"Money? I want it," Locke said calmly. "Frost's life? If I can take it, I want that too."
He didn't bother disguising it.
The leader of New York's vampires wasn't just another target. If Frost went down, the extraordinary points released wouldn't be comparable to some random half-blood thug. The difference would be enormous.
Vampire leader. High-tier existence. That kind of kill was practically glowing in Locke's vision.
And as for keeping his word?
He smiled faintly.
He had already predicted Frost wouldn't truly come alone. Which meant agreeing to the condition cost him nothing. Strike first. Control the board. That was the real game.
Integrity?
Locke almost laughed.
He was the son of a middling South Carolina politician. He grew up around campaign speeches and private strategy dinners. Integrity was a virtue reserved for allies. Against enemies, it was leverage.
Old Underwood used to say that.
The man could toss out quotable lines like they were candy.
Locke shook his head slightly at the memory.
Brown studied him carefully. "Your plan sounds great," he said slowly. "But have you considered one problem?"
"Go on."
"Do you think your supervisor will sign off on this?"
Locke tilted his head. "Why wouldn't he?"
"I won't!"
Director Walter Herman's palm slammed against his desk.
The office trembled slightly under the force of it.
Locke blinked, almost innocently. "May I ask why?"
Walter stood, jaw tight. "Deacon Frost is the leader of vampires in New York City."
"That's correct."
"Then do you understand what happens if we assassinate him?"
If Frost were some unknown mid-level vampire, maybe this would be manageable. But now that the bureau knew exactly who he was, pretending ignorance wasn't an option.
Walter inhaled slowly, forcing control back into his voice. "You're aware of the bureau's long-term objective. Your proposal doesn't balance risk and reward."
The Sentinel Special Service wanted to expand—no, restore—its enforcement authority across the broader supernatural spectrum.
What they didn't want was New York turning into a battlefield.
If Frost were killed by Sentinel agents, every vampire in the city would riot. And when the dust settled, the bureau would be blamed for the escalation.
"The risks and benefits are not proportional," Walter repeated.
Locke listened, expression unreadable.
Then he touched his chin thoughtfully.
"The bigger the waves," he said casually, "the more expensive the fish."
Walter frowned. "What?"
"Chaos isn't always bad," Locke continued. "If things escalate, the argument for expanded authority becomes stronger. More justified."
He wasn't concerned about institutional expansion for its own sake. In his mind, this was simpler. Frost was worth an enormous payout in extraordinary points. Walking away would be a waste.
Walter sank back into his chair, studying him.
"More chaos might help the people upstairs," he said dryly. "But have you considered something?"
Locke met his gaze.
"If chaos erupts," Walter said, voice flat, "someone will take the blame."
That was the real issue.
Was killing Frost important? Not particularly.
Would a vampire riot matter politically? Not necessarily. In fact, certain senior officials would privately welcome it as justification for jurisdictional expansion.
But that only worked if someone could absorb the fallout.
If civilians died. If headlines screamed about reckless federal overreach. If New York burned.
Who would shoulder it?
Locke? Impossible. His last name was Underwood. Democratic Party Underwood. That kind of shield didn't crack easily.
Walter? He was fifty-five. No political backing. A few more quiet years and he could retire comfortably. He had zero interest in sacrificing his career to become the scapegoat of a manufactured riot.
He shook his bald head emphatically. "No. I will not approve this plan."
Locke watched him for a long moment.
Then his expression shifted subtly.
"Did you forget," he asked mildly, "that there's someone far more suitable to take the blame?"
Walter paused.
"What?"
Then realization dawned.
His eyes widened slightly. "You mean…"
"You don't actually think I proposed a joint investigation just to share information, do you?"
Locke spread his hands lightly.
They.
Of course he meant SHIELD.
Yes, partnering with Natasha and looping in Blade had practical benefits. But that wasn't the primary reason he agreed to formal cooperation.
A gentleman does not stand beneath a collapsing wall.
Before acting, you don't ask whether success is possible. You ask who pays if it fails.
That was federal politics distilled to its essence.
If the operation succeeded, credit remained with the Sentinel Special Service—and by extension, with Locke.
If it spiraled out of control? If vampires rioted? If public outrage ignited?
SHIELD's jurisdiction covered the entire supernatural ecosystem. A vampire uprising fell squarely into their scope. Why would the bureau that focused on mutants carry the blame?
Walter stared at him, slowly rubbing his chin.
"You're calculating enough," he muttered, "that I almost feel bad for Agent Natasha Romanoff."
Locke raised both hands immediately.
"I didn't. I don't. Don't slander me."
He spoke the denial three times in rapid succession.
Completely serious.
...
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