Melinda's Wolves

by Becca Jameson

  Keegan wasn’t the only one on pins and needles. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to catch on to the fact trouble was brewing.

  He spent the entire day making his way to every section of the building in an effort to cover every base. He needed every single fact documented—both mentioned in Friedmont’s email and discovered on their own.

  There was no doubt the foundation would need to be re-poured. The concrete used the first time hadn’t been up to the standard level of quality that existed even before the earthquake. And with the new requirements put in place after the seismic activity, the piles needed to be re-poured at a much deeper level.

  All work on the frame was halted first thing in the morning. There was no need to continue. All construction came to an abrupt halt. The workers held the face of fear, knowing without words their jobs were at stake. Best case scenario they got laid off for months on end while the entire job was torn down and prepared to begin anew.

  Worst case scenario—the casino project was scrapped entirely and hundreds of men who anticipated working on the outskirts of Sojourn for the next several years lost their jobs permanently.

  Either option sucked.

  While the FBI worked behind the scenes to investigate Templeton Construction themselves, every hand on deck worked feverishly to gather evidence of the physical sort.

  What Keegan hoped for was that whoever sent him the threatening email was caught—and fast. He wouldn’t rest easy until he knew for sure his mates were safe. And even then, he knew he would sleep with one eye open for many years. Who knew how deep the pockets of a rich, greedy bastard could be?

  Keegan felt the weight of a heavy burden as he stepped out onto the scaffolding erected in one of the far corners of the site. The team of men already on the platform gave him a grim look. “Sorry, boss. The wood used for this section of the framework was also in poor shape. Some of it is rotted, and it wasn’t cured correctly.”

  Keegan’s shoulders slumped. This wasn’t what he signed up for when he became an inspector. His presence alone was meant to ensure nothing like this ever happened. In fact, out of concern, Mitch had spent the better part of the day hunting down the previous inspector assigned to this project. The FBI had also gotten involved in that task. Seemed the man had vanished without a trace. Had he left the country or assumed a different name to avoid being arrested? Or had he been killed?

  Or hell, there was always the possibility he was simply so stupid he didn’t pay any attention to details that amounted to cheap materials and shoddy construction. If that were the case, he would never work in building inspection again. If he turned a blind eye, he would be criminally negligent.

  A chill raced down Keegan’s spine. Every moment he dug deeper made him more fearful for the safety of his mates—especially Melinda. Trace was a cop. He could take care of himself. Melinda could not.

  Even though she had two local shifters with her for the day, Keegan didn’t like this arrangement. It couldn’t go on for days on end. He would blow a blood vessel in his temple.

  Keegan glanced around the entire site from his position high off the ground. For the first time in his career, he hated his job. As he turned to descend from the platform, the surface swayed to one side. He grabbed onto the railing and twisted back to find the other three men doing the same. “What the—” He never got the rest of that sentence out. Before he could finish, the scaffolding rumbled, the loud screech of metal on metal filling the air. The entire structure shook.

  And then it collapsed.

  •●•

  “Jesus.” Trace turned at the sound behind him—as if a freight train were barreling through the construction site. When he saw the scaffolding swaying back and forth, he dropped the clipboard and ran. He didn’t make it more than ten feet before the structure collapsed, caving in on itself and taking down what he thought were four men on the top.

  All that was left was a cloud of smoke. And the silence. The silence was deafening. It seemed as if time stood still while Trace ran faster, dozens of men around him doing the same thing.

  As if he were in a soundproof room, he heard nothing. And then he seemed to bust through the glass wall. He gasped for oxygen as the screaming started all around him.

  He ran harder, barely acknowledging the fact that he didn’t trust even the solid concrete foundation he tread upon.

  So many men surrounded the pile of wood and dust and debris. Everyone yelled out instructions. It didn’t matter. They all had one goal in mind—freeing the buried workers.

  An arm popped up out of the rubble. Someone grabbed for it and tugged. “Help. Jesus. It’s Marcos. Somebody help.” Three people carefully surrounded the arm and dug with their hands into the pile of wood and metal poles.

  And then there was a head. The man gasped for air, sputtering through the dust. He was covered with dirt, making his features completely unrecognizable. Trace wondered how anyone knew who the man was. He could have been Caucasian or African-American or Native American. His hair and face were completely the color of concrete dust. In fact, if he hadn’t blinked his eyes, Trace wasn’t sure he would have known he was looking at a human being.

  He was alive. That was all that mattered.

  “I found another one,” someone yelled on the other side of the debris.

  Several men scrambled to help, including Trace. “How many men were on top? I thought I saw four?”

  “That’s right. I was only a few feet away. Three of the workers, including Marcos over there, and the site inspector.”

  Trace froze. He grabbed the man who’d spoken by the arm and yanked him back. “The inspector?”

  “Yeah, Keegan Phillips.”

  All of the blood rushed from Trace’s face. He continued to grip the man by the biceps to avoid collapsing. He finally closed his mouth and swallowed. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  The man tipped his head to one side and furrowed his brow, nodding. “I saw them. In fact, I turned around as soon as the scaffolding started to creak. Phillips was up there.” The guy jerked out of Trace’s grasp and jumped toward the second victim.

  Someone grabbed Trace’s other arm. He twisted his face to find Corbin. “I can’t find Keegan.”

  Trace almost lost it. He wanted to drop to his knees and pray to any higher being who would listen to him, but that wouldn’t do any good. He needed to shake out of it and start digging.

  Something on his face must have alerted Corbin to the state of affairs because Corbin’s eyes went huge. “Fuck.”

  At once, both men turned toward the rubble and started digging. They were ill-equipped to make much of a difference with their bare hands and deputy uniforms hindering their progress, but that didn’t stop them.

  Trace heard Mitch shouting over the noise, yelling out instructions to everyone around. Any attempt to turn the chaos into a structured search for survivors was completely ignored in the haste every man felt to remove pieces of wood, rebar, concrete, and poles. Their friends, co-workers, and comrades were buried alive.

  And Trace’s mate and best friend was under this pile of debris.

  All Trace’s physical energy was spent digging as fast as he could. All his mental energy was spent blocking Melinda and ignoring her growing alarm. She could tell he was upset. He hadn’t been able to keep that from her. But so far, every comment she made in his head sounded level. She didn’t know.

  Trace sat back on his heels and lifted his face to the sky as it occurred to him he needed to try and contact Keegan telepathically. It was worth the effort.

  “Keegan. Man. Answer me.”

  Nothing.

  “Keegan.” He tried shouting through their connection as if it would make a difference.

  Nothing.

  That didn’t mean jack, however. If Keegan was knocked out, he wouldn’t be able to respond.

  Trace resumed lifting two-by-fours and tossing them behind him. How had this much rubble come from a simple structure of scaffolding?

  Sh
outing erupted once again as the second man was pulled from the debris.

  Trace stared at the limp body being pulled out, wishing it were Keegan and feeling like a heel for not praising the rescue of someone else. He turned back to the section he was working on. Mitch grabbed his arm, jerking him until he met his gaze. “We’ll find him. We will,” he insisted. His face was eerily concerned—inhuman, eyes wide, mouth open, the fear so evident Trace thought Mitch felt this tragedy deeper than himself. Which was absurd.

  Trace turned back to the rubble.

  They’d been mated only three days. Not long enough. It would destroy Melinda if Keegan wasn’t found alive.

  It would destroy Trace. They’d been friends their entire lives. This could not be happening.

  Melinda interrupted his thoughts. “Damnit, Trace. What the hell is going on? Your emotions are all over the place. And I can’t reach Keegan at all. If you don’t talk to me, I swear to God…”

  Trace stiffened, but he had no choice but to pretend he didn’t hear her. What could he possibly say?

  No. All of his energy had to go into finding their third mate and saving his life at all costs. There was no other option.

  A giant beam of light suddenly covered the area.

  Trace lifted his gaze to squint up at the addition. He hadn’t noticed it had begun to grow dark.

  Shit. Melinda. They’d told her not to leave work until one of them could come get her. Fuck.

  Trace was about to make contact with her when a high-pitched female cry filled the air. He knew that voice, and he whipped his head to the side to find Melinda running toward him. The look on her face was full of something he’d never seen and hoped he never saw again.

  Fury.

  He opened his mouth to speak—to tell her not to get so close—to promise her things he couldn’t guarantee—to chew her out for leaving work without an escort.

  But she kept coming, her face a tight ball of anger.

  He thought she intended to fling herself into his arms, but at the last second, she stopped short, put out her fists, and beat his chest. “You bastard. How could you?” she screamed.

  Stunned, Trace let her pummel him, unable to stop her, absorbing her anger. But why was it directed at him?

  A woman Trace didn’t know came up behind and grabbed Melinda, wrapping her arms around Melinda’s waist and hauling her backward. “Get a grip, sweetie. Let the men work. They’re doing everything they can.”

  Trace started to stand, but Melinda held out a hand over the arm wrapped around her middle. “Don’t fucking talk to me. Keep working.”

  Trace turned back around. He scanned the area. There were far more people present than earlier. Sirens wailed in the vicinity. How had he not noticed them before? Several more lights had been erected to give the workers the illumination they needed to keep digging.

  A large crane lowered into the middle of the pile and slowly lifted a heavy piece of concrete.

  Dread and a sense of hopelessness filled Trace to the point he thought he might actually die.

  This was bad. It had been hours. Too long to go without oxygen. Two more men were buried alive—Keegan was just one of them.

  “Trace.” Mitch’s voice interrupted him as he stuck his hands back to the ground and pried away another board. “Trace. Look at me. You have to stop. You’re doing no one any good. Your hands are bleeding. You need to go comfort your mate. There are enough people working now. Go.”

  Trace jerked his gaze to the side and glared at Mitch. “Never.” And he meant it. He wouldn’t stop working until Keegan’s body was pulled free of the rubble, alive or dead. And if the latter occurred, he didn’t think he’d ever truly be alive himself again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Melinda struggled against the arms around her waist. She had no idea who held her, but she wanted to punch them.

  “Sweetie, calm down.” A gentle hand wiped a lock of hair free of her face. The woman stepped backward, dragging Melinda with her. “Everyone is doing everything they can. You need to stay strong. Pull yourself together. For Keegan. And for Trace.” This last she added in a softer voice.

  Melinda jerked her head around to face the stranger. “Who are you? How do you know anything about me?” She felt like she was drowning in quicksand, and the only person around to pull her out was this woman she’d never seen in her life who seemed to know more about Melinda than Melinda did.

  “I’m Serena. You met my husband Monday. Mitch Highland. Keegan’s boss.”

  Melinda turned to see Mitch working beside Trace.

  “What happened?” she asked, calmer than she should feel.

  “Scaffolding collapsed while Keegan and three others were on it inspecting a section of the framework.”

  “God.” Melinda wiggled free, hardly in control of herself, but no longer a crazy threat to the men working all around her. “Why is there so much debris from the collapse of scaffolding?”

  “The framework beneath it and all around it also fell, piling up on top of the men. It looks like some of the foundation collapsed too. That may have caused the domino effect.” Serena reached out a hand and wiped Melinda’s face.

  Until that moment, Melinda hadn’t realized her face was soaked with tears. She had left work when she couldn’t take another minute of the unease and silence coming from her mates. It had been hours since she’d communicated with Keegan, and Trace had been evasive ever since. She’d given the two men guarding her the slip, exited out the back door, and run for her car.

  It was a wonder she hadn’t crashed her car on her way to the site.

  “What can I do? I can’t just stand here. I feel so helpless.” Melinda twisted around and lifted onto her tiptoes.

  “Be here. That’s all you can do right now. Keep trying to communicate with Keegan and be present for Trace.”

  Melinda shuddered. She’d been so mad at Trace. This was not his fault. That wasn’t why she was mad. She was furious with him for keeping her in the dark as if she wasn’t important enough to be informed of something this huge.

  Honestly, she couldn’t imagine how she could ever forgive him for his choice to keep her uninformed. No matter what the outcome, a rift would hang between them. Would it be too wide to surpass?

  Shouts came from the other side of the rubble. Paramedics raced to that section.

  “I see a shoulder,” someone yelled.

  Melinda held her breath. Please God, let it be Keegan. Please.

  She dropped to her knees, her head bowed, her hair falling in front of her face. She couldn’t stand to watch.

  All she could do was rock back and forth, crossing her arms in front of her. She pleaded with every spirit guide she’d ever learned about to save her mate. She begged God to spare his life. No matter how badly he was injured, she just wanted him alive. No matter what form she had him in, she would always love him, cherish him, care for him.

  Nothing else was acceptable.

  She listened to the shouts coming from every direction, unable to hone in on any single word. She folded her hands in front of her in supplication.

  A shadow suddenly blocked her from the scene. She ignored it, her eyes squeezed shut. She knew from the volume around her that someone was being removed from the debris. She didn’t know which man it was or if he was alive.

  She was afraid to find out. So she rocked, ignoring the shadow blocking her. She barely had her eyes open anyway. And she knew for a fact the shadow belonged to a human or a shifter, not a spirit.

  Finally, the person crouched down and set a hand on her shoulder.

  She blinked at the feet now inches from her own. Trace’s. His uniform pants were all she could see besides his shoes.

  He squeezed her shoulder, making her flinch under his touch.

  When she lifted her gaze, not wanting to meet his but unable to resist, she found his head bowed, his eyes closed, his body dejectedly slumped toward the ground.

  The hand hanging between his legs was bleedin
g heavily from the knuckles. The one on her shoulder was soaking into her T-shirt. She didn’t need to look to know it matched the other.

  He held her shoulder as if it were a lifeline, and she realized he was in the same position as her, praying, hoping, waiting for the word.

  And then shouts.

  Melinda jumped to her feet, dislodging Trace and stepping past him.

  Men with smiles. Whooping.

  Someone shouted, “He has a pulse.”

  She raced around the disaster scene to the other side, only marginally aware of Trace at her heels. Please, God, she begged.

  Paramedics hovered over the deep chasm in the rubble. Fireman lay on their bellies, arms stretched over the space created from the removal of debris.

  Melinda couldn’t see anything, and before she could get close enough to peer down over the heads of the rescuers, someone grabbed her arm. “Baby, stop. Don’t get any closer.” Trace’s voice was gravelly, filled with emotion.

  She didn’t care. She shook herself free of his clutch and turned to nail her gaze on him.

  He flinched as he stared into her eyes. A tear rolled down his face.

  Good. He should feel bad. He’d made a very poor choice.

  She swallowed back any retort and inched forward. Please let it be Keegan.

  A limp body was lifted from the debris, arms and legs dangling from the unconscious figure. There was no way to identify him from the several yards separating Melinda from the victim. The man was the right size, but then so were all the workers.

  He was covered in a thick layer of gray powder.

  And then she almost screamed. Long locks of hair hung behind the limp head. Blond hair. Stringy, glorious, blond, dirty hair that could only belong to her mate.

  Trace gasped right after Melinda. He’d obviously realized this was Keegan at the same time.

  Melinda fought to wiggle between the dozens of rescue workers to get to her mate as firemen laid him on a stretcher and paramedics worked frantically.

  Keegan didn’t move.

  Someone pushed an oxygen mask over his face. His arms and legs were gathered tight, and four men lifted the stretcher and ran toward the parking lot where three ambulances waited.