Last were the holsters and weapons. Franks wore an Artoonian dual shoulder holster rig with an MCB-issued Glock 20 on each side. For most people, shoulder holsters were slower to draw from, but Franks wasn’t most people. They were harder to conceal, but Franks didn’t really care if anybody saw he was armed anyway. He had a compact Glock 29 in a G-Code holster on his belt. He kept six spare magazines of silver 10mm, three on each side of his belt, and a folding Emerson knife in both his right- and his lefthand pockets. Franks was ambidextrous, so it didn’t really matter which hand he killed you with.

Today he would be grilled, questioned, prodded, and annoyed, but sadly, he would not be allowed to kill anyone, and since MCB’s security force whined about hand grenades inside headquarters, he left those in the closet.

At 5:29 the doorbell rang, but Franks had already heard footfalls on the metal stairs and identified them as one of his agents. Franks opened the door and Grant Jefferson held out a giant paper container of overpriced coffee. “I got you some—” Franks rudely snatched the coffee from Grant’s hand. “Okay . . . It was hard to find the place. I didn’t think you’d live in such a bad part of town.”

The neighborhood was filled with criminals. Franks didn’t care. Occasionally one of the gang members who hadn’t heard about Franks’ rep would start something, and it gave him an opportunity to hurt someone. The government frowned on him killing people without an excuse. “Rent’s cheap.”

“Imagine that.” Grant glanced over at the graffiti on the walls of the stairwell. The agent didn’t realize that the spray-painted gang signs were a coded message left by the local scum, warning the other scum to not mess with Franks’ stuff, because when Franks got cranky it was bad for continued business, not to mention continued breathing. “You ready?”

That was a stupid question. Franks was always ready.

* * *

The headquarters of the Monster Control Bureau were in an unremarkable office building in Washington, DC. The exterior was a boring ten-story beige concrete and black glass rectangle. The landscaping was designed to thwart car bombers, was purposefully ugly and extra forgettable. They were close enough to the Capitol for business, but not so close that anyone would think they were important. No tourist would ever waste their time taking a picture of this particular building.

The underground parking garage had no names on the reserved spaces, but Agent Franks parked his giant SUV across the closest two spaces to the elevator.

“I think we’re in Director Stark’s space,” Jefferson said as he looked out the passenger side window, “and the one for visiting VIPs.”