Alpha's Moon (Shifter Ops 1)

Gangsters: dead. Hostage: rescued. Mission accomplished. The only problem? The action was over in less than ninety seconds. My wolf wants more.

I lope off the deck and around the shack to the diesel truck. There’s blood spattered on the cab and two gang members dead—one in the front seat, one a few feet from the passenger door.

Lance stands nearby, disassembling the target’s semi-automatics. He’s in his camo underclothing from shifting. His dog tags glint on his bare chest—he didn't have time to remove them before shifting.

“Fuck, Deke,” he greets me. “I ruined a good pair of khakis for you.” He wrenches the metal gun pieces apart and drops them into an open bag at his feet.

I make myself useful, loping back up the hill to Lance’s stakeout spot to retrieve his pack. We keep an extra change of clothes for this contingency. Lance hadn’t expected to shift, but to finish the mission, my wolf’s defiance forced him to. My pack brothers always have my back no matter what.

“Thanks,” Lance grunts when I return. He dresses quickly.

“Let’s move out. Channing’s already gone with the package.” The package being the hostage. The one we, as mercenaries, were just paid a sizable amount of money to retrieve for someone high up in our government who didn’t want to risk an active military team on this job. “Rendezvous at HQ.”

A crackle in the brush behind me announces the arrival of my alpha.

“What the hell was that, soldier?” Rafe growls at me even though we’re no longer technically soldiers.

I duck my head in contrition.

“I think it went well, Sarge,” Lance says mildly before tugging on his shirt.

“No one fucking asked you.” Rafe points up the hill. “Move out, now.”

Lance shrugs on his pack and obeys.

Rafe points to me. “We’re going to talk about this,” he promises.

Four hours later, we’re back at HQ, an empty airplane hanger. Soon a tiny charter plane will show up to secret us back home. Lance helped me hose off the blood—my wolf was reluctant to remove all traces of its kills. I went for a run first, trying to rid myself of the pent-up energy, waiting until the last possible minute to shift.

Channing arrives at HQ last and doesn’t bother with the hose. He sticks his head in a bucket of water and then uses a rag to wipe off his face paint. “The package was delivered safely,” he announces. “All’s well that ends well.”

“Not so fucking fast.” Rafe marches back into the hanger from the outside, where he was taking a call from command. “We’ve got a problem.” My alpha rounds on me and points. “Your wolf is out of control, Deke.” He’s not wrong. I disobeyed a direct order.

“Yes, Sergeant.” My voice is gravely, guttural, as if my throat is unused to human words. We still call Rafe Sarge even though we’re no longer in the Army.

“Did you have orders to kill, Deke?”

A sick feeling roils in my belly. This is why Rafe decided we needed to get out of the service last year. Every hunt, I was becoming more feral. We all were. Rafe said we had to leave before we all lost our humanity and needed to be put down.

“In Deke’s defense, he only killed the Tangos,” Channing offers.

Rafe bares his teeth at Channing, who ducks his head and puts up his hands in surrender.

“We didn’t have kill orders,” Rafe growls.

“Colonel Johnson wouldn’t contract us if he didn’t expect a body count,” Lance counters.

“That’s only because Deke’s out of control,” Rafe shouts.

The weight on my chest increases.

Fuck.

Rafe paces, his boots striking the concrete floor in a staccato beat. Rafe can glide silently if he wants to. He’s making noise now to make a point. I brace myself for it.

It comes all too soon. Rafe stops in front of me and blows on the dog whistle. I stand at attention, fighting not to cringe at the high pitched sound. Channing and Lance snap their hands over their ears.

“What does that mean, soldier?” Rafe barks at me.

“All systems go, sir!” I shout back.

Rafe blows the dog whistle again, two short blasts. “And that?”

“Abort mission, sir!”

Rafe gets right in my face, yellow eyes fixed on mine. I stare off in the distance, fighting my wolf’s restless urge to break position and attack.

This is a test. If I break position and challenge my alpha, it’s a sign I’m way too far gone. Something my pack has been worried about for a couple years now.

I have to pass this test.

I force myself to think of puppies. Innocent toddlers. Human females—that’s a new thought, but for some reason it comes to mind. Like I might reward myself for passing this test by seeking out pleasure.

As if.

My team won’t let me near humans. Not after that bar fight last year. My wolf is way too aggressive and unpredictable. Too bloodthirsty.