2. Scott

CHAPTER 2

SCOTT

S cott tried to quell his nervousness while he got ready to go to the office.

April’s email had said business casual, so Scott picked a burgundy shirt over black pants, hoping it looked slightly dressy while not being a suit. He made sure to eat breakfast before he changed so that his nervousness didn’t make him spill food or coffee on his shirt.

They’ve already hired me. It’s not an interview—I’m meeting the team and going to orientation. Somehow, that didn’t make him feel any less fidgety.

When he drove to the headquarters, his map app glitched, so he ended up driving past a couple of times before he spotted the street number above the door. I hope they got a discount on the rent if they’ve got that much electromagnetic interference. They should take that up with the landlord. Should I be worried about growing a tumor or a second head? Beggars can’t be choosers. Make some money, sock it away, and quit before I turn into a radioactive creature.

Scott parked and took a few deep breaths before heading inside. A bored receptionist glanced up when he entered.

“I’m Scott Dixon, the new hire. April told me to come here for orientation.”

The woman looked at him in silence, blew a bubble, and popped it. “Identification, please.”

Scott hurried to produce his license. She peered at it over her glasses and handed it back. “Orientation is on the first floor. You’ll need an escort until they’ve done your paperwork and issued you an ID.”

The receptionist slid a laminated, clip-on badge across the counter. It read “GUEST—Zero Clearance, Escort Required.”

“You’ve got pretty tight security,” Scott observed and figured perhaps the competitiveness of developing new snack foods or recipes warranted extra caution.

She smacked her gum. “Goes with the territory. You don’t want to see what happens without it.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

“Trust me, you don’t. Last time, heads rolled. It was not a pretty sight.”

Scott knew the restaurant business could be highly competitive. Rochester had an active foodie scene, but he hadn’t heard that Albany—generally regarded as a sleepy town despite being the state capital—had such a cut-throat reputation.

“Have a seat.” She nodded toward a gray bench along the wall. “Your escort will be here to take you inside.”

Scott sat and tried not to fidget. He thought about reading the news or playing a game on his phone but didn’t want to appear distracted. Instead, he looked around and was confused by the completely neutral lobby, devoid of any connection to canned ham or other food products. Two of the most generic landscape paintings Scott had ever seen broke up the expanse of light gray walls. He didn’t catch any whiff of cooking smells. No company logos or corporate pictures hung on the walls, but Scott spotted a security camera pointed at the main doorway and a small sliding door that made him think, bizarrely, of a sniper’s roost.

A man in military fatigues came out of a door at the back of the lobby and looked around.

“Scott Dixon?”

Feeling even more confused, Scott stood. “Hi. I’m the new hire—test kitchen.”

The man looked to be in his early forties, with a high-and-tight haircut and the bearing of a career soldier. “You’re the new guy. Welcome. I’m Ted. April said to expect you. I’m here to show you around, help you get your bearings, and get your equipment issued.”

“Okay.” Scott was utterly confused but doing his best to go with the flow.

Ted led him down the hallway and stopped at a door marked “Armory.”

“Do you have a preference in manufacturer or caliber?”

“In what?”

Ted opened the door and ushered Scott into a room whose walls were covered in guns. Handguns, semi-automatics, rifles, shotguns—and quite a few Scott couldn’t even identify.

“I don’t understand.”

“If you brought your own pieces, they need to be registered with the organization,” Ted went on as if he hadn’t heard. “You’ll get a service handgun, regular issue, and you can request a long gun or automatic if you want.”

“I—”

“Well? These are all standard models.” Ted seemed to expect Scott to know his way around guns.

“That one.” At a loss, Scott pointed to one that looked impressive.

“Glock. Good choice. We’ll get you a shoulder holster that fits. Any other guns?”

A very long time ago, Scott’s grandfather had taken him out hunting groundhogs. “Double-barrel shotgun?” he asked, completely flummoxed.

Ted nodded. “Good general-purpose weapon. You can always request something else if you have a situation that requires it. We’ll handle the paperwork and have them ready to take with you.”

Ted headed to a different area in the armory which had the kind of tactical vests Scott had seen in action movies. “Step over here, and we’ll get you fitted.”

Scott followed in a daze, and a man with a measuring tape stepped up, reminding him of the last time he had bought a suit. “Isn’t this a little overkill?” Scott managed.

Ted fixed him with a look. “This is a dangerous business. We can’t be too careful.”

Scott wracked his memories to see if he could recall anyone at a test kitchen being shot or blown up. Even the cooking competitions didn’t go that far.

Ted went to a set of shelves and searched for what looked like a black leather dopp kit. “This has everything you’ll need—lockpicks, micro-bugs, an earpiece, micro camera, night vision monocular, bug detectors, and a shiv, just in case.”

Scott started to hyperventilate. “Hold up?—”

“Sorry, we’re on a very tight schedule.”

“Wait a fucking minute!” Scott burst out. “I got hired to be a chef in a test kitchen. I’m not James Bond.”

Ted gave a slow blink. “Test kitchen?”

“Yes. For canned meat products. Cooking appetizers and casseroles and creating lunch ideas.” Scott felt a little light-headed. “Putting canned ham back on top. The all-American processed meat. You know—SPAM.”

Ted looked at him as if Scott had two heads. “April hired you.”

“Yes.”

“She processed your paperwork.”

“Yes, and she set things up for me to come here today to start my new job. As a test kitchen chef.”

Ted’s nonplussed expression made Scott grit his teeth. “Did April actually use the term test kitchen?”

Now that he thought about it, Scott wasn’t sure. But it had seemed so at the time. “I—she said I had just what the organization needed. And she was very interested in my little psychic thing.”

“Your little psychic thing?”

Scott was getting pretty pissed at Ted for repeating him. “Yes. The whole weird thing where I get a taste in my mouth, and something related happens.”

“Clairgustance. That would be why you were recruited. Handy for an agent,” Ted replied.

If it was making sense for him, it was clear as mud for Scott. “I’m not an agent. I’m a food reviewer. I cook. I want to have a food truck someday. I really think you’ve got the wrong man.” His eyes widened, and he went pale with fear. “Oh, God. Does that mean you have to kill me now?”

“Probably not.” Ted was entirely too calm for the situation. “I need to speak to someone.”

“Fuck—that’s why you had me fill out next of kin. You’re going to kill me and harvest my organs. Or traffic me. How about if I go back to Rochester, and we just forget any of this ever happened?”

Ted gave him a pitying look. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Scott.”

Scott didn’t realize he had been backing up until he hit the wall. “That’s what the computer in that movie said right before it tried to kill everyone.”

Ted took a step closer, moving slowly as if approaching a wild animal. “Didn’t April tell you this is the Special Processing And Management division? Aka SPAM. We handle unique covert intelligence operations that involve the supernatural and paranormal abilities.”

“Covert intelligence? You mean I’m a spy?”

Ted shrugged. “That’s very Cold War. We prefer intelligence asset or operative. Gotta keep up with the times.”

“Why would anyone recruit me to be a spy?” Scott figured he would ask questions now so that if they shot him once he fainted, he would at least die with answers.

“You applied for the job. Your qualifications were outstanding.”

“I applied to be a chef in a test kitchen. The application didn’t say anything about killing people, infiltrating foreign governments, assassinating politicians, or blowing up secret bunkers.”

Ted looked a little hurt. “There are many hurtful stereotypes. That’s why we have orientation.”

Scott began to pace. “Oh, God. Shit. Fuck. Damn. I gave up my apartment, moved to Albany, and now I’m a spy.” He looked at Ted. “Do you at least have a division that infiltrates fancy government parties? I could be good at that. I could be a fake waiter and wear a microphone. Maybe I could fix the appetizers for secret meetings. You have to eat well when you’re planning sneaky stuff to save the world.”

Ted touched a button on his collar. “April?”

April’s voice sounded through the small button-speaker. “Is Scott with you?”

“He’s very confused—something about being hired for a test kitchen?”

She chuckled. “That sort of thing happens. Hello, Scott.”

“Please don’t kill me. I’ll forget everything. Swear I won’t tell a soul.”

“Calm down, Scott,” she replied. “We have a slight misunderstanding.”

“You think?” Scott began to pace in earnest. “All I wanted was to get a job making delicious food so I could show those bastards at the magazine I was a good chef and make a living doing what I love. And now they’re giving me guns and body armor and listening devices that I’m pretty sure are illegal in all fifty states and territories, and Ted says I’m a spy now, and that means people are going to shoot me, and I’ll never get my food truck.” Scott wasn’t sure whether he was more likely to pass out or throw up.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” April said, in a voice that sounded way too close to the monotone of automated messages to give Scott any real comfort. “Let’s take things one step at a time.”

“Let’s start with the spy stuff. I thought you worked for the company that makes canned ham.”

April laughed. “We get that a lot. We’re really way cooler. We’re actually Special Processing And Management, and we handle spying with agents who have unusual and technically small—but definitely not insignificant—paranormal abilities. Offbeat powers, like yours.”

“I get funny tastes in my mouth. I’m not going to save the world with that,” Scott countered.

“You never know.” April grew serious. “Much stranger things have happened. But unconventional abilities aren’t as likely to be spotted. Some of the supes practically glow with how much power they have—hard to go unnoticed. You, on the other hand?—”

“I’m a chef!”

“And that’s exactly what we need for the assignment we’re giving you. Someone is creating dangerous recreational drugs and distilled spirits specifically altered to affect creatures with supernatural metabolisms,” April went on as if her statement held nothing unusual. “Bootleggers and smugglers. They’re black market, unregulated, untested—and unsafe. We need someone with your background to find out where the altered materials are coming from and help us shut down the suppliers.”

Scott frowned, trying to figure out the goal. “Is it illegal to make recipes for special metabolisms?”

“Not technically—although we’ve raised issues with the powers that be about the potential problems,” she replied. “Faster metabolisms burn off any kind of substance faster than normal, and it takes more to affect them. As long as no one is getting hurt, we’ve turned a blind eye. We’re not interested in the legitimate makers, at least not until there are regulations in place. The big issue is that what’s coming in from Canada is tainted, and there have been deaths.”

“When you say creatures with supernatural metabolisms,” Scott said, feeling like his head was full of wool, “you mean?—”

“Vampires, shifters, werewolves, and some of the less common creatures,” April answered matter-of-factly.

“They’re real?”

“Oh, yes. One of our mandates is to keep the supernatural community safe from entities that would try to harm or exploit them,” April told him.

“Entities…”

“I know this is all new to you,” she said, “but that’s why there’s orientation. We recruit people from all walks of life who have the talent to help us accomplish our missions. And if you recall, the terms of our package are very competitive—generous, even.”

They gave me a raise and a bonus. Healthcare. Funeral expenses. It’s a better package than anything else I saw available. I gave up my apartment and moved here. I don’t have enough money to keep looking. “Okay.” Scott surrendered to fate. “What do I need to do?”

“That’s the spirit,” April cheered. “It’s a lot to take in all at once, but after you’ve gone through orientation and we get you on your first assignment, you’ll get the hang of it. I know you’re going to do great. Gotta run. Stay in touch!”

The link went quiet, and Scott stared at Ted. He felt as if his world had come unstuck. Sure, when he was a kid he thought it would be cool to be a spy like in the movies and comic books. Then he read some John Le Carre novels and decided the danger, solitude, deception, betrayals, and loneliness weren’t something he was cut out for.

“Here’s your orientation schedule,” Ted replied, in a tone as if the whole conversation hadn’t happened. “It starts off with a cocktail hour, first names only. Look for chemistry with possible partners, but remember that allegiances shift and loyalties change, so don’t get too attached.

“Next, you have the kick-off dinner with a speech by the head of SPAM about our history and mission. There’s a film afterward about the organization’s history—the part that isn’t classified, anyhow.

“Oh, and wear these at all times.” Ted pulled a small bag from his pocket and handed it to Scott. Inside were two silver charms on silver chains. The designs looked like ancient sigils. Scott slipped the necklaces over his head and tucked them beneath his shirt.

“Tomorrow, we’ll assess your gun knowledge and teach you some basic self-defense moves. Then we have several presentations: Interrogation Under Torture—Just Say Nyet, Ten Ways to Recognize Other Spies, and My Cover is Blown—Now What?” Ted paused.

“You’ll also get an official physical, and we’ll issue your badge along with a wallet card on who to contact if you need to be extracted in an emergency. You’ll have basic hand-to-hand combat and weapons training before being debriefed on your assignment and released to the field.” Ted concluded.

Scott felt like he might have a case of the vapors. “I don’t know how to fight. The last guy I hit was Auggie Andrews in the fifth grade because he stuck my math book in the toilet. And I’m gay. You’re not allowed to have gay spies, right?”

Ted sighed. “Did you ever, for even a minute, think James Bond didn’t swing both ways?”

Believe me, that crossed my mind. Scott had plenty of fantasies about peeling that tuxedo off more than one incarnation of the famous spy. “I’m not accustomed to danger.”

“You were a food critic. Surely you had enemies.”

Scott thought for a moment. “There was a chef with a meat cleaver who didn’t like what I said about his béarnaise sauce. But since they all wanted positive reviews, they mostly sucked up to me. It was nice while it lasted.”

“We won’t be sending you into combat,” Ted promised. “Actually, your background as a food critic will be a perfect cover. If it helps, think of yourself as an investigator. You’ll have a reason to go to the restaurants and bars we think are operating as a front for the smugglers. Some of those groups are also bringing in similarly augmented, off-the-books paranormal pharmaceuticals, so you may end up bagging some big-wigs.”

Scott frowned. “How are they getting the supplies?”

“They’re a bunch of coyotes coming in from Canada,” Ted said.

“I thought coyotes brought undocumented people across the border,” Scott replied.

Ted shook his head. “Not those kind. The furry sort—shifters.”

“Real coyotes…running illegal drugs.” Scott’s world tilted again. “Isn’t that more a problem for a game warden?”

“You’ve got the perfect background as a food reviewer to get into the locations and ask lots of questions. Poke around. Talk to people. Keep your eyes open. The restaurants and bars they’re operating out of want good publicity. Half the time, the front of the house has no idea what’s going on in the back of the kitchen,” Ted assured him, ignoring his question.

If I go back to Rochester now, I’ll be sleeping on couches and sending more resumes. I’m overqualified for fast food and underqualified for haute cuisine. I don’t want to be broke. Scott slumped in surrender. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Ted smiled. “You’ll be a natural. Your cover is as a food writer. We aren’t expecting you to go in guns blazing. You get cozy with them for your article. Keep your eyes and ears open. And when you know who’s who and what’s where, you phone it in, and our team swoops in like the wrath of God and shuts them down.”

Scott just stared at him. “And you don’t think they’ll figure I ratted them out and come after me?”

“We’ll extract you before the team goes in,” Ted assured him. “We take very good care of our assets.”

I’m an asset. A spy. And I didn’t even get a secret decoder ring. “Aren’t there a bunch of other things I need to know?” Scott tried to remember every espionage movie he had ever seen. “Like how to hotwire a car or make a bomb out of household materials or defuse a nuke with a paperclip?”

“Those skills are strictly on a need-to-know basis,” Ted replied. “If you’re ever assigned a case where it’s likely you will need to do any of those things, instruction will be provided.”

I wanted him to laugh and tell me that was completely nonsense. But no—it’s just that I’m too junior to know how to blow things up. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to remind himself that real spies didn’t faint. “Where am I supposed to find these bootleggers?”

“We’re sending you to Fox Hollow. It’s a little town in between Lake Placid and Lake George. Pretty close to the Canadian border. There’s an institute for psychics there, and the town itself is shifter-friendly,” Ted replied. “That will all be covered as part of your assignment debrief, and they’ll also give you more information about shifters and the supernatural community so you know what to look for.”

“What the hell is ‘shifter friendly’?”

Ted’s smile looked strained. “The year-round residents tend to be either psychics or shifters. We don’t think townspeople are involved in the smuggling—not knowingly, at least. That’ll be part of your job—finding out whether the smugglers have inside connections.”

The name of the town sounded familiar. Didn’t one of my profs from Ithaca move there? He might be able to help.

“What if the coyotes find out I’m a spy?”

Ted’s expression grew sober. “That would be very bad. Try not to let that happen.”