Do Warehouse Agents Dream of Artifact Sheep?

Chapter 1

1

BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

A bell over the glass door clanged as Secret Service Agent Pete Lattimer pulled open the entrance to the Avenue Thrift Shop. He held the door while his partner, Agent Myka Bering, hustled inside, and then promptly followed after her.

"Remember, Pete," said Myka, as he came even to her shoulder, "the artifact could be anything in here." She emphasized with her eyes the rows and rows of second-hand clothing, the shelves lining the walls packed full of miscellaneous knick-knacks, assorted odds and ends, and various housewares. "So don't touch anything. Three people are already in the hospital."

"I know, Mykes." Pete feigned a hurt look, then a moment later wrinkled up his nose. "Smells like mothballs in here."

Myka cocked her head. "We need to clear this place out." She withdrew her badge and held it ready in one hand, drawing the Tesla in the other. Not standard Secret Service issue. But then, Pete and Myka weren't standard Secret Service Agents. The Tesla was a special weapon, designed and named for master inventor Nicola Tesla, which produced bursts of electricity that could stun a target. It was capable of doing lethal damage if used on the full power setting. The Tesla looked something like a futuristic ray gun even though it was a century old.

"Ma'am," said Myka, sliding up to a woman shopping nearby with two young boys climbing over her shopping cart. She flashed her badge. "Secret Service. I'm afraid I need you to evacuate this thrift store."

"Evacuate?" The woman looked at Myka, incredulous, a T-shirt in her hands held up for inspection.

"I'm afraid so."

"It's fifty percent off every color except green tags today. You must be out of your mind if you think I'm—"

"Ma'am." Myka's voice took on an edge. "National Security. I'm gonna have to insist. The, uh, president is in town and, uh, possibly stopping by this location to, you know, to shop," she finished lamely.

Grumbling, the woman cast Myka a dirty look, laid the T-shirt haphazardly over the rack of other shirts, and then yelled at the two boys to stop messing around and to behave. Together, the woman and her sons moved away to the exit. Myka watched them until the bell clanged and they pushed their way out into the California sun.

"Hey Mykes, check it out." She turned her head.

Pete was holding up an incredibly tacky, polyester leisure suit—matching lime green coat and pants, with a large-collared floral-patterned shirt. He struck a disco pose, his free hand raised and index finger extended towards the ceiling, Travolta-style.

"Pete, I said not to touch anything."

"Pretty sure this thing couldn't kill anyone, Mykes."

Myka arched an eyebrow.

"It's not . . ." Pete craned his neck peering down at the leisure suit in front of him. "It's not that bad." A glance up at Myka. "It's . . . okay, point taken. You think this could be the artifact?" He tossed it quickly away from himself onto the tile floor as though it were venomous, eager to be away from it.

"Pete!" Myka looked disapprovingly towards her partner, and he appeared momentarily cowed. "Don't touch anything else. Now, help me get the rest of these people out of here." A handful of other shoppers still dotted the narrow aisles. Along the back wall, mostly obscured by full racks of clothes, was a check-out counter with a single cash register where the only visible employee of the thrift store was stationed. A few customers waited in line. She cocked her head. "Come on."