Telomeres

Special Agent Salem Thorn's boots pounded against the cracked pavement as he chased Richard Carver, the last streetlights fading, shadows swallowing the block whole.

Rick Carver was a mid-fifties desk jockey with a paunch earned through years of falsifying ledgers for an arms-smuggling dealer. He had spotted Salem and his rookie partner outside his brownstone during his nightly walk, panicked, and bolted down the block.

"Richard Carver—Federal agents!" Salem called as the pair ran after the man.

At 6'3", Salem moved with controlled power—built for distance, not show; strength measured in miles, not weight plates.

But the chase didn't last long.

For Salem, it was only a handful of long strides; but ahead of him, Carver's sprint faltered into a stumbling shuffle before he pitched sideways, collapsing into a heap of overflowing trash at the mouth of an alley.

"Fuck—Brooks! He fell!" He called out, sprinting forward before dropping to one knee beside the crumpled figure, rolling the fat man over.

Salem pressed two fingers to Carver’s carotid. The pulse beneath them fluttered thin and uneven. No blood. No obvious trauma. Just gray skin, sweat-soaked clothes, and shallow breaths that barely seemed to reach his lungs.

He heard Agent Brooks' footsteps slow from a jog to a stop beside him.

"Shit..." she cursed.

Salem glanced up long enough to see her 5'3" frame drop to her knees opposite him without hesitation, checking Carver's pupils with a quick thumb sweep of her penlight before shifting to take over compressions when his rhythm began to falter.

"I've got him," she said, voice low but steady as she interlocked her hands over Carver's sternum, starting chest compressions with sharp, rhythmic pumps.

As his partner gave CPR, Salem called an ambulance.

“This is Special Agent Salem Thorn. Suspect down at Fifth and—possible cardiac arrest. No shots fired, no visible trauma. Send EMS now.”

The dispatcher confirmed, and Salem disconnected the call.

Within minutes, the wail of an approaching siren cut through the city noise. An ambulance screeched to a halt at the block, EMTs spilling out with a stretcher and gear.

Salem and Evelyn backed off as the medics muscled in, attaching pads, intubating, barking out drug doses while they worked to drag Carver back from the edge. The agents watched in grim silence as the EMTs finally loaded him into the ambulance and slammed the doors.

Evelyn exhaled, a frustrated huff misting in the cool air as she turned to him as the vehicle pulled away, red and blue lights strobing across her face.

At 5'3", she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, but there was nothing small about the way she held herself.

"I hope he makes it. He's the only clean tie we've got to Russo."

Her voice stayed soft, but Salem had seen how quickly that sea-green stare could turn cold when someone pushed too far—calm water pulling dark beneath a storm.

Salem nodded, gaze dropping to his hand. That gangbanger he had been carrying as a template was gone now, wiped clean and overwritten by Carver's failing heart.

"... We should head to the hospital and keep eyes on him," Salem said, curling his fingers into a loose fist to hide the faint tremor.

"Good idea." She pulled out her phone as she turned toward the their SUVs. "I'll text the group, let him know what happened and that we're heading over to the hospital."

She started back toward their vehicle, thumb already moving over the screen. Salem didn't follow right away.

"You coming, Thorn?" she called over her shoulder as he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate with Evelyn's group text.

He looked up, forcing his face into a small smile, and nodded.

"Yeah."

He fell into step beside her, their hands almost brushing as they walked.

Salem then pulled a pair of nitrile gloves on just as Evelyn glanced over to see.

"You okay?" Evelyn asked after a beat.

"Yeah," he said, a little too quickly. "Just thinking about how we're gonna play this now that Carver's in the hospital."

It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

The template felt like a greasy static under his skin. He had Carver's face now, Carver's body—sixty minutes at a time. Long enough to meet Russo, long enough to walk straight into the operation wearing another man's dying heart.

Once they got back to their SUV, Evelyn took the wheel.

"Where's the nearest hospital.?." She asked.

Salem was already looking it up before Evelyn even pulled from the curb.

"That way." Salem pointed, setting the directions into the vehicle's GPS as she drove.

His phone vibrated in his hand. Hale’s message flashed across the screen: Get Carver’s condition before you leave. Voss is taking the evidence in.

“Hale wants us to babysit,” Salem said with a quiet huff.

Evelyn glanced at him but didn't say anything as Salem looked out the window.

The meeting was supposed to be in a few hours, shortly after midnight, and the one person they were going to leverage is in the hospital.

Salem's jaw tightened.

"What do we do now? We can't reschedule..." Evelyn asked as she drove.

"Russo walks. Our possible wire is in the hospital. Case evaporates." Salem paused, the words hanging heavy in the SUV's close air. "Unless someone wears the wire for him." He added.

Evelyn blinked hard, sea-green eyes narrowing as she processed the impossibility.

"Where do we find an overweight stand-in for a pasty, middle-aged accountant who chain-smokes Winstons and looks like he hasn't seen a gym since Clinton?"

Salem let out a low, rough chuckle-

—half amusement at her dead-on read, half the grim humor of what he was about to propose.

His hands tightened on his knees. He hated using other people's forms—didn't matter how useful it was.

"... I... have an idea," he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, his emerald eyes flicking to hers then away. "But you have to promise not to tell the others. Not Hale. Not Voss—Nobody."

Evelyn's foot eased off the gas as she glanced over, her petite frame suddenly rigid in the driver's seat, the city lights streaking across her tense jaw.

"... What are you saying, Thorn?"

Salem swallowed, feeling Carver's unused template like tiny needles under his skin.

“I can get us the meeting,” he said. “Carver’s clothes will be at the hospital. We take them into temporary custody, tell Voss we’re preserving them for the case, and I’ll explain the rest once we’re there.”

She glanced over at him, the wariness cut sharp.

"You're asking me to lie to Voss and the SSA?"

"I'm asking you to trust me," he pressed, voice steady but urgent, leaning slightly toward her. "I swear it's nothing like planting evidence or coercion. No crossed lines, no felonies. Just... unconventional field craft. You in or out—right now?"

The hospital loomed ahead through the windshield, its brick bulk swallowing the red pool of patrol car brake lights in the lot.

Evie's fingers flexed on the wheel, her knuckles paling under the dash glow—he could see it from his angle, that split-second war in her tight jaw, rookie code clashing against the guy who had hauled her ass through three straight cases without a flinch.

He wouldn't press if she said no. It would save him the trouble of borrowing Carver's form—and the echoses that would come with it.

They were going to catch hell for losing a key witness in the middle of an active operation. Brooks did not need her first major case turning into a dead end before she had the chance to prove what she could do.

She took a slow breath, pulling the SUV into an empty spot amid the patrol cars' red haze.

"Okay... I'll trust you."

"Thank you." Salem flashed a small, sincere smile despite the shit he had just volunteered for and for dragging his rookie into the gray with him as they hopped out of the vehicle.

They pushed through the ER doors, badges flashing at the nurse behind bulletproof glass, her eyes bleary under fluorescent buzz.

"We're here for Richard Carver and his things," Evelyn said, polite smile masking the edge.

The nurse sighed, already thumbing through a logbook.

"ICU, 304—east wing... Got the patient's things in the bin. Sign here."

The nurse shuffled off to fetch them, her sneakers squeaking on cracked linoleum as Evelyn signed the paper.

Salem glanced at Evelyn, catching her small, tight smile—nerves and trust tangled in that rookie glint.

"... Once we get there, you stay in the SUV, keep the engine warm. I'll take Carver's clothes and the wire. No gun."

"Wait—why?" she asked, voice pitching sharp with worry, her sea-green eyes flicking to his holster.

"Carver doesn't carry," Salem said flat, matter-of-fact, as the nurse thudded back with the dented plastic tub—sweat-stained joggers crumpled beside the shirt's jagged slice marks that frayed, a jogging jacket reeking faint of cheap tobacco and smelly tennis shoes.

Salem thanked the nurse and helped Evelyn bag Carver’s belongings in evidence plastic, leaving the seals open for the moment.