Page 101 of Strays
“I don’t want to be in the way of her career,” I say.
Jay exchanges a look with Shane before answering. “We can’t be. But we can talk to her about what happens if people come for her like last time.”
He pauses, then adds: “She owes us that much.”
I flinch at that. I used to think we were just lucky she accepted us. Like we should be grateful for every second with her, no matter what it cost. And I am grateful. I always will be. So, the idea of her owing us anything still doesn’t sit right with me. But now I realize that’s not how a bond should be.
We’re her mates. We make her whole just as much as she completes us. It hurt like hell when she left, but she changed; she grew. It’s time for us, for me, to grow too. To see ourselves as equals in this bond and speak up when something feels wrong, even if we’re scared she might not like it.
I nod slowly. “We’ll talk to her tonight.”
Shane’s already picking up his phone and texting her back so she won’t think we disappeared mid-conversation.
After this morning’s mess at the garrison and Jo’s news, my mood tanks fast. By the time we reach the DEA office, I’m in no shape to make first impressions.
The building’s unmarked, just another anonymous federal block sunken behind the courthouse. Two American flags drooped limp on silver poles like they had given up on catching wind.
Jay pulls into the back lot. There’s a single row of reserved spaces behind a chained gate, black SUVs already taking two. He parks the F-150 half over a faded line and kills the engine.
The front entrance of the building has a wide glass door, sealed behind a security vestibule. A man sits inside, halfway through a burrito, watching a tiny screen.
He doesn’t even blink when we walk in. “You scheduled?” he asks through the mic grill, eyes flicking from our chests to our faces.
“Larsen pack,” I say. “From Special Ops.”
He squints, then picks up the desk phone and speaks into it.
A few minutes later, a door clicks open at the far end of the hallway and a man steps through wearing a gray DEA windbreaker, with a badge hanging low off his belt loop and a clipboard in hand.
“Larsens?” he says. “I’m Lowell. Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Follow me.”
He pivots and steps down the hall. We enter; the front door shuts behind us, and we follow him into the belly of the office. The corridor opens onto a room lined with desks. No cubicles, just an open squad floor.
Agents in windbreakers look up as we pass, and conversations stall. One guy even leans over his desk to get a better look at us.
“This is the Bridgeport squad room,” Lowell says without slowing. “You’ll be working out of here.”
He leads us past a row of desks, and that’s when we see them: three oversized workstations tucked along the far wall, just before a glass-walled office. Bigger chairs, desk surfaces set higher. Old, but solid. Not the kind of thing you throw together last minute.
Jay lets out a quiet breath. Shane’s already smiling. It’s the first time we’ve stepped into a human building and felt like maybe we’re meant to stay.
Lowell gestures us forward, into the small office. A woman in a black blazer stands as we enter, and her gaze sweeps over us.
“This is Supervisory Special Agent Scouse,” Lowell explains. “You’ll report to her directly.”
“Larsen pack,” she says. “I read the file. Come in. Close the door.”
We step inside. The room is tight. There’s barely space for her desk, a side table with a coffeemaker, and two small chairs. Shane lowers himself into one. Jay takes a spot near the wall, arms folded. I stay standing too.
Scouse opens a folder on her desk, thumb sliding under a clipped set of papers. “I’ll be honest with you, I’ve never worked with aegis agents before. When I joined this office, the last aegis unit had already retired.”
That’s fine. I’d rather have honesty than someone pretending they’ve got us figured out. At least she’s not giving us that hungry look some human women get when they want to fuck us. Or worse, the scared one that turns everything we do into a threat. Either would make it harder to work with her, but her face stays neutral and her voice steady. That’s something.
She flips a page. “From everything I’ve heard, they were damn effective, and we could use that right now. Bridgeport’s been under pressure. We’ve got a spike in overdose deaths; people are dying before emergency responders can even try to save them.
“Right now, we don’t have a name for it. No confirmed samples, no lab work. Just the aftermath, and it’s spreading. Overdoses are up coast to coast:Bridgeport, Houston, Los Angeles. Same symptoms, same toxicology gaps and same story of no drugs recovered, no trace compounds. It’s like the stuff disappears the second it hits the bloodstream.”
“Your job is simple: dig,” she continues. “I don’t really know what you can do, but people in this office said the last aegis unit could scent narcotics from two blocks away and caught patterns no one else could see. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m hoping you’ve got something. You’ll start with the latest reports. There’s a full file on the shared server. Lowell will make sure you have access. You’ll also sit in on the task force briefings on Fridays.”
