Page 149 of Tracked and Taken

“The mark.”

“Florence is running it.”

“And?”

“And it is going to be a long road, Torres. Whatever is behind that label has resources, patience, and at least twenty cases we can see from where we are standing. Somebody has been studying a bond at the molecular level and has been at it long enough to have got good at it. That is not the work of one quarter. That is years.”

“Yes, Director.”

“Florence has it. My part is your part. When SNAG calls for Junction One operational support, you have the authority to provide it. You are authorized. Pre-cleared. The paperwork will look like joint coordination protocol. The substance will be the label. I have the resources. They are available. Are we clear.”

“We are clear, Director.”

“Good.”

She picks the mug back up. Drinks.

“Now.”

The shift in her register is Morrison-shaped: no transition, no signal, the next thing arriving as if it had been on the table the whole time.

“The bond.”

“Director.”

“How is he.”

“Director?”

“Vosk. The male. How is he with you.”

Four years under Morrison did not prepare me for the question.

“He is—“ I stop. I find the word. “He is good, Director.”

“Define good.”

“He walked me from his door to mine at 0651, a lift and forty-two meters, because twelve hours after the bond he was not ready to let me out of his sight. And he is, by the math of the morning, the reason I am wearing the collar open.”

Morrison has not, in the four years I have worked under her, raised an eyebrow at me. The eyebrow goes up by a millimeter. I would not, in any other context, swear I had seen.

“Define that.”

“Director.”

“You raised it, Torres. I am following the thread.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Mm.”

“It is a personnel matter.”

“It is an off-the-record personnel matter, and I am off the record.”

The blue eyes have a dry glint at the corner that appears when Madge Morrison is, in some rare register, enjoying herself.

“He is good, Director.”