“Sure. That was a piece of cake. With the Spider’s magic, I didn’t even have to tweak too much around your killer weirdos. I moved some events in the timeline and—”

“Wonderful. Are my weirdos—as you so eloquently call them—still alive?”

“I don’t see how, but yeah . . .” Renfroe was starting to hyperventilate. “I’m looking at one missing half his face and the other one is picking big chunks of broken glass out of his stomach right now.”

“Then please give the phone to the large white one.”

There was the sound of shaking and rustling from the other end of the line. “Yes?” the First Prototype answered.

“Status?”

He was emotionless in his report. “Our handlers are dead. We are wounded. The primary target’s status is unknown. He was in a car wreck. Local authorities were converging on him when we lost sight.”

Even busted up, it was doubtful that some regular DC cops would be able to take down Franks unless he went willingly, and if Franks went quietly that meant he had plans of his own. “Fuck!” Stricken kicked a wastepaper basket across the room. Everyone in the command center glanced his way in fear. That was an unusual display of emotion from their leader. Stricken took a deep breath and counted to ten. He could hear sirens as background noise on Kurst’s side. “Are you in danger of being spotted?”

“Negative. We are secure.”

He had a pickup team in place. “Don’t move. I’m sending a unit.”

“Requesting permission to pursue the primary, I am still ninety percent combat effective.”

Of course he was. The Nemesis assets were designed to be hard as nails. “Denied. Hold for extraction.” Stricken handed the phone back. That subordinate took their location while Stricken walked over to the nearest monitor. He’d hoped to have Franks nice and dead, not on the run.

However, this was still manageable. There were pros and cons to every outcome. This temporary disappointment was hardly insurmountable. Stricken folded his arms and thought it over while reading the intercepts scrolling across the screen. It made his people uncomfortable when he’d just stand there and watch over their shoulders, but he wasn’t exactly the type of leader who employees invited to their summer barbeques and he was in no danger of ever being gifted a Boss of the Year coffee mug. Stricken considered himself more results oriented.

“Anything?”

“Metro police found the car but no sign of Franks,” said the man Stricken was looming over. “They’ve set up a perimeter and have called in a chopper and a dog team to search for him.”

“MCB?”