Crossing Lines

"Red light!"

"I see it. Thank you, Nichole."

He pulled to a stop and I sat back in my seat, satisfied by his ability to follow the rules of the road. Satisfied that I still remembered the rules of the road, even though I didn't drive.

Didn't want to buy a car.

I could buy one, but I didn't see the point in all the upkeep and buying gas and all that junk. Too much work. Easier to just take the damn bus. Let someone else drive me around.

"You know, I only had the one drink and one shot," Devon pointed out. "I don't need you side seat driving, especially as you are now."

It was late enough at night that the light turned over almost right away and we were pulling forward again. I grabbed the "oh shit bar" hanging above my head.

"Don't accelerate so fast," I admonished him with a sharp hiss.

"I accelerated like I normally do!"

I huffed and refused to let go of the handle, just in case. "That's still enough for some people to lose all their coordination."

Devon laughed. "No, it's enough for YOU to lose all coordination. I'd need a lot more to consider myself drunk, okay? You don't need to worry that pretty little head of yours."

"My head's not pretty," I muttered, touching the top of my head and pouting.

In my lap were my fries. I'd been picking at them all along; they were sitting atop a grease-soaked napkin. I missed ketchup.

We pulled off the side of the road and I looked around through the window.

"This isn't work," I observed.

"How astute. I'm getting you that water I promised. Stay here. Don't talk to strangers," he teased, leaving the car running for me.

Waving him off, I occupied myself with the radio. There didn't seem to be anything good playing, so I stopped on whatever station was playing actual music and not just ads or a talk show.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of my window and took a deep breath. It seemed to help some of the spinning, and it felt nice on my skin. Plus, I could look outside.

Devon had pulled off in a gas station, probably a 7-Eleven. There was one on almost every corner.

Sometimes across the street from each other! I wondered briefly if they ever just . . . had turf wars when that happened.

I giggled for a few minutes at the image of two 7-Eleven employees standing in front of their stores, shaking their fists at each other. Undercutting gas prices. Shouting "I'll get you next time!" across the road.

It seemed to take Devon forever to buy me a bottle of water and I took it from him when he returned, guzzling half of it down to chase the salty fries. He put a second one in the cupholder for me.

"What was so funny?" he asked. "I saw you in here giggling like crazy."

"It's been three years since you left, I was entertaining myself," I muttered, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

"Oh, get real," he said, not unkindly.

When he wasn't looking, I stuck my tongue out at him and went back to nursing my fries.

"What are you listening to?" Devon asked after a few minutes, giving the radio a funny look before fixing the dial.

What had been playing? Country? I'd barely been listening.

"Dunno. Music, I guess."

He scoffed. "If you say so."

"I just picked a station, alright? God," I huffed, considering splashing him with the water.

But it was MY water.

For the rest of the ride, I pouted in my seat, turned to face the outside world as it went by. I remarked on his speed limit a couple times, but otherwise, I was giving him the silent treatment.

Well, until we finally made it to our destination.

"You didn't indicate the turn!" I gasped as he pulled into the parking lot at headquarters.

"Oh no, better call the police."

"I'm gonna."

"I wish you would."

"Fine, then I won't."

Devon shook his head in amusement and motioned toward my door. "Just get outta my car before you throw up in it."

"I'm not gonna throw up," I insisted. "I feel perfectly fine."

Luckily, I'd found my balance inside the bottle of water and at the bottom of my fries. The world had still lost focus and the slightest movement dragged my attention away from—everything. However, at least I could climb out of the car without falling on my face.

"I didn't even get to be in a bar fight," I grumbled, rubbing my face.

"That's a good thing," Devon insisted, closing my door when I'd forgotten to. I was about to apologize, then I forgot what for.

"So, uh, what did—what did Dixon want?" I asked, the words thick on my tongue.

How many times had I asked that? I was pretty sure I'd asked the same question before . . .

He shrugged. "Dunno. Didn't say. Just wanted us to come in as quick as we could."

"Why's he gotta be so cryptic? You sure he didn't have any information to give us?" I asked, letting Devon lead me around headquarters.

"Well, he did say there was a huge development in a case," he finally relented, not quite touching me but still within arm's reach.

I stuck my tongue out at him and said, "See?He did say something!"

"Not much."

"Still something."

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry."

Grunting, I muttered that I forgave him and pressed the elevator button a few dozen times.

While we waited, I asked, "Are you taking me home after this?"

"Yeah, course."

"Gonna walk me to my apartment?" I teased, poking him a few times in the ribs.

He twitched and pushed my hand away. "Hey—knock that off. Now I see why you didn't go drinking with us."

"Why?" I pouted.

"You've lost all your composure! It's hilarious."

Frowning, I turned away and marched into the elevator to stand in the back. "I have not. I'm perfectly composed."

He rolled his eyes. "Uh huh, sure."

I crossed my arms and glowered at the doors. He chuckled and said, "To answer your question, yes. I would walk you to your apartment. I'd be too afraid you'd try to break into the wrong one."

Lips pursed, I decided to shift my attention back to him. "Yeah I guess. Thanks."

"Hey, what're partners for?"

We somehow made it to our floor without me tripping on anything or veering off-course. I was still floaty, like I'd somehow become lighter, and my head was fuzzy.

But, I was functioning.

Dixon, however, wasn't in his office. It was dark except for a couple of overhead lights in the main room.

After waiting a few minutes, he still didn't show up.

"Well?" I demanded. "Where is he?"

"Right here. Glad you two could make it."

I jumped four feet in the air and spun around; my legs threatened to give out from under me. Director Dixon was in the hallway leading to the elevators, his hands in his pockets as he approached us.

"God! Don't surprise me!" I sputtered.

Dixon made a questioning look at Devon, who shrugged and said, "Don't mind her. Nichole, drink your water. What do you need, boss?"

I grumbled about Devon telling me what to do, but I drank my water anyway. He'd mentioned something about flushing the alcohol out of my system or some shit. My second bottle was almost empty, so then what was I gonna do?

Guess I could fill it. There were some drinking fountains by the restrooms. The water from it was cold, if not the tastiest I've ever had.

Water was water.

"You sure she's okay?" Dixon asked again.

More impatient than normal, I prompted, "I'm fine. What did you need, 'sir'?"

Finally, he explained himself. "There's been a break in the predator case and we might need your help, Nichole. Especially since we lost some people."

Those words alone were enough to make my adrenaline spike and my mind clear enough to focus. The swaying didn't stop—and my legs were killing me—but he had my attention.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, then inhaled deeply. "Lost some people?" I repeated, working harder than normal to enunciate properly.

/Someone died,/ the voice in the back of my head reminded me.

"Yes. I already put in the paperwork to add you to the case. Devon, I haven't asked you yet—did you want in?" he asked, pointing at my partner.

Devon glanced at me, as if waiting for me to protest.

I scoffed and announced, "We're like, a package deal."

Wait, why did I say that?

He grinned at me and said, "You heard the lady. Wouldn't want to break up the dream team, would we?"

Embarrassed, I averted my eyes.

"Alright, that's settled," Dixon quipped. "I already pushed through the paperwork for you transfer, too. I thought you might say that."

"So, are we officially part of the taskforce, then?" I asked, meticulously enunciating everything I said, trying to sound more sober than I felt at that moment.

"Almost. Close enough, anyway. You already have clearance to enter the basement, at least, so I'd like you to follow me there," Dixon said, gesturing for us to come with him.

"You mean the . . ." I bit my lip, looked around for eavesdroppers, then leaned in close and said, "the ALIEN basement?"

Nodding and rolling his eyes, he held his arm out and we walked forward, matching strides with him toward the elevators.

"That's right, the alien basement. How much did you say she had to drink?" Dixon's question was directed to Devon.

"More than enough, I guess," Devon shrugged.

"Why didn't you pick up your phone, Miss Shain?" Dixon asked me.

"Sorry," I said. "Left my phone in the car."

"I know you were off the clock when I called, so I'll forgive your current state and apologize for ruining your night out," said Dixon. "However, I think after tonight, you'll find it in your heart to forgive me."

"So, who did we lose?" Devon's voice was calculated and flat. "And how?"

Ah Devon, asker of the hard questions. Though I tried, I couldn't hold back mini-giggles. "I bet I know how," I whispered in a sing-song voice.

There was a good chance it had to do with a large, muscular alien punching out their hearts.

The director didn't miss a beat, or maybe he didn't hear me. "Lena Henson, Jimmy Collins, Letitia Kim, Angel Wright, and Ethan Donahue. They were . . . slain, trying to apprehend the extraterrestrial."

"That's my bo-oy."

Both men turned their heads toward me and I pursed my lips, ducking my head. Heat—more than what was already there—flushed my cheeks and I fought to stifle a smile. I mouthed the word "sorry" and chugged the rest of my water.

/I thought I said it quietly. Oh well./

"How many drinks did she have?" Dixon demanded again. The elevator doors closed around us.

Devon sighed and scratched the bridge of his nose. "Two shots, a margarita, and a piña colada."

Dixon gave me a strange look and I scowled.

"I never drank before!" I snarled.

Even in my state, I knew how out of line my tone had been. I clenched my eyes shut. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," I chanted, breathing deeply.

Maybe I could expunge the liquor by sheer force of will.

"Well, she'll sober right up when she sees it," Dixon said as the doors to the elevator opened again.

We were on our way down the hall. The different lettered doors went by, leaving the one at the end. The one with the P emblazoned upon it.

/Wait. He said . . . 'it" . . ./

The word hit me in the stomach like an angry bull and I reeled, eyes wide. I glanced between Devon and Dixon, my mind cleared and balance mostly restored. My hands shook, and my lip quivered as I tried to find the words.

Finally, they came. "What 'it'?"

Dixon smiled, and my stomach churned. He held out his hand, inviting me into the room. Devon waited for me, but I was frozen where I stood. Paralyzed by the implications.

"What IT?" I demanded again with more force. I didn't want to go inside.

"The reason why I was called you here. I thought you'd appreciate the courtesy after what you went through in your youth," he said, frowning.

When I still didn't move forward, he sighed and faced me. "Well, I wanted it to be a surprise, but . . . we have a specimen."

Another punch to the stomach. My hands clenched into fists and I fought to keep my emotions in check.

/They couldn't have./

Dixon's frown turned into a broad smile and he ushered us on while saying, "Your expertise will be pivotal to this case from here on out. I'm sorry you couldn't be on the field team this time, but you can be on the case moving forward."

His words seemed so far away—I could barely process them. I was walking through a dream, leaning on Devon so he could help me reach where we were going. He didn't seem to mind and propped me up.

/It has to be a mistake./

My mind was working overtime, trying to convince myself that there was no way they'd have captured one of Wolf's people. They were so tough, so strong.

Another part was struggling with why I cared at all. Wolf could be an outlier—an anomaly within the race. If I'd met with Brutus first, he would have killed me. He was ready to kill me, if Wolf hadn't been there.

The smallest, but loudest, part was screaming at the top of its lungs—'what if it's Wolf?'—and I couldn't shut it out.

/It's not./

/It can't be./

/They wouldn't be able to get him!/

"Now we have the perfect opportunity. It's just unfortunate how it came to be," Dixon finished. I couldn't remember what he had said before that.

We passed through the main entrance, decorated with broken or replicated tech. Boards on the wall tracked activity throughout the years. Artists renderings and captured surveillance footage was also mounted.

Dixon opened a door that led to an interrogation monitoring room. Glass took up most of one wall, and the actual interrogation room was on the other side.

Somewhat hesitantly, I approached the two-way mirror. Devon followed behind and Dixon hung back.

My breath caught and I shuddered, aghast at what I saw.

The interrogation room on the other end of the glass was about the same size as any other, but the content inside was not. There was no table and chairs, no perp sitting and waiting.

Just one folding table set up with medical supplies. In the center . . .

I clenched my eyes shut. My head was spinning, my stomach churning.

In the center was a metal bed, raised up so its occupant was mostly upright and turned toward us, hidden by the mirror.

"We lost five good agents, but we finally have a live specimen to study, and a whole load of tech to reverse engineer," Dixon said, his voice smug and triumphant.

If I wasn't so preoccupied with the room and its single occupant, I would have slapped the smug right off his face.

But I couldn't look away. I could barely even remember to breathe.

He was strapped to the examining table, bound and sedated.

Barely awake, his movements sluggish, visibly weak and confused. He moved only occasionally, trying to gain his bearings.

Bruises covered his sandy, mottled scales.

They hadn't even bothered to clean the blood off him, or bandage his wounds.

His armor had been stripped, leaving him naked on that cold table.

A predator. One of Wolf's people. They'd done it. I didn't know how. I didn't know when.

But those fuckers did it.