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like Nemesis belongs to me...or is somehow my fault. Though she is certainly my problem, as I’m in charge of preventing a repeat of Boston.
    “Then what was it?” Collins asks.
    The woman shrugs. “Something else. Smaller. I didn’t get a good look at it.”
    “Why not?” Collins’s tone suggests she doesn’t trust this woman.
    “Because I was running for my life with thirty doped-out sex slaves, that’s why.” The woman pauses, composes herself and continues. “Look, all I know is that it was big, but not three-hundred-feet tall big. It cast a bright orange light and it was hungry.”
    “Hungry?” I ask.
    “You won’t be finding the missing,” she says. “They were eaten. All of them.”
    “How do you know they were eaten,” Collins says, “if you were running away?”
    The woman twists her neck to the side, and I hear her vertebrae pop.
    I had a friend that did that too much. Neck got all screwed up. “That’s not good for—”
    “Shut the fuck up and listen,” she says. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of monsters before. I understand that you two are new to this, but let me assure you, I know what someone being eaten sounds like. Fuck, you two are way more bitchy than your partners.”
    “Partners?” I ask.
    “Two DHS-P agents. Man and a woman. North side of the port.”
    Shit. Right now, Collins and I are the only field investigators at DHS-P. I’ve been given the green light to hire more, but haven’t. And not because I’m lazy. The low-key, don’t-give-a-shit Jon Hudson is on vacation. Collins and I have just been so swamped with calls since Nemesis, that I haven’t had a chance to even look at applications. Cooper has been trudging through them with Watson back at the office, but they can’t conduct the interviews or hire people. So, I know without a doubt, that the two people this woman has just described are imposters.
    And I’m pretty sure I know who one of them is. I pull out my phone and open the photo app. “Hold on a second,” I say, scrolling through the images like I’m trying to show her a photo of my kids, which I don’t have. When I find the image I’m looking for, I hold it up to the gap between the crates.
    The glowing screen illuminates the woman. She’s not dressed like a soldier. In fact, she’s dressed kind of slutty, in a tight black skirt. Lots of cleavage. Her blonde hair is dirty and hangs over her face, though I can see one of her piercing blue eyes. Perhaps this is why she wanted to remain in the dark. Who would take her seriously?
    She must see all this in my eyes, because she glances down at herself and explains. “I was undercover.” Then she looks up at the phone and adds, “That’s the guy.”
    “He give a name?” I ask.
    “Collins,” she says. “Jon Collins.”
    I grunt in annoyance. “Son-of-a-bitch.” That asshole. Endo is mocking us.
    “There a problem?” she asks.
    “I’m Collins,” Collins says.
    “And I’m Jon.”
    The woman actually laughs. “Sounds like you two have your hands full. I’ll let you get to it.”
    “We could use your help bringing him in,” I say, motioning to Endo’s photo.
    “Sorry,” the mystery woman says. “Got a plane to catch before the world goes to hell again.”
    I turn to Collins. “Let’s go find him.” When I turn back to thank the woman for the information, she’s gone. Like Batman. Silent and mysterious. Maybe she’s just lying on top of one of the containers, but I don’t want to know where she went, because it was pretty cool. I turn to Collins. “Ready for a run?”
    She just turns and starts running north. I follow, moving fast, leaping debris and dodging fallen containers. Endo. For the first time since Boston, he’s within reach, and I intend to put that bastard over my knee and spank the shit out of him, like I’m a card-carrying member of the Pat Robertson fan club.
     

 
     
    5
     
    “What the—” I manage to say, before slamming into the steel wall of a