Neal left the mercenaries well-wrapped in duct tape, disarming them of an array of knives and small weapons first.
“We’re outnumbered,” Neal said as the shifters climbed the steps to the bar deck. “We’ve only got these two guns against five of them.” He automatically discounted Benedict Beehag as a combatant, but he was not foolish enough to think that Lewis was not still in prime fighting form, whether he had traded his fatigues for suits or not.
“And a dragon,” Bastian reminded him, flexing his shoulders but not shifting. “Two guns and a dragon. That counts for something.”
“Beehag had a tranquilizer that changed shifters back to human,” Neal cautioned. “We have to assume that Benedict has given that formula to Lewis.”
Bastian scowled, but nodded.
“Hey Tex,” Travis called into the bar. “Want to join a reckless, doomed rescue mission?”
“What are we rescuing?” Tex asked with a lazy drawl, not putting down the towel he was drying glasses with.
“His mate,” Travis answered, jerking a thumb at Neal.
“Scarlet,” Bastian added.
“Shifting Sands,” Neal finished gravely.
“You had me at reckless and doomed,” Tex said, grinning. He put the glass away carefully and came up from behind the bar.
“Would Graham…?” Neal started.
As if summoned, the landscaper materialized from the back entrance to the bar, a wicked machete in one hand. He didn’t offer an explanation, but Neal had to guess that he had spotted the strange party headed for Scarlet’s office and recognized that something was afoot.
At his heels, was Breck, still in his uniform, but looking uncharacteristically grim-faced.
“These are starting to feel like better odds,” Travis said confidently. “I can get Magnolia, she’s a polar bear who’s good to have in a fight, and where she goes, Chef goes.”
“I can keep them from being able to leave,” Breck offered. “It wouldn't take much to disable the Jeep.” At Neal's nod, he trotted away with the grace and speed of his leopard.
“They still have more ranged weapons,” Neal cautioned. “And hostages. We need a plan. And a backup plan.” He set his jaw. “I’ll need your phone, Tex.”
The list in his pocket had long since dissolved to unreadable, but Neal didn’t need it. He dialed Major Washburn's number as if he’d always known it.
“This had better be good,” Judy answered, her voice painfully familiar even after ten years.
Neal could hear the whine of engines in the background, and guessed she was at an airport.
“Judes,” he said roughly, and he walked across the bar for whatever privacy he could get.
There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line. “Who the hell is this? How did you get this number?”
Neal recognized the deep thrum that underlay the airplane engines. A carrier. The team was somewhere on the flight deck of a carrier. But what ocean? Were they close enough?
“Judes,” he said again. “Listen up, I need a support team at the coordinates of this phone. I’ve got Lewis, but don’t have the resources to hold him myself. There are civilians at stake.” My mate, he didn't say.
“Lewis? What the – Neal, is that you?”
?
?It’s me,” Neal assured her, and it was odd to realize that he meant it. He felt more like himself than he had in ten years. He was alive again, and on the hunt. His feet were on solid ground, his wolf was in alignment with him, and he had purpose.
“Where the hell have you been? It’s been ten fucking years, you jack—”
“It’s a long story,” Neal cut her off. “A really long story. And I promise I’ll split a bottle and tell you the whole damn thing, but not now. I need the team. Lewis has at least four bodyguards, moderately armed, and two hostages …”
Without waiting for her agreement, he detailed the basic lay of the resort and Lewis’ resources.