Elizabeth Blake [Blake - Dead Mutt Walking

Koko

The first day of my new life was off to a rocky start.

Federal agents posted behind ballistic shields and held the line against a mob spewing insults, spittle, and random projectiles. When crowd control sprayed the rioters with a fire hose, they dispersed like alley cats.

The security guard at the iron gate assessed me through his gas mask. More feds stood alongside, fully armed and wearing vacant expressions. My truck idled loudly while he scanned my badge.

Koko what? he said.

Just Koko. Whats happening out there?

It's Sunday. Business as usual.

He scrutinized my credentials. A pause followed while we both recognized his opportunity to give me a hard time. I look like a truck-load of dumb muscle: seven and a half feet tall, surpassing three hundred-fifty pounds. I maintained the bulk despite my age because I did not have a life outside of the gym and law enforcement. My bigness and blackness were off-putting even without the name.

He buzzed my RFID tag and verified my firearm met federal regulations before letting me pass. Law required all guns to be tagged in order to monitor the devices activity. The weapon felt more like a nagging crone than protection.

After parking, I realized hed sent me to the pedestrian entrance. Instead of driving through the security station again, I used it as an excuse to explore.

The Federal Bureau of Human Safety building opened immediately to huge lobby with a dome ceiling. A small fountain offered a soothing trickle to accompany the scent of orchids. Classic Beethoven played in the background. Tropical fish swam in oversized tanks while civilians lounged in plush blue chairs.

The room was a sugar-coated placebo.

All the feds wore suits, but I had not. Santi, my contact, had said to dress casual and I believed him. Jeans, a black button-down shirt. Now I was wishing I brought a proper jacket.

A middle-aged woman whod been arguing with a clerk began to cry. Immediately, a female agent came to lead her away from prying eyes.

Hard to maintain a Zen faade with women bawling their eyes out.

A man with curly blond hair, wearing khakis and a polo shirt, flashed baby pictures to an older receptionist. He looked like a civilian wanting information, but I recognized him.

I prayed he'd put the pictures away before I got there. Not that I didn't like kids, but I didn't want to be forced to mumble complimentary drivel about a jagged-toothed, cross-eyed two year-old.

Hi, I'm Keats, he said. He put the billfold away, thank goodness, and stuck out his arm.

I shook the hand. His grip was hard and eager. Mine was as soft as I could make it without letting my fingers fall off. Keats shook quickly, absent show-boating.

Does everyone call you Koko? No nickname?

It is my nickname.

Oh. What's your birth name?

Koko.

Right. Uh, the elevator is this way. Help me with the muffins and coffee. It's my day to supply the team with caffeine and sugar on account of me only working one Sunday a month. Since you're the rookie, you've been volunteered to bring treats tomorrow.

Thirty-nine years old, and I was the rookie again. Climb one ladder only to find myself at the bottom rung of the next. He passed me a box of sweets and a coffee carrier with six cups. As soon as we left the lobby, the music faded, the feel-good dcor stopped, and the walls were government issue beige. A change for the better.

Keats bustled along and spouted questions.

What part of Phoenix are you living in?

Sector six. I found a place right off the freeway on the avenue side. I had arrived yesterday and hadn't unpacked. The neighborhood was desolate. Shoes hung from power lines, acting as calling cards for drugs or gangs. Drive-up liquor stores and pawn shops decorated every street corner. However, the door was solid, the windows had bars, and it offered a lot of space for the price.

Stay away from the freeways, I'm telling you. The extra drive will be worth it to live in a better neighborhood. Besides, most utilities, especially electric, are shoddy down Illegal Alley. The walls are like crepe paper. Thugs and felons lurk around in broad daylight. No one follows the curfew. I can't imagine trying to raise children in such places. Do you have kids?

God, not the photos. No.

I've got two.

Congrats. How many agents are on the team?

With you, five. Heres our floor. Hi, Daisy! He waved to a middle-aged woman in an unflattering green dress, wearing a headset, and sitting with her cupcake ankles extended. Daisy is our dispatcher. She handles five teams including ours. Daisy, this is Koko. He's new to us.

Oh, what a cute name. I love chocolate, she said. Not a racial thing, mind you. Or a sexual thing. Uhexcuse me, I have a call.

She's nice, Keats said. New Catholic, and she certainly prefers sweets. Especially those chocolate truffles with salted tops. Helpful hint: if you buy her a box of those before she works double shifts, shes less likely to curse at you over the radio.

I figured we'd go to the office, but Keats introduced me to literally everyone we passed, including the mail carrier. Sure, on my first day I expected to meet a lot of new faces, learn procedure, and get a feel for office politics, but there was a limit. A half an hour to walk across the desert-toned floor divided into large team rooms. The coffee was lukewarm by the time we stopped in the doorway of a large office containing eight desks, four empty. Two men and a female sat around, and I remembered them from a joint SWAT and FBHS raid.

I first noticed Oracio Gracie, called Rosco. He wore a fuchsia shirt, not a color I'd wish on any man. The top few buttons were undone, revealing the valley between his pecs. Cosmetic gym goer, gold jewelry, pretty boy with Hispanic heritage. Quick research had revealed his shooting scores were as jaw-dropping as his shirt.

Kaidlyn Durant sat Indian-style on her desk, wearing jeans and a black thermal. Her pushed-up sleeves revealed scarring along her forearms, and the high collar didnt quite cover old tissue damage across the entirety of her throat. Her brown hair was tangled under a Cardinal's cap.

She single-handedly represented all female agents in the bureau who were both alive and active after multiple years of service. I knew for a fact she had balls. Id seen her stand her ground against a hoard of starving wolves. She also wrote a rather eloquent reference letter which helped me transfer from SWAT to the bureau.

She chatted with Andreas Sarakas while he pushed through paperwork. His wrinkled forehead and sullen gaze made me think she was having fun at his expense. Or she was in the way, because it was his desk she perched on.

Morning! Keats said. Koko has arrived. So have the doughnuts.

How's your arm? Durant said. Id forgotten the mild green of her eyes.

Good. I clenched my fist, rotated it, showing a full range of motion. I nearly lost the use of my gun-hand due to a severe compound break. Came close to scouting retirement options. I still felt the injury tighten.