UNHAPPY? PUSH THE BUTTON.
On the underside of the young woman’s wrist the bit of red plastic and shiny stainless steel violated the sanctity of her flesh with obscene efficiency. Round, two inches in diameter and brilliant red, the button sank into her skin as if it had always belonged there. The tech was that good, the surgery that much better. The surface of the button had a single word printed in white. RESET.
“Give her a push,” Sergeant Marks, crouched beside the corpse, held the dead girl’s wrist toward his partner. “See if it works.”
Lieutenant Franki Colletti, five years on the job and a rising star in DEA, grimaced. She hadn’t yet developed the veteran’s veneer of crude favored by her partner. “Jesus, Marks. A little respect? A young girl’s dead.” The young agent settled back on her heels. “Whoever’s doing this is still out there. And we’re four bodies down with no clues…”