Red Right Hand

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THE MAN STAGGERED into the lobby of the Albuquerque field office shortly after three a.m. His hair, black streaked with gray, was matted down by rain. His face was dusted with stubble and deeply lined. Tattered clothing clung to his lithe frame. His feet were bare and bleeding. Water, tinged red, pooled beneath him.

Special Agent Charlie Thompson glanced up from her paperwork in surprise. He hadn’t shown up on any of the building’s exterior surveillance cameras. If it weren’t for the sudden roar of the storm through the open door, she might not have noticed him come in.

Thompson had graduated from Quantico only a month before, but somehow she’d already managed to piss off her new boss. Yancey had her pulling overnights on the front desk all week. Truthfully, she didn’t mind. The odd phone call aside-conspiracy nuts, usually, too tangled up in their delusions to sleep-the graveyard shift was pretty quiet.

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