The Next Chronicle (Book 1): Next Read Free

the ass, but he generally didn't start trouble. Singh grabbed her gear bag and gestured for him to lead the way. Behind the clear lenses of his thick glasses, Phillips narrowed his eyes before heading for the exit.
    It was a mannerism every person in the unit was used to. Phillips was usually the go-between when the brass needed face time with the unit members, which meant that any displays of their powers were met with the small but noticeable reaction. She should have left the bags behind to avoid irritating the man, but even after three years he hadn't forgiven her for breaking his arm. And it had been his fault !
    As Kit Singh followed the irritating agent, she wondered for the hundredth time what that look signified. If most people had seen her effortlessly throw a bag the size of a steamer trunk over her shoulder, three hundred pounds of gear no more troubling than a backpack, she would say they were scared. That a simple change in expression meant disapproval.
    With Phillips, she wasn't so sure. He had been the one to break routine during mixed training in her early days with the unit. A normal human, trying to prove something in a bout with one of them . A broken arm taught him to use caution with her, but it also bred animosity. He'd never displayed a hint of dislike for the other superhuman agents.
    She could almost swear that it was envy. As if, by every show of power, the men and women of the unit were mocking the fact that they had it and he did not.
    Kit was blessed in that she didn't have to suffer the way so many other Next did. She wasn't out in the open, part of society, name in a database and searchable on the Internet. The general population of Next were forced to tell the world what they were or face penalties, treated like criminals for a twist of genetics.
    If Phillips really was jealous, it was the simple and uninformed envy of a child. The unit had been her saving grace. Out there in the mix, vulnerable and exposed? Who in their right mind would want that?
     
    Fourteen hours, one hastily packed bag, two frustrating changeovers, and several desperate (and failed) attempts at hotel reservations later, Kitra Singh stepped off a plane and into the large walkways of Louisville International Airport. Despite the fact that only a handful of people knew she was coming, Kit couldn't shake the feeling that she was in a movie and some hapless limo driver would be waiting with a hand-scrawled sign bearing her name. After all, the previous day had been so unreal it might as well have been the plot to a movie character's life, but not hers.
    With a sigh she made her way down the vast halls, flashing her identification at three checkpoints before being stopped at the fourth. There, they studied her badge carefully for thirty seconds before calling in a supervisor. The shining gold watermark spiraling across her cards was clearly above their pay grade.
    A minute later she was being escorted through employee-only doors, hustled down private hallways, and bundled into a long, black car with official plates. Her bags were stowed with the terrified efficiency of men handling a bomb, eager to get the job over and hit the bars to celebrate another day of survival.
    As the driver put the car into gear without being given a destination, Kit mused that they really ought to come up with another name for it. Being superhuman wasn't very super. Mainly because the last day made her realize how few people would actually treat her like a human.
    A quiet, tense twenty minute drive left her standing with bags in hand in front of a set of buildings. From the outside they looked much like any collection of matching offices. There was a large garage off to the left of the main complex that looked like a fire station. The place was done all in brick, no bells or whistles. Plain. Forgettable.
    Covert installations usually were. Though, to be fair, this one wasn't so much covert as low-key. No one wanted to draw any more attention to the