If they were in wolf form, they could communicate with their thoughts, but they were in the middle of the city, and even at nine-thirty on a Friday in this part of town, a pack of wolves roaming the streets would be noticed. There were no unmarked vans or other suspicious vehicles in back. Jaxson had parked a block away in order to approach on foot and catch whoever had Cassie by surprise.
He had his suspicions about who might be running this snatch-and-release program with shifters. The first possibility was the local Seattle PD, deciding to rough up some shifters to send a message to the gangs. But that didn’t make sense with the sick shifters that had been released. Shifters healed quickly unless you messed with the magic in their blood—that meant someone was tormenting shifters in a more substantial, long-lasting, and intentional way. Which spelled government operation to him. Either that or some sadistic bastard with a grudge against shifters who could afford to commandeer a homeless shelter. No, it had to be government-sanctioned—the only question was whether it was military or intelligence-based.
In the SEALs, he commanded an elite corps of men who used every ability—including their shifter skills—to take down the enemy whenever and wherever their CO sent them. Jaxson trusted his brothers-in-arms as much as his own pack, who were literally bound to him with their magical oath. But he’d seen enough unstable personalities sneak past the psych evals. Or go bad on re-integration, casualties of the battlefield, only with scars you couldn’t see. He understood that—his own brothers brought that lesson home to him. But the scale of this operation was more than one rogue military washout.
This was something put in motion by someone in power.
Which made his blood run cold.
Jaxson hugged the wall next to the back door. The others lined up beside him, close, ready to hustle inside once the door was sprung. He tested the door, quietly—locked. He waved over Taylor, who already had his electronic lockpick ready to go. He crouch-ran up to the door, tapped through the sequence, and they all held their breaths as the box cycled through the combinations.
The door clicked open.
They crept down a short hallway with storage rooms on either side. At the end, Jaxson held up a fist to signal the pack to stop. He listened—chatter came from down the hall to the right. Conversational and muffled, like through a closed door. On silent feet, they turned the corner and found the one back office room spilling light out from under the door. And laughter.
Jaxson edged closer and very slowly tested the doorknob—it turned minutely. He held up three fingers, made eye contact with his men, then counted down…three…two…one…
He whipped open the door. Murphy and Taylor led the way, storming the room with shouts and drawn weapons. Jace and Rich were right behind them. Jaxson swept the hallway, covering their backs and arriving last in the room, only to find it already secure.
Murphy stood over one beefy guy in overalls, but the man was knocked out. Jaxson shook his head, and Murphy winced an apology. They couldn’t get intel from the unconscious. Fortunately, Jace was holding back his blade from slicing the second man’s throat… although he looked like he wanted to. Badly.
In addition to the blade against his throat, the dark-haired man was being held by Taylor and Rich. Their prisoner looked like his face had been rearranged by more than one thug-fight. His stance was calm, body still, not resisting, no visible signs of fear. The man was almost certainly ex-military, possibly contractor ops—either that or the homeless shelter was hiring some serious badass employees.
Jaxson waved Murphy toward the door. “Sweep the center.” But he didn’t expect they’d find Cassie. If she was here, she would have been locked in with these two goons.
“Where’s the girl?” Jaxson asked Thug Life, not bothering with preamble.
He smirked but otherwise didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jaxson nodded and slowly walked up to the man. He was big, almost as tall as Jaxson, but even big men had something they feared. Not always pain, although enough of that could be persuasive. Something more primal was often more effective.
Jaxson lifted his chin to Jace, who eased off on the blade. Jaxson held up his hand, palm out, in front of the man’s face.
In a calm voice, he said, “Here’s how this is going to go.” He glanced at his hand and commanded it to shift, slowly growing five razor-sharp claws. They inched toward the man’s face as they grew. He leaned back, but his calm expression had evaporated. For non-shifters, the idea of being taken apart by claws and teeth often struck more fear than a blade or bullet. It wasn’t the pain so much as the horror of it. It conjured fears of being eaten alive, and the primal part of the brain—the part that had evolved a million years ago when man’s enemies had claws and fangs—had an instinctual fear of it built in.