Dark Wolf Adrift

by Aimee Easterling

  And, finally, the hairs on the back of my neck lowered as the older male retreated. Alert and focused on the shifter world once again, I was able to gauge the pack’s withdrawal by their fading scent, an aroma that was finally cut off at the same moment that the door to the street whooshed open and then clicked shut.

  Then, from above my head, Trevor belted out his best rendition of a howler monkey’s call. Sure enough, brain had outsmarted brawn and our geekiest crew mate had won the prize.

  Chapter 3

  In or out? In or out? As I pondered the question two days later, my thumb sought the already worn edges of Stormwinder’s business card. But my hand skimmed across Kevlar instead of fabric, returning me to the present with a jolt.

  Shit. I’m letting down the team.

  Okay, so the day’s work was merely a training session and the day’s bombs were really just hunks of inactive plastic and metal. But the EOD truism still carried weight—a careless EOD tech was a dead EOD tech. None of us could afford lack of focus while on the job.

  Sure enough, Stooge nudged me and raised one eyebrow before addressing the team as a whole. “Ready?” he asked.

  In stark contrast to our antics the night before, our responses now were subdued—a few muttered “yes”es and half a dozen head nods. As a unit, we turned to gaze at the imitation Middle Eastern village located a couple of hundred yards away. People were absent, but the blazing heat of the afternoon sun combined with the trucked-in sand set the stage nicely. Our mission of finding and disarming a simulated bomb before hidden explosives took us out felt very much real.

  I could almost feel the calmness hovering over our group as every human took a deep breath and centered himself in the present. Yes, my team mates were pros...but I couldn’t say the same about myself.

  Usually by this point in a mission, my wolf would have been scenting the air in search of danger while also lending a little additional agility to puny human muscles. After all, the bomb suit Stooge and I traded off wearing was heavy and hot. So when, like today, it was my turn to disarm, a dual-species approach had proven to be the best method of ensuring our entire team made it out of trouble zones alive.

  This time, though, my wolf was intent upon driving his point home. Our pack is here, he whispered, continuing the silent argument we’d been slogging through ever since rolling out of bed that morning.

  Because while I’d turned Stormwinder away earlier in the week, I hadn’t been able to forget the other shifter’s offer. And now, as I watched my crew mates prepare for the simulated danger of a mine-laden combat zone, I realized for the first time that my wolf and I were very much on the outside looking in. How had I not noticed previously that I was the only one on the team who lacked a call sign?

  “Duckie, you’re in charge of border security. Romeo, you’ll lead the extraction crew. And Hunter, Banana, and I will defuse and disarm. Let’s go!”

  We set off toward the apparently deserted village at a trot, crew mates peeling away at intervals to follow predetermined routes. The sun’s heat, pleasant half an hour earlier, now pounded down upon my padded body armor and baked rivulets of sweat out of my skin. I flared my nostrils to catch a hint of our commanding officer’s odor, knowing he’d been the one to set up any potential booby traps. But my wolf refused to assist by catching the tiny tendrils of scent particles that I knew were currently diffusing through my protective helmet.

  Cooperate, I chided my inner beast. If they’re our pack, then act that way and watch their six.

  The wolf growled silently, but obeyed. Abruptly, the stuffy air within our suit became redolent with sensations. Saltwater and seaweed from the nearby bay mirrored the scent of our own sweat. The soft crunch of feet on sand and the call of a distant fish crow filled our ears.

  And there beneath the surface, far too minimal for a human to notice, lay our CO’s distinctive cologne. Old Spice to the rescue, I thought, mouth quirking up into a smile.

  “This way,” I told my companions, leading Stooge and Banana around the edge of what I knew was a mine buried in the ground mere inches away from our booted feet. Rain had washed the sand smooth, but some indefinable change in our CO’s aroma prompted me to pull out a flag and mark the spot so no other team mate would accidentally stumble over the simulated explosive.

  Well, the mine wasn’t entirely simulated. Our CO had a sense of humor and he’d rigged our booby traps in the past to spray out a mixture of red paint and cheap perfume. No one wanted to spend the rest of the day scrubbing pigment and old-lady scent off their uniform. The danger was very much real.

  “One of these days, you’ll explain how you noticed that,” Stooge murmured, eying what appeared to be an entirely untouched patch of earth. But he and Banana both followed my lead, skirting the danger zone before padding deeper into the apparently abandoned village in my wake.

  See, Stooge trusts us, my wolf murmured, worrying the issue the same way we’d gnaw at an old bone during the rare periods when we were able to sneak away to run four-legged through the woods.

  He trusts his human partner, I countered. Stooge and the rest of the crew were our brothers. But would they be so inclusive after catching a hint of our deep dark secret?

  I doubted it. No, they’d see me for the monster I truly was and cast me out.

  “Wait a sec.” Stooge pulled me up short with a hand on my arm. Instantly, I paused with one foot raised, head swiveling as I scanned the nearby buildings.

  There. The shiny black box had escaped my navel-gazing attention and I snapped my brain back into the job like a rubber band against bare skin. My wolf and I could argue later. For now, we needed to track down the primary explosive and ensure our entire team made it out of the war zone intact.

  “Good catch,” I commented. It would have been better to notice the camera before it provided the enemy with an eyeful of our presence. But a piece of electrical tape over the lens did the trick to protect later team members.

  Unfortunately, we were now racing against the clock, having been sighted and almost certainly targeted by the opposition. I only hoped Romeo had done a better job of paying attention to his surroundings and was marking a safe exit route that would make up for my own bad judgment. Because we’d need every second remaining if we hoped to defuse the bomb before it blew.

  Luckily, my wolf worked well under pressure. Close, he murmured, turning my human head toward the west where our CO’s scent was strongest. We couldn’t afford to sprint, not with possible incendiary devices around every corner. But I upped the necessarily waddling pace mandated by my bomb suit from walk to trot while my companions flanked me in more graceful, unimpeded lopes.

  “Bogies in route, four minutes until estimated arrival,” my ear piece crackled in Duckie’s distinctive voice. But the deadline didn’t matter. No, the pressure plate of an improvised explosive device was already in sight and the design looked awfully familiar.

  Sure, every IED was different, but after a while you got used to the signature characteristics of certain makers. And this unit tweaked an old neural pathway well-worn into my wolf’s motor memory. A filthy can full of explosives and shrapnel, a few connecting wires, and a hacksaw-blade pressure plate. Dismantling the primary trigger would be a piece of cake.

  “Your turn?” Stooge said, his words an uncharacteristic question. Usually, he wouldn’t have even bothered to ask—whoever donned the bomb suit defused the IED. But my partner sensed I wasn’t as present as I’d like to be and was offering up an easy out.

  And maybe the smart answer would have been to let Stooge take the lead just this once. Still, I was better at sniffing out those secondary triggers that were oh so likely to bite us in the butt. Plus, I felt the need to redeem myself. So I ignored smart and chose expedient.

  “My turn,” I agreed, pulling tools out of the case I’d been carrying by my side. This particular IED looked so simple that I could probably have removed the detonator in my sleep. I figured I’d have it done in thirty seconds, leaving t
hree solid minutes with which to make our escape.

  Of course, that assessment was based on rock-steady hands. Even with a bare-bones unit like this one, the merest slip of a finger would send me and Stooge both to the nearest hospital. Bomb suits were no match for a blast at close quarters.

  Not real, my wolf reminded me. But, simulation or no, my entire team believed in the danger. In preparation, Stooge and Banana retreated to the other side of the empty street as I assessed the unit visually. Meanwhile, my heart rate picked up and the trickle of sweat seeping off my forehead turned into a river as I slipped a tiny metal blade through the electrical tape holding three wires together.

  My hands were bare for the sake of finesse, but I knew lack of gloves only upped the stakes yet further. Because losing a hand for a human would be rough. As a wolf? I wouldn’t be able to run and hunt with only three working paws. Inconceivable.

  Carefully, oh so carefully, I moved on from the wires to the case itself. Prying up the top of the can exposed the guts, wires in just the orientation I’d predicted. Child’s play, I murmured silently...just as the shrill blast of an unexpected dog whistle cut through the muggy afternoon air.

  And my wolf, that rock-solid ally who had helped me survive far worse than this simulated desert village, flinched. Despite myself, my head turned in search of danger and my right leg jerked to one side.

  Crunch!

  My heart skipped a beat as I looked down and saw a secondary trigger mashed into active mode by my fumbling feet. It’s not real, I reminded myself, mimicking my wolf’s earlier admonition in an effort to keep my heart from pounding its way out of my chest.

  Still, when Stooge gazed at me with such an expression of disappointed confusion on his face that it felt like a punch to the gut, I almost wished the IED had been functional. At least then I wouldn’t have had to bear my team mate’s distress.

  Then our CO chimed in. “Boom,” he informed the entire unit through our shared radio waves. “You are dead.”

  Chapter 4

  “That was such a rookie mistake,” Stooge ribbed me as we walked into our favorite bar that evening. My first impulse after virtually blowing both of us up had been to go home and lick my wounds. But that wasn’t how a team worked. When one of our own failed, we took him out on the town...and teased him mercilessly.

  “Worse than Duckie,” Ian agreed, punching me on the shoulder with enough force to knock a civilian backwards. I, of course, stood my ground.

  “Really? A slip of the fingers is worse than hitting your head on every single lintel between here and China?” I countered.

  “I can’t help it that I’m tall,” Samuel grumbled. But, true to his call sign, our team mate ducked unconsciously as he passed through the doorway we were all filing through. Yep, the nickname had done its job admirably—I doubted Duckie would knock himself silly due to carelessness ever again.

  And while Samuel might have preferred a different nickname, I knew our newest team member was pleased to have been given one in the first place. Because call signs were more than just a warning. Instead, they were the human equivalent of a werewolf pack bond—audible signposts displaying our shared brotherhood. As a result, I couldn’t help hoping that the current round of mocking was finally going to land me with a title other than the one I’d walked in with.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. My team mates groused about my ineptitude and grumbled about my fumble fingers, yet no call sign materialized out of the ether.

  Tamping down my disappointment, I flipped my companions off and headed over to Ian’s favorite bartender to buy the first round of drinks. Before I reached her station, though, my inner wolf came entirely alert with a vengeance. The door to the street had opened half a second prior and now the air eddying around my head was filled with a hint of fur, a touch of wild, and a heaping helping of alpha dominance.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  I spun, checking on team mates and intruders in the same breath. The former were safely distant, their attention focused on the pyramid they were building out of empty beer cans snagged from a nearby table. But the latter were close enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck and set my teeth on edge.

  I thought you were gone for good, I growled silently, taking in the sight of that redheaded outpack male who I’d cowed into pissing his pants two days earlier. Only as I more fully rolled his aroma around in my mouth did I realize the error of my ways.

  The drifter hadn’t backed down then because he wasn’t a drifter. He was a fledgling pack leader trying to set up shop in the town I called home. And as such, he wasn’t willing to let a little thing like an uber-alpha werewolf ruin his plans.

  In the days we’d spent apart, in fact, my opponent had rustled up four other shifters to even the odds. They now stood five abreast just inside the bar’s entrance, looking every bit like Old West gunmen gearing up for a final showdown. Meanwhile, the sour stomach I’d developed as a result of the day’s disappointment actually made the upcoming confrontation sound like a pretty darn good idea.

  Down, boy, I told myself. The same reasoning I’d applied earlier in the week for avoiding territorial clashes was still very much in effect. After all, I was doing my best to pass as human. And no one-body in this bar needed to have his grasp on reality shaken by being caught up in a werewolf turf battle.

  “This is a very bad idea,” I muttered, wishing I had a beer in my hand to keep my fingers from curling into fists. Without the aforementioned prop, I was forced to maintain my focus the old-fashioned way, forcing my shoulders to relax and my muscles to slacken.

  A human wouldn’t have been able to pick up on my words from that distance, but the lead male immediately grinned a toothy werewolf challenge by way of reply. “What’s a bad idea, Hunter Green,” he answered, “is going up against me.”

  Despite myself, I flinched back away from his reply. As soon as I’d seen his familiar face, I had expected a threat...but not such a personal one. How had this upstart alpha discovered my identity on such short notice?

  And what else, exactly, had he managed to nose out?

  Most shifters who’d crossed my path recently hadn’t even managed to find my name during our short acquaintance, much less discover anything else about my history. After all, I’d spent the last eight years doing everything in my power to float beneath the werewolf radar.

  I’d thought I was pretty successful too...until now. The question was, had my opponent stuck to the basics or had he managed to disinter the foundations of my not-so-kosher past?

  “Hunter Green,” the other male repeated. “Naval Spec Ops. EOD technician. Twenty-four years old.”

  He grinned and I felt my whole face heating up with the force of my anger. Was the dickhead really going to blackmail me about the highly illegal and borderline treasonous hoops I’d been forced to jump through in order to join the U.S. military?

  The trouble was, as a bloodling shifter born in lupine form and raised outside any established pack, I didn’t possess a legit birth certificate or social security card. So when the time came to create a human persona, I’d figured I might as well fudge a little.

  Adding two years onto my age hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. At sixteen, I’d been far more buff than my eighteen-year-old human counterparts. I’d certainly amassed enough life experiences to pass for an adult.

  Plus, I needed those extra twenty-four months under my belt if I wanted to sign up for the Navy and enter a werewolf-free arena. So I’d paid for the fake documents and banked on no one running a background check on a country boy who joined up as a plain old sailor.

  Sure enough, upon transferring over to the EOD division a couple of years later, I’d slid right under the military’s terrorist-sniffing radar. It had been worth it, too, since my new human crew mates filled the cavernous hole in my belly that yearned for pack, lulling my wolf into complacency for the first time since discovering our human skin.

  Meanwhile, my military role had al
lowed me to make a positive impact on the world, sniffing out mines that threatened civilian ships and defusing wrecked missiles before they could go off in friendly territory.

  And now this drifter thought he had the right to ruin my good thing on a whim? Could you really blame me for the fact that my hands found their way around the stranger’s neck and commenced to squeeze?

  Chapter 5

  My opponent gurgled frantically, prying at my fingers to no avail. Around us, the usual friendly chatter and quiet clinks of glasses stilled as our audience took in the new entertainment. Even Stooge, who was busy putting the crowning touches on his beer pyramid, noticed the change in atmosphere and called over a complaint.

  “Dude, you’re not getting into a fight without us, are you?”

  I didn’t have time to reply, though. Because the blackmailer’s buddies were converging upon me and it took every ounce of my training to focus on disarming rather than de-arming.

  Yes, my wolf was very much awake and he wanted blood.

  Dropping the blackmailer at my feet, I spun and cold cocked the nearest bastard while scooping the legs out from under the guy on his left flank. The already dim barroom lighting blurred then sharpened as my inner wolf assisted my vision, and soon the fourth shifter had been felled with a trio of quick punches to the side of his face.

  The fifth came at me from behind and I elbowed him hard in the kidney even as my initial combatant clambered back to his feet. “You can cede this territory and leave now,” the blackmailer hissed. “Alternatively, I’ll pick off your buddies one by one until they’re all six feet under. You can’t protect your pet humans every moment of every day.”

  I snarled at the truth of his statement, yet I held onto my thread of control. I figured I’d break an arm apiece, teach those alpha-wannabe losers enough of a lesson that they’d run home to mommy with their tails between their legs. My crew would be safe once word got out that I protected my own.