Page 8 of Spring L.A.W.
“Major Payne,” the man said without looking up, tapping the screen. “Your report says you encountered anomalous magical behavior?”
“I said itfeltanomalous,” Payne replied, stepping into the room. “There’s a difference. I don’t throw the ‘M’ word around unless someone levitates a Buick.”
The man glanced up. Brown eyes, bloodshot. Too many late nights in stuffy rooms. “You mentioned names. Faces. People of interest.”
Payne folded his arms. He stayed standing. “I mentioned citizens who were unusually evasive and unusually equipped. The woman, Rayna, projected a calm I’ve only seen in people who know you’re in more danger than they are. The others? One had the posture of a sniper on a lunch break, and the other guy kept his head on a swivel.” Payne wasn’t about to reveal the identities of his former operatives just yet.
The man blinked slowly. The light buzzed above them like it was chewing on steel.
“And the flash?” the man asked, eyes narrowing.
“Could’ve been a trick of the light,” Payne said. “Could’ve been something else. But it registered. It was in a bookstore, so not a lot of incriminating tools around.
The man’s stylus paused mid-tap.
“I want to initiate a quiet probe,” Payne continued. “No teams. No satellites. I don’t want to spook them. I want to know if this is a pocket of freelancers, or if someone’s building a network again. You want me to interact?”
“Unofficial observation only,” the man said. “You file nothing. No chatter outside this room. If it’s real, we bring it upstairs through proper channels.”
Payne gave the barest nod. “Understood.” He turned to leave, but just as the door opened, the man added, almost casually, “And Major, if you do confirm magic, you know the drill. Contain, only if a threat.”
Payne paused. The hallway outside was full of idle chatter, footsteps, and the clatter of someone dragging a cart full of clipboards.
“Copy.” He didn’t look back. He walked out, leaving behind the buzzing light, the stale air, and the man with the data pad who, finally, stopped tapping.
“If it’s magic,” Payne whispered to himself, “I’ll do more than contain.”
3
Brooklyn in spring was a contradiction in steel, slush, and bloom. Daffodils forced their way out of crusty tree beds while garbage trucks performed a daily opera of metal-on-metal violence. Cafés spilled caffeine-fueled humans onto sidewalks already overcrowded with dogs, strollers, and joggers.
Rayna walked half a block behind Major Payne, iced chai in one hand, sunglasses sliding down her nose. Behind her, Michael pretended to browse a rack of magazines on a sidewalk stand, and Daniel crouched beside a “psychic readings” sandwich board like he was considering a career change.
“You two look like actors auditioning for a spy thriller,” Rayna muttered for the comm bead in her ear. “Loosen up.”
“He turned left,” Michael said, ignoring her. “Onto 86th.”
“Copy that,” Daniel added. “And for the record, I’m interested in this sign. Madame Elza doespast life regressions.”
Rayna sighed. “If I get reincarnated, it better be into a woman with better taste in coworkers.”
“But you love us,” Michael said.
She turned just enough so they could see her smirk.
They moved as a loose cluster, the way birds do when they’re trying not to look like they’re following breadcrumbs. Payne kept a military pace. Steady, efficient, too fast to be leisurely but not quite aggressive. His off-duty khakis were freshly pressed. His sturdy brown leather coat looked expensive. It was longer than a motorcycle jacket, shorter than a trench coat.
So far, he’d stopped at a store window, a bus stop, and, curiously, a children’s playground. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. Hadn’t used a phone. Hadn’t even paused to tie a shoe.
“He’s not doing anything,” Michael said. “Is it possible he’s just sightseeing?”
“No one sightsees in Bay Ridge,” Rayna said. “Unless they’re really into bagels and angry parking disputes.”
They turned another corner. Payne disappeared into a narrow alley beside a shuttered deli.
Rayna froze. “Crap.”
Michael was already moving. “You want us to?—?”
