The safehouse on Spruce Street is one of our better ones. Three-story brownstone, tucked between two similar buildings on a sleepy block in West Philly. Brick facade. Bay windows. Wrought iron gate that looks ornamental but could stop a charging rhino. The kind of place where people mind their own business and don't ask questions when black SUVs with tinted windows come and go at odd hours.

  I enter through the back, climbing narrow stairs that lead to a kitchen that's bare except for a coffee maker and a bottle of hand sanitizer on the counter. The air is stale but cool—central air, one of the few indulgences we allow ourselves in properties like this. I adjust the pressure slightly as I move through the space, equalizing it to match the outside atmospheric conditions. Just a habit. A tic I've never quite managed to shake.

  I punch the code into the keypad. I wish we had that crazy spy shit with the palm scanner, but alas. Keypads are more secure, according to C. I don't quite believe him, but that's his area, not mine.

  Four sets of eyes turn to me as I enter. The conversation, whatever it had been, dies instantly.

  "Ma'am," Mr. Nothing says, rising from his seat at the conference table. His movements are fluid, graceful—wasted on a hired killer, really. He should have been a dancer in another life. "We were expecting you."

  "I'm sure you were," I reply, setting my attaché case on the table. "Especially since I called this meeting."

  The room is spartan but effective as a command center. Maps of Philadelphia dominate one wall, with key locations—including what used to be our Stheno facility—marked in red. Surveillance equipment hums quietly in one corner. A weapons locker stands discreetly behind a false bookshelf. Four chairs around a circular table, all identical except for the small indentation in one where Mr. Retribution's considerable weight has made its mark.

  Mrs. Quiet nods from her position by the window, one hand resting casually near the holster at her hip. Her posture is perfect despite the medical corset I know she wears beneath that immaculate charcoal suit. The white streak in her hair catches the light as she moves slightly, creating the impression of a lightning bolt against storm clouds.

  "So," I say, not bothering with pleasantries. "Soot."

  Mr. Retribution leans forward, forearms resting on the table. The wood creaks slightly under the pressure. "Dead," he says simply. "Confirmed kill."

  "You sound confident," I observe, taking the seat at the head of the table. I set my bag down beside me, the leather rustling softly against the hardwood floor.

  "Three bullets," Mrs. Quiet says, her voice soft enough that it barely disturbs the air. "Two to the torso, one to the face. Significant blood spray consistent with major arterial damage. Body disposed of in the Delaware."

  "River's contaminated enough to destroy most evidence," Mr. Polygraph adds. He's standing behind his chair, hands resting on its back, knuckles white with tension. The man never sits during debriefings—some paranoid habit from his days as, what was it, a beat cop? Something else? I never cared enough to pry. "Current was strong. Even if the body surfaces, identification will be difficult after a week in that water. And by the time we came back, someone had cleaned up the blood."

  I nod slowly, processing the information. "Walk me through it," I say. "From the beginning. I want to know exactly how it played out."

  Mr. Retribution glances at Mrs. Quiet, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. Their little partnership dynamic is cute, in its way. Boston branch training shining through—always in sync, those two.

  "We approached the target as instructed, based on the intelligence from Bloodhound," Mr. Retribution begins. "Surveillance operation located Soot near the waterfront, responding to an apparent territory dispute with a local gang calling themselves 'The Washes.'"

  "You didn't mention any gang in your preliminary report," I note, raising an eyebrow.

  "New players," Mrs. Quiet says dismissively. "Street-level enforcers trying to establish territory. Three capes with mediocre powers—mind manipulation, super strength, ice generation. Nothing special."

  "They called their leader 'Brainwash,'" Mr. Nothing adds, his smooth voice carrying a hint of amusement at the name. "Theatrical types. Matching costumes, color-coordinated powers. The kind that read too many comic books as kids."

  "And how did these... Washes... fit into your operation?" I ask, skepticism creeping into my voice. I don't like variables. I don't like coincidences. And I especially don't like when my people encounter both during a high-priority mission.

  "Convenient distraction," Mr. Retribution says with a shrug that ripples across his massive shoulders. "They had Soot cornered when we arrived. Offered them two grand to let us question her first."

  "Which they accepted," Mrs. Quiet continues. "Brainwash had some kind of paralytic ability—had Soot pinned in place. Made our job easier. Seemed like mind control at first. Or body control."

  "Seemed?" I ask. Mrs. Quiet just smirks at me. Annoying!

  I make a mental note to look into these "Washes" later. New powered gangs don't just spring up overnight in Philadelphia without someone backing them. Could be Rogue Wave looking to expand their territory, or could be something else entirely. Either way, it's a thread worth pulling.

  "And the interrogation?" I ask.

  Mr. Polygraph steps forward. "Subject claimed to be working against Rogue Wave, not with them. Said she was embedded with them, using their resources while feeding them small information."

  "That tracks with our intelligence," I say, recalling similar reports from our street-level informants. "Soot's been hitting Jump dealers from multiple organizations, not just targeting us specifically."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "She specifically mentioned a handler named Jackpot," Mrs. Quiet adds. "Which checks out, he's a known Rogue Wave lieutenant. Was in that hostage video thing, though, so it doesn't prove much."

  "Interesting," I murmur. "Continue."

  "She confirmed the warehouse was targeted because of Hypeman production," Mr. Retribution says. "Said 'everyone knows about it' and that Rogue Wave is 'mad' about it. Her goal was to slow down our production."

  "And did you verify the safehouse location?" I ask, cutting to the critical question.

  "Tulip and Keystone," Mr. Nothing confirms. "Exactly as Bloodhound told Upper Management. We checked it out earlier today. Place was cleared out, but there were clear signs someone had been using it recently. Chemical residue, tripwire setup, acid burn on the floor—just like the kid described."

  The air in the room shifts slightly, pressure building as I process this information. I take a controlled breath, releasing the tension before anyone notices.

  "So we have confirmation that Bloodhound's intelligence was accurate," I say carefully. "That's... interesting."

  "The brat was telling the truth," Mrs. Quiet says with a slight smirk. "Must have had quite an incentive to sell out her vigilante friend."

  "Or she's playing a longer game," I counter. "Did you consider that possibility?"

  "Of course," Mr. Polygraph says, sounding slightly offended. "Unless you're suggesting a teenager outsmarted not just the five of us, but also Upper Management."

  "It wouldn't be the first time," I remind him. "And teenagers are naturally duplicitous."

  "Ma'am," Mr. Nothing interjects smoothly, "if I may—we've established that the intelligence was accurate. The safehouse matched exactly as described. Soot confirmed her connection to Rogue Wave and her targeting of the warehouse. And now she's dead. Mission accomplished, as requested."

  I tap my finger against the table, considering. He's right, of course. By all objective measures, the operation was a success. Soot has been eliminated. The leak—if there was one—has been identified and addressed. We can move forward with rebuilding our Hypeman production capabilities.

  But something still feels... off. The convenience of it all. The neatness. In my experience, messy problems rarely resolve themselves so cleanly.

  "Tell me more about the kill," I say, turning my attention back to Mrs. Quiet. "You said three shots. Was there resistance? Attempts to escape?"

  "Minimal resistance," she replies. "We were interrupted briefly by police sirens—likely responding to an unrelated incident. Soot attempted to use the distraction to release smoke, but I had a clear shot. First bullet hit center mass. Second hit lower left torso. Third went through the face mask."

  "And you're certain it was fatal?"

  "The head shot shattered her mask," Mrs. Quiet says with professional certainty. "Exit wound was... substantial. And even if by some miracle she survived that, The Washes threw her into the Delaware while she was still bleeding out."

  "We recovered this," Mr. Retribution adds, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a small plastic evidence bag. Inside is a broken piece of black plastic and silicone—part of what looks like a modified CPAP mask, jury-rigged to a gas mask. "Part of her breathing apparatus. Came off during the struggle. The rest is likely at the bottom of the river."

  I take the bag, examining the fragment. It's well-crafted—not professional-grade, but certainly beyond what your average teenager could put together in their garage. Clear evidence of technical knowledge, possibly engineering background.

  "And there's no question it was Soot?" I press. "Could it have been an imposter? A decoy?"

  Mr. Polygraph shakes his head definitively. "We specifically verified that before termination. The smoke abilities, the voice modulation, the custom respiratory equipment—it all matched known parameters. Plus, direct questioning about the warehouse attack yielded information only the actual perpetrator would know."

  "And the blood spray pattern was consistent with a human target," Mrs. Quiet adds. "Not a dummy or a powered construct."

  I nod slowly, setting the mask fragment on the table. "And your impression of this... final confrontation? Any observations that stood out?"

  The four of them exchange glances, a momentary hesitation that speaks volumes. Mr. Nothing breaks the silence.

  "The Washes were... convenient," he says carefully. "Their appearance, their timing... it seemed staged."

  "Staged how?" I ask, interest piqued.

  "Their leader—Brainwash—claimed to have mind control," Mrs. Quiet says. "But I could slip out of my jacket, and it fluttered behind me. I think he was telekinetic, not a mind controller. Faking it."

  "Deception within deception," I murmur. "Interesting."

  "And their interrogation felt rehearsed," Mr. Polygraph adds. "Like they were playing specific roles for our benefit."

  "Yet you still confirm the kill was legitimate?" I ask.

  "Without question," Mrs. Quiet says firmly. "Whatever game they were playing, Soot's death wasn't faked. The blood was real. The wounds were fatal. And the body disposal was thorough. Nobody with three bullets in them is swimming out of the Delaware."

  I consider all this, mentally weighing the evidence against my instincts. If Soot and these "Washes" were working together, it suggests a level of organization among the vigilante community that we hadn't previously attributed to them. The Young Defenders were officially disbanded after my legislation passed. Could they have reformed under a different banner?

  "What about Bloodhound?" I ask. "Any sign of her involvement in this directly?"

  "None," Mr. Retribution says. "Upper Management's trackers have been traveling with her Hypeman vials. She's been home all day."

  "And yet she knew exactly where to find Soot's safehouse," I point out. "That suggests a closer connection than we initially assumed."

  "True," Mr. Nothing acknowledges. "But it's also possible they were rivals rather than allies. Vigilantes have territories, just like any other organization. Perhaps Bloodhound was simply keeping tabs on potential competition."

  "Or perhaps," Mrs. Quiet suggests, "Soot wronged her in some way, and selling her out was personal rather than tactical. Upper Management's info indicated that Soot was couch surfing with Bloodhound's family. I would get resentful too."

  "Teenagers," Mr. Polygraph mutters derisively. "Everything's personal with them."

  I can't help but smile slightly at that. He's not wrong. I remember those days clearly enough—the intensity of adolescence, how every slight feels like the end of the world, how friendship and betrayal blur together in the hormonal storm of high school.

  "Well," I say, reaching a decision. "It seems the Soot problem has been resolved, one way or another. Dead is dead, and the warehouse has been avenged. Upper Management will be satisfied with that outcome."

  "So we're clearing the operation?" Mr. Retribution asks.

  "Not entirely," I say, earning confused looks from around the table. "Soot may be eliminated, but I want to understand the broader picture. These 'Washes,' their connection to Soot, and especially their potential ties to Bloodhound—all of it warrants further investigation."

  "You want us to continue surveillance on the Small girl," Mrs. Quiet says. It's not a question.

  "Discreetly," I confirm. "No direct contact. Just observation. If she sold out one vigilante, she might have information on others. And if she was actually working with Soot rather than against her... well, then we need to understand what game she's playing."

  "And if we determine she was involved in the warehouse attack?" Mr. Nothing asks, his voice carefully neutral.

  I meet his gaze, feeling the air between us charge with unspoken history. "Then we reassess based on new information," I say coolly. "For now, she's a potential asset, not a target."

  The slight tensing around his eyes is the only indication that he's registered my meaning. Good. Let him wonder whether I've forgiven his past indiscretions. Uncertainty keeps people sharp.

  "What about Hypeman production?" Mr. Polygraph asks, changing the subject. "Xenograft's been blowing up my phone since the warehouse went down."

  "Tell her to take it up with Upper Management," I reply dismissively. "We have contingency facilities. Production will resume within the month. In the meantime, we focus on consolidation and intelligence gathering."