On Instinct

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright --> 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 Bonus On Impulse: Chapter 1 ON INSTINCT: A Reliance Sinclair Short Story Copyright © 2023 by Until It Looks Right All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [email protected]. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Cover designed by MiblArt Edited by Kat Betts of Element Editing Services First edition 2023 Chapter 1 My thick-soled boots squeaked against the floor as I stopped in front of the weapons’ locker and secured my blaster. Rainwater dripped off the sleeves of my leather jacket onto the cream-colored tiles of the precinct floor. It’d been drizzling off and on all day in Clava, and I’d timed my walk in to work poorly. Kinnikinnic leaned back from his desk. He was in his late fifties, with a face the color and texture of a head of cauliflower and a nose that looked like it’d been broken a time or six. “Hey Sinclair, why didn't the light rain like going to the target range?” he asked. Despite knowing better, I played along. “I don’t know, Kinnikinnic. Why?” “It always mist!” He chuckled and waggled his substantial eyebrows. “Get it? Mist?” A murmur of groans rose up from the surrounding cubicles, and Jarrett threw a crumpled-up ball of paper across the aisle, hitting Kinnikinnic square in the head. Not only was Jarrett Viorel our team’s digital forensic analyst, he was also my best friend. Kinnikinnic retrieved the paper missile from the floor and tossed it into the nearest reclamator to be recycled. “Nobody appreciates a good pun anymore.” “When you come up with a good one, I’ll let you know,” Jarrett said. I shoved my cross-body bag under my desk in the cubicle I shared with Jarrett. Then I shrugged out of my wet jacket and hung it over my chair. My uniform pants were damp, too, but I’d be changing out of them in a minute anyway. “Tonight’s the night, guys. I can feel it.” Kinnikinnic waved his hand dismissively. “You’ve been saying that for the past two weeks. That dealer of yours isn’t budging.” “Call it a gut feeling.” He snorted. “You’re a rookie. Your gut hasn’t developed feelings yet.” “My gut isn’t as developed as yours, I’ll give you that.” That earned me a round of laughs as Kinnikinnic touched a finger to the side of his nose and then pointed at me. I rummaged through the box of communal undercover clothes, searching for a shirt that smelled better than it looked. The first thing I pulled out was an orange Asteroids jersey two sizes too large for me, and I gagged as the stench threatened to upend my stomach. “Ugh, who wore this last? Kinnikinnic’s gym bag smells better.” Kinnikinnic scoffed. “Whatever. My bag smells like roses.” His partner, Nomikou, spun around to join the conversation. “Yeah, ’cause you never go to the gym.” “Don’t need to,” he said, sucking in his gut. “I’m a natural athlete.” She snorted. “Sure, you’re a regular Adonis.” Nomikou was pretty much Kinnikinnic’s exact opposite: petite, with delicate features and a mass of wavy auburn hair that fell to the middle of her back when she didn’t have it pulled up like she did today. She was neat and organized, whereas he had fast food wrappers crumpled on his desk and a hot sauce stain on his jacket from last summer. Miraculously, they’d been partners for fifteen years. “I think Jones wore that last night,” said Jarrett, spinning around from his four-screen console. A mop of curly, dark blond hair gave him an air of nonchalance, but he was one of the most dedicated analysts in the Department. “He chased a guy all the way from High Street to Aberdeen Park.” That was at least one kilometer, and it had been hot and humid yesterday. I dropped the foul jersey over the side of the box where I wouldn’t have to touch it again and selected a powder-blue tank top with a cartoon spaceship printed on the front. It had pit stains and one strap was stretched longer than the other, but it didn’t trigger my gag reflex. Besides, I’d worn it before, and it always brought me good luck. I could use a little of that on tonight’s assignment. My search for serviceable shorts halted when Lead Agent Isla Babineaux entered the bullpen. Jarrett spun back to his console, pretending to be busy. Over the low cubicle wall, I saw a veteran officer walk through the door, spot Babineaux, and reverse course. Coward. Even though Babineaux was average height for a woman, her commanding presence made everyone shut their mouths and take notice when she stepped into the room. Conversations lowered or stopped altogether. Eyes focused on their holoscreens. The agent’s black hair was pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense twist that mirrored her demeanor. Despite the summer heat, she wore her full field uniform, complete with a long-sleeved shirt, green jacket, tactical pants, and a DECA-issued blaster strapped to her hip. She was assertive, direct, and suffered no fools. Her record was beyond reproach. She was everything I wanted to be. “Sinclair, don’t bother changing,” she ordered. “The lieutenant’s not happy with our lack of progress. He pulled the plug and is redirecting resources to another task force.” My stomach dropped. “Where does that leave us?” “Shit out of luck as far as the Seven Serpents go, but I hear vice is looking for a new bait girl.” My face blanched. I couldn’t go