TWISTED ? LOUIS PARTRIDGE

? 1 | THE ASH FAMILY

Taking off my shoe, I slipped behind the train-car, popping open the sole. One of the perks of being a high-ranking agent were the gadgets. I had an emergency signaler hidden in my Oxfords, which was helpful, considering my belongings were taken from me when I got ratted out.

Dialing in the code (which I will not be telling you, obviously) I waited for the line to connect.

"Edward speaking," a thin voice finally said from the speaker, "would you like to speak to the Queen, the Duke, or the Duchess?"

That's a code phrase in case the phone ended up in the wrong hands.

"None," I said bluntly, "I wish to speak with the King."

Another code phrase.

"Putting you through, Agent Partridge."

Now, this is where I legally have to stop talking, because what I'm about to tell Headquarters is completely confidential. Top secret. I can, however, give you a vague summary.

From here, I inform my superiors of the cartel's whereabouts, silently take down the rest of the organization while I wait for backup to arrive, and then watch smugly when they all get put in the back of a police van. Then I grab a bite to eat, bask in momentary glory, and then return to HQ—where I'd be met with thunderous applause and rumors of a promotion.

That's another thing I don't need with this job: modesty.

Completing missions requires a lot more brain and physical work than any average person could have, and I won't waste my time pretending that I didn't put my life on the line to benefit the rest of the world (or London, to be specific, because that's where I'm stationed).

"Franklyn-Miller," I said gleefully, striding into my office with a grin, "what are the stats?"

Following my plan, I bought a sausage roll from Greggs' an hour before, and was now returning to my station to fill out paperwork. William—Will for short, although I prefer to address him by his last name when I feel like it—was already filling it out by the time I walked into my corner space.

Perks of rank, I tell you, a corner office and a personal assistant.

"Impressive," the man said, casting a proud glance from above his desk at the corner of the room, "hardly any property damage this time."

I took off my blazer, tossing it onto the coat hook without a second glance. "That's because most of the cartel worked in abandoned warehouses."

"At least that gives me less paperwork to do," the man shrugged.

"And less damage-control," I smirked from my chair, kicking my feet up onto the table, "what do the higher-ups have to say?"

William was an astute gentleman, who trained at the academy with me for several years, had a clean record, and accompanied me on missions every now and then, but I could never get used to the steely-cold look in his blue eyes. It was like getting pierced by ice every time he glared in my direction.

"They were impressed," he told me, slowly getting up from his desk, "as usual."

I sensed something else. "And?"

"It seems they think you're ready for another case."

There was a pause in the air, and I searched the man's face for any sense of jest. No twitch of the eye, no curl of the lips—he was being bloody serious.

"What? Already?" I exclaimed, my mouth hanging open, "I've only just returned from the last one."

William shrugged. "Don't complain, Partridge, they don't call you the 'Miracle-Rookie' for nothing."