Franks put the armored Suburban in reverse, backed up a bit, then pulled forward at an angle so he could also encroach into a third space, which was reserved for the handicapped. Franks killed the engine. Better.

“Uh . . . Okay then.”

Jefferson wasn’t a bad choice for the assignment. He was a talented agent and one of Myers’ confidants, but he also had some weaknesses. He was cocky. Franks figured Jefferson had been overcompensating for some perceived shortcomings long before he’d been traumatized by vampires, and that experience hadn’t exactly improved his outlook. He tried to hide it, but he had a chip on his shoulder. His fellows didn’t completely trust Grant because he was by nature a political animal, the former acting director’s golden boy, and he’d been MHI. But that time at MHI also meant he was passable in a fight. If anything interesting happened, Jefferson would probably suffice, or at least not die badly. Franks might not have been able to grasp all the nuances, but he had plenty of experience judging humans, and they seldom surprised him.

Franks got out and didn’t wait to see if Jefferson was following him. Myers had them working in shifts so that he’d always have at least one handler nearby. Normally Franks would only have a single partner, usually an experienced agent of his choosing. His partner would handle all of the messy business that Franks wasn’t suited for, like anything that required empathy. However, this was an abnormal situation, so Myers obviously felt he needed a support team. Jefferson, Archer, and Radabaugh were experienced combatants and were skilled at running interference. Strayhorn was an unknown, but Radabaugh was his training officer, so he would tag along when it was his turn. Franks didn’t know why Myers had stuck him with a rookie, but he would either succeed or he would fail. If he was lucky failure would occur in the bureaucratic arena rather than in combat. Either way, the outcome wasn’t Franks’ problem.

Most of the federal agencies around the city had fancy lobbies with useless decorations and expensive statues, all paid for by tax money that could be better used for important things, like weapons or training. The MCB building’s lobby was as plain and small as possible. It was because of the secret nature of their duty, but Franks appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t one for flash. The security checkpoint was manned by a fat old man who looked like a typical rent-a-cop. His name tag identified him as Terry. There were a couple of video monitors and a clipboard to sign in. There was nothing special enough to get anyone who blundered inside curious about the nature of this particular office building.