The next couple of days are some of the most boring of my life, which is saying something because I once spent six hours in a storage unit waiting for a weapons dealer who never showed.

  Our geased PI - his name's Rick Something, I didn't bother learning his last name - sets up shop in the Roxborough Memorial parking lot Tuesday afternoon with a camera, a clipboard, and the kind of earnest dedication that comes from knowing you literally can't refuse an order. He's investigating "suspicious activity" for an insurance claim, completely legitimate, completely boring, and completely bait.

  I'm positioned on a rooftop three blocks away with binoculars and a police scanner, watching him dust for fingerprints on dumpsters like he's solving the fucking Zodiac killer case. Dead Drop's in a van on the street below, chains coiled and ready. Birthday Suit is somewhere closer - I don't know where exactly because she's better at this stealth shit than I am, but I trust she's in position.

  Nothing happens that day.

  The day after that, Rick comes back. More dusting, more notes, more looking around suspiciously at absolutely nothing. A nurse comes out for a smoke break and he asks her some questions. She looks annoyed. He writes something down. Thrilling stuff.

  My police scanner crackles with normal city noise. Domestic disturbance in Kensington. Traffic accident on I-95. Some kid spray-painting a bodega. The usual symphony of Philadelphia falling apart in real time.

  Nothing happens that day, either.

  The day after the day after that, I'm starting to wonder if Kingdom even cares about this anymore. Maybe they cleaned everything up too well. Maybe Mr. Polygraph is on vacation in Miami. Maybe Bloodhound's tip was good intel that went stale before we could capitalize on it.

  I'm eating my third energy bar of the day and considering calling it when my phone buzzes.

  It's a text from Monkey Business: Movement. Polygraph en route to your location. ETA 8 minutes.

  I sit up so fast I drop the binoculars. I clench my brain and the powers kick in - that weird pigeon sense that tells me exactly where Lucas Donovan, also known as Mr. Polygraph, is at any given moment as long as I know his full legal name. And yeah, there he is, moving fast in my brain, heading east somewhere a mile, maybe two miles away.

  I text the group chat: Fish in the water

  Dead Drop responds immediately: Position maintained

  Birthday Suit: Ready

  I scan the parking lot. Rick is still down there, oblivious, examining something near the medical waste dumpsters. Perfect. Keep doing exactly what you're doing, buddy. Just be your suspicious insurance investigator self.

  Seven minutes.

  A black SUV pulls into the lot - not Mr. Polygraph, he's still six minutes out, but probably advance security. Two guys get out, both in suits that are trying way too hard to look casual. Kingdom mooks, definitely. They're doing that thing where they're pretending to be normal civilians while obviously scanning for threats.

  Rick notices them. Stays in character, keeps taking notes. They notice him back.

  One of the mooks approaches Rick. I can't hear the conversation from three blocks away but I can see body language - Rick showing his PI license, explaining his business, being extremely legitimate and extremely annoying about it. The mook looks like he wants to tell Rick to fuck off but can't quite justify it without revealing something.

  Five minutes.

  The second mook is on his phone. Calling it in, probably. Getting instructions. This is good - this is them taking the bait seriously, which means they're bringing bigger fish to sort it out.

  My phone buzzes again. Monkey Business: Second vehicle, four additional Kingdom members confirmed. Mr. Nothing also present.

  Mr. Nothing. That makes things significantly more complicated. But I like complicated, so that's not an issue.

  Four minutes.

  I text back: How do you want to handle Nothing?

  MB: Avoid him. Focus on Polygraph. Extract in chaos.

  Right. Simple plan. Avoid the walking power-nullifier, grab the lie detector, get out before anyone knows what happened.

  Three minutes.

  The second vehicle arrives - another black SUV because Kingdom has apparently never heard of subtlety. Four more mooks pile out, and yeah, there's Mr. Nothing, I recognize him from the intelligence photos. Tall, black, nice haircut, Dorito build, moves like someone who knows he's the most dangerous person in any room because he makes everyone else normal.

  And right behind him, stepping out of the passenger side: Mr. Polygraph.

  I grin so wide my face hurts. "Jackpot," I mutter to myself. "Literally."

  Mr. Polygraph is exactly what you'd expect from a Kingdom lieutenant - expensive suit, carefully neutral expression, the kind of face that could sell you life insurance or threaten your family with equal sincerity. Salt and pepper hair, but there's no way he's old enough for that. Does he dye or is he just stressed out all the time? He approaches Rick, and even from here I can tell he's already using his power, reading whether Rick is telling the truth about being a PI doing insurance work.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Which he is. That's the beauty of the geas - Rick genuinely believes everything he's saying because it's technically true. He's just omitting the part where he's contractually obligated to be here investigating this specific location because we told him to.

  Two minutes.

  Rick's playing it perfectly. Confused but cooperative, showing his credentials, explaining his job. Mr. Polygraph is nodding, asking questions, probably getting nothing but sincere honesty from Rick's answers because they are sincere and honest, just incomplete.

  One of the mooks is walking the perimeter, checking for observers. I duck lower on the rooftop. My phone is on silent but I can feel it buzzing with texts - the group coordinating, Birthday Suit confirming her position, Dead Drop ready to move.

  One minute.

  And then, because the universe loves me, sirens.

  Not close yet. Maybe six blocks away. But getting closer. Someone called the cops - probably a concerned citizen seeing a bunch of guys in suits harassing a PI in a hospital parking lot and thinking something sketchy was happening. Which, to be fair, something sketchy is happening, just not the kind they're imagining.

  The Kingdom guys hear it too. Instant tension. Mr. Nothing says something sharp, gestures toward the vehicles. They're going to bug out, which means we have maybe thirty seconds before they disappear and this whole setup was for nothing.

  I text: Now

  And then I move.

  My power kicks in and suddenly I'm fast - not Flash fast, not teleporting, but fast enough that the world blurs around me as I drop from the rooftop, hit the ground rolling, and sprint across three blocks in the time it takes a normal person to register I was there. The air pressure thing handles itself, my body automatically compensating for the acceleration, turning what should be a bone-shattering impact into just another step.

  I hit the parking lot at full speed and it's chaos.

  Dead Drop's chains are already flying, ferrokinetic control sending them whipping through the air like steel serpents. One wraps around a mook's ankle and yanks him off his feet. Another catches a gun before it can clear a holster, sending it skittering across the pavement.

  Birthday Suit appears from behind a parked car and just walks into the fight like she's taking a stroll. A mook swings at her with a baseball bat - they brought baseball bats, adorable - and it connects with her ribs with a sound like hitting a side of beef. She doesn't even flinch. Just grabs the bat, yanks it out of his hands, and uses it to sweep his legs.

  Mr. Nothing is shouting, moving toward the center of the fight, trying to find someone to grab. Bad news bears if he manages to get a hand on any of us, but we all know that.

  That's why we brought our mooks.

  The chaos is immediate and frantic, most of them having been waiting in the hospital itself. Ha ha. Bitch, you thought? We have people everywhere.

  I give Mr. Nothing a wide berth, circling the perimeter at speed, looking for my target. There - Mr. Polygraph, backing toward the SUV, reaching for something in his jacket. Not on my watch.

  I blur toward him, closing the distance in a heartbeat, and his hand is just touching whatever weapon he was going for when I slam into him like a freight train. We go down hard, hit the pavement, and I'm already moving, getting my hands on his wrists, pinning him before he can activate whatever panic button Kingdom gave their lieutenants.

  "Hey there," I say cheerfully, my face inches from his. "Wanna chat?"

  "Eat shit and die," he growls. He tries to headbutt me. I dodge, feel his forehead graze my ear. Points for trying.

  The sirens are closer now. Maybe three blocks. I can hear shouting, the meaty sound of Birthday Suit teaching someone about the futility of trying to hurt an unkillable woman, the clatter of Dead Drop's chains doing their work.

  And then someone grabs my shoulder and everything goes wrong.

  My power cuts out. Just stops. No more speed, no more automatic compensation, just normal human Dean trying to hold down a struggling man while the world spins and my stomach does something complicated. Mr. Nothing's hand is on my neck, meaty enough to almost wrap entirely around it. I make an undignified sound. Something sort of like a glohrk! Come on, Dean.

  Birthday Suit hits Mr. Nothing like a truck.

  I don't see it but I hear it. Nobody expects to just get tackled, ever. And then my power snaps back on like someone flipped a switch, and I'm fast again, and Mr. Polygraph is still underneath me trying to wiggle free.

  Dead Drop appears beside me, chains already moving. "Hold him still."

  The air is full of the delightful sounds of combat.

  I hold him still. She wraps him like she's packaging a mummy - chains around his torso, his arms, his legs, efficient and quick and thorough. He tries to say something but she gags him with what looks like a dishrag wrapped around a leather collar. She clasps it shut behind his head and cinches it tight.

  The sirens are one block away now. Cops are starting to arrive, which is great. Break up this random fight in a hospital backyard. I hope you all get shot in the crossfire.

  "Time to go," I say, and we move.

  Birthday Suit is still wrestling with Mr. Nothing - literally wrestling, they're on the ground and he's trying to maintain contact to keep her nullified but she's just so much stronger that it doesn't matter. He can nullify powers. That doesn't matter when she can bench press several children just off natural strength. I see her boot get planted in his sternum and he goes flying, and then she's up and out with us, too.

  Dead Drop has Mr. Polygraph suspended in her chains like a very angry burrito, dragging him behind her as we sprint toward the van. Rick the PI is still standing there with his clipboard looking confused. One of the Kingdom mooks is unconscious, another is trying to crawl away, a third is on his phone probably calling for backup.

  The sirens turn the corner. I see the lights.

  We pile into the van - Dead Drop dumps Mr. Polygraph in the back, Birthday Suit is bleeding from her knuckles but grinning, I slide into the driver's seat and gun it before anyone's even closed the doors.

  Behind us, the parking lot is a disaster. Police cars pulling in, Kingdom mooks scattering, our mooks scattering, Rick standing there with his clipboard probably genuinely confused about how his insurance investigation turned into a superhuman gang fight.

  I take a corner too fast, feel the van tilt dangerously, and breathe through my teeth. Dead Drop is in the back securing our passenger, Birthday Suit is catching her breath in the passenger seat, and my phone is buzzing with what's probably Monkey Business asking for a status update.

  I laugh. Can't help it.

  "Everyone good?" I ask, checking the rearview mirror to make sure we're not being followed.

  "Good," Birthday Suit confirms.

  "Secure," Dead Drop adds, patting the chain-wrapped bundle that is Mr. Polygraph.

  I check my power. Mr. Nothing is nine blocks away and not moving fast. The cops are contained at the hospital. We're clear.

  "Monkey Business is gonna love this," I say, already planning the debrief. "We got exactly what we wanted."

  My phone buzzes. I glance at it.

  MB: Status?

  I text back one-handed while driving: Package secured. En route to secondary location.

  MB: Casualties?

  Me: Nobody dead yet, unfortunately.

  MB: Perfect. See you soon.

  I toss the phone to Birthday Suit and focus on driving. We've got our prize, we've got our extraction, and now we've got exactly one hour to get to the safehouse before Kingdom realizes what happened and starts mobilizing.