Magic Mischief (Agents of Chaos #1)

Chapter One

Magic Mischief

AJA FOXX

~ Mishka ~

I shifted uncomfortably against the cold leather seats, the metal handcuffs biting into my wrists. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the car windows, illuminated by sporadic streetlights like nature's own surveillance cameras.

My kidnappers' voices grew louder in the front seats, their argument over payment terms more heated than the car's broken heater.

Amateurs.

If there was one thing more annoying than being kidnapped, it was being kidnapped by idiots who couldn't even agree on their payday.

"I'm telling you, we get fifty grand for him, not twenty-five," snapped the driver, a weasel-faced man with nicotine-stained fingers that drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. "O'Rourke was clear. Fifty for undamaged goods."

His partner, a bulkier specimen whose neck appeared to have given up the fight against his shoulders years ago, snorted. "Yeah? Then why's the text say twenty-five? You telling me you can't read now?"

I rolled my eyes. Nothing says "professional abduction" like a mid-transport payment dispute.

"Maybe it's a down payment," Weasel-face suggested, his voice climbing an octave. "Twenty-five now, twenty-five on delivery."

"That ain't how O'Rourke operates and you know it," Neck-optional countered. "Full payment, one transaction. Clean and simple."

I cleared my throat. "Have you considered that perhaps you're being stiffed because you're terrible at your jobs?"

Both men whipped around to stare at me, the sudden silence thick enough to spread on toast.

"Nobody asked you," Neck-optional growled.

"Just trying to be helpful." I smiled sweetly. "Management consultancy. It's what I do."

Weasel-face turned back to the road with a muttered curse. "Just shut up back there. You're only worth money if you're breathing, but nobody said anything about conscious."

The car fell silent again as I studied my surroundings. We were in the industrial district, judging by the abandoned warehouses looming like forgotten monuments. Few pedestrians braved the snow-dusted streets at this hour, and fewer still would be inclined to help a young man in handcuffs.

The handcuffs.

I narrowed my eyes at them, examining the small digital lock nestled in the metal.

The O'Rourke Syndicate had been hunting me for months, ever since they'd discovered my particular talent.

They had no idea I could do more than just "make things work.

" I could also make things stop working altogether.

I focused on the lock's tiny electrical circuit, feeling the familiar tingle in my fingertips as I connected with it. The sensation was like tuning a radio—finding that perfect frequency where everything aligned. Once I had it, I sent a surge through the circuit, shorting the mechanism.

Nothing says "organized crime" like programmable handcuffs with a three-dollar security system.

The lock quietly clicked open. I kept my hands positioned as if still bound, waiting for the right moment. Patience wasn't my strongest virtue, but it beat dying.

"Just call him," Neck-optional was saying, his meaty hand gesturing toward Weasel-face's phone. "Clear this shit up now."

Weasel-face reached for his phone, then hesitated. "What if he gets pissed we're questioning the payment?"

"What if he gets pissed we show up expecting fifty grand and he's only authorized twenty-five?"

Their argument resumed with renewed vigor, complete with colorful language that would make a sailor blush. I seized my chance as they approached a red light, the car slowing to a stop.

In one fluid motion, I slipped my hands from the cuffs, reached for the door handle, and pushed my way out into the frigid night air. The door slammed behind me as I dropped to a crouch, pressing my palm against the rear tire.

Metal, rubber, electrical systems—they all spoke to me in their own way. I sent a quick pulse through the tire, finding the valve and overheating it until the rubber began to melt around it. One down, one to go. I scrambled around the back of the car as shouts erupted from within.

"He's out! He's fucking out!"

The front door flung open just as I finished with the second rear tire. I didn't wait around to admire my handiwork, darting instead into the nearest alley. Behind me, the distinctive hiss of air escaping tires provided a satisfying soundtrack to my escape.

"Get back here!" Weasel-face shouted, his feet slapping against the wet pavement as he gave chase.

I zigzagged between dumpsters and fire escapes, my breath clouding in the cold air. The snow had made the ground slippery, but it also muffled my footsteps. My pursuers weren't so lucky—their heavy boots crunched loudly with each stride.

Two blocks down, I ducked behind a parked delivery truck, pressing myself against its cold metal side. I reached out with my ability, feeling for the truck's alarm system.

With a gentle nudge, I triggered it, sending a shrill wailing into the night. Then I slipped around the corner into another alleyway as my kidnappers skidded to a confused halt.

Nothing distracts angry men quite like louder, angrier noises.

I kept moving, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the O'Rourke's goons. The snow was falling harder now, melting against my flushed skin as I ran. My thin jacket offered little protection against the elements, and my fingers were growing numb. I needed shelter, and soon.

Three more blocks and I'd lost all sound of pursuit, but I couldn't risk stopping. Patty O'Rourke wouldn't give up easily. Not when he knew what I could do. Not when he knew how valuable I was to his "collection" of gifted individuals.

I emerged onto a wider street lined with higher-end businesses—restaurants, boutiques, all closed for the night except for one.

A restaurant with warm light spilling from its windows and the faint sounds of conversation and clinking glasses.

The sign above the door read "The Golden Bear’s" in elegant, understated lettering.

I didn't know then that I was trading one predator's territory for another's. All I knew was that I was cold, hunted, and running out of options. So I did what any reasonable man with electronic manipulation abilities, no money, and murderous kidnappers on his trail would do.

I decided to crash someone else's party.

I pressed myself against the brick wall, catching my breath as I scanned the restaurant's back entrance. A delivery door stood propped open just enough to let a sliver of light escape – someone's small act of rebellion against company policy that was about to become my salvation.

The steady hum of industrial refrigerators mixed with distant conversation and the clatter of expensive silverware.

Perfect cover noise.

I slipped through the gap, my body instantly warming in the heated air as I left the snow and cold behind.

My first instinct was to find a hiding spot, but I needed to see what I was working with. I edged along the corridor, keeping my footsteps light against the polished floor. The hallway opened into a brief glimpse of the dining room, and I paused to take it in.

Wow. Fancy doesn't begin to cover it.

The restaurant was a study in refined elegance. Black-and-cream color scheme executed with the precision of a military operation. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a warm glow over tables draped in pristine white linens.

The patrons were equally polished – men in tailored suits, women adorned with jewelry that probably cost more than my annual rent. Back when I had an apartment and not a series of hotel rooms paid for in cash.

Behind me, voices approached along the delivery corridor.

I ducked away from my observation point and found myself in the bustling kitchen.

Chefs in white coats moved with practiced efficiency, calling out orders in a mixture of English and Russian.

Wait staff glided in and out, collecting artfully plated dishes that looked more like architecture than food.

A row of hooks near the swinging doors caught my eye – staff aprons, neatly hung and waiting. I grabbed one, slipping it over my head and tying it at my waist.

Nothing fixes "disheveled fugitive" quite like stolen work-wear because wearing someone else's uniform was the height of covert ops. They teach that day one at spy school, right after "how to look inconspicuous while sweating profusely."

A server rushed past, barely glancing my way as she collected a tray of what looked like caviar on tiny toast points. I watched her posture, the way she balanced the tray, how she pushed through the swinging door with her shoulder.

When another tray of hors d'oeuvres appeared on the pass, I stepped forward with manufactured confidence and claimed it. I straightened my back, fixed a pleasant but distant expression on my face, and pushed through the doors into the dining room.

The full scale of the restaurant's opulence hit me at once. The black and cream theme continued throughout, accented with gold fixtures and deep, rich wood. The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and money – lots of it.

I moved between tables, offering my tray of tiny, unidentifiable food items with a rehearsed murmur. "Hors d'oeuvre, sir? Madam?" Most patrons took one without really looking at me, their gazes sliding past as if I were just another fixture in the room.

My current best disguise: the invisible service worker.

I noticed the subtle hierarchies at play as I circulated. Certain tables commanded more attention from the staff. One corner section seemed particularly exclusive – higher-backed chairs, more space between tables, security personnel attempting to blend into the decor but failing miserably.

Their earpieces and vigilant eyes gave them away.

"The salmon mousse is divine," a woman commented as she plucked an item from my tray. Her diamond earrings caught the light as she turned back to her companion.