all are what I’ve classified ‘extermination’ cases, meaning that Quade’s become a human wrecking ball and demolishes every single viable piece of evidence, witness reports and taken over the investigation all because an FBI Agent’s been afflicted with the case.
Quade must think he’s getting lucky with ours, but I believe he knows more than what he intentionally lets on. One week from Christmas and around two without Nikita is becoming a challenge for all on Angel Blue, and Quade’s trying to poke through the cracks in our armour.
Quade paces the Loft, since we had no other option but to show him where most of our work took place. There wasn’t much for him to stick his nose into since Nikita told us to scrap everything before his ‘accident’. The way Quade scuffs his heels gets on my nerves along with the way he clicks a silver Parker pen with his right thumb.
Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click.
I’m sitting cross legged in front of the whiteboard with my eyes closed to try and piece together what Nikita wants me to know, but haven’t I figured it out already? It’s the FBI, they want this grand Final Solution to be set in place for the people’s safety, I’m on my guard―that being said, there’s something missing, the final piece.
Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click.
Perhaps I’m just building evidence on top of even more evidence, getting lost and muddled in my own thoughts. Nikita wants me to start off with a clean slate, not just with Angel Blue, but with my mind. The FBI as an organisation is my target focus, but what about them? Why Quade and Pingelly? It’s time to go back to the roots of Angel Blue, and I know only one person who has enough information to piece this puzzle together.
Henry Nikita.
Nikita’s become a problem, because Alkaios can’t perform the revival ritual because (a) the blasphemous book was burned and (b) everyone on team AB has told Quade nothing of Nikita’s appearance in Manhattan or his elusive activities. So to resurrect him from his comatose state, a pawn must be implicated. I must loose in order to gain.
I’m running out of cards to play in my hand since most of my original suspects are dead, in hiding or in custody and I have to keep Quade away from the focus of the investigation. The NYPD murders were an excuse, I’ve covered that already but I won’t allow Quade to walk in with a file of sketchy photos and blackmail his way to court.
“I don’t understand the point of this exercise,” Quade grumbles.
Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click.
“If you’re only gonna to complain, do it elsewhere,” Banks says from behind me as the marker squeaks across the surface.
“No, I’ll stay,” Quade declares with what I presume are flared nostrils.
Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click.
What am I missing? What’s staring me in the face? Still with my eyes closed, I scowl and slowly move my head from left to right as if I’m contemplating something. What is Quade exactly after? Of course, he’s here for Colville’s body which is the process of exhumation to the grieving family, but he wants Blake.
Poor, innocent, defenceless Blake Donovan that’s been thrown into an extremely dangerous game. Quade’s going to use Blake for information about Angel Blue, about what he knows, Blake Donovan is Quade’s target. While we’ve been chasing our tails with pointless leads that only go link to other meaningless cases, Blake’s been doing his research on what got Keith killed―not knowing that he’s leaving a traceable paper trail for Quade to follow up on and destroy. However, Quade just needs to get his hands on Blake to do so, and I’m not going to let that happen.
Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click.
Think Akira, what snippets of information have you let slip? Think of the suspects in the FBI, think of what they contributed to Angel Blue. My eyes snap open and I practically hurdle myself at the desk, scrambling through the papers of Quade in my haste, to get a pen and notepad to write down my thoughts.
I begin to make a list, using abbreviations for names just in case Quade becomes suspicious. Once I finish, I stuff it in my pocket.
SAHQ: in it for the status gain.
SAGSP: in it for the betterment of others.
SAC: in it for the bribe (presumably from SAHQ).
AJ: in it for stupid teenage love.
‘Q’: unknown (as of yet).
SASP: premeditatedly placed (?).
The question isn’t who’s involved, but who had more to gain or lose if they were caught. Both Colville and Amanda Jane lost their lives for an equally lost cause, Helena knows more than originally thought, Greg died because he snooped in all the wrong places and Sam was sent here to what―meet the same fate as his father? But where does this leave Blake, unless Helena’s the chewie morsel in which I’ll distract Quade with.
Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale.
If a dog is eating, it doesn’t bark―meaning that it’s distracted from doing its usual duties. Quade wouldn’t willingly team up with me since I’m the Chief’s daughter, and suspicious as fuck when it comes to newbies so there has to be incentive. To keep Quade’s mind off the task at hand, he has to be thinking about something else, as in two other else’s, maybe even three.
I lower the pen and smirk to myself.
Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale.
“Go find more NYPD cold cases,” I annunciate the last part to Banks specifically so she knows to dig dirt up on Angel Blue. Once I receive a discreet nod from Banks, I look over my shoulder at Sam, unwillingly smiling as he sips his latte at me. “I need you to go to Midtown,” immediately Sam catches on to the fact that I must see Alkaios.
“Anything else you want me to do?” Sam asks.
I toss him a bag of black jelly beans, “Give this to the coroner when you see him.”
I’m intentionally not using names, as suspicious as it may seem, I’m not allowing Quade to know the vital behind-the-scenes members on team AB. I’ve limited his roaming to the 7th Precinct only and he’s only been to the lab once to speak with Joseph about Colville’s phone records, but I made sure to be present―I haven’t allowed Quade to visit the morgue to inspect Colville’s body, and I certainly don’t want him to know of the Propofol overdose.
“And then there were two,” I announce, staring Quade down.
“Why are you separating yourself from Agent Pingelly? You’re partners,” Quade raises a black eyebrow at me.
“I trust Prat to execute my order without me bugging him about it,” I roll my eyes when Quade frowns at Sam’s nickname. “Besides, you obviously want to see the person who got Colville killed, and I have that intel.”
In the elevator, Sam and I stand on the opposite side to Quade. The Agent is looking at the silver watch on his wrist as if timing the one-floor journey to the precinct level. He doesn’t notice the fact that Sam’s taken hold of my hand, I want to keep it that way.
Quade’s unmarked black SUV is parked right out the front of the precinct’s glass doors and I find myself grimace. Sure the vehicle is exactly like Sam’s, but it’s like entering enemy territory, acceptance behind their lines―who knows what could be in Quade’s glove box.
Thankfully, Sam’s parked right behind Quade so while he gets into the driver’s side, I have a few spare moments to speak with Sam. Well, not really ‘speak’, we just stare at each other for a few moments. Sam’s free hand caresses my jaw, a soft smile on his lips, yet it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are hard green offcuts of jade.
“Be careful,” Sam’s thumb delicately traces my chin.
“Trust me, I won’t let anything slip,” I say.
“It’s not you I don’t trust, it’s him,” Sam’s brow creases.
I nod, “Stay on your guard.”
“I will,” his hand slides from my face and before I know it, he’s walking towards the driver’s side of his SUV.
I approach Quade’s vehicle cautiously and make my way to the passenger’s side, heaving open the door and hoisting myself up onto the leather interior. My makeshift partner is patiently waiting with his hands on the steering wheel, listening to a (what I find) disturbing opera ballad Die Forelle. The eerie tune isn’t what I find uncomfortable, it’s the translated lyrics.
“How long have you and Pingelly been working together?” Quade adjusts his rear-view mirror an inch to the left.
You who tarry by the golden spring of secure youth.
“Almost a year,” I quip.
Think still of the trout.
“He’s an exceptional Agent, just like his father,” he turns the keys in the ignition.
If you see danger, hurry by!
“So I’ve heard,” I avert my eyes out the window.
Most of you die only from lack of cleverness.
“You know, unlike his father, Pingelly has the…habit of losing partners. That could possibly jeopardise the strong bond between you two. Let’s hope you’re not the next victim of his curse,” Quade continues.
Girls, see seducers with their tackle!
“You won’t have to worry about that,” I say.
Or else it will be too late.
In truth I’m already a victim on another’s agenda.
You’ll bleed.
Oliver’s.
• • •
Quade pulls up at 150 Park Row in front of the Metropolitan Correctional Centre where (former) Agent Helena Quinn is being kept in protective custody from Q. The large latte coloured building that holds around seven hundred charged criminals of both genders, casts an ominous shadow over the SUV.
I’m lead by two guards, one male who flanks Quade and one female who flanks my right side. My thumb anxiously flicks the clip on my holster as I scuff my heels against the concrete of the corridors, my grey eyes darting between the bars of each cell we pass.
Some of the inmates rock up to the bars, to see what all the fuss is about. They glare at me and Quade’s belts, looking at the identification. Others shout slander about the FBI and NYPD, a small minority toss water at us from the sinks in their cells―just to be reprimanded by the male guard, smacking his baton against the metal.
We’re lead to the interrogation rooms, an entire corridor of iron doors, reflective glass and steel slabs with slots for the handcuffs to attach to. All are empty except for the end room, which holds the psychopath female that ruined my family. It’s a far stretch to say I’m pleased to see her.
Helena Quinn is hunched in the chair, looking rather apathetic about her situation, and completely unaware that I’m the one that’s requested to see her. She’s cut off her precious brown curls and now the waves are just past her shoulder. She’s pale and thinner than usual, no doubt refusing her meals until she stands trial.
“Wait, Detective I want to do the interrogation,” Quade says when the guards stand at either side of the door.
“No, Helena gets spooked easily when it comes to police. I’m going in alone, wait behind the glass,” I shoulder my way into the room separated by a set of metal rung stairs leading to the interrogation room itself.
“On the contrary, I will be speaking with her Agent to Agent. She has no link to your current cold cases, hence having no worth to you,” Quade shoots back.
I unlock my jaw in frustration, Quade certainly knows how to play his cards right and I’m all out of aces. I’m pinned in a metaphorical corner with no way out, Quade’s blocking my escape out of this situation, but he’s right―to avoid suspicion, I have no choice but to allow him to conduct the interrogation.
I just have to bite the bullet.
“Go for it,” I follow behind him to stand in front of the glass window.
And thus, with one tug of the handle, Quade begins the assault on Helena. I watch, unsure of how to react, as Quade slithers into the room like a Snake, like some ritual before sitting in the chair across from Helena with a notepad and pen. She stares at him, dumbfounded and I notice the thin sheen of sweat on her brow, her lips parted in a silent scream, cry, yell of utter terror.
“Quinn, it has been a while,” Quade smiles.
“W–what are you doing here? T–the guards told me I was speaking with the Warden,” Helena squeaks.
“You’re under investigation for aiding the murder of Agent Colville,” Quade’s face becomes an impassive mask. “Tell me why he was your contact; you know that killing a Federal Agent is the death penalty in some states.”
A brief wave of dizziness encompasses me and I press my left palm to the glass to steady myself. What Quade and Helena are discussing hold no meaning, I can’t hear them over the whispers.
Once again, I lose my train of thought along with my sense of being―just like in the library, I breathe out but instead of seeing a demonic version of myself and Snag, an unfamiliar hand latches onto my shoulder to steady me.
I’m greeted by unfamiliar eyes, irises so green that it looks like someone spilt liquid nitrogen over grass in the springtime. Heavy lidded pupils that I’ve only seen in a crumpled photo kept by a treasured son. The same auburn hair that droops across the forehead when not lazily tussled with gel, the same cheeky smirk, the same black suit, the same profession.
“Detective Akira Stevens I take it,” Greg muses to himself, his granita-lime irises match the mischievous look on his face. “It certainly looked like you were going to tell Quade off, I don’t blame you of course.”
I’m dumbfounded; all I can do is part my lips in a silent cry. Greg Stanford Pingelly should be dead, buried with dignity in a grave. I shouldn’t be able to feel the warmth from his hand or smell his aftershave, a distinct muskiness that shouldn’t be carried by a walking corpse. There are no puncture wounds from Vrykokolas, no abnormalities of any sort―I’m terrified.
“You know,” Greg plunges onward in the conversation, “when I first heard of Angel Blue, I thought it was some kind of joke―I was never a believer, despite what my wife thought from the Bible, but what I saw throughout the job certainly swayed my views of Angels and Demons, to think that they lived among us. That being said, I could never justify the purpose of Angel Blue.”
So many questions spring to mind, all wanting the same answers. But surely Greg can’t answer them all, for all I know he’s a figment of my imagination and I’m currently frothing at the mouth in MCC.
“At first it was a caution because there were tip offs of ripper killings, thought only to be done by rabid animals or wolves. Angel Blue soon turned into a world-wide project, not just for the FBI but ASIO, the Secret Service, Scotland Yard…the list goes on. Soon, Angel Blue became big enough for resources to be spread throughout America with Manhattan being the main hotspot for small colonies,” Greg explains.
“However, resources meant nothing. We put Agents lives on the line, men and women that had no training to fight creatures that weren’t of human proportion. Every time Angel Blue was proposed it ended up being revoked six months later through wary people in the Bureau―I was one of them,” Greg’s smirk dims around the edges.
“Annually, fresh field Agents are selected and groomed for Angel Blue. You can’t refuse the position because the Bureau makes it so desirable with promises like a new work vehicle, an grand apartment, fully paid tuition or even funds to support a family. The mould was young, arrogant and easily replaceable,” he swallows. “Sammy didn’t stand a chance, I thought my final appeal worked…but it obviously failed, just like I did as a father.”
“The Bureau were growing impatient because I protected my son through any means possible, especially when I became his partner in the field. I wasn’t going to let those bastards drag Sammy into this, but they did. You’ve obviously had your suspicions about the Quantico bust that made Sammy a target, this was no drug bust, it was a planned extermination,” Greg stares at the glass, narrowing his eyes at Quade. “I was murdered by my own Bureau, a place devoted to loyalty and fidelity. What a load of bullshit.”
“I saw the bullet coming; Sammy was too distracted by the oncoming fire and the adrenalin so I got in the way. Once I was down, the bastards fled, disappeared I don’t know what happened really. All I know is that in the taped-up crates, weren’t kilos of cocaine―it was silver ammunition, confiscated weapons,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t aware of what was happening, but all I could hear was this sick tune…a nursery rhyme. I don’t know where it came from, but it drowned out Sammy’s screams.”
Ring a ring a rosie.
“It had a hypnotising effect, lulling me into a state of unconsciousness,” Greg murmurs.
A pocket full of posies.
“The sound was so eerie that I could still hear the echo in death, calling me through the darkness,” his voice, a note deeper than Sam’s, trembles. “I was so afraid to leave Sammy with Nadine and Georgia hounding at him, they always sided with their mother. I suppose it’s a good thing, Sammy is finding out the puzzle for himself even if the expense was my life.”
Ashes, ashes.
“Stay on your guard Detective Akira Stevens; I haven’t been the only victim. There have been hundreds, thousands even over the years. But they will come for you whether you like it or not, there is no place to hide from them, nowhere to run, nobody to turn to for help except the dead because some day,” Greg gestures for me to look at my reflection, “you’ll become one of them.”
We all fall down.
I flinch back at the sight before me. Inky blackness encases my entire socket just like last time. My canine teeth are elongated, slender, and thin as a needle catching the flickering light above. I press a hand to the glass, hissing in distaste to see the calloused claws replacing the fingernails. The talons scrape along the glass as I clench my flat palm into a fist.
“For you and Sammy, the process of self-destruction has already begun and there’s nothing you can do but end your life or be consumed by the creature that inhabits you,” he concludes.
I blink and the grotesque image wavers away in a thin sheet of black smoke. My fingernails are normal once more, just a bit jagged around the edges. Flakes of the black nail polish are imbedded into the glass where five claw-like scratches mark the place where the talons once were. My eyes, an unfriendly grey stare back instead of darkness―I flinch when Greg’s hand rubs my shoulder in small circles as if consoling me.
“Y–you’re dead,” I’m able to choke out. “How’re you able to touch me?”
“Death is a concept, Detective. Dead Languages are titled so because nobody alive speaks them, but that doesn’t mean the language ceases to exist. Dead Bodies are what they are, non-living corpses, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t remember us,” he warns. “If you really do love my son, you must look after him…and each other.”
My phone vibrates with a text.
PRAT:
Alkaios and Eryx are with me.
Call me when you get this.
SUPER cop:
Me and Joseph found dug up some dirt.
Message me back when you can.
“You said that ‘they’ will find me, who were you talking about? Do you know what’s happening to me and Sam?” I ask Greg. “I need to know if you want Sam out of the firing line.”
Greg’s eyes are glazed, vacant even. They’re fixated on the blue tie around my neck. The easy smile is back tugging at his lips as he runs the soft fabric between his thumb and index finger, murmuring something to himself. I don’t think he hears me so I repeat myself, just to get a light chuckle in response.
“…Detective Akira Stevens I take it,” he looks up at me as if we just started the conversation all over again, his face is clouded in thought. “It certainly looked like you were going to tell Quade off, not that I blame you of course.”
What the fuck is going on?
I back away from Greg, as far as I can before my back collides with the wall behind me. I let out a wince and close my eyes tightly shut, clutching my phone in my left hand. Greg Stanford Pingelly is dead, I’m imagining this, I didn’t have fangs or claws―I’m going to wake up next to Sam and start the day fresh, none of this happened, this is all in my imagination.
“Detective?”
I can’t help the scream that escape my lips when Quade snaps his fingers in front of my face. A look of concern is smeared across his features as he presses two fingers against the pulse on my neck, after he’s convinced I’m breathing, he takes a step back and adjusts the notebook under his arm.
Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale.
The female guard collects the stone-faced Helena, devoid of all emotion and feeling as she’s guided back to her cell. As soon as the male guard opens the door for me and Quade, I make no hesitation to bolt down the concrete corridors and out of MCC. I’m going insane, I need a holiday, this never happened.
Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale.
“Quinn told me some very valuable information; I was wondering if you would like to discuss it over dinner if you’re free? Strictly business of course,” Quade cogitates when we reach the SUV.
“Um, I’ll think about it,” I mutter, my mind elsewhere.
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock―I’ll pick you up?” Quade continues as if I’d never spoken.
“Like I said,” I rub my shoulder which Greg had touched, “I’ll think about it.”