Savage (Wolf Ranch 4)

Boyd and Colton had no idea. Neither did my brother, Rand, my parents or anyone else. To them, I worked the ranch. Handled the horses. Was our pack’s chosen delegate to the council. A simple cowboy living a simple rural life.

As fucking if.

I walked through the dirt parking lot until I caught the faint scent again around an old Honda Civic. Great, now I had his car. I went back to my truck, parked facing the lot and diner but near the street and climbed in to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a guy moved toward the door, setting a toothpick between his teeth. Just because I’d scented him didn’t mean I didn’t have his photo. I did my job and did it well. Skipping something like being able to identify the rogue shifter by more than scent was plain stupid. My mind drifted back to that night months ago when I’d fucked the hot little number, Becky, in the storage room. I thought of that often, especially with my dick in hand. I hadn’t been able to scent her then, and that had been a fucking shame. I could only imagine what it would have been like if I’d had that sense at the time.

As the guy stopped in the middle of the parking lot to adjust his pants, I put a silencer on the pistol. The place was remote enough that if I could haul him around back, I could be done with this damn assignment.

I jogged toward the guy, his pasty face smudged with bacon grease.

“Jarod Jameson?” I asked, even as I got a whiff of him. I prodded him in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun through my coat pocket.

He started to snarl but then must’ve caught my shifter scent because he stiffened, and the metallic smell of fear issued from his body.

Be afraid, fucker.

I lifted my chin. “Walk around back.”

His movements were jerky as he obeyed, stepping around behind the diner. I prodded him to keep moving until we were all the way behind the dumpster. Glancing around, I confirmed we were alone.

“Jarod Jameson, you have violated shifter law, and the shifter council has deemed your life forfeited,” I recited.

Even though I held a gun to his back, he whirled and slashed me with a dagger, far faster than should have been possible, even for a shifter.

Holy fuck. I lurched back, but not before the tip skimmed across my ribs, cutting through my jacket, shirt and flesh. It shouldn’t have hurt all that much because it was a shallow graze across my ribs, but the gash immediately began to sizzle and pop, like the tip had been poisoned. Probably with silver.

Shit. It wasn’t going to kill me, but it was going to hurt like fuck. And slow me down. My body had to work hard to fight the poison, and that meant less healing properties and less focus.

I ignored the searing pain, trying to keep my vision clear.

This asshole had to die. And now. I swept my foot out and took him by surprise. Most shifters didn’t know martial arts—why would we need it when we can sprout fangs and rip someone’s throat out?

Jarod fell forward onto his hands, and I aimed carefully. One shot behind the left ear, and he dropped the rest of the way to the ground, dead.

I tucked the gun back in my pocket and walked around the far side of the diner—opposite of the way we’d arrived—to my truck.

It was for the safety of all shifters, I reminded myself, as I had every time I took a life. There were no shifter prisons. There was no other form of justice besides the council ruling and the enforcers meting out the appropriate punishment. Human justice was for just that: humans. If Jameson had been captured by the FBI, it wouldn’t have gone well. A shifter in prison? It wouldn’t hold him. He was a danger to the peacekeepers as much as the criminals. On top of that, it would result in our species being revealed.

I acted for all shifters only because someone had to. There were eight enforcers in all of North America. When there was a vacancy, it was filled. When I was nineteen, Rob had approached me, took me to the Shifter Council meeting and offered me the job.

Job. It was more of a role. Council enforcer. There were rules with the task. Secrecy. At the time, I’d been honored. My best friend had been alpha for three years and had authority. His brother had joined the Green Berets to fight for human lives. I’d been young and restless. Eager to prove my worth. I hadn’t even imagined the burden ending someone’s life would have. The secrecy of it. I did it because it had to be done. Jarod Jameson wouldn’t have stopped. And I’d rather it be me than some shifter with a taste for blood. Or someone like my younger brother, who couldn’t live with a tainted soul like mine.