Page 29 of Crocodile Tears
The taser hits me with voltage specifically calibrated to override shifter nervous systems.I know this because I’ve read the research about specialized law enforcement equipment designed to incapacitate shapeshifters whose enhanced physiology makes them resistant to standard electrical weapons.
My muscles seize involuntarily as the current courses through my shifted form.The predatory focus that should give me an advantage in this situation evaporates under the assault of precisely targeted electrical interference.I collapse to the concrete floor of the parking garage, my partial shift beginning to reverse as my nervous system struggles to cope with the overload.
Strong hands grab my arms and legs, lifting me with the efficient precision of people who’ve done this before.Through the haze of electrical aftershock and gathering unconsciousness, I catch a glimpse of the van’s interior, which contains medical equipment, restraint systems, and what appears to be a mobile laboratory setup.
Professional kidnapping.The kind that requires significant resources, specialized equipment, and detailed knowledge of shifter biology.
I feel another sharp prick in my upper arm as someone injects me with what’s probably a sedative designed specifically for reptilian shifters.My last coherent thoughts before the chemical haze takes over are a mixture of outrage and grudging admiration.
Calvin was absolutely right about the surveillance.
I’m definitely going to miss our second date tomorrow night.
And the cheese crackers in my pocket are completely crushed, which seems like an unnecessary challenge to an already problematic situation.
The darkness that follows tastes like artificial cheese and profound irritation.
Chapter 8
Cal
Ispendmostofthe day trying to concentrate on client reports and failing spectacularly.Every time I attempt to focus on security assessments for various corporate contracts, which don’t require travel or risking my neck, my mind drifts back to Rebecca’s laugh, the way she explained enzyme kinetics with genuine passion, and the unexpected electricity of that kiss against the brick wall.
This is exactly the kind of distraction Dr.Martinez warned me about during our last session.“Hypervigilance and romantic attachment don’t always mix well,” she’d said.“You might find yourself either completely absorbed in the relationship or overly protective to the point of interference.”
At the moment, completely absorbed seems like the more accurate description.
By noon, I’ve accomplished approximately nothing productive except confirming that my attraction to Rebecca isn’t fading with distance or rational reflection.If anything, the memory of her bite—accidental as it was—keeps triggering responses that have nothing to do with threat assessment and everything to do with wanting to see her again.
I abandon any pretense of work and decide to take a walk through the downtown area.Fresh air, physical movement, and distance from my computer might help reset my focus.Or at least provide a change of scenery while I continue obsessing about tomorrow night’s dinner date.
The bookshop on Fifth Street draws my attention with its display of new releases on science and nature.I’m browsing through the biology section when I spot a thick volume titledMigration Patterns of North American Waterfowland grin at the absurd memory of my goose genetics lecture.
Rebecca’s expression when I started explaining the connection between Canadian geese navigation and cellular regeneration was a masterpiece of scientific horror.The fact that she didn’t immediately excuse herself and flee suggests either remarkable patience or genuine interest in my company despite my temporary insanity.
I purchase the book on impulse, imagining her reaction when I present it as a peace offering for my completely fabricated lecture on avian biology.It’s probably too forward for someone I’ve had exactly one date with, but something about Rebecca suggests she’d appreciate the humor rather than be put off by the gesture.
The afternoon passes in a haze of anticipation mixed with the kind of nervous energy that usually precedes difficult assignments.I’ve planned operations in hostile territory with less anxiety than I’m feeling about a simple dinner date.The difference is that combat missions have clear objectives and established protocols while dating involves unpredictable variables and no backup plan for emotional complications.
By 5 p.m., I’ve convinced myself that surprising Rebecca at her lab would be a terrible idea that demonstrates poor boundary awareness and potentially stalker-like behavior.By six thirty, I’ve reconsidered and decided that dropping off the book with a casual reminder about tomorrow’s date shows thoughtful consideration rather than excessive interest.
The drive to the university gives me time to practice casual conversation that doesn’t involve surveillance concerns or tactical assessments.I struggle to find normal topics for normal people who aren’t hypervigilant ex-soldiers trying to transition to civilian dating.
The campus parking situation forces me to park in the visitor lot near the main entrance, which actually works to my advantage.I can cut through the faculty garage to shorten the distance to Rebecca’s building and get a better sense of the area’s security posture—not because I’m expecting trouble but because situational awareness has become as automatic as breathing.
That’s when I notice the black van.
It’s parked in the faculty garage with clear sight lines to the research building’s exits, positioned exactly where professional surveillance would establish an observation post.The windows are tinted beyond legal limits for civilian vehicles, and something about the way it sits in the parking space suggests modifications for extended operations.
Every instinct I’ve developed over fifteen years of staying alive in dangerous places starts sending warning signals.This isn’t paranoia or hypervigilance.This is definitely the same van I identified during our date last night, and it’s positioned for active surveillance rather than passive observation.
I approach cautiously, using other vehicles for concealment while maintaining visual contact with both the van and the building entrance.My concealed sidearm provides some reassurance, but whatever’s happening here requires intelligence gathering rather than immediate action.
That’s when I see them forcing Rebecca into the van.
Six men in tactical gear move with the precision of professional operators, but their equipment and methodology suggest South American paramilitary rather than government agencies.I recognize the specific arrangement of body armor and weapons from my recent work in Colombia.These contractors operate in the gray areas between legitimate security and organized crime.
Rebecca’s partial shift is visible even from this distance.Scales erupt across her skin, and her jaw elongates as her survival instincts activate genetic programming designed for exactly this situation.She manages to make contact with one attacker before the specialized taser drops her like a stone.
