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the unwanted assignment of trying to get Niles Fury to confess a few more crimes before they lopped off his head this Friday.
    For whatever reason, the son-of-a-bitch went AWOL and it had come down to a fight. The fact that he didn’t kill her was a plus. The fact that she couldn’t control him was disturbing. If a Female couldn’t control Niles, then how the hell were they ever going to break the bastard? But then maybe she needed practice. After all, she’d been raised by Humans. There were sure to be some shortfalls.
    Bad news, three guards had been critically injured. Bad news, one of the other guards had started calling friends and family about the hoe-down and now the ADF was fast becoming a Channel Five special report.
    Good news, Niles Fury was still alive because they hadn’t run out of Dopram or Propanolol yet. His body was slow on the healing scale because they couldn’t risk pulling the pin for more than a few seconds.
    Bad news, the strawberry blond with the tight ass wouldn’t be doing Dobson any favors any time soon. Seems Niles Fury had a little more get up and go in him than they thought and managed to rip out the inside of her arm. They went ahead and let her bleed out. It was easier to dump a body than have to worry about her getting sour grapes and going to the press over a violation of ethical science.
    Ethical science, my ass. These were goddamn monsters of the man-eating kind.
Dobson was doing the world a favor.
    Good news, sample Zero was alive: breathing, detained and waiting for his arrival.
    Bad news, someone had squealed to Garrett, the Center’s Senior Special Agent.
    As far as Dobson was concerned, the Center for Folk and Kin Relations was nothing but a warehouse of minority reports. Someone needed to do the world a favor and burn that place down.
    “How much time can you buy me?” Dobson was only--he checked the digital flight map on the display next to his chair--an hour and fifteen minutes outside of Atlanta. If he could get there before Garrett left, Dobson could pull rank, and send his wyrm-loving-ass right back to that cesspool he called a job.
    “We’ve already stalled Garrett for an hour out front. He’s heading downstairs right now. So an hour and thirty minutes tops if we make him do the paper work in triplicate.”
    “How fucking long has she been there?” Because even Superman didn’t move that fast.
    “Two hours, maybe three, I don’t--”
    “Three fucking hours? Three hours! Why the hell wasn’t I notified?” Christ, he wasn’t even off the ground when she’d shown up. Just fucking great!
    “We were a little busy with Niles, sir. It took everyone on staff to...”
    “Listen here, Richards, you keep him there two hours or I’m going to soak your ass in synthetic Temporal and put you in with those Males we’ve got in cell C.”
    Richards made a strangled, unhappy sound.
    “Do it, Richards. You’re only one of dozens of meta-biologists. I can replace you.”
    Dobson cut the call and sat there staring at the receiver, trying to decide what to do. He paged the cabin.
    “And what can we do for you this fine morning, Colonel Dobson?”
    “Turn the plane around.”
    Silence.
    This was the problem with non-military men. They all had to stop and think about the orders he gave. Dobson didn’t pay them to think. Hell, he didn’t even pay them to reply. They were paid to do, and yet it never failed. They always found some way to make him repeat himself and sound like a goddamned parrot.
    “Did you hear me or do I need to come up there so you can read my lips?”
    “Yes, sir. Turning the bird around now, sir.”
    Dobson hung up and dialed the Bureau’s switchboard.
    On that line there was no automated ‘press one for English, two for Olde Tongue’ bullshit. The internal line went right to a real, I’ll-be-go-to-hell, live person.
    Unfortunately she sounded like a female version of Barney the Dinosaur with all her happy-to-help-you crap. In spite of that fact,