“Hippie school?” questioned Sala. The muscular bodyguard was reclined on the couch, a mug of coffee in her hand. Tendrils of steam wafted past her face, alternately hiding and highlighting her bright blue eyes. “What’s that?”

“Sensitivity training. Apparently I’m not politically correct enough to break boosters in half,” Drake said, his tone mocking. His own mug was long since drained of coffee, and he swung it wildly as he gestured.

Sala barked out a laugh, pausing to cover her mouth with her free hand. “Sorry,” she murmured in response to his furious gaze.

“It’s my fault,” he acknowledged. “I can’t keep my mouth shut. Thing is, I don’t go along with the school part, they prosecute. That skank Thrash is pressing charges! Excessive force, wrongful arrest, the whole nine yards.”

“Will it stick?”

“I don’t know,” he said with an expansive shrug. “Courts these days? Probably. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah. She’ll show up in a pretty little schoolgirl outfit and cry when the big green monster gets up on the stand. The jury sees you and decides you’re too rough for your own good. Been there,” she said.

“It’s the whole baby-eater thing all over again.”

“What baby-eater thing?”

“A long time ago. Up on assault charges. The D.A. tried to convince the jury I ate babies, kind of. Made me show my teeth. Asked the jury to think about how much damage I could do to an innocent child with them. Typical D.A. stuff. Take the focus off the crime and make it personal.”

Sala chuckled, sipping from the mug and then parking it on the coffee table that moments before had supported her feet. “Could be worse,” she said. “They could have PhotoShopped a picture of you with a kid in your mouth.”

“That might have been overkill.”

“Ever known a D.A. to back away from that?”

“Good point,” he agreed. He scratched at an ear with one yellowed talon. “So, anyway, I get to go be psychoanalyzificated.”

“That ought to be fun,” she noted with a wry grin. “Can I come?”

“No. You might be there when they find out I’m a woman trapped in a dragon’s body. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“READY!” interrupted Monster in a bellow, charging in from his room with an approach that thundered through the entire house. He was clad in a form-fitting green bodysuit, with brown leggings and gauze bandages of some kind wrapped around both forearms and hands. Sandals barely contained feet that were close in size to the seventeen’s of his brother, and the headband he had worn to the mall was wrapped around his waist. The steel plate with its scrollwork emblem hung slightly askew above his groin. His hair had been cut into a bowl pattern and white highlights had been ghosted in to create a shiny appearance in the raven-black hair. Enormously thick eyebrows of black felt were stuck to his forehead. He grinned and struck a dramatic pose, sticking out his right hand in a fist with an upraised thumb. Sala had explained that a local girl, training to be a hairstylist, had agreed to help with the costume and that the same woman would remain at the safehouse to greet local trick-or-treaters.

“Carly’s a good girl,” she had told Drake. “She’s been letting Monster watch her Naruto videos. He likes Naruto, but really likes Rock Lee.”

The words had meant little to Drake, but he guessed that this was the character mentioned when his brother emerged from the room.

“It is the Leaf Village’s splendid ninja!” Sala cried, folding her hands over her heart and mock swooning.

“Oh, no! It’s Rock Lee!” Drake said, his jaw dropping in feigned shock. He fell to his knees and raised clasped hands in supplication. “I give up! I don’t stand a chance!” he wailed piteously. Monster threw a few punches at the air and grinned widely.

“Do you like it, Francis?” he asked.

“You look great!” Drake said. Sala nodded and gave Monster a thumbs-up of her own. Drake paused and looked around, then shook his head sadly.

“I don’t see a bag,” he said. “Where you gonna put all your candy?”

“I’m gonna eat it,” Monster said firmly.

“All at once? I don’t think so,” Drake said with another shake of his head. He reached into a pocket of his trousers and withdrew a tan bundle. He swung his arm down, letting the canvas bag snap into shape. It looked large enough to carry a pair of bowling balls. “This ought to do,” he said, handing it to Monster.

“Can we go now?” Monster asked. Drake peered at the clock that hung over the television.

“Not just yet, monkey-man,” he said. I’ve got to go get my costume on first. Wouldn’t be right, going out on Halloween without a costume, would it?”

“No,” Monster said. He looked into his bag as if envisioning it filled with treats.

“Wait here, buddy. I’ll be back in a minute,” Drake promised. He left the living room and went into the bedroom that he used on the occasions when he managed to get to the safehouse. The costume was there on the bed, still in its bag. A grin split his emerald lips and he snickered at the response he knew it would garner. He mused over how hard the choice had been this year. There were, of course, costumes of all the famous boosters available, and he had given some thought to dressing as one or more of them in turn as he examined the wares of the shop. Following the debacle in Atlanta there had been a run on Patriot suits. A recent MSNBC story had led to an increased demand for Vector, Crimson Justice and The Silver Shield. On the other side, there was the usual group who wanted to look like Annihilator, Bonebreaker and Professor Pain. Nothing so standard for the towering green booster, though. He had decided on something more traditional, yet completely unexpected by any who knew him.

The costume change took only a few minutes, and he called out to Monster to close his eyes. He peeked around the corner of the door to see the younger Drake with his eyes not only closed but shielded by his hands. Drake stepped out and stood in the hallway with his hands on his hips. “Okay, you can look!” he said. Monster dropped his hands. His brown eyes opened, then continued to grow wide as he took in the sight before him. Before long, his eyes were wide enough that he did indeed look like a character from an anime.

“What in the hell?” Sala asked, her stunned voice coming from behind Drake. He turned to look at her, grinning as he pirouetted and dropped into a curtsy. The sparkling fabric in which he was wrapped made crinkling noises in response. Gauzy and white, the fabric was stretched tight over his enormous frame. The top had puffy sleeves and a high collar, and the skirt was wide and rounded, with golden streaks through the material that caught the light. The tiara wedged atop his head flashed with reflections from the simulated gems in its band, and the star-tipped wand in his left hand was glitter-coated.

“I’m a princess -“ he started to say, accompanying his words with a quiet laugh that turned into a roar of true laughter when he beheld the bodyguard in her costume.

Bright, Day-Glo green fur made up the body of the suit. Gigantic fuzzy house shoes of the same hue, tipped with plush yellow claws graced her feet, and gloves to match the shoes were held out before her in a menacing gesture. A mask designed to look like a smiling dragon, secured around the head with a thin rubber band, concealed her face. She had acquired a set of camouflage BDU pants and wore her sidearm in a shoulder holster. Her identification and badge rode on her belt, though she had stuck a tiny dragon-face sticker over the photo. A pair of black latex demon wings clipped to her shoulders finished the look.

The pair broke into gales of laughter that continued for some time. Monster joined in, though the expression on his face said that he was confused as much as amused. After a while the immediate effect had worn off and everyone took a moment to catch their breath. Behind the plastic mask, Sala still giggled slightly.

“I don’t know which of us is more surprised,” she said.

“It’s a close call.”

“Francis, you look funny,” Monster said, covering his grin with a palm.

“Then I got it right,” Drake said, reaching out to ruffle his brother’s hair. He pulled his hand back at the last second, not wanting to disrupt the effect of the hairstyle. “I wanted to be funny this year.”

“Couldn’t find a cheerleader outfit?” Sala asked, picking up a flashlight and dropping it into a pocket of her trousers. She passed two more to the Drakes.

“Bypassed it. Too cliché.”

“Can we go now?” Monster asked, waving the empty bag.

“We can,” Sala said. She pocketed the keys to the house and called out to Carly, telling the young woman that they were leaving. They closed the door behind them and stepped out into the yard.

The evening air was chill, and Drake shivered. “Stupid winter,” he grumbled. “Should’ve gone as an Eskimo.”

“I hardly think you could have beaten that look, your Majesty,” Sala teased.

“I was gonna dress up as Colleen Hart, but I figured the overly-intimidating-heartless-bitch look was so last year.”

“Okay, now, Monster,” Sala said, kneeling in front of the younger Drake. “You remember the rules?”

Monster nodded enthusiastically, though his eyes were flicking across the surroundings as he looked for the most likely place to score holiday treats.

“What are they?” she quizzed.

“No running. Stay with you and Francis. Be nice. Say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”

“Good enough. Anything else comes up and we’ll go from there. So where do you want to start?”

Monster pointed to his left, down the long street that wound through the neighborhood. The area was a cluster of safehouses, as was most of the surrounding community. It was on rare occasions, such as Halloween, that the inhabitants would so freely open their doors. Here and there were nondescript vehicles parked alongside the curbs, occupants in suits and sunglasses constantly alert for any problems. The community was valuable, and the government was quick to add security at times such as this. The assigned Agents took their positions seriously, despite the sure knowledge that at the end of the night, families would bring coffee and leftover candy out to share with each and every one of them.

“Ahh, over to Doc Hampton’s, huh?” she asked, nodding as if she had anticipated the answer. She patted him on the shoulder, swept away a tiny bit of dirt from the knee of her pants, and stood. They took to the sidewalk.

“Who’s -“ Drake began as they walked. Sala answered before he could finish.

“Theodore Hampton. He’s a Doctor down at the clinic. Not, like, you know, The Clinic,” she emphasized, referring to the shadowy - and some said illegal - government-backed organization which had been her primary employer for the past few years. “I mean just a regular clinic. Minor first aid, sick kids, that kind of stuff. The Doc always makes sure kids get treated right.”

“He has lollipops. Grape ones,” Monster said, smiling up at his brother.

“Grape? Well, we can’t let that go, can we?”

“No. I like grape.”

“Who doesn’t?” Drake asked, looking positively dumbfounded.

Streetlights bathed the area in a pale yellow-orange light, each one coming on in sequence in response to the lowering sun. It seemed almost as if the presence of the trio was triggering them; each one coming on as they neared its radius of light. Drake looked at the houses as they passed, giving the occasional wave to one or more parties seated on their porch in anticipation of neighborhood children.

While it was true that Monster was, by definition, no longer a child, he had been accepted by all those with whom he dealt as one by virtue of his mental capacity. Drake knew, from not only his visits but through his constant communications with Sala and the treatment teams assigned, that his brother had become something of a celebrity, as it were. He was treated with special care and more than a few of the locals kept a close watch on him. In truth, Drake knew he and Sala could walk away and within minutes several of the locals would have taken control of Monster and brought him to them. Though he was thrilled beyond belief at the thought that the neighbors cared so much for his brother, it still needled him a bit that there was a need for such care.

The door to Doctor Hampton’s house was decorated with a wiggling skeleton made of some glow-in-the-dark material, and a plastic witch on the porch was lit from within. The smile on her face kept it from being too intimidating to younger children. Monster still gave it a wide berth as he approached the door and knocked. The portal opened and a black-clad man stepped into view. He was dressed as Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and spoke in a low voice.

“Good eeeevening,” he intoned. His eyebrows shot into the bottom of his skullcap as he caught sight of Drake and Sala, and his attempt to keep from smiling almost ruined his own appearance.

“Trick or treat!” Monster said, holding up his bag. The man took a heavy bucket from just inside the door, holding it down so that Monster could see into it. Dozens of lollipops could be seen inside it.

“Help yourself, son,” he said. He leaned down and whispered, as if sharing a dark secret, while with his left hand he tapped one edge of the bucket. “I think there’s grape on this side.”

Monster grinned and reached into the bucket, his hand large enough to almost fill the opening. He emerged with a purple-wrapped sucker and his grin doubled in size. “I got grape!” he said triumphantly. As he turned to show his prize to Drake, ‘Riff Raff’ dumped several more candies into the bag and winked to the escorts.

“Yes you did!” Drake replied. He nodded to the Doctor.

“What do you say?” Sala prompted.

“Thank you!” Monster said to Doctor Hampton, He clapped a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, threatening for a second to knock him to the floor. “You’re nice.”

“So are you.”

Monster scampered down from the porch, suddenly not caring how close he got to the plastic witch. He held up his sucker like a trophy. As they started down the road to the next house, he unwrapped it and jammed it into his mouth.

“It’s good, Francis,” he mumbled around the stick.

“I’m glad, little buddy,” Drake said. He sniffed and sucked at a tooth, his tongue spiraling around the enamel for a second before he spat onto the ground. Smoke hissed from the landing point.

“What’s up?” Sala asked in a quiet voice.

“What? Oh, nothing. Just, you know, just thinking.”

“Hippie school again?”

“Naw,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Memories, I guess.”

“Good? Bad?”

“Bad,” he murmured, eyes going to the capering figure of his brother. “Home. Monster as a kid. All the shit that went on.”

“That’s all in the past,” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s that past that’s put me here. If the old man hadn’t been such a bastard...”

“But he was,” Sala said, putting a furry green paw on his arm. “Don’t dwell on it.”

“I try. It’s just - Ring the bell, Monster,” he urged, breaking off to call to his brother. The ‘ninja’ stood poised on the front porch of a house, captivated by an array of beautifully-carved pumpkins that ranged across the breadth of the porch, each lit from within by candles.

“You really want to talk about it?” Sala asked. The door had opened and a woman wearing the animal-skin and bone costume of Wilma Flintstone greeted Monster with a basket of candy bars.

“Yes and no,” Drake admitted. He gave a thumbs-up to Monster’s display of a fistful of Three Musketeers bars and they all started walking again.

“Do you think you need to? ‘cause, I mean, I’ll listen if that’s what you want, but, uh...truth? I’d say get yourself a therapist. I’m not qualified to help you figure out all the shit that’s knotted up in your noggin, princess.”

“I know. I just... I don’t want him ending up like me.”

“Could be worse.”

They stayed silent for the next two houses, save for the continuing calls of encouragement to Monster and cries of joy at the treasures he garnered in his sugar quest. The mood had changed with one short conversation. Drake cursed at himself for having destroyed the jovial atmosphere.

“You forgot the tail,” he said to Sala, pointing behind her.

“Me? You forgot that Lycra is not meant for people as big as armored cars,” she quipped in return. She gave a slight nod, no more than a minor inclination of the head, that let Drake know all was well.

“And the smiling mask thing? What’s up with that?” he groused as they continued on down the street. The two tossed more jests back and forth at one another as they made their way through the community and Monster’s treat bag continued to grow heavier. It was no burden to the youth, but bits of candy were beginning to show at the upper edges, giving some clue as to just how freely the neighborhood had given.

“Last one,” Drake said as they neared a house that stood slightly apart for the others on the street. It was dark save for a wan glow seen through a front window; a tableside lamp that lit the glass. There were no decorations or any sign of life beyond the light, and Monster turned a questioning gaze on his brother.

“Nobody’s home,” he said.

“I think someone might be,” Drake assured him. “Maybe if you go up and check.”

“It’s scary.”

Drake made a show of looking carefully at the structure. It was even older in appearance than the rest of the homes, most of which had been built during the height of the Cold War. The bricks were dusty and leaves had blown onto the wooden porch, weaving their way between the posts of the rail surrounding the porch. A two-person wooden swing hung from steel hooks, the chains rusty and disused. It moved slightly in the gentle breeze that had crept up. A tiny squeak could occasionally be heard from the attachments. The windows of the upper floor were dirty and flyspecked, their distress visible even in the low light.

“Yeah. It is at that,” Drake said, nodding. “Still, they might have candy.”

“This place is supposed to be abandoned,” Sala whispered.

“Not tonight.”

“What’s going on?”

“Look, I know you’re Monster’s guard, but trust me on this one. The kid’s gonna have a great Halloween.”

Sala looked at him, eyes flashing with concern inside the dragon mask. He just winked and nodded.

“Francis? Will you come with me?” Monster asked, his voice trembling. Drake gripped Sala by the arm.

“We both will, little buddy.”

As a trio, they advanced on the house. Still no sound or light came from within. The porch steps creaked loudly under their combined weight and Monster let out a gasp of surprise. He turned to look at Drake, a frown creasing his face. He held out a hand and Drake happily took into his own, feeling the clammy sweat there.

“Just knock,” Drake urged. The door was a solid mass, as were most others in the town. There was a screen door, however, of yellowed wood with rusty screen. Monster slipped his hand free from Drake’s grasp and gently tapped at the wood twice.

“Nobody home,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Try making some noise when you knock.”

“I’m scared.”

“We’re here, Monster. Just knock.”

Swallowing hard, Monster raised his hand again and knocked, more insistently this time. The wooden frame of the screen door rattled with a sound that seemed to carry forever. Inside the house, a shadow crossed between the lamp and the window. Monster took a step backward, shielding himself behind the bulk of his brother.

“Drake, are you sure -“ Sala began, concerned over the effect this was having on her charge.

“I said trust me.”

Before she could reply about the many previous times that that particular phrase had led her into trouble, the interior door opened. A hulking shape was evident, backlit by the lamp so that only a silhouette was truly visible. There was faint aroma of tobacco smoke hanging around it.

“What have we here?” the shape asked in a low bass. Drake reached down and back, pushing Monster forward.

“What do you say?” he prompted.

“T-Trick or treat?” Monster said in a timid tone of voice.

“Hmmm. An interesting question...” the shape said, reaching up and stroking at its chin with one hand. The other hand ran up the interior wall of the house for a second before finding what it sought. Twin porch lights suddenly flared into life, causing the trio to blink rapidly to clear their vision.

“How about ‘treat’, Monster?” asked the shape.

Monster, hearing the figure speak his name, looked up and his mouth fell open. The bag of candy he was carrying fell to the porch with a loud thump. Illuminated now by the porch lights, the shape was revealed to the younger Drake. His eyes traveled up from the ebony boots of the man, along the length of the blue uniform to the flag emblazoned on the material chest to the smaller version of the Stars-and-Stripes on the forehead.

“Patriot?” he squeaked.

Sala punched Drake in the upper arm, her enhanced strength lending the blow real power, though the fuzzy gloves robbed it of any real effect. “You big green ass,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Surprise,” Drake said with another wink. He looked down at his brother, who still stood in awe of the hero. “Well, say hello,” he said.

Monster tore his eyes from Patriot long enough to look at Drake with an expression of raw terror. This time Drake did muss his hair.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Patriot invited, sweeping an arm behind him. Drake gave Monster a push and gestured Sala to follow the youth.

“I owe you,” he stage-whispered to Patriot as they passed.

“Not a bit. Glad we can help.”

“You got no idea.”

“Yeah, actually I do,” Patriot said. He took a moment to look at Drake’s costume, snickering. “I like the tiara,” he said.

“Your mama.”

Laughing aloud, the big man escorted them into the house. Though only dimly lit, the living room was seen to be a dozen times more precise and sterile than the exterior of the house suggested. It was obvious that Patriot had been here for some time and cleaned the place before anyone would arrive. A low table sat before a leather couch, and an overstuffed recliner occupied space near the lamp. An ashtray with a half-dozen crushed butts rested on the top of the table alongside the lamp.

“Do you live here?” Monster asked, still unable to get his voice to a normal point.

“Just borrowing it for a couple of days,” Patriot said. “Kind of a favor for a friend, you might say.”

“I saw you on TV.”

“Which time?” Patriot asked automatically. He knelt on the floor, which actually put his face below that of Monster. By looking down, he knew, Monster would gain an edge in confidence that - even when speaking to someone Drake claimed he idolized - would have the potential to bring him out of his shell enough that he might relax.

“You were on there with my brother,” Monster said with a touch of pride. “You said my name.”

“Yep. That was me. Did you like the show?”

“You fought that bad man.” Monster emphasized the statement with a couple of wild punches that threatened to hit the blue-garbed hero. Patriot never even blinked. For his part, Drake grimaced. He had spent hours explaining to Monster that when he had attacked Patriot, it was all an elaborate ruse. The truth would have been too difficult to explain, and making it seem deliberate had cemented his brother’s acceptance of the events as Drake helping Patriot ‘catch the bad guy’.

“Sure did. It was pretty tough, too. We managed to pull it off, though,” Patriot said with cool acceptance, as though discussing the weather. He looked up at Drake, jerking his chin toward an open door leading from the living room. “Coffee in the kitchen. Why don’t you guys help yourselves? I’ll stay here and play with Monster.”

“I saw the outside of this place,” Drake said, tilting his head. “The kitchen okay?”

Patriot nodded, his eyes intense. “Trust me, pal. The kitchen is as clean as it could be.”

The words were casual, but the emphasis from his gaze made Drake nod his head. “Come on, Sala,” he said, leading the bodyguard from the room. They stepped through the portal into the darkened kitchen. As Sala reached for the lights, Drake suddenly stepped behind her and wrapped a hand across her mouth. It was large enough to cover her face. As she immediately went into a defensive mode and shifted position to try to strike him, he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

“Don’t react. There are other people here.”

That said, he immediately released her before she could elbow him. Her eyes narrowed as he flicked on the lights in the kitchen.

The room was standard for a kitchen, with all the appliances normally present. What made this one different, though, were the three people seated quietly around what had been a darkened table. Her eyes tracked across them as she unconsciously assessed their threat potential. The first was a broad-shouldered man with skin the color of dark chocolate. He wore a military field jacket with a subdued United States flag on the shoulder. When her gaze met his, he winked softly and grinned. The second was a woman who appeared to be made entirely of liquid metal, clad in a simple sheath dress of a light grey hue. The third was a woman, but Sala could see little more of her than the top of her head. She was seated on the far side of the table, head cradled in her hands and her face turned to the tabletop. Electric blue hair fanned out across her hands and fell in a stream to the table. Were it pinned back, Sala estimated it would reach the woman’s waist.

“These folks are from the Hurst Academy,” Drake explained, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “The silver lady is Lucille Wilshire. She’s one of their top instructors.”

“Sam Garver. You can call me Whiplash,” the black man said, standing from his seat and extending a hand for Sala to shake. He looked at Drake bit his lip in response to the outfit.

“Thought I recognized you,” Sala replied, shaking the hand with fervor. “Callie’s Cage Combat, right?”

Whiplash chuckled. “Guilty as charged.”

“I don’t recognize the last one,” Drake admitted. “I would guess she’s the telepath?”

“Sandra Romain,” Wilshire said. She maintained the same quiet speech as the others, but her expression and tone was as cold as Drake remembered from their previous encounters. He had made a bad first impression, and it was obvious that this was a woman who never forgot.

“Neuro,” the girl corrected, her voice a hoarse croak. She did not change her position. “Nice costumes.”

“So what’s the deal?” asked Sala, pulling off the dragon mask and looking around. From the other room, Monster could be heard laughing.

“I invited them down here to take a look at some things,” Drake said. “I couldn’t tell you about it earlier, because the safehouse is monitored. The Feds out in the cars have directional mikes as well.”

“So when Patriot said the kitchen was clean...”

“Bug-free. One hundred percent,” Whiplash reported. He pointed to a machine that took up space beside the microwave oven. The bodyguard needed no prompting to recognize it as a detector.

“Miss Romain is also maintaining a null zone around the house to prevent telepathic monitoring,” Wilshire said. “While she is, simultaneously, reading the emotions and thoughts of young Mister Drake. Quite an accomplishment, I might add.”

“How’s he doing?” Drake asked.

“Excited,” Neuro said. “A little intimidated, but thrilled. He sees Patriot. Now. Then. Always.”

“No idea what’s going on, then?”

“None.”

“Good.”

“She’s nervous.” Neuro pointed a hand toward Sala, still not looking up from the table. “Thinking about how to kill us all. All business, though. No malice.”

Whiplash looked at Sala, a grin quirking up the corners of his mouth. “Hope I’m top of the list.”

“Not even close,” she said, all trace of emotion gone from her voice.

“I’m first,” Neuro said. That thought made her raise her head at last. Her eyes were rolled back in their sockets and her expression was taut, as though she was fighting for control. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Wilshire asked, reaching out a shining hand to comfort the telepath. The answer came from Sala.

“I just let her know how little I care for anyone getting in my head and that I’d sooner take a hit from mister ‘three-and-six-in-one-season’ than let her wait until last for a bullet. She let me know she was sorry and she’d quit. That’s all I wanted.”

Whiplash looked crestfallen. “Here I was hoping you’d remember the three and forget the six.”

“I don’t get it,” Sala said, turning to Drake once again. She ignored the bruised ego of the cage fighter.

“They’re here to see if Monster can function up at Hurst.”

“Actually,” Wilshire interrupted, standing from her seat, “we know he can function there. What we are establishing is the degree of resources we will need to expend to allow him a successful environment. Mister Garver is our Director of Security. I am the lead instructor. Mister Salvatore is currently testing out Mister Drake’s strength and endurance with several games. Together with the impressions he gathers, along with the empathic and telepathic data recovered by Miss Romain, we will have the information we need.”

“You’re moving him?” Sala demanded, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at Drake. The fury in her eyes was countered by the smiling dragon mask that perched atop her head.

“Not just him,” Drake said. “Whiplash?”

“Drake tells us he doesn’t trust anyone as much as he does you when it comes to Monster,” Whiplash said, pouring a cup of coffee. He held it out for Sala, but she just looked at him, waiting for him to continue. With a shrug, he put the cup to his lips for a moment. “I’d like to offer you a job.”