Waypoint Kangaroo Read Online Free PDF Page A

usually examines me from head to toe, checking everything from my back teeth to my bowel movements. I’m the only person we know of who’s ever manifested any persistent superhuman ability, and the agency doesn’t want their prize Kangaroo getting sick. It’s Surgical’s job to make sure I keep laying golden eggs. So to speak.
    She’s definitely distracted today. Is something else happening in the office? Something she doesn’t want to tell me about? Am I in trouble?
    Of course you’re in trouble, Kangaroo. When are you not in trouble?
    â€œStay away from caffeine for the next few days,” Jessica says, turning away from her screen to yank off my electrodes and eyepatch.
    â€œAre you trying to kill me?” I say, slumping forward theatrically.
    â€œDrink plenty of water. And don’t skip the gym.”
    â€œI’m not,” I lie.
    â€œDon’t lie,” she says. How does she do that? “You always slack off after an operation.”
    I don’t feel like it’s a good time to debate her on this point. “Fine. I’ll get all sweaty on the treadmill and catch up on my soap operas. Are we done?” I can ask her for a new emergency AED later.
    â€œFor now,” she says. “Science wants to test you on the rotation problem again.”
    â€œYeah, EQ told me. Can’t you write me a note or something, Surge?”
    â€œI’m not your mother,” she says. “Also, stop making up stupid nicknames.”
    â€œNo, see, ‘Surge’ is short for ‘Surgical,’ which is your actual job title—”
    â€œDrink more water,” Jessica says, emphasizing each syllable as if I’m hard of hearing. “We’re done here.”
    She picks up her tablet and taps at it while walking out of the room. I get dressed in silence, wondering if I’m going to have bruises later.
    *   *   *
    Paul is on a vid call when I walk into his office. I probably should have knocked first, but I’m here now, and staying will be marginally less awkward than leaving. I quietly sit down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
    The wrinkles around Paul’s eyes and mouth make him look dignified rather than old. His gray hair reflects more light than you’d expect, looking almost silver. If he put on some weight and grew a beard, he might look like Santa Claus. With a beard and pointy hat, Merlin. With muttonchop sideburns, an eighteenth-century robber baron. Or was that the nineteenth century? Whenever people were still building railroads.
    He looks the same as that first night I met him. For better or worse, he’s been the one constant thing in my life for almost a decade now. Different assignments, different partners, different objectives. But it’s always been Paul calling the shots.
    I glance at the reversed vid image being projected onto the clear plexi screen rising out of his desktop. It looks like the Secretary of State.
    â€œThis is on you, Paul,” the Secretary of State says. There’s no mistaking that voice. “You said your boy could handle it.”
    Paul keeps his eyes on the screen, where the camera is mounted, and gestures with his right hand, pointing at the tray on the bookshelf against the wall. I get up and pour myself a glass of water. Of course he’s already gotten the medical report from Jessica.
    â€œHe did handle it,” Paul says. “We successfully retrieved the item.”
    â€œYou and I seem to have different standards for ‘success.’”
    â€œWe needed Kangaroo on this operation,” Paul says. “The item was larger than our sources indicated. Nobody else could have gotten it out of Kazakhstan as efficiently as he did.”
    â€œWe also seem to disagree on the definition of ‘efficient.’ He left an American body back there. And he put a Kazakh citizen in the goddamn hospital.”
    Hospital. So Ol’