Alpha's Revenge (Shifter Ops 3)

“Perhaps that's what I'll give you.” Dieter says with a crocodile-like grin. “If you leave me alone then I'll return the favor.”

“I don't respond well to threats,” I say, my voice thick with fury.

“Enough. I've tolerated you for some time. How would you like waking up in the middle of the night to greet an uninvited guest?” He leans forward. “How secure is your little lodge near Wolf Mountain?”

I turn my head and speak into my comm, “Get eyes on Lance, now.”

“Roger that.” Channing says. “Mission aborted. Pickup in thirty.”

In the distance, I hear the sound of a helicopter. My ride’s almost here.

I spread my lips wide and show my teeth in my own wolfy grin. From the look on Dieter’s face, my smile is as disturbing as his. “Well, this has been fun, but I got to go.” I fake towards the window to my right.

Shots ring out, and I dip left, ripping the safe from the wall. Above my head, glass shatters. I raise the safe above my head, shielding myself from the rain of glass shards. Dieter howls.

“Somebody order takeout?” Channing hollers from above and cackles like a psycho. The helicopter hovers over the broken glass dome. I leap and catch the ladder waiting for me, cradling the safe to my chest. Channing’s just above me. We both climb up to the bird. Channing makes great time, but I’m struggling with the unwieldy weight of the safe.

More gunshots ring out, piercing the night. Below, Dieter stands in the glass-strewn wreck of his office. His sunglasses have fallen off, and his face is a mask of fury as he fires the gun at me.

Bullets slam into me, almost wrenching my hold from the webbing ladder. Fire explodes in my body, followed by a supernova of pain. I drop the safe.

“Fuck, no!” I shout.

“Hang on, Sarge,” Lance’s voice hammers into my ear.

“He’s been hit! Fly, fly, fly,” Channing screams at Teddy, our pilot. The helicopter swoops away. Cold air rushes around me as we fly across the lake. I grit my teeth and hang on.

“I got you,” Channing shouts to me and starts to pull the ladder in. My vision swims, and my head floats above the throbbing agony of my body. The seconds turn into years. Finally, Channing grabs my arms. I bite back a roar and move my frozen limbs to help him drag me into the bird.

My body is weirdly numb. All I can do is collapse on the floor of the chopper, gasping.

“Fucker knew we were coming,” I report as Channing helps me lie flat and rips open my suit to reveal bloody bullet wounds in my chest. “He shot me.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Channing rumbles. He reaches for a bullet and hisses, snatching his hand away. “Silver.”

White fire streaks along my ribs. My lips are numb. The poison’s moving through my body.

“Fuck,” I grit my teeth.

“Fuck,” Channing agrees, snapping on gloves. Pain makes me dizzy as he starts to dig into my flesh. We've got to get the bullets out; otherwise, my shifter healing won't kick in, and the silver will poison me slowly but surely.

After a millennia of excruciating pain, Channing’s done. “Five bullets,” he reports. I hear them clink against each other as he drops them in an evidence bag.

“All’s well that ends well, Sarge,” Lance says through the comm. His stoic tone tells me he’s relieved. “Live to fight another day.”

“Damn right.” I let my body relax. My body temperature rises as my shifter healing takes over, but after a few minutes I can sit up.

Channing hands me a water bottle, and I thank him.

“Silver bullets,” he says and shakes his head. “You know what that means.”

“Yeah,” I gulp down half the bottle and splash the rest over my face and chest. “Gabriel Dieter knows our secret.” Somehow, someway, the arms dealer found out we’re shifters. The question is, how?

2

Adele

I stand on the sidewalk in Taos, hands tucked into my coat, and stare mournfully at the front of my shop. The glossy gold letters of the sign read “The Chocolatier” in beautiful curving script. I remember the day when the sign was hung—how proud I felt. How many hours I spent obsessing over my sweet little shop’s logo, making sure it was just right.

Now the front display window of The Chocolatier is dark. I never got to go back in after the police finished investigating it for clues to my business partner’s death. My landlord put a lock on the door, seizing all my equipment and inventory in the process. Turns out, Bing hadn’t been paying the rent. I literally wrote the checks to the landlord each month, but my business partner was tearing them up because he was draining the bank account.

The eviction papers taped to the front door make my stomach riot. I’ve read them over and over again, and I still can’t believe it. I walk over every morning, like I’m going to work, and every time I round the corner by the bank, the sight of my shop, closed and empty, punches me anew.