Chapter 1

Nathan Summers’s first thought upon entering the FBI’s New York Field Office was that he had, tragically, dressed as the concept of Anxiety for Halloween. His suit—purchased in a panic the night before from a store that smelled of despair and weak coffee—had all the structural integrity of a wet paper bag. It creaked when he breathed.

The security desk was manned by a man who looked like he’d been carved from a single block of skepticism. His nametag read ‘Officer Briggs.’ His aura read ‘I Dare You.’

“Nathan Summers. First day,” Nathan announced, trying to sound like someone who had, at any point in his life, known what he was doing.

Briggs took his credentials without looking, scanning them with the enthusiasm of a sloth evaluating tax forms. “Fifth floor. Don’t touch anything that looks expensive, don’t make eye contact with the statues—they’re moody—and if you feel a sudden urge to confess to a crime you didn’t commit, that’s normal. It’s the air conditioning. Fight it.”

“Is that… a joke?” Nathan asked, clutching his temporary badge.

Briggs finally looked at him. His eyes were the color of a closed casket. “On your salary? Nothing’s a joke. Move along, Summers. The elevator eats the slow.”

The elevator music was a smooth jazz rendition of what Nathan could only assume was the sound of souls leaving a body. He got out on five, half-expecting to see a river and a ferryman.

The receptionist didn’t speak. She pointed a pen that looked sharp enough to perform surgery toward a large oak door. Her expression suggested Nathan was a mildly offensive odor she was contractually obliged to acknowledge.

Nathan knocked.

“It’s a door, Summers, not a riddle! Get in here before I lose my will to live!” boomed a voice that could curdle milk.

Special Agent in Charge Marcus Copeland’s office was less a room and more a testament to controlled fury. The desk was a vast, empty plain, as if any paperwork foolish enough to land there had been vaporized by sheer force of disapproval. Copeland himself was a broad-shouldered man with a glare that could probably stop a clock. He was currently using it on a tablet, which seemed to be pissing him off immensely.

“Sir. Nathan Summers, reporting for—”

“I know who you are,” Copeland interrupted, not looking up. “Top of your class at Quantico. Cyber wizard. Pattern …