by K. F. Breene
“This way, miss!” Her remaining guard reached for her.
“That was a drill, cupcake.” The stranger turned to her guard. “You’re useless. You should be used for parts.”
“I . . . But . . .” The guard’s hand dropped in confusion.
“C’mon, time for work. You’re late.” The stranger, his grip still firm on her upper arm, marched her toward the entrance.
“How did you know that was a drill?” she asked. She noticed the first guard off to the side, his limbs splayed at uncomfortable-looking angles. She felt a twinge spread through her middle as she noticed the thick deep-red puddle of blood crawling along the cement. He’d been around for years, silently sitting in the craft or walking her to and from her work pod. And now . . .
She forced her features into smooth disinterest before abruptly facing front.
Her persona said she wasn’t affected by such carnage. And to an onlooker, she wasn’t. She designed the most heinous weapons the world had ever known. She’d seen the effects of some of her handiwork, and she’d borne it beautifully. At least, that’s what her reports said. They had to, or she’d be retired to some low-level department where they’d belittle and taunt her for being a failed natural born. She’d be beaten up by jealous bosses and starved, moved from her apartment into a tiny dark dwelling with a roommate. She couldn’t live like that.
They’d bred her with a job in mind, and she would do that job. No matter what it took.
She rose her chin in defiance of her discomfort. Getting back on track—and into the role intended for her—she thought, Heels—disengage.
Nothing happened.
“Sexy.” The rumble was like a deep drum.
“What’s sexy?” she asked as she stomped one boot, and then the other.
“The heels. Horribly inefficient, though.”
She could feel the severe glower on her face. Heels—DISENGAGE! “Flats are for running away. Heels are for running toward.”
“Not sure I follow, princess.”
“Stop calling me that.” She unclenched her fists. “Commenting on your sexual approval of my footwear is not permitted within this organization. Surely someone covered that with you . . .”
“Do you always go into your work pod armed?” he asked, the humor dripping away.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Yes, it is. Answer the question.”
She scowled at his forceful tone as they neared the entranceway to her department. “I’m afraid that information is reserved for higher-level staff. Thanks for walking me, but now I must—”
“Good morning, Mr. Gunner,” a raspy male voice greeted the stranger beside her, reading his retinal scan.
If he could get into this part of the building, why wasn’t he wearing the conglomerate insignia?
“Good morning, Ms. Foster,” Millicent’s AI said.
“Since I can tell you won’t give me a straight answer, excuse me, I have work to do.” Mr. Gunner strode away without another glance.
She stared after him for a moment, mouth agape. He’d never answered her question regarding the drill, not that he was probably permitted to. But two men lay dead on the walk outside. Surely that deserved some kind of explanation. She felt like she was missing a large piece of the puzzle . . .
Or perhaps the entire puzzle.
She thought briefly of bringing it up with her superior, but tossed the idea away. The department gave her information as she needed it—if she made any such requests, she’d be asked why she was suddenly getting curious about matters that didn’t concern her.
She stripped anything not relevant to her daily tasks from her mind—it was safer that way. Easier, too. Shaking her head, she slipped into her work pod, twelve minutes late, and immediately focused.
She was the job. Nothing else mattered.
Get it here.
Also by K.F. Breene
Finding Paradise
Fate of Perfection
Warrior Chronicles
Chosen
Hunted
Shadow Lands
Invasion
Siege
Overtaken
Darkness Series
Into the Darkness
Braving the Elements
On a Razor’s Edge
Demons
The Council
Shadow Watcher
Jonas
Charles
Jameson
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About the Author
K.F. Breene is a USA TODAY BESTSELLING author of the Darkness Series and Warrior Chronicles. She lives in wine country where over every rolling hill, or behind every cow, an evil sorcerer might be plotting his next villainous deed while holding a bottle of wine and brick of cheese. Her husband thinks she’s cracked for wandering around, muttering about magic and swords. Her kids are on board with her fantastical imagination, except when the description of the monsters becomes too real.
She’ll wait until they’re older to tell them that monsters are real, and so is the magic to fight them. She wants them to sleep through the night, after all…
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