“It’s happened half a dozen times, tops. Began with Lord Machado, aggravated by exposure to their artifact…which I hope you bastards have locked up nice and safe somewhere.”

He tilted his head the other direction.

“Memories. I can view memories.” Franks’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Not yours. Ever. Trust me. I don’t want to see what’s in there. It’s only happened with physical contact. It seems like they have to be thinking about that particular memory, and I have to really want to know.” There was a lot more to it than that, like my experience inside the mind of Carlos Alhambra or when I tried to help Earl against the demon Hood had put into his head. But screw Franks. He’d known Ben Franklin and wouldn’t talk about it. If he got to have such awesome secrets, so did I. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Hmmm…”

Franks thought about it for a long time, so long in fact, that I’d thought he was done. I went back to looking out the window. Judging by the vehicles below, we were over some sort of sparsely populated area of a military base, with only a few random, mysterious buildings here and there, with lots of wide open desert between them. Milo had mentioned that the attack site had been west of the vast Dugway Proving Grounds, so I guessed that was where we were now.

“When we get there, tell me if you feel anything.”

“What is there specifically?”

“We’re not sure.” Shockingly enough, Franks didn’t elaborate. Then we landed in the middle of a field.

After flying over miles of government facilities, I would’ve expected to have arrived at something. But there was nothing but sagebrush and snow outside. A single yellow pickup truck was stopped nearby with the headlights on.

The Blackhawk’s door slid open, and standing there was a vaguely person-shaped thing in a gigantic yellow rubber chemical suit. I could barely see the shape of a face behind the glare of the plastic face shield. Considering Milo had told me that this was where the Army buried all of their chemical and biological weapons, meeting somebody wearing a big scary apocalypse suit wakes you right up.

He, she, it—damned if I could tell—handed a big rubber bag to Franks. “Agent Franks? We were told to expect you. Put these on.” It was a man, and his voice came through a speaker on the bottom of his helmet.

Franks unzipped the bag, revealing more chemical suits. “Why do we need these?” I asked nervously.

“Who is this?” the stranger asked.

“Consultant,” Franks answered.

“He hasn’t signed a waiver. If he dies it isn’t my problem. He’ll need to sign a waiver.”

“He was never here,” Franks said.

“Neither were the other multitudes traipsing through my facility all day. Same rules apply. If he leaves your side, my men will shoot him.”

“Understood.”