“Go on,” he said to Dom.

“Okay, so you know a lot of the guys who come out of the military, they go into private sector. Security. Task force. Muscle-for-hire kind of jobs. Some of it’s aboveboard. Some of it’s not. But there’s always work for people in a certain field, if you’re willing and able.”

Connelly was still fighting Victor’s hold, throwing all his weight against it as if they were arm-wrestling. As if this were a battle of muscle, not will.

“So I’m having drinks with an old army buddy,” continued Dom,

“well, he’s drinking bourbon, I’m on club soda—”

“Summarize,” urged Victor, forcing the bartender to his knees.

“Right, sorry. So he tells me about this new job posting. It’s under the radar—no public listings, no paper ads or online posts, just word of mouth. No details. Nothing but a name. Letters, really. EON.”

Victor frowned. “EON?”

Connelly tried to shout, but Victor clamped his jaws shut.

“Yeah. EON,” said Dom. “As in ExtraOrdinary Observation and Neutralization.”

Victor stilled. “It’s a prison.”

“Or something like it. They’re looking for guards, but they’re also

training officers to hunt down people like us.”

Victor turned the information over in his mind. “What else did your friend tell you?”

“Not much. But he gave me a card. Some cloak-and-dagger shit. Just those three letters on one side, a name and number on the back.

Nothing else.”

“Whose name?” asked Victor, even though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Director Joseph Stell.”

Stell. The name scraped against Victor’s skin. The cop who’d first come for him at Lockland, on the heels of Angie’s death; the reason he’d spent four years in a solitary cell, and another six in standard; the same man who’d tracked Eli to Merit a decade later, only to fall under Serena Clarke’s spell. Stell was a dog with a bone—once he got his teeth in, he didn’t let go. And now—this. An organization designed to hunt EOs.

“I thought you’d want to know,” said Dominic.

“You were right.” Victor hung up.

What a mess, he thought, shaking his head. Victor Vale was dead and buried in Merit Cemetery, but all it would take was a hunch—hell, bodies were dug up for a dozen reasons. And he’d left behind an empty coffin. The beginning of a trail. Not an obvious one, but enough to cause trouble. From there, how long would it take EON to catch on?

To catch up?

“Let me go,” growled Connelly through locked teeth.

“All right,” said Victor, releasing his hold. The bartender staggered, unbalanced by the sudden freedom, and was halfway to his feet when Victor drew his gun and shot him in the head.

The music continued to rage overhead, unbroken, undisturbed.

* * *

“FIVE marshmallows,” said Sydney, perched on the kitchen counter.

Tonight her hair was a shock of purple.

“That’s too many,” said Mitch at the stove.

“Fine, three,” said Syd.

“What about four?”

“I don’t like even numbers—hey, Victor.” Syd swung her legs absently. “Mitch is making hot chocolate.”