Page 1 of Connected
CHAPTER 1
Los Angeles
2001
“I understandyour last assignment was quite exciting, son.”
“Yes, sir.” Owen Clark willed himself not to fidget in the car seat like a schoolboy. Chief Townsend, settled comfortably behind the wheel of the Lincoln Town Car, was looking at the road rather than at Owen. But he would know if Owen squirmed; Owen was sure of it. Chief Townsend knew everything.
The chief piloted the car down the crowded 405 as if certain everyone would get out of his way. And somehow, everyone did. He cruised as if traffic weren’t an issue, and returned to the topic at hand. “We don’t often get an anzu on the West Coast. They’re a little tricky to handle.”
“This one barbecued Agent Gao.” Owen shuddered at the memory of Gao’s screams and the odor of charred flesh.
“Agent Gao is getting the best treatment available. He’ll return to active duty eventually. He’ll have some scars, to be sure, but scars are honorable souvenirs. Like Agent Becker, for example. His are impressive, aren’t they?”
Agent Becker’s face was a map of deep claw marks, and judging by the way he moved and the cane he used, he’d been wounded elsewhere on his body as well. He spent most of his work time down in the Antarctic—the Bureau’s chilly basement laboratory—and the rest of it running training sessions. Owen hadn’t yet spoken directly to him and had no idea whether Becker shared the Chief’s opinions about scars.
“Did you enjoy the assignment?” asked the Chief.
How was he supposed to answer that? “It was interesting. I’m glad we were able to protect the public from that monster.”
“But you had to destroy a member of a critically endangered species, which is a shame. It’s a pity the anzu wasn’t reasonable.”
Owen and Agent Gao hadn’t even tried to reason with the thing. As it spewed fire and lashed out with its talons, diplomacy hadn’t exactly been an option.
“Sir, am I being punished for poor performance on that assignment? Is that what we’re doing today?”
The chief laughed so heartily that Owen could feel it through the car’s bench seat. “Son, if I intended to punish you, I’d be quite capable of accomplishing that without leaving HQ.”
Owen shuddered again. He didn’t want to imagine what that punishment might entail. The chief was terrifying—everyone thought so, even the most senior agents. The only one who didn’t was Townsend’s private secretary, Agent Holmes, who had scars even worse than Becker’s, and who was also scary as heck.
“Then whatarewe doing?”
Instead of responding, the chief exited the freeway and somehow managed to make every darn green light as he drove down the street. Owen still had a poor handle on Los Angeles geography and wasn’t sure exactly where they were. Near Beverly Hills, maybe. It looked like a fancy neighborhood, in any case. When the chief pulled into a restaurant parking lot and stopped in front of the door, a valet trotted over.
Chief Townsend hauled himself out of the car and bent down to give Owen an impatient look. “Come on then, boy.”
Owen, who’d never in his life used valet parking, scrambled to obey. There were no valets in the little town where he’d grown up. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether there were valets anywhere in Wyoming. Well, maybe in Jackson Hole, but he’d never been there.
The chief looked to be in his mid-fifties, and his ample belly always strained the buttons of his old-fashioned suit vests. Yet he always moved with surprising speed and grace, and Owen had to hustle to keep up.
The interior of the restaurant was swanky in an understated way, with neutral colors, dim lighting, and expensive-looking artwork. Each table was nearly surrounded by a low privacy wall, and although the sound system played music, Owen wasn’t hip enough to recognize the genre. All of the employees looked like fashion models. Even though Owen was wearing a decent suit and looked presentable enough, he knew he was big and awkward and that everyone could instantly tell he was nothing but a hick who grew up with cow shit on his boots.
But nobody said anything rude, and the hostess who led them to a table at one side of the room smiled as she handed them menus.
Owen glanced at the listing and managed not to wince at the prices. He assumed his boss was paying—or, more likely, the Bureau. But he could eat for a week off what one meal was going to cost.
“Kind of fancy for lunch,” he said, when the silence grew oppressive.
“A good meal can be enjoyed at any time.” Townsend reached into a pocket, pulled out a cigarette case and lighter, and lit up, leaving Owen uncertain about whether to point out that smoking had been banned in California restaurants since the nineties.
When the waitress appeared a moment later, she simply set a highball glass and bottle of whiskey in front of the chief. “What can I get for you?” she asked Owen cheerily.
“Uh… a Coke? Please.”
“Are you gentlemen ready to order?”
Townsend took a swallow of his drink before answering. “We’re expecting one more person. But we’ll have a double order of arancini and a plate of mussels while we wait. Oh, and an order of focaccia.”
