by Terry Spear
From across the stream that Paul and the others had so recently forded, the kidnappers had shot her three times in the back, and a fourth round had slammed into Paul’s arm. Yet he still hadn’t let her go. Not even after he felt her hand release his.
“Thanks for helping with the woman,” Paul said to Allan, looking around the cabin’s familiar, rustic living room, trying to shake loose the images that haunted him. He’d been so wrapped up in chastising himself with regret, he had never even thanked Allan for taking out the men who had been shooting at them.
“Hell, I owe you for all the times you’ve saved my ass. I was only too glad to shoot the two bastards who killed the girl. Besides, you think I could have gotten the others to safety without you?”
Yeah, Paul knew Allan would have. He was good at his job. All of their SEAL wolf team were. But he knew, too, that Allan would never have left him behind.
Because of their high success rate on extractions and other jobs like this—though only the wolves on Hunter Greymere’s team knew it was their wolf senses that gave them the edge—they were often hired to do special contract work. They were no longer serving with the U.S. Navy—due to their longevity and not aging the way humans did, they didn’t want to raise suspicions. Even so, they still considered themselves a SEAL team; they had met and operated that way for years, usually under Hunter’s leadership. In this case, no one else had been free to conduct the mission. When an undercover operative called Hunter with the job of extracting the students, he relayed the information to Paul and Allan. They had been the students’ only real hope at being rescued without suffering for months in the hostage-takers’ care—or dying at their hands.
With his added wolf’s strength, Allan had carried the dead woman at a grueling run in the steamy jungle, insisting that Paul lead the way. It was true that Paul always took the lead when they were on a mission when Hunter wasn’t with them. But Paul suspected Allan also knew he would have had a rougher time carrying the woman, wounded as he was. The burning pain in his arm had been so great that combined with the heat of the jungle, it made him woozy and he’d had a hell of a time keeping a clear head for some of the trek. His driving concern had been to save the rest of the students in all haste and ensure he didn’t lose his partner, who was like a brother to him. And to take the woman’s body home to her family.
“You did everything you could to save her life. We got the others out. We saved their lives. Sometimes we have losses. You know that.”
Paul knew how hard it had been on Allan also. The two men just dealt in different ways with losing a hostage.
At least with their wolf’s fast healing genetics, a short stay with Hunter and his pack had been sufficient for Paul to recover from his injury. He was glad he hadn’t returned here first. Allan’s mother would have fawned over him and his injury ten times worse than Hunter’s pack mates had. That was also why he wasn’t about to tell Catherine Rappaport what had gone down.
“Better call your mother. You know she’ll have a fit if she learns we didn’t contact her as soon as we got here. I swear she has spies in the area watching for our arrival,” Paul said, trying to get off the subject of the mission.
“Old Man Stokes at the gas station. I bet you anything he’s the one who calls her. We always stop there and fill up the tank before we come out here for our vacations. And he knows we’re usually here for the last two weeks in July, unless we’re held up for some reason.”
Northern Montana was the perfect place for hiking, fishing in the streams, and running through the woods as wolves. But as Paul sorted out his gear, he still couldn’t sort out his feelings about this last mission. He was on vacation. And the third-year botany student, Mary Ellen Wister, was dead.
Paul let out his breath in exasperation, recalling the way the woman’s parents had dissolved into tears when they gave them the news. He’d tried to give up the ghost and quit rethinking the Ecuador mission. But he couldn’t hide his feelings from Allan, who had been like a brother to him since Allan’s mother had raised the pair of them.
“I’m fine. I’m not thinking about it.”
Allan grunted and headed into the kitchen. “If you’re not thinking about it, why are you mentioning it again?” He opened the refrigerator door. “No food in the fridge. We need to go into town and get some things.”
“I’m not thinking about it. Okay?” And yet Paul was. He had nightmares every time he drifted off to sleep—envisioning staring down into the woman’s frantic gray-green eyes, hearing the barrage of gunfire popping, feeling her jerk with the bullets’ impact against her back, seeing her mouth open and her eyes widen. Her last words gritted out, “Thank you,” not for saving her, because she knew in that instant he couldn’t, but for trying. Then she had closed her eyes and released his hand. He’d shouted for her to grab his hand, not wanting to believe she had died as he continued to pull her up. He’d held on for dear life, not about to let go. He wouldn’t leave her in the jungle. He’d had to get her home—to her family.
“We did the best we could,” Allan said, returning to the living room, his dark hair tousled, his green eyes stern. “Her family was grateful we brought her home. Can you imagine what a nightmare that would have been for them? Envisioning her left behind in the jungle? You have to accept it and move on.”
“Right.” Paul still wondered if they shouldn’t have taken a different path. One that would have ensured they all had made it out alive. Which was the problem with being the leader. Any mistake and it was his responsibility. He couldn’t be like some men, who considered casualties a part of doing a mission. No one was ever expendable as far as he was concerned, and he had a hard time letting go of the tragedy. She hadn’t been just a casualty. She had been a flesh-and-blood woman with a boyfriend back home, parents and a sister, and tons of friends. He would have done anything to change the outcome and bring her home alive too.
“I know what you’re thinking. And no. They were coming at us from all directions. The only way out of there was to climb the cliffs. If she’d been stronger, like the men, she would have made it. But we had no other choice. You made the right decision. For all of us. Listen, feel free to talk about this anytime, but we’ve also just got to take the time to let it go and enjoy our time off, to decompress. All right?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Did you get hold of Emma and ask about her cabin?” Allan asked, stowing his scuba gear.
“Yeah, she said we can use it any time we want. I told her we’d stay there near the end of our two weeks here. I don’t know why we’ve never done it before.”
The Greypaws’ lakeside cabin was on the opposite side of Flathead Lake from the Rappaports’ property. The Cunningham family originally bought the cabin for the Greypaws to live in, since the Greypaws were Native Americans and not permitted to purchase the land at the time. Later, when the Cunninghams could gift it to them, they did. Allan’s family’s place was on the mountain and didn’t have ready access to Flathead Lake, so they were really looking forward to the change of pace. Being right on the water would be great for fishing, boating and diving.
Paul started to haul the bags down the hall to the bedroom he always used. “I agree that we need the time to move forward and not constantly rehash what went down in the Amazon jungle.”
“Good. Let me call Mom and—” Allan’s phone rang.
Paul paused in the hallway. There was only a short list of people who might be calling this early. If Hunter, their SEAL team leader, had a job for them…
Allan put the phone on speaker, and Paul figured that meant business, until he heard Allan’s mother’s worried voice. “I didn’t know you were arriving this early. I just heard that you’re at the cabin. Don’t come by the house yet. Later. I’ll call you and let you know when you can drop by.”
Allan wore a worried frown as big as the Grand Canyon.
A chill crawled up Paul�
�s spine.
He’d never known Catherine to be that flustered when they arrived home. Usually she gushed over her son and Paul’s visit—and wanted to see them the minute they arrived. He thought of her fondly as a second mother. His own mother had died along with his father, when Paul was eleven.
Allan said casually, “We’ll have to run into town to get some groceries. I thought we’d drop by and say hi. Just for a minute.”
“No, we’re busy. I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”
She would never turn down the opportunity to see them right away, no matter how early it was. They’d been on missions for the last five months and hadn’t had any time to return and visit with her. And every mission could have been the death of them. Right before she hung up on him, they heard a woman shriek and then another woman yelled out, sounding just as frightened.
It only took a second before Paul and Allan had grabbed their emergency mission gear and headed out the door, hauling ass.
For a few minutes, they didn’t speak as they jumped into Paul’s SUV and roared down the dirt road.
“Probably nothing,” Paul finally reasoned, hoping it was so, but he couldn’t help worrying the women were in real trouble.
“Right.” Allan was wired so tight, clenching his hands and grinding his teeth. He was ready to spring into action as a wolf. They both were.
“Hostage situation?”
The vision of the half-starved college men and woman crouching near a swamp in the jungle—grungy, and so grateful to be rescued—flashed through Paul’s mind right before he imagined Catherine and Allan’s sister, Rose, and her best friend, Lori Greypaw, at gunpoint in Catherine’s home.
“Could be. Mom must know we would realize something was wrong and was trying to warn us not to come, which meant she wanted us to come.”
Paul wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to take Catherine Rappaport hostage in vintage Cottage Grove. All that existed there was a small community of humans and the remnants of the Cunningham wolf pack. Those left in the pack—Lori, her grandma, Allan, his mother and sister, and Paul—still referred to the pack that way. Though he’d often said they should rename it the Rappaport pack, because there were more of that family left. Still, his mother and father had been the leaders until their untimely demise, and in memory of their leadership, those left behind still faithfully called it the Cunningham wolf pack.
Thankfully, it was early enough in the morning that they had the cover of darkness on their side. He couldn’t believe they’d risked their necks in the jungle and then returned to their hometown—where everything was usually so quiet—and run into real trouble. He’d never known Cottage Grove to have problems more serious than the usual small-town drama—a drunk standing in the road, not sure where he was; minor thefts, usually from out-of-towners; and once, a newly married woman who claimed her husband had fallen off the mountain cliffs “accidentally.” But now, he and Allan sensed a new kind of danger in their hometown?
In any rescue operation, a huge risk was involved—for everyone. But this time, it was personal and hit way too close to home.
“Rose.” Paul thought that one of the screams had come from Allan’s twin sister, Rose, who had been like a sister to Paul as well: a pain-in-the-butt tagalong when he and Allan had wanted to do guy things or spend time with girlfriends. And yet they were close and Paul would do anything for her, or take care of anyone who had any intention of hurting her.
“Yeah.” Allan’s expression was hard, worried, but he looked ready to kick ass.
“And the other? Lori Greypaw?” It was hard to tell. Paul had recognized Rose’s shriek, because he’d heard it often enough—like when Allan had had the notion to dump a cooler filled with crushed ice in the lake where she had been swimming. Or the time they caught her kissing a guy in the woods when she was fifteen. Allan swore he was going to kill the human male and took off after him. But Paul didn’t recall ever having heard Lori scream or shriek.
Allan glanced at Paul. “I’m sure of it.”
They reached the area where Catherine lived, with sparsely scattered homes surrounded by harvested alfalfa crops, rolled bales of hay scattered about, grazing cows in some fields, and horses in others. Most of the houses had lights on inside. Bordering the edge of Catherine’s lawn, balsam fir trees reached a hundred and fifty feet into the sky and provided perfect cover for Paul and Allan. Paul pulled onto a dirt parking spot where farm equipment was offloaded to sow and harvest the fields.
He and Allan quickly stripped out of their blue jeans and shirts and yanked on black pants and T-shirts to blend in with the darkness. They quickly applied some face paint, armed themselves with guns and knives, and headed through the dry fields to reach the fir trees, then crossed the grassy lawn to the part of Catherine’s house that was dark.
They had done this kind of mission so many times—and though every assignment was unique in the problems that could arise, for them it was like driving a car—they didn’t have to think twice about what they would do.
Lights were on in the living room and kitchen only. Lori’s bright red Pinto was sitting in the gravel driveway, Rose’s pickup truck was parked next to that, and a black sedan neither Paul nor Allan recognized behind that.
Shrubs hugged the foundation and Paul moved in behind the hedge to reach Allan’s sister’s bedroom, but the window was locked. They headed around to the back patio. Allan pulled out his spare key and unlocked the door as carefully and quietly as he could, then gently opened the door.
It made only a slight squeaking sound, and Paul hoped that whoever was there hadn’t heard them enter. Only wolves—like their family—would be able to hear it.
“No!” Lori said from the kitchen. “I won’t do it!”
***
Adrenaline surging, Paul and Allan raced across the family room and down the carpeted floor of the hallway between two of the bedrooms, and from there crept toward the kitchen, where they’d heard Lori speaking.
The living room was all clear. Paul and Allan silently passed the guest bathroom and neared the entrance to the kitchen and breakfast nook, where they heard the clinking of silverware and dishes.
In place, Paul was about to peek around the doorjamb to determine the extent of the threat when Catherine shouted, “No, watch out!”
The crashing of porcelain against the tile floor spurred the men on. Paul’s heart was pounding triple time when he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, materializing out of the darkness in black clothes and black face paint, gun in hand.
Rose saw Paul first. She screamed and dropped the coffee mug she was holding. It crashed on the floor, splattering coffee everywhere.
Lori swung the broom she was holding and whacked Paul in the head with it as Catherine yelled out in fright. Confused, Paul assessed the situation in the kitchen and found only the four women there. One broken plate. One broken coffee mug and coffee splashed everywhere. No armed hostage takers anywhere.
Overwhelmed with relief, he quickly holstered his gun and tried to wrench the broom away from Lori before she could hit him again. It looked like this time she was dying to, just on principle for scaring her. When he couldn’t wrest it from her, he grabbed her shoulders instead, pressed her hard against the wall, and kissed her.
He’d been wanting to do that forever—since the last time they’d resolved an issue in this manner.
His chest pressed against her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra under the slinky tank top—and his internal thermostat turned even hotter. Her shorts were…short, showing off her shapely tanned legs, and her feet were bare. One scorching, sexy she-wolf package.
Unexpectedly, Lori twisted her body and swept her leg behind him, tripping him up and effectively knocking him off balance. He pulled her down with him as he fell on his backside and she landed on top, dropping the broom. He grinned at the way she’d outmaneuvered him
.
“It’s me,” he said, just in case she hadn’t realized it.
“Jeez, Paul, you look like a bank robber!”
Lori was lying on top of him, not making a move to get up. His body immediately responded with ravenous hunger. He took advantage of the moment, flipped her onto her back, and kissed her again. She smelled of lilacs, woman, and she-wolf, and tasted of honey as he licked the sticky sweetness off her lips.
She finally smiled a little against his mouth about the same time as Catherine cleared her throat. As much as Paul didn’t want to move from their stimulating pose—and hoping he could quickly get his body under control—he eased off Lori and pulled her to her feet.
This was how he wanted to see her when he came home from missions.
Brows raised, Allan put his weapons away. “I was going to ask if the two of you needed my help…”
“This is why I didn’t want you and Paul to run with those boys any longer,” Catherine scolded, picking the broom up off the floor so she could sweep up the broken dishes, while Rose cleaned up the coffee splattered on the floor.
“The boys” Catherine was referring to were the rest of their wolf Navy SEAL teammates, none of whom had been boys for a very long time.
“I told you I was busy and would see you later,” Catherine said reproachfully.
Lori’s gray-haired grandma, Emma, was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea and smiling. “Now, Catherine, don’t scold. Allan and Paul are such good boys.”
Catherine snorted. “Running around in the jungle like that…” She turned to eye them, then frowned. “Still practicing your stealth moves? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
Paul had almost forgotten how he and Allan had taken a few years off Catherine’s life when they were young, practicing sneaking up on her, either as wolves or as future SEALs. The whole point was for her never to see them. Only she always did see them—because of her wolf senses—and they’d gotten scolded back then, too.