when he was following Symone and her emotions were mirrored back at him. Her hurry to get home, her worry over the teenagers. Even though he tried to shut it down, she filtered in. And it pissed him off. She was being careless. If she had something to hide, she should be taking better care to stay safe.
Rex’s voice was stern. “Reaper won’t be happy if you can’t pull this off. Are your abilities getting in the way of your orders?”
Reaper, my ass. Garrett tried not to roll his eyes. He couldn’t get used to calling their head mother fucker in charge by his call sign. His name was Peter Reeser. He wasn’t even being clever with the call sign.
“Negative,” Garrett murmured. If there was one thing he could do, it was follow orders.
“Then get it done.”
When he’d been approached by his commanding officer to be part of an elite Black Ops team, he’d jumped at the chance. With his genetic marker for Lou Gehrig’s disease, he knew his military career would be limited. It was a chance to make a difference before he got sick and was so feeble someone would have to feed him. The Symcore Weapons Super Soldier pilot program had saved his life. Nothing would stop him on his follow-through. Especially not a stunningly beautiful terrorist.
He kept his distance as Symone turned toward the business district. Her scent was familiar enough that he wouldn’t lose her here—cinnamon and saffron. And if for some reason his sense of smell failed him, he’d still feel her for several hundred feet. He just had to get close enough to place a tracking chip on her before she hit the center of town by the library.
Mylands was a small enough town that anyone with determination enough could walk the whole town in half a day.
Symone pulled her hood tighter around her face, and Garrett smiled to himself as he watched her from behind a dumpster.
She paused at the entrance to an alley between Diamonds and Things Jewelry Repair and The Written Word bookstore. Crouching down, she pulled something out of her pocket and made several kissing sounds. It didn’t take long before a sleek black catch with a patch of grey on his nose meowed and ducked his head under her hand.
The first night Garrett had watched her, he’d stared perplexed as she pieced out tiny morsels of her Chinese takeout for the cat. Every night after that, she’d brought the little guy actual cat food—though, Garrett had a feeling the fur ball preferred Chinese.
A tiny voice in his head sent alarm bells thorough his nervous system. These weren’t the actions of a terrorist.
***
Symone Jackson pulled her hood over her head and burrowed into her fleece as she gave the cat a scratch. “Hiya, Bones.” The damn cat had sort of befriended her. Never should have fed the flea-bag.
She inhaled deeply as she turned onto Milk Street. The scent of leather drifted on the breeze. It was a familiar scent to her now. Somehow comforting. She picked up her pace in a hurry to get home and maybe have a glass of wine. During daylight hours, throngs of people filled this stretch of street of businesses and offices. But unlike Main Street, there were no restaurants here. Not much foot traffic, and only about one street light per three blocks. As she approached the block with The Thread and Thimble tailor, she noticed a thin figure climbing out of the lawyer’s office next door. The scent of blood was fresh and clung to him.
The young boy stuffed something inside his hoodie as he started to run. Before she knew it, Symone felt her legs pumping after him. “Hey, stop.”
The slim form picked up the pace, then made a left. Three larger teens waited half a block down. The boy handed over something and put out a hand. The largest of the three slammed a fist in the boy’s face, sending him to the ground. Catching sight of Symone, the thugs took off at a dead run. She followed the three, her heart rate ticking up as adrenaline poured though her veins. She breathed deep as she gained on the slowest runner.
Snatching him by the hoodie, she yanked him to a stop. “Easy there. Where are you going? I just want to talk to you.”
His hoodie fell back revealing his face, his young face. “Fuck off, bitch.”
She tsked. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s not nice to cuss at a lady?”
“I’ll