Nikita’s weapon did not waver. His hand remained strong, muzzle pointed at Memo.



“Ah, yes, of course. No further reason to be armed.” The man drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The man acted as if four words meant more than evidence. And that just being League meant you were to be trusted. They were in a Rocket warehouse where no one had been a few minutes ago. Suddenly, like a rat, this man had emerged from his hidey-hole. “Terrorists are quite open about their allegiances.”



The former cop allowed himself a tight-lipped smile. Asking someone who pointed a gun at him if the firearm was licensed did not top the dark-haired man’s to-do list. But it seemed like something a naive, trusting ranger would do. “I do.” The dark-haired man sighed. “ I also have the sense to wipe my feet off before entering active crime scenes.”



A brief look at the man banished most of the Rocket vibes. Or, at least, the kind of man who’d work in a place like this. No signs of chemical burns on his hands nor any change in the room from next door.



Nikita’s chin jerked toward the sealed door to their left. It stood as a barrier between this place and the smell of antiseptic. “Have you been inside?” The views from the dog’s collar had put him off tea. Black gloves echoed with a snap as his ghost friend’s jaw began to glow. “Detective.”



The Houndstone stared its fellow ghost type with glowing red eyes. These were visible beneath a thin fringe of scraggly white hair. A deep rumble shook its chest. He’d already died once. There was little need to fear doing so again. At his partner’s call, the ghost dog huffed. “Tone.”

The anti-terrorist chuckled, though the sound resembled a death rattle more than actual humor. “It is a bit of a riddle, I suppose.” A true Rocket would be ridiculous to state his or her allegiance. But simply being from the league—or claiming to be—was truly no guarantee of safety. Devils lied, but so did so-called angels. “Though, if you had, you would not be the first to make such a request.” Typically after many hours of torture. Something he normally watched in silence. In those scenarios, he somehow became the good cop. “People are into some strange things, I am afraid.”


Tch. This ranger possessed some semblance of brains. Still, he was allowed to be here. “Ah, an astute observation,” Nikita murmured. “Though not one that does not hold true if a crime scene is truly active.” Police officers did not cordon corridors before stopping a criminal in the act. Or, at least, the smart ones did not. His eyes briefly shifted to where he’d entered. “Did you shut your entryway behind you?” The last thing he wanted was for the rats to scurry off.


Detective Winters stared at the possessed doll. Even without muscles, his stance made it clear he was unimpressed. He did not smile. Back before he died, he had ripped apart chew toys larger than this thing. Knowing these pair were not the intended targets, the Houndstone moved toward his partner.


“Well, I am sure the people are grateful.” With his writ, dry as crackers tone, it was difficult to tell the intent of this comment. At the question, Nikita nodded. “Detective Winters investigated the room earlier. The scientists are not here.” The old man sighed. “But their subjects may not be…salvageable.” A deep rumble ran through the old dog. “We disabled the cameras earlier—a simple bit of frozen footage.”


The man adjusted his dark vest. “I intend to take advantage of the opportunity to observe their work before they flush it.” Then, hopefully, he could trap them here another day. “Try not to let your heart bleed too much.”


The ghost type at his side disappeared through the wall. After a moment of examining the numbered keypad, Nikita quickly punched in a number. With a click the door popped open. Fortunately, only one arrangement of those numbers formed a date.


Click! He gestured the young man inside. The smell and sound—the latter far from celebratory—were deafening.