Flames licked the walls like an orgy from hell, leaving black tongue-prints in their wake. The very floor beneath my feet shook as ceiling beams snapped overhead. Dust and debris clouded the air and burned my eyes, but I forced myself to keep them open. I had to find her.

“Becky!” I screamed. My voice was hoarse from the smoke and too gritty to be heard over the blistering sounds of destruction. “BECKY!”

I no longer recognized the room I stood in. Where there once hung photos of smiling sisters on a carousel, eating ice cream, and holding up diplomas now there were great char marks and deep cracks that burst in all directions like webs. The couch where I’d watched sitcoms on weeknights with my father had been reduced to kindling. My mother’s knitting basket was tipped over, and thin burn lines where sparks had caught loose yarn ends patterned the carpet like trails of gunpowder. The home I’d grown up in was crumbling around me.

“Becky, answer me!” I shrieked. My feet started moving on their own accord, sprinting from the living room to the narrow hallway. Clumps of hair clung to my sweaty forehead as I swiveled my head from side to side as I passed each bedroom. When I reached the last, my heart leaped into my throat, and I had to grab the doorframe to stop myself from collapsing right there.

The cherry-red bedroom, Becky’s color of choice when she’d been in the midst of her teenage rebellion, was almost entirely engulfed in fire. Smoke poured thick and opaque out of the open window and over my head. Lying on the bed, body bent in sleep, was Becky. The flames kissed her cheeks, which, along with the rest of her, had been reduced to flaky cinders. She was less than a corpse. She was ash.

With swimming eyes, I took one last look at my little sister. Then, I dropped to my knees and let the flames take me too.

“Is it locked?”

The chipper, slightly timid voice jerked me from my unpleasant musings. I looked up to see Madeleine, my assistant, standing beside me. She held a Styrofoam cup in her hand, from which dreamy steam billowed in tempting wisps. Following my gaze to the cup, she extended it to me.

“Sorry,” she said, her mouth tightening anxiously with the apology. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were thinking about. It’s just…well, you’ve been standing there for a couple of minutes.”

I glanced down and realized I was in front of my office door. My hand was poised on the handle like I’d been about to open it.

“That’s okay,” I reassured her. She immediately looked relieved, and I offered her a small smile. “I was in my own little world. I need to wake up, I guess.”

“This will help.” She held out the cup to me a little more with an insistent expression on her face. I took it gratefully and finally turned the door handle.

My office was exactly as I’d left it the evening before; cluttered with papers and reeking of cheap, watery coffee. As I entered, my pumps made soft scuffing sounds on the navy nylon carpet, and Madeleine followed with scuffing of her own. I discovered there was nowhere to put my cup once I rounded my desk, so I balanced it precariously atop an off-kilter stack of files and bent down to log into my computer.

“General Morgan is here to see you,” she announced without preamble.

I swiveled my head to gape at her. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered unhappily. “I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just said it was important.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I just got in,” I snapped.

Madeleine shrank back, and I immediately regretted my reaction. It wasn’t her fault that the General wanted to see me, and it definitely wasn’t her fault that I really didn’t want to see him.

“Is he in uniform, at least?” I asked, my tone softer.

“Yes,” she murmured nervously.

“Well, there’s that,” I muttered to myself.

She opted not to reply. The fear on her face was almost laughable to me, not because she looked comical but because Madeleine and I were only a few short years apart in age. It was strange enough to be just four years older than my assistant, but for her to be so intimidated by my authority felt nothing short of outrageous.

“Send him in,” I said with a resigned sigh. She nodded and turned, but, before she could exit, I called to her, “Thank you, Madeleine.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, her face relaxing slightly as she smiled at me over her shoulder.

Once the door closed behind her, I sank into my wheeled desk chair and covered my face with my hands. Of all days for General Morgan to make an appearance this week, today was probably the worst. I was way behind on paperwork, my office looked like a paper bomb had gone off, and, as the cherry on the sundae, I’d had the dream again last night.

I’d felt the flames on my skin, smelled the acrid stench of burn around me. The panic had quickened my heart and knotted my stomach, and then the grief of seeing Becky’s charred corpse had rendered me broken. Sweat had drenched every inch of my skin and soaked the sheets I slept in. Once again, I’d lived the nightmare.

Images from the dream flashed before my closed eyes, and I quickly snapped them open just in time to see a very tall, very fit man through my fingers as he stepped into my office.

General Rodney P. Morgan was, by all accounts, a local celebrity. When the astronauts had returned from their mission and revealed their encounters with alien life, he’d been among the first to assemble defense squads in the New York area. He’d worked closely with all branches of the military, as well as with NASA, to choose soldiers who would be best suited to fight against extraterrestrials—whether it be for their brute strength, tactical skills, knowledge of advanced technology, or even relative criminal history. What had resulted was a host of platoons so diverse and deadly that they’d collectively earned a fitting nickname: “Alien Assassins,” or “Alias” for short.

“Good morning, Roxanne,” Morgan said in a silken purr as he clicked the door closed behind him.

I tried not to grimace at his tone while I got to my feet and rounded my desk with my hand extended to greet him. “General.”

He took my hand and shook it, his harsh gray eyes skimming slowly down the length of my body. I instantly regretted choosing to wear the form-fitting pencil skirt and simple yet flattering white blouse. “I see you’re taking your new position seriously,” he commented. I could practically hear the saliva gathering in his mouth.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, a bite to my words. Then, pointedly, I added, “There’s quite a bit to do.”

Our hands were no longer shaking, but he still gripped mine as though he was unwilling to let it go. I wrenched my fingers free and turned to go back to my chair. As I slipped into it, I motioned to one of the two seats opposite my desk for him to do the same. Morgan ran a hand through his mop of dirty blonde hair and sat. His eyes still had a greedy, hungry look about them.

“You know, Roxanne, I never did properly congratulate you on becoming the new Ambassador of Alien Relations. How about you and I—”

“Why have you come to see me, General?” I interrupted my temper beginning to flare. While many considered Morgan to be an attractive catch with his impressive rank and smoldering gaze, his repeated sexual advances toward me made me think of him as nothing less than a slimeball, and my tolerance for him ran very thin. “And, since you’ve mentioned it, I’d prefer you to address me as Ms. Rigby, since I am the new Ambassador of Alien Relations and all.”

Morgan’s gaze hardened for the briefest of seconds, and then the left corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Very well, Ms. Rigby,” he conceded with aggravating sweetness. Leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, he suddenly became intense. “I’m here because it’s time to put you to the test. We’re going to see what our new Ambassador is made of.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He leaned forward a little more until his rear was nearly falling off the seat, and his eyes glittered with excitement. “We’ve got the leader.”