“Always.” He grinned and waited until Ashton had scrambled to the windows before he crawled to the bedroom door. He had an internal debate with himself over how safe it would be to open the door, but ultimately, he didn’t have a choice if he expected to do what needed to be done. He didn’t know what the range on the experimental weapon was, and if he wanted to be sure it’d work, he had to get as close to the computers as humanly possible. He eased the door open a crack and listened; he could hear the click of computer keys as someone typed at his workstation and the creak of floorboards as at least one other person made his way toward the bedroom. He pulled the pin on the EMP grenade and tossed it into the living room area. It clattered across the hardwood.
Zachariah knew the instant the EMP grenade went off. There was no explosion, no bang, just a sizzle and pop as all the electronics, including the lights, burned out. He was plunged into darkness. A curse rang out in the living room—at least, Zachariah assumed it was a curse based on the tone; he didn’t recognize the language—followed by a snapped order.
“Find who did that! Now!”
There was a thump then the sound of someone—no, something—snuffling its way toward him. His heart felt like it seized up as terrible memories invaded his brain once again. He knew that sound. He’d faced down the origins of it more than once, and he didn’t want to face it again. Scrambling back from the door, he started to the windows where Ashton waited; he still stood inside the bedroom even though Zachariah had told him to go. He ducked past Ashton and out the window, stepping onto the metal fire escape beyond. He looked down, searching for evidence of any attackers coming up the escape stairs toward them, then beckoned to Ashton. “Come on,” he hissed. “We’ve got to go.”
Ashton didn’t seem to hear him. He stared back into the room, half turned away, focused on something else. Zachariah ducked lower to see into the room and spotted the woman who’d been in Brandon’s office standing in his bedroom doorway, a massive wolf beside her, the beast still wearing shreds of the clothing it’d worn before it had shifted into the monster it was now. The woman was nothing short of beautiful, even more so than she’d appeared on the computer screen, wrapped in a tailored skirt suit that fit her form in a way that would have conjured up all sorts of dirty thoughts in his mind if he gave a shit about women anymore. She barely cast an eye on him, though; her attention was glued to Ashton, a surprised expression on her face.
Ashton, likewise, had his attention on her, and to Zachariah’s alarm, he’d started to drift toward her, like a marionette having its strings pulled. Zachariah thrust himself back into the bedroom, lifted his pistol, and fired two shots. They both missed, but he hadn’t exactly been aiming. No matter: he grabbed Ashton’s arm and hauled him to the window. The pull on his limb broke his daze, and he turned and slipped through the window as quickly as his lame leg would allow.
Zachariah pointed down the metal stairs. “You first!” he ordered, knowing Ashton moved slower than him. “I’ll cover us.”
Ashton still looked out of it, but he nodded and limped down the steps. Zachariah turned back to the window and squinted through the dark, searching for the woman.
She was gone.
But the werewolf remained, and as Zachariah looked at it, it lunged at the window, snarling as it rocketed toward him.
Pain jolted through Ashton’s thigh as he hobbled down the steps as fast as he could. Zachariah was shooting at something above him, but he didn’t have time to stop and help. He limped to the lowest level of the fire escape then paused and looked up. Zachariah was racing to join him, so he hit the lever that dropped the last stretch to conquer, the metal ladder. It extended with a loud clang, and he started down it. The rungs were slick, and he made it two-thirds of the way down before his shoe slipped on a slimy rung. He fell, landing flat on his back on the hard concrete below. The air rushed out of his lungs in one hard gasp.
Ashton lay there, unable to move, struggling to get his breath back. His head swam, and he tried desperately to not lose consciousness. Above him, Zachariah descended the ladder by planting his boots on the sides of it and sliding down, his hands guiding him rung by rung down the ladder.
“Jesus, you landed hard. Are you okay?” he asked. He didn’t wait for Ashton’s answer, just grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, Ash, we’ve got to go.”
Ashton dragged in a breath with effort. Coughing, he choked out, “Where to?”
“Parking deck,” Zachariah said. “We need wheels. I think there’s more than just the woman and the wolf here.” Ashton limped alongside him into the shadow of the parking deck, but the moment he saw the incline leading to the upper levels—where all of Zachariah’s vehicles were parked—he shook his head.
“I can’t make it up that,” he said. “It’s too steep. My leg’ll never let me.”
Zachariah thrust his pistol at him, despite the fact he already had one. “Take this, then. Wait for me here.”
Ashton took the weapon, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to argue with him—Zachariah was nothing if not stubborn as hell—and ducked into the shadows of the parking garage. The lights in the garage were out; hell, the lights on most of the block appeared to be out. It seemed Zachariah’s EMP grenade was a lot stronger than he’d thought. He almost wished he had a flashlight, but having one would only make a target out of him.
The sound of claws clicking on pavement reached his ears, and he backed further into the shadows, lifting the pistol Zachariah had given him with the intent to shoot whatever came into the garage after him. A low, rumbling, animalistic growl filled the air, followed on its heels by a second growl.
Oh, shit, there are two of them, Ashton thought. Dealing with one werewolf was difficult enough; he doubted he could handle two. His mind tried to drag him back to the time he’d faced off not just with a werewolf but with an Alpha werewolf. He did his best to shake off the reminder. Now wasn’t the time.
The sound of high heels click-click-clicking on the sidewalk beyond the garage reached Ashton’s ears, and he tensed. That woman was out there; it didn’t take an idiot to figure that out. The last thing he wanted was to have a run-in with her. He didn’t know who she was—or what she was—but his instincts told him that she wasn’t one to tangle with.
As one of the large beasts stepped into the parking garage, swinging its head from side to side in search of Ashton, the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires on concrete filled the garage. Seconds later, Zachariah came into view on a red and black Suzuki Hayabusa, flying down the garage’s exit ramp at speeds that could only be described as suicidal. When he came close enough to the lead werewolf, he braked and turned, fishtailing the motorcycle’s back tire into the beast and sending it tumbling into its partner.
Zachariah flipped the visor on his helmet up and shouted, “Get on!” before thrusting a helmet at him. Ashton jammed it onto his head and awkwardly slung a leg over the motorcycle to climb on. He’d barely gotten his arms around Zachariah’s waist before the man had them in motion, racing out of the garage, bouncing over the gutter, and rocketing down the street at frightening speeds.
Ashton was thankful the helmet that Zachariah had given him had a face shield.
He clung to Zachariah as the man raced to the end of the block, skidding almost to a complete stop as he whipped the bike into a left turn. There was another motorcyclist coming right at them, hunched over as he gunned toward them. The helmeted figure jammed the bike down to a full stop and lifted a pistol, and Ashton felt Zachariah downshift his own bike. He tensed, letting go with one hand and grabbing the pistol tucked in his waistband. Before he could do anything with it, however, the man on the other motorcycle fired three shots. All three flew past them, and a yelp from a beast echoed from somewhere behind them.
Zachariah brought their bike to a slow roll. The shooter flipped the face shield on his helmet up, and Damon looked out at them.
“Follow me!” he yelled. He turned his motorcycle around and
back the way he’d come.
Before Zachariah pulled after him, an explosion ripped through the air, the concussive blast making Ashton’s ears pop. They both looked back for the source, and Ashton sucked in a breath when he saw the remains of Zachariah’s apartment raining down on the street below, flames licking out of the windows.
“Go, Zach, go,” Ashton ordered. Thankfully, Zachariah didn’t hesitate; he pulled the motorcycle forward again, racing after Damon.
Their boss led them through a veritable maze of side streets and alleyways, cutting through the city in a manner that even had Ashton lost, despite his familiarity with the city’s layout. It wasn’t until an hour later that Damon pulled into a one-way, narrow alley and slowed to a stop, dropping his feet to the pavement and cutting the engine.
Zachariah stopped and turned his own engine off. Ashton climbed off the bike with difficulty, accepting the hand Damon offered him. He pulled his helmet off and hobbled to the brick wall beside them, leaning against it and trying to get his head together. It felt muddled, like his brain was dragging through molasses.
Zachariah climbed off the bike and jerked his helmet off, flinging it onto the ground and snarling, “Fuck!” His face was flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat, his dark hair tangled and disheveled. He paced the alley, pulling at his hair, looking like he wanted to hit something. “What the hell happened back there?” he demanded. “Who was that?”
“No idea,” Damon said.
“And you.” Ashton looked up and discovered that Zachariah was glaring at him. “What the hell was up with that?”
“With what?” he asked.
“With your little moment with that woman,” Zachariah replied. “You look like you were about to cross the room and do whatever she told you to do.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied. He leaned over and put his head in his hands, massaging his temples. Damon said something he didn’t hear, and as Zachariah replied, he struggled to figure out what the hell had happened in the apartment.
He’d felt like he had known the woman, but he didn’t know how. He’d never seen her before in his life. At least, not as far as he knew, not before he’d seen her in the footage from Brandon’s office. But the more he thought on her, the more his head ached, like repressed memories were trying to break the surface. He couldn’t tell Zachariah that, though; neither of them could afford the distraction.
For the second time that night, the thought of feathers crossed his mind. He shoved it aside.
“—west,” Damon was saying as Ashton forced himself to tune back in to the conversation. He blinked, trying to catch up with Damon’s instructions. “Riley and Scott are in New Orleans. You can head in that direction and figure out how to meet up with them when you get there.”
“I can’t ride a bike all the way to Louisiana,” Ashton said. “My leg could barely take the ride to here.”
Damon dug into his pocket and produced a set of keys and a business card, handing them to Zachariah. “Take my SUV,” he offered. “It’s parked at my house. The address is on the card. Leave your bike behind my garage, and I’ll get it some place where it’ll be safe and hidden.”
Zachariah tucked the keys into his pocket and warned, “Take care of my bike, or I’ll have to track you down and kick your ass.” Then he beckoned to Ashton.
It took every bit of effort Ashton had in him to push away from the wall. His entire body, normally already achy on a good day, had begun to hurt in places he’d forgotten he had. He wasn’t looking forward to getting back on Zachariah’s motorcycle or putting the claustrophobia-inducing helmet back on his head.
It’s only for a little longer, he reminded himself. Then you can get into a nice, comfortable SUV and get some rest.
He could only hope they wouldn’t be waylaid by that woman or her cronies on the way.
Five
Riley and Scott were walking back to their hotel from Bourbon Street when Riley realized they were being followed. It’d only started as a suspicion, a triggering of a sixth sense that made the back of her neck tingle. She’d made no outward sign of reaction, waiting until she’d caught a glimpse of their tail in the reflection of a shop window. It took her a moment to recognize the figure, but when she did, she made the objective decision to keep her mouth shut. It was Jax, trailing along behind them in a stroll that wouldn’t grab attention from casual observers, clutching a red plastic cup in one hand, like he was coming from the revelries on Bourbon. She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder and frowned. It was possible Jax was just keeping an eye on them—he had, after all, said he would—or that he had something he planned to tell her when he found an opportune moment. The thought was enough to cement her decision to not mention the man trailing them at a distance.
She turned her focus to Scott. In the fading light of evening, she was struck once again by how handsome he was. It wasn’t like she’d forgotten, though; it was hard to forget when she’d been waking up next to the guy. Since they’d hauled ass out of Alabama, they had gotten closer, but she supposed that was natural when spending so much time around a person. It wasn’t like the relationship she’d had with her old partner, though; there was more distance between her and Scott, more wariness, less willingness to test boundaries. She hadn’t decided if she was pleased about that or not.
“Something on your mind?” Scott asked.
She startled, jumping at the suddenness of his question, and without time to think of something better to say, she blurted out, “I think we’re being followed.”
Scott chuckled like she’d said something amusing. “Don’t tell me you just noticed.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew. I’d be a shit agent if I didn’t notice.”
“So why haven’t you done something about it, then?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Scott cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why haven’t you?” he countered.
Ouch. That was going to leave a mark.
“I haven’t made a move because there are too many people around,” he continued. “And we can’t risk someone witnessing a confrontation. They might call the police.”
“Touché,” Riley agreed. She didn’t want a confrontation with Jax at all. She was sure it’d piss Scott off if he found out she’d had a run in with the man in the gym that morning and hadn’t bothered to tell him about it. She cast another glance in the next shop’s window and realized she couldn’t see Jax anymore. “I think we might have lost him,” she commented, her voice carefully neutral.
“On a straightaway? Don’t count us so damn lucky.” Scott grabbed her upper arm and shoved her into a dark, narrow space between two buildings, practically dragging her into the isolated seclusion there.
“Scott,” she protested in a low, heated whisper, “what the hell are you doing?”
“Checking for that tail,” he hissed. “Now shut it.” He drew a pistol from underneath his shirt and approached the mouth of the alley. Long moments passed, during which she counted her heartbeats, before he shook his head. “Huh. Maybe we were wrong.”
Riley latched onto that idea with everything she had. “Could have been a random guy heading to a bar or something,” she suggested.
“Maybe.” Scott looked doubtful, and he didn’t put his pistol away.
“We should get back to the hotel while we can,” she added. “Maybe grab a drink in the bar, some food, that sort of thing.”
“So it doesn’t bother you that we might’ve been followed?” he asked.
“It bothers me,” she said truthfully. “I don’t like being followed any more than you do. But I’m not letting it ruin my whole damn evening. Besides, we can watch the hotel’s front doors for whoever comes in while we’re at it.”
“That’ll be a little hard to do if you’re drunk, you realize,” he said, though his expression didn’t exactly indicate objection to the idea.
“One drink,” she said. “No more. Promise.” She glanced at the opening
of the alley; almost directly across from it, she could see Jax, his back half turned to her, by all appearances flirting with a young, dark-haired woman. Hopefully, Scott wouldn’t notice him.
Before Scott could answer, the distinctive buzz of a silenced cell phone ringing broke the air between them. It took her a second to realize it was her phone, and she fumbled for it, glancing at the screen before answering. It was Zachariah, one of the very people she didn’t feel like talking to right now, but she figured she’d better answer in case it was something important.
“Yeah,” she said by way of greeting.
“I’m calling for an important reason, and it has nothing to do with what went down in Tuscaloosa,” Zachariah said. Despite the fact it was Zachariah, she couldn’t help the sense of relief she felt at hearing her brother’s voice, though the urgency in it alarmed her. “So don’t hang up on me because I dared dial your number.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ash and I were attacked in my apartment,” he said. Her heart jittered in her chest. “It…did not end well. All of my belongings are toast, and we have nowhere to go. Damon told us—”
Riley couldn’t help herself. “I don’t care what Damon told you,” she cut in.
“Damn it, Riley, I told you not to interrupt me.”
“No, you told me not to hang up on you. You never said anything about interrupting.”
He sighed, a beleaguered sound that was surprisingly devoid of anger. Instead, she heard nothing but exhaustion. She felt bad for antagonizing him, and she took a deep breath, pushed any hostility she might have still had in her away for the moment, and asked, “What’s going on, Z?”
He didn’t comment on the nickname she’d just given him. “Like I said, we got attacked. Damon told us to get out of town, and he’d sent us west,” he explained. “He told us what city you’re in, but I don’t know how to get to you otherwise.”
“Where are you?” she asked. Then she shook her head. “No, don’t answer that. Who the hell knows if we’re being monitored?”
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