Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Dedicated to the soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, and coast guards of the United States armed services. If I have ever been even a little bit brave under fire, it is only because I didn’t want to let you down.

A novel is a group effort for which one person gets all the credit. Let me try to amend that. I’d like to extend special thanks to my family, and in particular my brother Peter, who taught me that art is a thing worth striving for. Also thanks to my beta readers Tamela Viglione and Joel Beaven, and my agent and dear friend, Joshua Bilmes. Thanks to my editor, Anne Sowards, who believed in this project from the start, and also to John Hemry, Chris Evans, and Ann Aguirre. Thanks to my ad hoc readers Jay Franco, James Kehler, and Kikki Short (who is also my sister-in-law, so I suppose I should thank her for marrying my brother, too). Oh, and Mom, even though she admits to having no clue as to what I’m going on about.

Thanks to Stephanie, Mike, Killian, and the rest of the crew at the Potomac Yard Barnes & Noble, in whose café the vast majority of this book was written. Thanks to House Bloodguard, who taught me that discipline is the better part of valor, and to the Everyday Is Wednesday Hash House Harriers (DC), who kept me in wine, women, and song during the rocky postdeployment adjustment periods.

Special thanks to Chief Warrant Officer Andre Sinou, United States Marine Corps, who didn’t break faith when I went to ground, and to Major General Edwin Spain, United States Army (ret.). You were right, sir. The last quarter second made all the difference in the world. Thanks also to Lieutenant Colonel James Wanovich, United States Army, who stilled the jitters when in-direct fire came danger close. Small round, big base, sir.

Very special thanks to the men and women of United States Coast Guard Sector Hampton Roads and the graduating ROCI class of 02–08 (especially Alpha Company, First Platoon). When you have such people to lean on, it’s impossible to fail.

And last, but certainly not least, to Peter V. Brett, my Professor X. How could I have ever done it without you?

“Latent” has become part of the magical jargon. It used to mean folks who were channeling magic but hadn’t yet realized it. Now everyone from the Unmanifested to the professional military Sorcerer is considered “Latent.” It’s the catchall for anyone touched by the Great Reawakening and a sign of how quickly we’ve adapted to this new reality.

— John Brunk

Staff Research Associate, Oxford English Dictionary

…coming to you live from the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, where we have just been informed that a Selfer incident has collapsed the memorial with an unknown number of tourists trapped inside. A SOC intervention team is inbound, and we will continue with regular updates as the situation unfolds…

— Alex Brinn, SPY7 News, Washington, DC

Reporting on the Bloch Incident

They want me to kill a child, Lieutenant Oscar Britton thought.

The monitor showed a silent video feed from a high-school security camera. On it, a young boy stood in a school auditorium. A long-sleeved black T-shirt covered his skinny chest. Silver chains connected rings in his ears, nose, and lips. His hair was a spray of mousse and color.

He was wreathed in a bright ball of fire.

Billowing smoke clouded the camera feed, but Britton could see the boy stretch out a hand, flames jetting past the camera’s range, engulfing fleeing students, who rolled away, beating at their hair and clothing. People were running, screaming.

Beside the boy stood a chubby girl, her dyed black hair matching her lipstick and eye makeup. She spread her arms.

The flames around the boy pulsed in time with her motions, forming two man-sized and — shaped peaks of flame. The fire elementals danced among the students, burning as they went. Britton watched as the elementals multiplied — four, then six. Wires sparked as the fire reached the stage. The girl’s magic touched them as well, the electricity forming dancing human shapes, elementals of sizzling energy. They lit among the students, fingertips crackling arcs of dazzling blue lightning.

Britton swallowed as his team shuffled uneasily behind him. He heard them make room for Lieutenant Morgan and his assaulters, who entered the briefing room and clustered around the monitor, still tightening straps on gun slings and slamming rounds into their magazines. They loaded armor-piercing, hollow-point, and incendiary ammunition. Not the standard ball or half charges normally used on a capture mission. Britton swallowed again. These were bullets for taking on a dug-in, professional enemy.

The video went to static, then looped for the fifth time as they waited for the briefing to start. The boy burst into flame yet again, the girl beside him conjuring the man-shaped fire elementals to scatter through the auditorium.

Fear formed a cold knot in Britton’s stomach. He pushed it away, conscious of the stares of his men. A leader who voiced fear instilled it in his subordinates.

The mission briefer finally took up his position beside the monitor. His blue eyes were gray flint under the fluorescent lights. “It’s South Burlington High School, about seven klicks from our position. We sent a Sorcerer to check out a tip on an unreported Latency, and these kids decided to tear the place up once they knew they were caught. The local police are already on the scene, and they’re going to refer to me as Captain Thorsson. I’ll need you to stick to call signs. Call me Harlequin at all times.

“The helos are undergoing final checks outside, and you should be on deck to assault the target in fifteen minutes from jump. South Burlington PD and a company out of the Eighty-sixth have evacuated the civilians. We should have it totally clear now, so the order’s come down to go in and bring order to the chaos.”

“Looks like Pyromancers, sir?” Britton asked.

Harlequin snorted and gave voice to Britton’s fears. “You honestly think a fifteen-year-old girl would have the control it takes to move even one elemental around like that, let alone half a dozen? Those flame-men are self-willed.”

“Just great!” Private First Class Dawes whispered loudly enough to be heard by the whole room. “A Probe! A fucking Elementalist! Jesus fucking Christ!”

Warrant Officer Cheatham turned to his man. “So, she’s a Probe! Prohibited school’s no more dangerous than a legal one to a real soldier!”

“It’s okay, Dan,” Britton said, gesturing to Cheatham. Dawes was the youngest member of their team and prone to the histrionics of youth.

Britton could feel the terror in the room. Morgan shifted uneasily, drawing glances from his team.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Harlequin said, “but the law is clear. All Supernatural Operations Corps runs inside the United States must be integrated with regular army support. That’s not my call. That’s by presidential decree.

“But you are on perimeter, cordon, and fire-suppression duty. This is a SOC op, and you will let us handle the actual target.”

Target, Britton thought. So that’s what you call a fifteen-year-old girl and her boyfriend.

“What are you going to do, sir?” Britton asked.

“You gonna put a tornado down on ’em, sir?” Dawes asked.

The corner of Harlequin’s mouth lifted slightly. “Something like that.”

If anyone else had said it, the men would have laughed. But Harlequin was a commissioned Sorcerer in the Supernatural Operations Corps.