Monster Control Inc. 10

Meeting Mr. Carlson

• MCI 001

• MCI 002

• MCI 003

• MCI 004

• MCI 005

• MCI 006

• MCI 007

• MCI 008

• MCI 009

Julie just smiled that same polite, professional smile and led me through a door into the main office. I could have walked behind her forever; she was nearly as tall as me, but slender. The room was a bullpen setup, with about a dozen desks arranged in the open space. Only three were occupied. The rest sat empty, dusty monitors and bare surfaces suggesting they hadn't been used in some time.

The Minneapolis branch really was as small as Janet had said. Three agents. Three. The Chicago office had forty-seven.

Julie led me to the back, where a glass-walled office stood with "Lars Carlson, Branch Manager" stenciled on the door. She knocked once, then opened it.

"Mr. Carlson, this is Horace Scrubb from Chicago."

The man behind the desk looked like he'd been carved from a Minnesota pine tree. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a full head of blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His face was weathered, lined with what I guessed were at least fifty years of hard living. He didn't stand when I entered.

"Scrubb," he said, the word sounding like a judgment. "Sit."

Julie closed the door behind me, and I immediately felt like I'd been left alone with a grizzly bear.

I sat in the chair across from Carlson's desk. "Sir, I—"

"Zip it. I know why you're here," he cut me off. "Janet sent me your file. All of it." He tapped a folder on his desk. "You stalked a civilian, killed a Restricted in front of her, then stabbed her boyfriend because you thought he was Restricted too."

Put like that, it sounded bad. Which, to be fair, it was.

"There were extenuating circumstances," I began.

Carlson held up a hand. "I don't care. You're here because Chicago doesn't want you and Minneapolis is where MCI sends its problem children." His eyes were cold gray, like lake ice. "Let me be clear: I don't want you either."

"Then why accept the transfer?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Because this branch is underfunded and understaffed, and even a fuckup like you might be better than nothing." Carlson leaned forward. "But understand this: one mistake, one toe out of line, and I'll personally put you in the ground. And trust me, nobody will find your body until the spring thaw."

I believed him. Something about his calm delivery made the threat more credible than if he'd shouted.

"Rules are simple," Carlson continued. "You don't work alone. Ever. You report directly to me. You follow protocol to the letter. You don't make decisions in the field without authorization. And you stay the hell away from civilians while on the job unless specifically instructed otherwise. Clear?"

"Crystal," I muttered.

"Good." He picked up his phone and pressed an intercom button. "Julie, send in Swanson and Khang."

While we waited, Carlson studied me with the detached interest of a scientist observing a particularly disappointing lab specimen. "Your psychological evaluation says you have boundary issues and possible paranoid tendencies."

"The psych eval is bullsh—"

"Dr. Brenner has been evaluating MCI agents for thirty years. She's never been wrong yet." Carlson's expression hardened. "So tell me, Scrubb. Do you have paranoid tendencies?"

"No, sir. I have finely-tuned instincts."

"Which one prompted you to stab an unarmed college student?"

I bit back a retort. This was clearly a test, and I was already failing.

The door opened, saving me from having to respond. Two men entered—one in his forties, Asian, with the precise movements and watchful eyes of someone with military training; the other younger, maybe mid-twenties, with shoulder-length brown hair tied back in a man-bun and a patchy attempt at a beard.

"Gentlemen," Carlson said. "Meet our new team member. Horace Scrubb, transferred from Chicago."

"Most people call me Race," I said automatically.

"No one calls you that here," Carlson snapped. "Scrubb, these are Agents Khang and Swanson."