© Copyright 2019 by J.L. Wilder- All rights reserved.
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The Omega Games
Hells Wolves MC
By: J.L. Wilder
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Table of Contents
The Omega Games: Hell’s Wolves MC
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
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About The Author
The Omega Games: Hell’s Wolves MC
Chapter One
WYATT
Wyatt Howell was accustomed to being the biggest man in any room he entered. But, in the bar tonight, there were at least three men who were bigger.
He tried not to let it affect him. They were nothing to do with him, and there was no reason to let their presence here distract him from enjoying his drink. There was nothing to be afraid of. But he had to admit, as he swirled his whiskey and took a sip, that it was unfamiliar and intimidating to be in the presence of such massive men.
Was this how people felt when Wyatt walked into a room? He knew that to most people in this bar there was nothing distinguishing him from the other three. After all, they were clearly not here together—at least, one of them wasn’t. One of them, like Wyatt, sat alone at the bar. Unlike Wyatt, he seemed at ease, chatting with the bartender and taking no notice of the two men leaning up against the wall by the out of date arcade games.
Was it an act? It had to be. No one could be blind enough not to notice the way those two men were staring at the man at the bar. Wyatt felt fortunate not to be on the receiving end of those stares. They were almost more intimidating than the men’s size.
It looked as if he might have inadvertently walked into some kind of territorial dispute.
He’d noticed the bikes outside, of course—he’d even stopped to admire them—but he’d assumed they just belonged to regular, law abiding citizens who’d decided to come in for a drink tonight. Motorcycles were almost never anything to worry about. It wasn’t until he’d come inside and placed his order that he’d realized the men by the arcade games had matching patches on the backs of their jackets, the three-part insignia that represented a motorcycle club.
The man at the bar wasn’t showing colors, so Wyatt wasn’t sure what was provoking the outright hostility toward him. But there had been a third bike outside, and this man looked like the type who would ride. Maybe he was part of a rival club. Wyatt knew enough to know that having the sense not to wear rival colors should have let him pass safely, but then, what did he really know about the inner workings of motorcycle gangs? Riding a bike himself didn’t make him some kind of insider, that was for sure.
Wyatt Howell wasn’t an insider when it came to anything in the world.
Sometimes, it felt like it had been weeks since he’d even spoken to another human being. Articulating the name of the drink he’d wanted to order today had felt strange, had required extra thought. Drinking it now felt like a recovery from something almost painful. A part of him longed to escape into the woods that surrounded the place, run off and forget about the difficulties of being human, and never mind his bike. But he knew that he wouldn’t. If there was one thing Wyatt took seriously, it was the care of his bike. He would park it somewhere secure before leaving it alone for too long.
He definitely wasn’t going to leave it here, where these gang members were giving each other the stink eye.
Wyatt’s bike was his most prized possession. In truth, it was his only possession, if you didn’t count the clothes he carried from town to town in the duffel bag he strapped to his passenger seat. Wyatt’s clothes were nothing—inexpensive scraps he’d picked up at thrift stores over the years. But his bike was special. In his twenties and thirties, he’d saved up, dollar by dollar, until he was able to afford each component. Over the past decade, he’d built it himself. He’d applied the blue and silver paint, putting down a drop cloth so none of it would spill on the floor of the garage.
This had been when he’d had a garage. When he’d had a permanent home.
The rest of his pack had laughed at him. They weren’t bikers, none of them, and they couldn’t understand the appeal the machine held for Wyatt. Sometimes they’d come out at watch him work, perching on the toolbox or the workbench with sandwiches and cans of beer and telling him he would never finish this, that there was going to be a hunk of scrap metal in the pack’s garage for the rest of his life.
He could still remember the satisfaction he’d felt the day the bike had roared to life for the first time. He remembered riding out of the garage, the wind smacking him in the face, the silent awe of his pack disappearing behind him. Who cared about them? They had no idea what he was capable of.
That night, he’d called his alpha, Brock, to pick him up from the bar. He’d asked Brock to bring someone else along to drive his bike home, but Brock had refused him that. In the morning, he’d sent Wyatt walking back to the bar to collect his bike instead of giving him a ride. Wyatt had fumed the whole way.
In hindsight, he should have known then that something was wrong.
They were waiting for him when he returned to the house. An ambush. Someone had packed his things, and the duffel was thrown into his face. He caught it reflexively. “You’ve never submitted to our ways,” Brock had said. “You don’t follow orders. I told you countless times to stop building that motorcycle.”
Wyatt had always been proud of his ability to withstand the dominance Brock had over the rest of the pack. It was proof, he thought, of his strength and cunning. He wasn’t a sheep like the rest of them. “You didn’t think I could do it,” he had said. “But you were wrong. I could.”
“I didn’t think you should do it,” Brock had corrected him then. “You have a drinking problem, Wyatt. The last thing the world needs is you on a motorcycle.”
“I don’t have a fucking drinking problem,” Wyatt had protested.
Rolf, Brock’s second in command, spat on the floor. “You were drunk last night.”
“I was celebrating.”
“You couldn’t even get home on your own. How long before you try driving that bike home from a bar?”
“And I can’t forbid you do it,” Brock added, “Because you don’t take orders. So, we can’t have you associated with us anymore. Take your things and go.”
It was still so fresh in Wyatt’s mind. Only three months had gone by since he’d left Brock’s pack, and they had been empty, exhausting, terrible months. He had felt like a ghost, wandering from little town to little town, known to no one, worthless and invisible. His evenings were spent at bars like this one, drinking and watching the other hopeless dregs who tended to wash up in places like this. Every night he would try to find one who looked worse off than he felt. At least I don’t have it that bad, he would tell himself, sizing up the pers
on. At least my clothes are clean. Or, at least I’m not missing any meals. But as the nights went on, it became harder and harder to feel any hope.
It would have been different if he’d had a family to go back to after Brock had turned him out. But Wyatt’s family was long dead. His father had been a police officer, killed in the line of duty, and his mother had been lost to drugs after his father’s death. Wyatt had been on his own since the age of fifteen. That solitude had prepared him, in some ways, for the loneliness of being on his own now. At least there was that. He knew how to be alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. He knew how to rely on himself for food and how to find shelter. He knew how to live on very little money.
But being a member of Brock’s pack had been like nothing he’d ever experienced before. In his time there, he’d been part of a family. Even if he hadn’t submitted to Brock’s authority the way the others had, he’d been one of them. He’d woken up with them every morning and gone to bed with them every night. He’d scrapped with his brothers for the last piece of bacon at breakfast, and run with them under the stars and the full moon. It was impossible to believe, sometimes, that they had just thrown him out so callously.
Yet, he was alone now.
He pushed the empty glass back toward the bartender. “Another,” he said.
She smiled sympathetically. “Rough night?”
Rough life. But he didn’t want to talk about it. His voice sounded strange in his ears. He wanted to finish drinking so he could take to the woods. But he hadn’t had enough yet. “You could say that,” he answered.
She filled his glass with another double shot of whiskey and passed it back to him. “Don’t overdo it, now.”
Why does everyone always say that? “I’m fine.”
She nodded and moved down the bar to cash out the guy who was the object of the menacing stares. Without turning his head, Wyatt tracked her. She was young and beautiful, and without seeming to realize it, she was walking into a powder keg of a situation.
Sure enough, the two men by the arcade games pushed off the wall and meandered over toward the man they’d had their eyes on all evening. He seemed to stiffen as they moved toward him, as if he was aware of their approach, but he didn’t move away or turn to greet them. Instead, he pushed a few dollars toward the bartender, leaned over the bar, and said something to her so quietly that Wyatt couldn’t hear his words.
Which was unusual. Wyatt’s hearing was better than most. He tilted his head toward the man, trying to pick up the conversation.
The two threatening men had taken seats on either side of him. “Who are you with?” one of them asked.
“I’m alone,” the man in the center said.
“That’s not what we’re asking,” said the one on the right. “You’re in Death Rider territory, and you’re no Death Rider.”
“I’m just a man looking for a drink. I’m not here for any trouble.”
“He’s clever,” said the man on the left. “You hear that, Red? He thinks he’s a smart guy.”
“We don’t like smart guys,” said the one named Red.
This was taking a turn. Wyatt eased off his stool.
“You had your eye on Miranda,” Red continued, jerking his head toward the door that led to the area behind the bar, where the bartender had disappeared. “She’s a Death Rider girl. We saw the way you looked at her.”
“Just a customer-bartender relationship,” the man in the middle promised. “She brings me drinks and I give her tips.”
“I bet that’s not all you want to give her.”
“Listen,” the man said. “This is clearly your territory. No one wants this to end the wrong way. Why don’t I just bid you gentlemen a good night and be on my way.”
“And have you telling stories about how just anybody can walk into a bar on Death Rider land, put dirty moves on a Death Rider girl, and walk away grinning?” Red shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Son, if the girl wanted to be with you, she’d be with you,” the man in the middle said, backing away toward the door. “There’s no need to get territorial about it. She doesn’t like you. Accept it.”
With a roar, Red leapt on the other man and began throwing punches. His friend stood guard, hunched low and breathing heavily, his face in an awful sneer.
The man on the floor struggled and strained, but he was no match for his attacker. Blows rained down on his face, on his chest, on his stomach. Wyatt could hear the terrible sounds of punches landing, the impact of fists on flesh, skin on skin, even the crack of bones. He stood, torn, unable to decide how to proceed. He knew that the wisest course was to run, to take himself out of this situation before the two violent men noticed him standing there and drew him into the fight. After all, if they were defending their territory, he was a likely target for them. He was here in their bar too, being served drinks by their bartender.
And where had she gone, anyway?
He turned back to the bar and scanned the area. It was a moment before he saw her, peering out around the doorway to the back of the bar. He widened his eyes and waved a hand at her, indicating that she should retreat, and she nodded and pulled back.
They say she belongs to them, Wyatt thought, but what does that mean? Is one of them her boyfriend? Does she ride with their gang? Or is it something more sinister? He had thought that the man now being beaten on the floor had used poor judgement in engaging with these two brutes. But if he took them on to help the girl escape...well, that was worthy of respect.
Wyatt turned back to the fight. Rather than dying down, it had only intensified. The two attackers were on their feet now, kicking the man on the floor. He had curled into a ball and was no longer trying to fight back.
They’re going to kill him, Wyatt realized, suddenly angry.
The thought had barely entered his mind before he felt the animal ripple through his blood, stretching into his limbs, radiating outward from his heart. The change was a bright burst of pain as his bones shifted and reformed, but then he was himself, a true part of himself that he could never access as a man, and it was as welcome and relieving as breathing air after being trapped underwater.
Newly powerful, Wyatt threw himself into the fray. His jaws closed around Red’s shoulder, ripping and tearing, pulling him away from his victim. He tasted blood as Red screamed and kicked out. A boot connected with the soft flesh of Wyatt’s belly, but he didn’t care. It was so easy not to care when you were in animal form. He shook his head vigorously and felt the satisfying dislocation of the arm from the socket. When he released, Red got to his feet, his arm dangling awkwardly.
“Where the hell did it come from?” his friend yelled.
Red seemed to have no answer. He gasped and scrambled toward the door, and his friend was right on his heels. They looked over their shoulders, and Wyatt snarled and snapped at them. He would let them go, he decided. They could live, as long as they ran away. He didn’t relish killing. He knew that some of his kind did, but Wyatt had never been that sort. Fortunately, his snarls sent them both running out the door and into the night, leaving the bar far behind them. Wyatt heard the sound of two engines turning over, two bikes ripping away into the night.
They thought I was a random wolf who came running into the bar, he thought, remembering their words before they’d left. They thought I came in from outside. No one ever suspects the truth. No one thinks a man can turn into a wolf.
Brock and the rest of his pack had guarded the secret so jealously. Pack members had been forbidden to shift in public, whether they were transitioning from wolf to human or human to wolf. If anyone might see you, you had to stay in the form you were in. The rule made it impossible to help out in a fight. No matter how strong a man was, he was stronger as a wolf. In human form, Wyatt could never have hoped to take on both of those men at once and save the one who now lay gasping on the ground.
And in the end, there was no need for all the secrecy. Humans didn’t believe in shifters, even if you
shifted right in front of them. They would always come up with some explanation for what they had seen. Wyatt wondered what this man would come up with to explain the sudden presence of a wolf in the bar. He sat back on his haunches.
The man struggled to sit upright. He spat out a mouthful of blood. His eye was blackened and he was cradling his torso gingerly with one arm. Probably a broken rib, Wyatt thought. If the fight had gone on much longer, he would have ended up in the hospital, or worse.
He looked at Wyatt. “You saved my life,” he said.
Talking to a wolf. Okay, so the man was crazy. Or maybe he had a concussion. Wyatt didn’t move.
“You can shift back,” the man said, struggling to his feet. “I know what you are. I saw you shift. It’s all right.”
Wyatt felt bowled over. How does he know? He didn’t even seem surprised to find a man who could turn into a wolf in the middle of a bar. His confusion swept through him, igniting his ability to think and reason, his basic human essence, and before he knew it, he was crouched defensively in human form.
“It’s okay,” the man said. “I’m Robert Moore. Who are you?”
“Wyatt,” Wyatt said. “Wyatt Howell.” He couldn’t quite say what compelled him to answer the question. He had spent the past three months giving away as little information as possible about himself, and now in a matter of minutes this stranger had not only his name but the fact that he was a shifter. “How do you know about—?”
“I’m a shifter too,” Robert said.
Chapter Two
WYATT
“Hey, wait!” Wyatt protested as Robert got to his feet, leaning on a barstool for support. “Stay down a minute, will you? They savaged you. You definitely have some broken ribs, or—”
“I’m all right.” Robert spat again. This time there was no blood. “We heal pretty quick. You must know that.”
“I...” Wyatt hesitated. He’d never been injured, really, so he’d never had cause to test his own healing. Maybe that was evidence enough in itself, come to think of it. He’d definitely bashed his toe pretty hard on that uneven place in the driveway back at his old pack’s house once or twice, but after hopping around cursing for a minute, it had always been fine. And then there was the fact that he never seemed to have a hangover, no matter how much he drank. “You’re really a shifter?” he asked Robert.
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