Chapter One
Jay Wagner, a former FBI agent specializing in human trafficking, had a score to settle. He wanted to be the one to bring down Paul Statler, the evil motherfucker who deserved to die a long and painful death for kidnapping and selling women.
After traveling sixteen hours from Florida to Canada, Jay had to work hard to keep himself awake. He already had eyestrain from reading all those poorly lit signs in an attempt to find their motel in Lippett Falls, Canada, the town where Statler was stashing the captives—at least temporarily. If Jay could be certain his nemesis was at that warehouse at two in the morning, he’d rush there right now and slice his fucking throat.
“Is that it?” Riley Bishop pointed to a structure hidden behind a row of tall trees.
Jay slowed. “Looks like it, thank God. We ready to do this?”
His roommate stretched. At least one of them had been able to snag a catnap during the long ass drive across Ontario.
“Do I think we’re ready to take on a hoard of super werewolves all by ourselves? Fuck yeah. Piece of cake.” He tapped his service weapon.
Didn’t they wish? Once they understood what they were up against, they would call in the cavalry. Going in alone was not an option. Jay entered the near empty lot and parked.
Riley sagged against the seat. “This place is a dump.”
“It’s probably worse in the daytime but at least it’s better than sleeping in the truck.” The fifteen-room, one-story motel had more unlit bulbs than functioning ones but that might be to their advantage, especially if they needed to meet with their contact person, Sarah Osmond.
As they exited the truck, Jay scanned the area for anyone who might be Statler’s henchman. “You sense anyone?” Jay asked. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Riley had a slightly better sense of smell.
“No werewolves close by that I can tell. So far so good.”
Their boss had asked the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to hide all evidence of their entry into the country, so they would be safe for the time being. While Jay had worked for the FBI, even they didn’t have the connections their boss seemed to have.
When they entered the tiny, dimly lit motel lobby, the clerk looked up and sighed as if being inconvenienced. He reluctantly closed his magazine and dropped it on the floor. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Reservation for Thomas,” Jay said. General Armand had chosen that pseudonym for him because he said it sounded classy yet forgettable.
The man typed something into his computer then swiped two plastic cards through a machine. “Need your license plate number.”
Really?
Riley nudged him. “We’ve got company,” he telepathed.
Fuck. Only then did Jay’s senses shoot to high alert. “Could be one of ours, I suppose.” The Pack had men all over the country ready to help if need be.
The door to the office opened and a scruffy man who topped six-foot four rolled in. As the giant werewolf eased his way to the desk, he scowled at Jay. If this was one of Statler’s men, he hoped like hell there wasn’t a poster in some office with Jay’s face on it. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were, however. Jay had tried to kill the head honcho back in Florida.
Riley headed to the door. “I’ll get that license plate number.”
The clerk sat up straighter as he looked at the newcomer. “May I help you?”
“Need a room.” His deep voice sounded like glass mixed with gravel.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“For this place? Hell, no.” The man placed his palms on the counter then slid his credit card across the gouged surface. The clerk swallowed hard and shot his gaze downward, looking like he was about to shit his pants.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. Within seconds, he handed the newcomer a key. “Room 101. First room on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Intimidation seemed to eliminate the need for a license plate number. The large man turned and sized up Jay as if he was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take to kill him in a fight. Creep. The man didn’t stand a chance, unless he’d been enhanced. Jay’s years of training would serve him well against this dumbass.
As soon as the shifter left, Jay turned to the clerk. “How many rooms are rented for the night?”
His chin lifted. “That’s privileged information.”
Jay slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and the man’s eyes lit up. “Including that man?” The clerk ran a finger down his screen. “Three.”
That would make it easier to detect unwanted movements. Riley sauntered in two minutes later and gave the requested information to the clerk who then handed them their two keys. “Room 115, last room on the left.”