would run the resulting investigations and prosecutions. As long as it involved a
marine, they were there to uncover, or in my personal experience, cover up, the
truth. Whichever worked best. Considering the file in my lap, it would follow that Kayden’s team functioned in the same fashion. That thought made me
pause. “So PSY-IV is, what? A joint task force for the MCIA?”
Kayden’s brief humor faded. “First, none of the teams officially exist.
Second, we investigate paranormal crimes.”
It took my brain a few seconds to process his matter of fact answer. “Wait.
Are you telling me you’re a covert paranormal cop? For the military?”
His jaw tightened at my question.
Okay, even I could hear the disbelief in my voice. But seriously?
Six months ago, my initial account of what happened to my team would have
had my superiors bouncing my ass into a psych ward so fast no one could’ve stopped them. Hence the amnesia alibi. Now Kayden was sitting here telling me
he worked for them?
The military never admitted to things they couldn’t prove. I was proof of that. Granted, you couldn’t escape the rumors of crackpot conspiracy theorists on
how the military housed deeply buried specialized divisions running from
unchecked, black ops groups to genetically mutated soldiers. Yet, everyone knew
it was just bullshit. Yes, the military ran numerous, undisclosed operations and highly secretive divisions, but not the woo-woo type that would give X-Files a run for its money.
“You really find it that hard to believe?” he asked. “I told you earlier, you aren’t the only psychic out there. Extraordinary abilities tend to result in extraordinary crimes.”
While I considered my ability more a curse than extraordinary, I could admit
to wondering if there were others out there like me. It was just I never thought to
find anyone willing to admit it. Still, I had to ask, “You belong to a unit of psychics?”
Not taking his gaze off the road, he nodded.
Stunned, I let his latest bombshell tumble in my mind. When it settled, I muttered, “Wow, that’s not encouraging.”
Puzzled, Kayden frowned. “What?”
“If an entire police force is needed to keep all us psychics in line, what does
that say about our mental states?”
He stroked his goatee, to hide a smile or out of habit, I couldn’t tell. “Some
abilities lend themselves to serious repercussions. Say a pyrokinetic gets into a heated argument with a friend over a bad hand of cards and sets the room on fire.
Everyone gets out alive, but the building is torched. Investigators get involved,
claim it’s arson and attempted murder. The fire-starter gets sentenced to twenty-
five years for basically losing his temper, because for all intents and purposes there’s no way the fire wasn’t intentional. Is that fair?”
“No.” Reluctantly intrigued, I asked, “Did that happen?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We were able to overturn the sentence because of lack of
evidence on how the blaze started, but he still spent three years behind bars.”
“For losing his temper.” I couldn’t imagine living under the constant worry
of harming those around you simply because you got mad. “That sucks.”
He slid me a look. “Justice may be blind as a bat, but it isn’t always fair, especially when it can’t understand what’s really happening.” He turned his attention back to the road. “What do you know about CIA’s psychic experiments
from the fifties and sixties?”
“Back after World War II the CIA got their panties in a bunch when they thought Russia had developed a psychic warfare program. Not wanting to get left in the dust, they started their own programs. Most of which, if I remember
correctly, were defunct by the seventies.”
