by Paige Tyler
Holy crap.
Danica skidded to a stop at the edge of the roof seconds later and peered down at the street below, expecting to see the man in black on the ground. But there was no sign of him. She looked around wildly for another way off the roof. There were some heavy-duty electrical conduits running along the side of the building almost all the way to the ground, as well as a set of guide wires that attached a big antenna to the corner of the warehouse. The man could have used one of those as an escape route, but it would have taken him a few minutes to get down to street level. Which meant he hadn’t gone down that way.
So where did he go?
The door leading to the stairwell on the building across the alley banged against the wall, then slowly swung closed. That really bad feeling she had in her stomach suddenly got a whole lot worse.
Dammit.
She eyed the gap between the roof she was on and the other warehouse. It had to be twenty-five feet at least, maybe thirty. The roof over there was about ten feet lower than the one where she was standing, but there weren’t any normal humans she knew who could make that leap. She knew some not-so-normal humans who could, though. If she was right, this wasn’t the kind of guy she and her partner should go after by themselves. Hell, she wouldn’t want to go after him with four or five agents for backup.
Danica holstered her gun and turned to head back downstairs when Tony rushed onto the roof. She waved him off.
“All clear. It was a homeless guy. He slid down some electrical conduits and disappeared. I’m pretty sure he’s not our guy.”
Tony’s dark eyes scanned the rooftop as he shoved his gun in his holster. “Maybe he saw who dumped the body.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll give a description to the locals and see what they turn up.”
She hated lying to Tony. They’d been partners for the past two years and friends even longer—since all the way back at Quantico. But what the hell was she going to say? That there was a not-quite-human guy out there who could jump thirty feet in a single bound? Tony was a good FBI agent—a great one even—but he was practical to a fault. He’d think she’d lost her marbles. She had to keep her partner in the dark for his own good.
Luckily, the two Sacramento police officers had been so busy covering either side of the long warehouse they hadn’t seen what had happened on her end. Good. She hadn’t been looking forward to trying to convince them they hadn’t seen something they really had. Since that wasn’t an issue, she sent them off on a wild goose chase after an imaginary homeless guy. Yet one more thing to feel bad about, but she’d gotten used to living in a morally gray world long ago.
While Tony called in the situation to the task force command center, she crouched down and checked the body once more. As she surveyed the mutilated remains, she desperately wanted to convince herself this wasn’t what she thought it was. But that would be a crock of crap. She’d seen this more than once—back when she worked for the Department of Covert Operations.
She stood up and walked around the warehouse looking for anything that might give them a clue as to who’d dumped the body. And it had definitely been a body dump. She didn’t need a crime scene tech to tell her that. Unfortunately, the killer hadn’t left so much as a piece of lint behind. That sucked. It would be so much better for everyone if forensic evidence and old-fashioned detective work led them to this killer. But it wasn’t going down that way. And delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to make that call to the super-secret organization she used to work for any easier.
Danica walked outside to find Tony briefing the lead crime scene investigator. She gave her partner a wave as she held up her cell phone and moved off to the side. She dialed as she walked, her finger flying over the keypad from memory. Two years and she still remembered the number. God, that was sad.
She held her breath as she waited for the person on the other end to pick up. When she’d walked away from the DCO, it hadn’t been on her terms, and it had been ugly. Getting involved with them again was going to open a lot of old wounds. But stopping a serial killer was more important than hurt feelings and a broken heart.
* * *
This wasn’t going to end well.
Clayne squatted behind the sandbag barricade as live rounds of ammunition buzzed over his head. It wasn’t the live-fire training exercise out at the DCO training complex in Quantico that worried him—he’d taken part in hundreds of these stupid things. Other than someone screwing up and drilling a round through your forehead while you moved from one covered position to the next, there wasn’t much to get jazzed about. Occasionally, you might have to return fire against various pop-up targets. If the training officer running the op was really feeling his oats, you might get to engage in a little hand-to-hand combat at specific designated no-fire zones. Again, no big deal.
But today was different. Because today, he’d been paired up with Tanner, the Hybrid from Hell. Maybe it wasn’t the nicest way to describe a guy who was trying to get his life together, but Clayne couldn’t think of anything better to label the man-made shifter. The drugs that had been used to turn him into a shifter had come with some nasty side effects. While Clayne might have anger management issues, Tanner went stark-raving mad at the drop of a hat. And when he did, the ragged claws, long fangs, and strength beyond that of any shifter made him the most dangerous and uncontrollable creature the DCO had ever dealt with. That’s why everyone in the DCO called Tanner and those like him a hybrid instead of a shifter.
Some things just didn’t make sense from the get-go. Like ordering a Diet Coke with a monster burger. Or giving a guy who had more issues with anger management and impulse control than Clayne did a loaded weapon and putting him in a combat scenario.
Oh yeah. This really wasn’t going to end well.
Clayne swore under his breath as he moved out from behind his covered position and hauled ass for a pile of logs fifteen feet away. The gunfire over his head sounded a whole hell of a lot closer than before. If the machine gunner on top of the hill was doing his job right, the bullets would be ten feet above his head. But it was hard not to duck anyway.
As he dove behind the barricade, Clayne caught sight of Tanner out of the corner of his eye. The hybrid was right there beside him.
Thirty minutes earlier, Clayne had been getting ready to run the exercise with Trevor Maxwell, one of the other shifters he’d worked with a few times. He wasn’t exactly friends with Trevor—though that could be said about almost anyone at the DCO—but he respected him. The coyote shifter and his industrial-espionage-slash-counter-intelligence team—humans, or norms, though they may be—were damn good at their job.
Then Dick Coleman had shown up with Tanner Howland in tow. That should have clued Clayne in that something screwy was up. Dick rarely came out to the live-fire training area. Probably because he was afraid one of the dozens of people he pissed off on a recurring basis would “accidentally” shoot him. And if that hadn’t been enough to let Clayne know something was up, the fact that the Russian doctor, Zarina Sokolov, was hurrying after them with a concerned look on her pretty face sure as hell should have.
“Howland is taking Maxwell’s place,” he’d told Todd Newman, the training officer for the exercise.
When Todd had attempted to point out it wasn’t a good idea to introduce Tanner to DCO training in the middle of a live-fire exercise, Dick waved away his concerns.
“He was an Army Ranger. This stuff is child’s play for him.”
So Todd had given Tanner a loaded M4 carbine and told him to follow Clayne’s lead.
Clayne had to admit that so far Tanner was doing damn good. He covered Clayne when necessary, reacted quickly to pop-up targets in his sector, and didn’t hesitate to move under overhead fire. The tactical exercise was still talking a toll on the guy. Tanner’s eyes were a bit too wide, he was sweating a bit too much, and his jaw looked like it was clenched so hard that dental damage was a definite possibility. Worse, his heart was racing a hundred miles an ho
ur. Clayne knew because he could hear it.
But despite all that, Tanner was keeping it together.
The end of the live-fire lane—the base of a squat, wooden tower atop the shallow hill where the machine gunner was positioned—was only forty feet away. A couple more sprints and they’d both be there.
Maybe this would turn out okay after all.
Suddenly, the ground in front of them exploded.
Clayne leaped for the next covered position before the pressure wave of the detonating plastic explosives reached him. Tanner didn’t react as fast. The blast hit him right in the face, throwing him back on his ass. The demo charge had been small, probably no more than a quarter pound, and it had been buried several feet off the course for safety, so while the explosion might not technically have been dangerous, there was nothing like having shit blow up right near you to convince you otherwise. Even Clayne’s heart was thumping pretty hard now.
From his crouched position, he leaned forward to take a quick look around the sandbags and saw four enemy combatants coming his way. Guess Todd had decided it was time for the hand-to-hand portion of the exercise.
This was one of those training scenarios you didn’t see anywhere but in the most serious special ops organizations, like the SEALs, Special Forces…and the DCO. Because combining live weapons, live explosives, pumping adrenaline, and hand-to-hand fighting was usually a recipe for disaster. People were known to get killed doing this kind of shit.
As if on cue, Tanner let out a roar. It wasn’t the sound a soldier made as he readied himself for a charge. It wasn’t even the growl a shifter made to intimidate an opponent. It was the sound a hybrid made when he lost his freaking mind.
Clayne spun around to see Tanner throwing someone—one of Maxwell’s team members, former Navy SEAL Jake Basso—fifteen feet into the woods. In a fraction of a second, Tanner turned and casually blocked a flying kick from another opponent—this time Air Force Pararescue Jumper Ed Vincent—then swatted the man like a cat taking down a humming bird. Ed hit the ground hard and didn’t get up.
Tanner stood over him, his claws shoved out so far his fingertips were bleeding from the force they’d exerted as they ripped through his skin. His upper canines were extended an inch beyond his other teeth, which had grown as well. His freaking jaw had actually pushed out to accommodate the sudden growth spurt. And his eyes were glowing scarlet.
Clayne had seen plenty of shifters change, but never like this. Tanner wasn’t a man shifting into a lion. He seemed more like a lion that was trying to claw its way out of a man. And the result was freaking creepy.
Tanner reached for Ed Vincent, fangs flashing as if he intended to eat the guy.
Clayne ignored the DCO agent who was supposed to be his enemy in the exercise, and instead launched at Tanner. If he didn’t jump in, somebody was going to get killed—probably more than one somebody. He could have shifted, too, extending his claws and fangs to gain an advantage, but he resisted the urge. Two shifters going at each other was never pretty. The end result would only be bloody. And that’s what he was trying to avoid.
He hit Tanner as the shifter was about to sink his claws into Ed’s chest. Clayne was the biggest shifter in the DCO next to Declan MacBride, but when he slammed his shoulder into Tanner’s ribs, the hybrid barely noticed. Clayne wrapped his arms around him, hoping to take him down that way, but Tanner only shrugged like he was trying to brush off an irritating mosquito.
Clayne ground his jaw. He hadn’t wanted to get rough, but Tanner wasn’t giving him a choice. He balled his hand into a fist and punched Tanner across the jaw with everything he had. His hand felt like he’d rammed it into a brick wall, so Clayne knew Tanner had to have felt it. But while Tanner’s head rocked back, it didn’t seem to have fazed him. He glared at Clayne, then took a swipe at him. Clayne ducked just in time. If Tanner’d raked anything important with those long-ass claws, the DCO would be looking for a new wolf shifter.
Clayne punched Tanner hard in the ribs, then danced out before the counterstrike came. That was when the cavalry arrived. Trevor jumped on Tanner’s back, while someone else got him around the knees. The next thing Clayne knew, there were a half-dozen men piling on top of the enraged hybrid. But Tanner still wouldn’t go down.
Clayne slammed his shoulder into Tanner’s solar plexus with enough force to send the hybrid tumbling to the ground. He grabbed a fistful of Tanner’s long hair and twisted, doing everything he could to keep those fangs away from anything soft and squishy. On the other side of him, Maxwell was using all his strength to keep one of Tanner’s arms pinned to the dirt. The other men were wrestling to hold his legs down. Even with all of them, Clayne wasn’t sure they were going to be able to restrain the DCO’s pet hybrid. Tanner was insanely strong, and it was damn near impossible to stop a guy like that when no one wanted to hurt him. But it was starting to look like that wasn’t going to be an option for much longer.
Someone else jumped on Tanner’s chest. Clayne caught a glimpse of blond hair and realized it was Zarina.
“Dammit, Zarina!” Clayne snarled. “Get back before you get yourself killed.”
Instead of obeying, she put her face close to Tanner’s and whispered softly to him. Clayne could barely hear anything over the growls, grunts, and cussing going on, but when he finally tuned his exceptional hearing in to what she was saying, he realized the doctor was speaking Russian, which he didn’t understand a lick of. Although cooing was probably a better word for it. Like she was comforting a child. Whatever she said, it worked. Tanner relaxed and stopped struggling. The red eyes, the fangs, and the claws—along with the really bad attitude—disappeared.
Clayne wasn’t ready to release him yet, though. The other DCO agents holding him down clearly weren’t, either. If anything, they used the opportunity to get a firmer grip on Tanner.
“You can let him go.” Zarina’s voice was almost as soft as it had been when she’d comforted Tanner. “He won’t hurt you.”
Clayne hesitated. Tanner seemed as if he were back in control of the beast inside him. Besides, they couldn’t sit on him the rest of the day. Hoping he was doing the right thing, Clayne relaxed his grip and sat back on his heels. The other men looked unsure but slowly did the same. Clayne frowned as they checked each other for injuries. Jake seemed to have gotten the worst of it if the way he was holding his side was any indication. He had broken ribs for sure. Ed was standing a little funny, too. Maxwell was the only member of his team who looked like he was still in one piece. No surprise there. Shifters didn’t go down easy.
Clayne turned his attention back to Tanner. If the look of horror on his face was any indication, the man was torn up over what he’d done. Clayne knew where he was coming from. There’d been a shitload of times in his life when the animal inside him had taken over and he’d been forced to live with the consequences afterward.
As he watched, Zarina gently brushed Tanner’s hair back from his forehead, completely unconcerned that moments ago he’d been a raving monster. She seemed to be the only one who could control Tanner—or at least get through to him—when he went into a rage.
“You injured, Buchanan?”
The question came from Todd Newman. Clayne had been so focused on Tanner he hadn’t even heard the training officer walk up. He shook his head. “Nah. Not a scratch on me.”
“Good. Because John wants to see you.”
Clayne started to ask what he wanted, but Todd turned and walked away before he could. If the director of the DCO wanted to see him, Clayne had either done something to piss someone off or John Loughlin had a mission for him. Since Clayne didn’t remember pissing anyone off lately, it was probably the latter. John liked sending him on short-notice jobs that required little planning and a whole lot of direct action. It usually meant dropping what he was doing and leaving right away, but that suited him just fine. He much preferred punching things to sitting in meeting after meeting, planning shit.
He turned to leave, but Tanner
’s voice stopped him.
“I’m sorry,” Tanner said. “About losing it like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Clayne told him. “No one got hurt. It’s all good.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Clayne cut in. “Keep working on staying in control and you’ll get there. You were ninety percent done with the course before you blew a fuse. That’s better than you would have done two months ago.”
When Tanner opened his mouth to say something, this time it was Zarina who interrupted him.
“I told you so…”
Clayne practically ran into Kendra Carlsen as he walked into the administrative building. The behavioral-scientist-slash-training-officer stumbled back a few steps to catch her balance. He almost reached out to steady her, but thought better of it.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.
“No problem.” She chewed on her lip, her blue eyes looking anywhere and everywhere but at him. “Um, I gotta run. John’s looking for you by the way.”
“Yeah, I know. Todd told…”
But Kendra was already out the door. Which was kind of a relief. Because having a conversation with her would probably be awkward as hell considering the date they’d recently gone on had been a train wreck. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. It’d be more accurate to say they hadn’t hit it off, which in his book was the same thing. Why the hell had he let Ivy talk him into going out with Kendra? Because the feline shifter could be very persuasive when she wanted to be.
John was on the phone when Clayne stuck his head in. The director glanced at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses, motioning for him to have a seat on the leather couch. Clayne dropped onto the sofa, stifling a groan as he sat back on the soft cushions. Damn, he was sore from that impromptu wrestling match with Tanner. He needed a long soak in a hot tub, preferably with a couple beers.
“I completely understand,” John said to whoever was on the other end of the line. “I’m sending one of my best agents to help out. He’s very discreet and will blend perfectly with the team you’ve already assembled out there.” John glanced at Clayne, his mouth twitching. “Well, perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch, but he’s damn good, I can tell you that. I can’t guarantee he won’t ruffle a few feathers, but if he does, call me and I’ll smooth them out.”