by JK Cooper
Shelby couldn’t help but chuckle, trying to cover the dread that boiled inside her.
She felt something cold flow through her veins. They must have put her to sleep again. Now, she awoke to a chill spreading down her arm, across her chest, down her legs. She had no illusions or confusion about her whereabouts this time as the grogginess lifted. Something sharp left her arm.
“A syringe . . .” Her voice barely registered as a whisper. Were they bringing her out of her sleep with another drug?
“There.” Sherman’s voice. “I honestly didn't think we’d need it, but Lucas . . . well, his first experience left him wary. And then you snapping at him? You understand.”
“What did you do?” Shelby asked, her words slurred.
“Sodium thiopental, of course,” Sherman said. His voice, ironically chipper, grated against her. “It prevents your kind from shifting.”
“But—”
“I know, you can’t shift. But as I said, Lucas . . .”
“I scare him.” Shelby heard the dark satisfaction beneath her lazy timbre. Her tongue felt thick and dry.
“Hell, sweet thing, you scare me. Your whole fallen race does.”
Shelby felt the smile creep across her face. “Good.” She cracked an eyelid. As her vision focused, she saw others around her, all decked out in tactical gear like Sherman. Lucas was still there, a look of smugness on his face. Yes, he thought he owned her.
Shelby forced herself to focus on the newcomers, moving her eyes from one to the other, struggling to see through her drowsiness.
“Reinforcements,” Sherman explained. “Roberts and his men are here on special assignment from a unit in Arizona.”
Shelby actually felt a ray of hope break forth in her chest. “Only five?”
Sherman’s expression turned deprecating. “Oh no, child. These you see here are part of a larger force, of course. They are here to see that other pieces of the plan are . . .” Sherman paused, as if thinking of the right word. “Executed.”
Shelby shivered, whether because she was cold or because of the drugs, she couldn’t tell.
“Roberts,” Sherman said, “they're narrowing in. Maybe ten minutes, maybe less. Start heading to the manor.”
They? Who, they? Shelby thought. Her lip trembled. “My dad?”
Sherman turned back to Shelby. “Miss Brooks, it’s time for my men and I to take our positions, so I’m afraid I’ll need to cut our visit short. Please don’t think me rude, but the Lord’s errand must be accomplished.”
“I . . . don’t understand,” she said groggily.
"I explained this, Miss Brooks. We have hunted your kind ever since your appearance on earth, first recorded over 1800 years ago. Of course, most of us believe you've been around much longer than that."
Shelby worked her mouth as she tried to clear her brain fog. “Appearance?”
Sherman pursed his lips. “Bad choice of words. Arrival is more accurate. Now, Miss Brooks, I really must go.”
Gennesaret peered over René’s shoulders as he worked the controls for the drones combing the city. Eight 20” monitors, each portraying an image from one of the eight drones, covered the wall. Each drone was equipped with hi-definition cameras that included night and thermal vision, not to mention the highly illegal but effective after-market addition: an automatic modified FN PS90 complete with a silencer that delivered armor-piercing 5.7mm rounds.
The command center buzzed with the quiet hum of servers and their liquid cooling systems. On the adjacent wall, more monitors displayed images of the outside of Copeland Manor, switching between images and angles every few seconds.
René’s left hand danced over a keyboard as his right hand gently maneuvered a control stick. Each drone had autonomous capability, but a human could take over at anytime.
“Where are they now?” Gennesaret asked.
René pointed to one of the monitors. “I have Kale and Mr. Copeland here. Right along Weber Ave. The other seven drones are searching the city in grids.”
“They’re heading north of town?”
“Seems so,” René said as he stroked a command into the keyboard. A red border illuminated a screen on the top row, second in from the left, signaling human control had been toggled to the drone whose image filled that screen.
“What’s in that direction?”
A hybrid topographic and satellite map popped up on one of the screens on the adjacent wall.
“Looks like some small oil operations,” René said. “A few industrial parks.”
That was it. Gennesaret could feel it. “Redirect all drones to Elias’s position.”
“Are you sure?” René asked.
“Do it.”
“Redirecting now.”
Gennesaret’s phone rang. “Grant?”
“I’m in Kale’s truck,” Grant said. She could feel the tension in his voice. “Kale and Elias are . . . somewhere off the side of the road. I only catch glimpses of them.”
“We’re tracking you with a drone and the rest are being redeployed to your heading. I’m sending a few drones ahead of your vector, but Grant, do you know where you’re headed?”
“No, I’m just following Kale. Elias said something I didn’t understand, about Kale being able to track Shelby.”
Gennesaret fell silent for a moment.
“Mrs. Copeland?”
“I’m sorry. You can call me Genn, Grant. I would trust Kale’s promptings.”
“I’d personally settle for a little more solid intel than twitterpated emotions, Genn.”
“I realize you’re upset. But please, trust me on this.”
She heard Grant sigh. “Elias said the same thing.”
Genn leaned closer to the screen that showed Kale’s Raptor. “Grant, how fast are you going?”
“About 80 miles per hour. I’d go faster, but I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t want to lose track of Elias and Kale.”
“Are you saying that they are sprinting alongside you, matching your speed?”
“We’re actually moving up to 85 now. Or Kale is. I don’t see Elias. Now 90. Finally!”
“Grant, that is . . . unheard of,” Genn said, tense.
“What?”
“Running at those speeds even for our kind. Kale . . . I doubt he can sustain it, strong as he is.”
“He better. And he better be right about tracking her.”
“We’ll get her back, Grant. I promise you.”
“Yeah. Your husband also said that.”
The line went dead. Genn closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Mrs. Copeland,” René said. “The Chandlers have arrived. The other families are not far behind.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, Sadie burst into the control room. “What in the sanguineous underworld is going on?”
“First, dear,” Genn said, “this isn’t England. It’s not a curse to say ‘bloody.’”
“Oh. Really? Yes!”
“Second, you will find fresh clothes in the west guest room. I’m sure you know the way.”
Sadie looked down and seemed to just now realize she was naked, but did not blush. “Right. I kinda stripped in front of Grant.”
“I’m sure.” Genn raised an eyebrow at Sadie.
“Fine, I’m bloody going.”
Paul and Sophie, her parents, entered just as Sadie left.
“Did she just say ‘bloody’?” Paul asked.
Genn nodded.
“I’m British,” Paul said. “It’s a curse in our house.”
Genn breathed in deeply.
“Paul,” Sophie said.
“Sorry.”
Sadie stepped back into the room in sweats and a t-shirt that said “Yellowcard” on it. “Now, will someone please tell me what the underworld is happening, for SWAC’s sake?”
“SWAC?” Sophie asked.
“Solid Waste of the Anal Crevice,” Paul explained. “An acronym for S-H-I—”
> “I got it,” Sophie said, holding up her hand.
“It’s not a curse, at least.”
“No, no, it’s actually sort of cute,” Sophie said with a smile.
Sadie’s red ponytail swayed as she shook her head in frustration. “I’m going to kill someone.”
“Kale, Elias, and Grant are in pursuit of Shelby now. With the help of the drones, René has narrowed her possible location down to three buildings in an industrial park. We should have her location in another minute or two.”
“Why are they after Shelby?” Sadie asked. “It might be the whorey trinity.”
“These are hunters, Sadie. This is not some high school game.”
“Do you remember high school, Mrs. Copeland? It’s pretty vicious.”
Ignoring that remark, Genn said, “From what we can tell, this is personal. It sounds like some kind of vendetta perhaps between the Brooks and these hunters.”
The look on Sadie’s face told Genn she wasn’t buying it. “Our intelligence does point to a potentially larger operation,” she admitted.
“To what end?” Paul asked.
“Uncertain. We’ll discuss what we know when the rest of the pack arrives.”
An alarm beeped on one of René’s monitors.
“What is it?” Genn asked.
“We have a breach in the south entrance,” René said.
“The kitchen?” she asked.
René entered a command on the keyboard, and one of the pictures on a monitor switched to the kitchen. Now Sadie leaned in, squinting, her mouth agape. The fridge door was open with a large black man in a New England Patriots jersey bent over, peering in at the food and energetically shaking his butt to some unheard rhythm. Genn saw Sadie’s lip raise in what could only be disbelief. Or disgust. No, it was definitely both.
“Mother copulating SWAC!” Sadie whispered hoarsely. “Is that . . . Bubba?”
Gennesaret sighed. “René, obviously a 300-pound person strolling into our kitchen and casually fixing a meal during high alert is problem, yes?”
René turned a deep shade of purple. “Yes, Mrs. Copeland. I’m on it.”
“No,” Sadie said. “I’ve got this.”
“Bubba!”
Bubba jerked his head, banging it on a shelf of the fridge. He stepped back with half a dozen eggs cradled in his arms, a bag of bell peppers hanging from a finger, tubs of butter and sour cream held in place by his chin, and a package each of bacon and shredded cheese hanging from his teeth.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Sadie hissed.
Bubba smiled stupidly. “Heyyy, sweet thang.” He still held the packages of bacon and shredded cheese between his teeth, so his words were somewhat muffled. “I was just making me an omelet. You want one?”
An egg fell from his arm and splattered on the floor. Bubba’s face turned as serious as it could currently look. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“That’s gonna have to be yours on account of you scarin’ me.”
“How did you get in here?”
He said with a shrug, “That door right there,” and another egg fell. “Oh. That one’s my bad.”
“Bubba! Focus!”
“You know how there’s always mad gobs of private poh poh everywhere here?”
Sadie glared at him.
“Well,” Bubba said. “There ain’t tonight. It’s like total freedom out there, ya feel?” He sidled cautiously to the nearest countertop and released the bacon and cheese from his . . . maw. “And where Kale at? Mofo won’t answer his phone. Mama done made a fine dish of fried chicken and he didn’t come over.” Bubba raised his eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm. She pissed, feel? I even wore my new Vince Wilfork jersey to irritate him.” Bubba half turned, showing the name “Wilfork” along with a large “75” printed on the back of the jersey. “Kale hates the Patriots, but Wilfork does hard work on that defensive line. Straight respect.”
“Didn’t he get traded to the Texans?” Sadie asked.
Bubba smiled in wonder. “You know that? I really think I love you, Swearing Sadie.”
Sadie heard footsteps behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Gennesaret with Ackerman and another security personnel.
“Deshawn, did you say there are no security guards outside?” Gennesaret asked.
“I ain’t stutter, Mrs. C.,” Bubba said. “Just rolled right in. You know how strange it is for a black man not to be stopped and questioned by white men with guns? And don’t you worry about them eggs down there. Sweet thang’s gonna clean that. Her fault.”
Gennesaret turned to Ackerman. “Have all teams check in immediately.”
Ackerman touched the mic at his throat and spoke softly.
“I know y’all trippin’ ’cause this a rich man house/castle, but y’all startin’ to make me have goosebumps,” Bubba said. “Where you keep the frying pan, Mrs. C.?”
“I’m not reaching any of the team leaders, ma’am,” Ackerman reported.
Sadie felt the chill in Gennesaret’s words when she spoke next. “Send out the distress signal. We are under attack. Crash the house.”
Ackerman and the other guard sprang into action, barking orders over their radios. Only the internal security forces knew whom—what—they protected. The house lights went out, and a dim red glow illuminated the meeting of the walls and ceiling.
“Say what?” Bubba said. “Y’all hosting a rave now? Mm. Gotta call some of the homies.”
“Shut up, Bubba,” Sadie snapped.
“Daaaamn, girl. Always so harsh. But don’t you worry. I know you can’t help it with all that fiery hair and all. Mm. I forgive you.”
“The signal’s out,” Gennesaret said. “The other families will hasten their arrival. Until then, we’re on our own.”
“I’ma start shootin’ straight bricks of fecal matter—that was for you, Sadie—if someone don’t start explaining exactly what’s goin’ on!” Bubba said, his voice cracking.
Sadie cocked her head to the side. “Bubba, that was actually sort of sweet.”
“Thanks, sweet thang.”
“Deshawn, it would be best if you hid yourself in one of the panic rooms,” Genn said.
“Panic . . . rooms? I didn’t know y’all had those. Kinda . . . scary, right?”
“Please,” Genn said, motioning with her arms to the opening that led out of the kitchen, “this way.”
Headlights pierced the red darkness through a window.
“Two cars,” Ackerman said. “Coming up through the main gate. Looks like the Kenzies and the Southebys.” Ackerman cursed. “What are they doing? They should be approaching in stealth!”
Just as he finished speaking, a trail of smoke streaked toward the Southeby’s SUV followed by an explosion. Angry balls of orange and yellow tore through the night. Sadie stiffened, too shocked to even flinch.
“Holy—”
Automatic weapons fire cut off the rest of Bubba’s curse. Muzzle flashes sparked like firecrackers in the night. Now Sadie ducked, but could not tear her eyes away from the burning wreckage. And then, from that wreckage darted three forms: wolves aflame, sprinting directly toward the muzzle flashes. They only made it a few strides before falling lifeless, smoldering on the immaculately manicured front lawn. Sadie’s stomach turned.
James. Belinda. She nearly retched as she thought of their thirteen-year-old son. Tyler.
During the distraction of the Southebys’ desperate dash, the Kenzies bolted from their bullet-riddled car, making a beeline directly for the house, their black coats almost impossible to make out against the night. Sadie heard the security system admit the Kenzies entrance through the fortified front doors, followed by gunfire much closer.
That’s coming from inside the house.
“It’s cover fire from our forces,” Genn said, obviously seeing Sadie’s concern.
“Did I just see panthers come out of that car?” Bubba asked. “When’d they start being allowed to drive?”
Genn turned to Ackerman. “How many do w
e have?”
“I have nine men here. I sent eight to back up Mr. Copeland.”
“Recall them,” Genn said. “Elias and Kale will be fine.”
Ackerman looked hesitant. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So,” Sadie said, “we have nine two-leggers, seven wolves—depending on the conditions of the Kenzies—and that.” She pointed at Bubba. The rest of the eggs fell to the floor. Bubba seemed frozen. Or numb. Or just stupid.
“You say, wolves?”
“No,” Ackerman said. “We have eight wolves.” Copeland Manor’s head of security shifted into a slinking black wolf whose posture bespoke a lethal agility.
Bubba screamed and dropped the rest of the food in his arms.
Locked in a panic room, Bubba thought it looked more like a padded squash court. Or a cell in a mental institution.
“That’s right,” he mumbled. “Lock the black man up. That’s what you get for your best friend being a white boy, son.”
He didn’t really feel that way, of course, he was just scared. From what he had seen, he was glad for the panic room. Wolves were driving cars and burning and being shot by . . . by who? “Bad guys, man. Real bad guys.” But Sadie and Mrs. C. seemed unsurprised, or at least to have some idea of what was going on.
He rubbed a hand over his short hair. “Wish I had gotten to make that omelet.”
Thankfully, several days’ worth of food sat on pallets in one corner, a small kitchen—a single burner, small fridge, sink, and microwave—right next to it. He should eat. Food calmed his nerves. That was probably why he was always so easygoing.
“Never hungry, never grumpy.”
He tore open a box and found macaroni and cheese, ramen, freeze dried fruit, cans of chicken, beef, and tuna. And rice. Lots of rice. He grabbed two cans of chicken, two packages of ramen, jalapeño cheese spread, and three bags of chili-cheese Fritos.
He locked his eyes on the single burner, focusing hard, then blinked. He heard the small release of gas from the port beneath the burner. Perfect. He blinked again. The ignition mechanism sparked and the gas caught, flowering to a low blue flame. Bubba immediately felt better with the stove prepped.