Cross my heart and hope to die, the squatter promised eagerly. Can I stay?

“Can I kick you out?”

No. I swear, you won’t want to, I’ll be—

“—quiet as a mouse?” Riley suggested dryly.

As a whole pack of mice. There was a brief sense of movement under Riley’s skin again, but this time it felt nice, warm, and kneading, like a massage. Thank you, the alien said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

Riley grabbed a pillow, stuffed it between his back and the wooden headboard, and snatched the remote from the bedside table. He needed some mindless entertainment to distract himself from the fact that he’d either just made a deal with a creature from outer space or accepted his descent into madness. Right now, either thought made his belly churn with anxiety and his jaws clench with tension.

Don’t think, he reminded himself. Don’t think don’t think don’t think.

The screen lit up, dramatic music filled the motel room, and then the sound of an explosion. Apparently, they’d hit on a Die Hard marathon.

Perfect. A few hours of watching Bruce Willis as John McClane wisecrack and blow up shit should do the trick. Riley shifted his shoulders, slid his ass down until he’d achieved the ideal couch potato slouch, and settled in to watch.

NINE

THE military personnel working at Camp Jackson had seen their share of unusual and top secret things. Sometimes, it was hard to tell why anybody bothered to label the objects and/or people coming through the Basement as classified. Other times, it seemed a good idea to simply do one’s job and shut one’s trap. And then there were times when even the most bored-to-death grunt would feel a prickle of excitement in the air that made them sit up and pay attention. The arrival of the Texas convoy was such an event.

There was something about the way the transport had been assigned top priority, about the faces of the guards as they helped unload the three unremarkable hazmat containers. Nobody knew anything and nobody was going to ask, but within the hour Camp Jackson was humming with interest and quiet speculation.

Down on sublevel eight, in the forensic labs, the whispers were more subdued, though no less intense. The boxes were carried into a high security lab and left there unopened until the security protocols were enabled. The forensic team of four under the command of Lieutenant Dr. Leandra Butler scrubbed down and donned hazmat suits and masks, a precaution they were used to but that still made most of them a little bit queasy deep down in their gut. It was a normal reaction to the unwieldy outfits and the limited field of vision caused by the mask, and as uncomfortable as it could be, it also kept them on their toes and helped avoid complacency. Not that they were in any danger of treating this as an ordinary case. If it had been an ordinary case, they’d have done CT scans, MRIs, and maybe an ultrasonograph before sending in people, but since they didn’t know what X-rays, magnetization, or high frequency sound waves would do to these bodies, the autopsy was going to be done the old-fashioned way first.