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Commander Fissure, all her mates except Brandon, and twenty top SAS operatives stand in a circle of SUVs. There are only four gammas—maybe the only four in the world—and I’m the only one who inherited my abilities.
Bridget and the others are first-generation misfits.
Elyse looks almost military, decked in tac gear and holsters with her dark hair slicked into a bun, but her smokey eye makeup is more fit for a photoshoot than a mission. Five of her latest mates surround her like sentinels, lapping up her lip-plumped smiles.
Her piña colada pheromones can warp your brain until you believe almost anything she wants.
But she doesn’t have to wear ankle monitors.
Then there’s Dara.
Her ability has nothing to do with pheromones; she’s an honest-to-blob telekinetic who can open doors, make mental shields, and flatten alphas with nothing but a squint and her brain.
Never seen her on probation.
Because Dara smells like fresh cherries instead of horse-flesh.
Physiologically, we all seem to function more or less as omegas, so we’re all test subjects as the SAS science squad studies the special sauce that gives us that gamma asterisk.
But only one of us is guinea-pigging Brandon’s formulas.
Hello, double standard.
Everyone will pinch their noses and edge away if I move too close, so I don’t breach the circle of trust. Instead, I slink between black cars, aspiring to be an unproblematic NPC at the back of the crowd with my scent leashed.
With her sixth sense for my unwanted presence, Commander Fissure gives her teams the nod. “You know your roles. We’ve got a long ride to the mission site, so stay alert and be ready to hit the ground at full sprint. Everyone on board?”
The agents shout, “Yes, Commander,” in perfect unison.
I bite my cheek.
No one told me my role.
But I know my place well enough to head to the tech van and wait to be called—after the shit hits the fan so hard it splatters the clouds.
Simon, a chubby-cheeked beta who smells like a walking potato chip, scowls when he meets me at the door. “Don’t touch anything.”
“When have I ever touched anything?”
“Just don’t.” He climbs behind the wheel.
Ignoring him, I jump in back. The potato-starched space is clogged with monitors, weapon racks, and gear I’d love to poach. But I’m not allowed a hand weapon, so I play docile, popping a squat in the corner next to the spare tire.
While we’re on the road, I scour the internet for news of any event dire enough to need me off the bench.
Nothing important is scheduled except for an APOCALIPS concert.
I’d black market my best organs for tickets, but I don’t think tonight’s going to drop me in a boy band’s lap.
Which is for the best.
I can’t see where we’re going with no windows at the back of the van, but after a couple hours, we brake through stop-and-go traffic. Soon enough, we’re parking. Simon climbs back from the cab, scowling when he remembers I’m still here, hands obediently wrapped around my knees.
He straps on his hazmat mask before climbing into his chair.
I dig my nails into my legs.
After all my recent lockdown “training” with Brandon’s prisoners, my control is the best it’s ever been. I can’t hold back forever, but haven’t leaked a single particle into Simon’s precious van.
