Timberman Werebear(36)
“We took Brighton’s voice box to study how he was able to talk like a man and growl like an animal at the same time. It was a scientific enigma until we studied him. Our research has merit. We are able to study evolution as it’s happening thanks to my research, you ungrateful cunt. You have no idea how valuable my work is.”
“It’s not evolution that is happening here! They aren’t some super race. They aren’t human’s morphing into animals. Their genetic make-up hasn’t changed since the dawn of man, so you’re wrong. You’re studies are worthless. They have nothing to do with you or me or where our species is headed. They are separate. Just a small group on the endangered list, trying to survive douche wagons like you who think you are superior enough to hurt people in the name of science. Fuck science, and fuck you.”
She stood and spun for the door, determined to not say another word to this man. Denison and Brighton might have killed those people, but it was in self-defense after unspeakable things had been done to them. Whatever revenge Reynolds was seeking for his wife’s death, Danielle wasn’t going to be any part of it.
The crack of metal on metal sounded, and she froze, her hand on the doorknob.
“Turn around,” Reynolds growled out.
She dropped the notebooks with a clatter on the wooden floorboards, then held up her hands in surrender as she turned and stared in horror down the short barrel of his handgun.
“Your little animal lover tirade doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, Ms. Clayton. My team is already hunting your friends. I just needed you out of the way as my bargaining chip. Didn’t want you getting caught in the firefight before I was able to use you.”
“I won’t help you hurt them,” she whispered, tears of determination stinging her eyes.
“Then you’ll die for them. For those animals.”
“No,” she said on a breath. “I’ll die for the people I love. You’re the animal.”
Reynold’s eyes went cold and vacant like the corpses in the pictures.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirteen
Son of a bacon sandwich, Danielle’s arm felt like she’d shoved it in a bonfire. That dickhead shot her right square in the shoulder, and now she was bumping and bouncing around in the back of Mr. Reynold’s SUV, pretending to be passed out.
Gritting her teeth, she wiped her bloody hand on her pants and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Dear goodness, let it be on silent. She poked the home screen, and it switched over soundlessly. With a little huff of relief, she tried to call Denison. Three times it went straight to his voicemail without ringing, and she spouted off a string of expletives in her mind for the shitty cell phone reception at the trailer park and up on the job site.
Think, think, think. Reynolds said he had a team who were after the Ashe Crew, and she hadn’t a guess if they were outnumbered or not. She did think they had guns, though, which would give them an advantage. Reynolds obviously knew what he was dealing with, and she doubted his team would show up unprepared with little puff pistols.
If anything happened to Denison…or Brighton or Brooke and her unborn baby. Or Tagan or Skyler or…
No, she couldn’t think like that. She had to focus, ignore the pain fogging her mind and try to help them.
She didn’t have anyone else’s number in the Crew, not even Brooke’s or Skyler’s. She didn’t have a single werebear number but Denison’s.
And Matt’s.
Grimacing at the pain in her shoulder, she searched for the number that buttface had plugged into her phone that first night at Sammy’s Bar. The idiot had listed himself as Hot Matt.
Matt, she texted. I need help.
She held her breath, waiting. The cutoff for her cell phone reception was coming any time now as Reynolds drove toward Asheland Mobile Park.
The cell phone vibrated in her clutched hand, and she closed her eyes in relief before reading the screen.
Who is this?
Danielle. Need your crew’s help. Ashe Crew in trouble.
Are you fucking with me right now?
No! Researchers hunting us. Guns. Up on the job site. I’ve been shot. Please hurry!
If this is a joke, I’m going to kill you.
The bars on her cell phone dropped to zero, and the next text she tried to send came back failed.
The screen was covered in sticky red fingerprints, and she watched numbly as her now useless phone turned off. She’d done all she could do, and it hadn’t been enough. Matt wasn’t going to tell his alpha or show up to help. She’d watched the fierce competitiveness at the Lumberjack Wars. They were three separate crews, each watching out for their own.
She couldn’t move her arm anymore. Couldn’t feel anything below her elbow, really. The corners of her vision shattered inward, and she clung to idea that she had to stay awake to help Denison. She had to do…something. Her vision blurred, then doubled, and she clutched her shoulder through the pain to try and staunch the bleeding. The carpeted floorboard was rough against her skin, and she tried to concentrate on the door handle on the back door—the one she’d tried to open four times now. Everything grew dimmer until she couldn’t see anything at all.