Текст книги "Savage Awakening"

Автор книги: J. Tyler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Savage Awakening
Alpha Pack – 2
by
J.D. Tyler

To my dad, Bryan Davis. My steady rock when times are tough, my wise counselor, my hero. When I needed a wonderful father, God knew exactly the right man to bless me with. I love you so very much.

One

Aric Savage gripped the chains as the silver-barbed lash tore into his back with unmerciful precision. Fire licked over the flayed skin, soaked deep to burn his guts, steal his breath.

Still, he found the strength to snarl his rage between strokes, his wolf clawing desperately to be free. To rip Orson Chappell’s minions to shreds, starting with the bastard currently wielding the whip and then moving on to Beryl, his malicious bitch of a stepsister. The pair of them were an open sore on the world’s ass. He’d take great pleasure in tearing out their throats, but not before making them scream as they’d done to him. And then he’d track down the big boss himself. Drag him from under the rock where he was hiding and butcher him, too.

Slowly. Painfully, so that the fucker squealed like a piglet as Aric’s wolf devoured him alive.

Here, Piggy, Piggy, let me in!

Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!

No problem, asshole. I’ll just incinerate your door, come right in, and watch you piss your pants as I unleash my beast—

Another blow fell, shattering the inner dialogue as liquid agony scored him from shoulder to hip.

“Ahhh! Fuck… fuck this… b-bastards…”

With every stroke, it became harder to retain his hold on sanity. Beryl’s efforts were beginning to pay off. After weeks of this hellish trip into Psycholand, the unbelievable pain, he was close to the breaking point.

He’d never dreamed there were so many methods of brutal torture. Or that he’d be forced to sample every fuckin’ one of them.

He wasn’t aware the whipping had stopped until a hand cupped his chin and thrust his head up. Beryl’s flat, soulless eyes bored into his, searching for weakness, for the knowledge that stepbrother dearest was finally a broken husk. A gibbering pile of shit.

“Sorry to disappoint, bitch,” he whispered, his throat raw and aching. “I’m still in here.” His mind might not be gone just yet, but screaming had stripped his voice during a session with Beryl’s handy silver knife. If he should get out of here, he might never recover, in more ways than one.

“Good. I’d be terribly put out if you gave up too quickly.” One corner of her mouth curved up. “As it is, you amuse me. So tenacious, my fierce brother.”

Her touch made his skin crawl, but he didn’t have the strength to jerk his chin out of her grasp. Even if she did set him free, he had nothing left. Despite his longing for vengeance, he didn’t have the strength to let loose his raging wolf, let alone summon his gifts of fire or telekinesis. Pathetic.

“I’m surprised Chappell lets you play with his test subjects,” he taunted.

A flash of something that might’ve been unease interrupted the deadness in her eyes, then was gone. “That isn’t your concern.”

He huffed a laugh that was more like a strangled rasp. “He doesn’t know.” This kept getting better.

“What?” There. Again the flicker of alarm.

Despite the pain assailing his battered body, he sneered. “Chappell doesn’t know what you’re doing to me down here, screwing with one of his lab rats. Wonder what he’d do to his pet witch if he found out?”

Flicking a lock of long auburn hair that was a shade darker than his own over her shoulder, she affected a look of complete disinterest. “He has more important concerns than one shifter.”

“I’ll just bet.”

“Whether you’re here or in the lab doesn’t make a difference to you, anyway.” Giving his face a hard squeeze, she shoved, snapping his head to the side. “You’ll be just as dead when I’m done with you.”

He didn’t bother to answer. He knew his chances of escaping from either place dimmed with each day. Spinning on her heel, she turned and left, the gloom beyond his small patch of light swallowing her form and the click of her boots until he was once again alone with his grim thoughts.

How was Beryl involved in all of this? And why the special torture reserved for the older stepbrother she’d barely bothered to know, and vice versa? Why the all-consuming hatred?

True, she’d always been a self-absorbed bitch. From the day Aric’s mother had remarried and his stepdaddy had brought that strange, sullen teenaged nightmare home to play house, Aric had done his best to steer clear of her. Not always successfully, either. Joining the Navy SEALs, getting out of that pressure cooker of a house, had been a blessing.

Right up until his unit had been attacked by rogue wolf shifters in the mountains of Afghanistan and his world had been completely fucked. Forever.

If he was honest, he would have to admit that he hadn’t been happy since he’d lost his humanity. He loved his brothers on the Alpha Pack team, but when that last op had gone south, they’d given him up fast enough, hadn’t they? Jax gave me up. To save his mate.When the chips were down, Aric was alone. As always. No one had come for him, and no one would. His throat tightened with emotion, burned with the tears he would never allow to fall. Maybe he was better off dead.

But he couldn’t bring himself to give up. No, he wanted to live long enough to slaughter every single person responsible for his being in this hellhole, suffering this endless goddamned agony.

General George Patton had it right. He was going to strut through the valley of the shadow of death—and he’d be the meanest motherfucker there. Make them all pay.

Then, and only then, would he willingly let the Reaper take him.

Rowan Chase jerked the wheel in a hard left, brought the car skidding to a stop in a filthy, garbage-strewn alley between two run-down buildings, killed the ignition, and was out before her rookie partner, Daniel Albright, even got his seat belt unbuckled.

One glance at the situation told her things had already gone FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.

A crowd of about twenty Hispanic men of varying ages surrounded two guys rolling on the ground, the edgy group shouting obscenities, egging the fight on. Quickly, her brain assessed the struggling pair, taking in the information rapid-fire. One stocky male, six feet, about two hundred twenty pounds. The smaller one younger, slender, five-seven, about one sixty. She recognized him as Emilio Herrera. Both wore the East Side Lobos’ colors. Family fight. Over what? Drugs, a girl, or some imagined slur? Who knew?

Sunlight glinted off a sliver of metal between the combatants, and blood blossomed on the smaller guy’s shirt. Knife. Shit.Rowan unclipped her holster as she jogged toward them, adrenaline rushing through her veins.

“LAPD!” she shouted, her pistol clearing leather. “Break it the fuck up!”

“Get back! Give us some room!” Danny bellowed.

Danny was green but he was a good officer. She trusted him to control the agitated crowd while she dealt with the fight—and trust was imperative. A second unit was on the way, but that didn’t mean it would arrive in time to prevent disaster.

The pair were oblivious at first, the younger man completely focused on defending himself against his assailant. The stocky man was clearly the aggressor, his rage palpable. He was the one she needed to reach.

“I said break it up! Now!”

Switchblade in his meaty fist, straddling the younger man, the stocky one turned his head to glance at her, a snarl on his face. She sucked in a breath, recognizing him. Luis Garcia. She should’ve known. He was a dangerous bastard with a long rap sheet full of violence. Worse, he was unpredictable, his mind fried from a lifetime of drug abuse.

“Little putastole my shit,” he slurred, spittle flying.

“I didn’t!” Emilio cried, holding up his hands. “I don’t do the powder, you know that! La familiaknows that!”

“You took it and I’m gonna gut you like a—”

“No, you’re not,” Rowan ordered, using her most authoritative voice. She held her pistol at her side, pointed at the asphalt. “Put the blade down and come talk to me. We’ll sort it out.”

“Shut up, lesbiana. You think you have bigger cojonesthan Luis, si? Perhaps you do.” He gave a nasty laugh.

Rowan let the insult roll off. She’d been called worse. “Emilio is telling the truth, Garcia. I know him and I swear to you he wouldn’t take your blow.” Now, your car? He’d steal that in a heartbeat, but not your coke.“I wouldn’t lie to my own people. Put the knife down.”

To her right, the Lobos’ leader pushed through the crowd, apparently late on the scene. Salazar Romero was tall, muscular, and menacing, with long black hair and a soul patch, arms covered with tats. “Don’t be stupid. Listen to mamacita, Luis. She’s street. One of us, you feel me? Her word is good enough for me, so it’s good enough for the Lobos.”

Finally, a break in the ice. The bigger man visibly wavered, his grip on his quarry loosening. He tried to stare Salazar down, but looked away first, like the dog he was. But that didn’t mean the danger was over. Rowan’s stance remained tense as Garcia let the knife fall from his hand, let go of Emilio’s shirt.

“Climb off him and stand,” she directed. “Slowly.”

Garcia let go a string of muttered curses, but did as he was told. On his feet, he stepped away from the bleeding man and turned toward her, shaking his head. Still cursing. Gesturing and swinging his arms as he became more agitated. She didn’t like his body language. The man was going to lose it again.

“Kneel, hands behind your head.”

His head snapped up. “You said we was gonna talk!”

“First, kneel, hands be—”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

Rowan knew what Garcia was going to do, even as he dropped his right arm, reached behind him to grab something at the small of his back. She reacted a split second faster, brought up her weapon and leveled it at his chest, shouting, “Drop it!”

But he brought the gun around, swung the muzzle toward her, his intent clear. She was hardly aware of her finger pressing the trigger, and the deafening explosion was over before her brain registered the noise.

Garcia jerked backward, eyes widening in surprise. A bloom of scarlet began to spread across his chest as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. Weapon still trained on his fallen form, she walked over and kicked the man’s gun from his outstretched hand. Wary, she crouched next to his head and placed two fingers on his neck.

“Dead?” Danny asked.

“Yeah.” She heaved a shaky breath and stood, surveying the few people that were left.

Most of them had gotten the hell out of there when Garcia drew down and his act of stupidity proved fatal. Emilio was still sitting a few feet away, a hand pressed to his bloodied side, grimacing in pain. Salazar and a couple of his lieutenants were with him, praising the kid for facing down crazy Garcia, as though the kid had taken him out himself. The little car thief’s street cred had just risen substantially, along with plenty of temptation for a rival gang to add him to their hit list.

And the cycle never ended.

Rowan holstered her weapon, feeling sick. Oh, God. I killed one of my own. Right here on my home turf, among the people I’m supposed to keep safe. Could I have handled this differently? How?

“Chase!”

Startled, she blinked at Danny, who was right in her face, hand on her shoulder. “What?”

“Whatever shit is going through your head right now, stop,” he said in a low voice. “You gave him every chance to give up. Hell, you almost waited a hair too long to draw down and pull the trigger. It was a righteous shooting. No one is going to dispute that.”

“The baby cop is right, mamacita,” Salazar said in a loud voice. “Luis was broken, man. He acted on his own to jump Emilio, and the Lobos wash their hands of him. There will be no retribution.”

Broken, meaning Salazar had recently demoted him. She supposed she should feel relieved that Luis had already become a problem they wanted erased, or her East Side upbringing might not mean squat. Suddenly aware of several sets of eyes boring into her, studying her reaction, she clamped her mouth firmly shut and gave a curt nod.

Salazar waved a hand at his remaining followers. “Vamanos!”

No retribution. Staring at their retreating backs, she couldn’t work up the gratitude. Eleven years on the force and she’d drawn her weapon less than a dozen times. Never fired it outside the shooting range, before today.

And today, she’d killed a man. No matter his failings, Luis Garcia had a wife and six kids who depended on him. Her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but she managed to keep it down.

“Chase?”

Rowan turned, blinking at Captain Connolly. She couldn’t seem to shake the fog that had wrapped itself around her brain. “Sir.”

“What happened here?” he asked matter-of-factly. His weathered face was calm, his blue eyes patient.

Quickly, she gave their supervisor the rundown, in detail. Danny backed her up, and the captain nodded.

“All right. Looks like a clean shooting, but you know what happens next,” he said kindly.

She did. Although she’d never had to fire her weapon, much less kill a suspect, other officers had over the years. They all knew the drill. She exhaled a deep breath. “I guess I’m on leave.”

“I’m afraid so.” Connolly squeezed her shoulder. “At least until the investigation is over. It’ll probably be just a formality in this case, but it still sucks. We’ve got things covered here. Head on back to the station, take care of your paperwork. Make sure all your i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed. Then surrender your weapon and go home. I’ll call you.”

“What about Albright?” She gestured to her partner.

“I’ll temporarily reassign him pending the closing of the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.” Damn, she hated losing a good rookie to another officer. Even if Internal Affairs closed the matter quickly, she’d have to fight to get him back.

“Take it easy,” Danny said, trying to be reassuring. “Everything will be fine.”

“Sure. Take care, and I’ll see you.”

She walked away, aware of eyes at her back, measuring. Wondering whether she’d be the department’s new head case, waiting to see if this would be what finally sent her careening over the edge. First the loss of her younger brother, and now this.

Climbing into the patrol car, she forced herself to start the ignition and calmly drive away when all she wanted to do was sit there and fall apart. Later, she promised herself. She’d pick up a six-pack of beer on the way home and let go where no one could see.

For now, “compartmentalize” was the word of the day and the only way to get through it.

Three hours later, Rowan finished the last of her mountain of paperwork, surrendered her pistol, and headed out the door, thankfully unnoticed except for a couple of buddies who’d heard the news and stopped her to deliver brief pep talks. She felt decidedly naked without the comforting, familiar weight of a weapon at her side and just wanted to get the hell out of there before more of her comrades noticed and wanted to get the lowdown firsthand.

She hurried to her truck and fired it up just as her cell phone vibrated on her hip. With a sigh, she left the vehicle in park, retrieved the device, and checked the caller ID. This one she had to take. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “Hi, me. What’s cookin’?” Her friend, FBI special agent Dean Campbell, never spoke either of their names on the phone. Paranoia was more than in his job description—it was embedded in his DNA.

“Plenty. I’ve got those Dodgers tickets you wanted,” he said cheerfully. “Meet me for a burger, usual place?”

Her smile vanished and the blood drained from her face. Her mouth opened a couple of times before she could find her voice. “I’ll be there in half an hour. I need to go home and change first.”

“On my way. I’ll get us a table.”

Punching the OFF button, she tossed the phone in the seat next to her and peeled out. Oh, God.Finally, after months of a fruitless, agonizing search for answers and a maze of dead ends, the call she’d been praying for had come. And for a while longer, she had to bleed just a little more inside, not knowing whether this was the end or the beginning.

Not knowing if Micah really was dead, as the government claimed, or if he was alive somewhere, waiting to be rescued.

And if her brother was alive, what the fuck was going on?

The questions and possible answers whirled in her brain all the way to her apartment, and didn’t let up as she hurriedly stripped out of her uniform and changed into jean shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes. She couldn’t stand another second of this torture now that the end was in sight. The drive to Willy’s had never seemed so long, yet she made it there in under fifteen. The bar and burger joint wasn’t crowded this time of afternoon, so she was able to get a pretty good parking spot on the side of the building.

Jogging around to the front, she pushed inside and spotted Dean sitting in a booth near the back. He waved and she went to meet him, returning his quick hug before sliding into the seat opposite his.

Mustering a smile, she crossed her arms on the table. “You look good, my friend.” He always did. Dean was in his mid-thirties, with honey blond hair, big brown eyes, and a killer smile. The whole package stopped traffic. It was a shame she felt nothing more than mild attraction for the man, and vice versa, because it had been waytoo long since she’d had any sort of an intimate relationship.

“Back atcha.” Sitting back, he eyed her in speculation. “I already heard through the grapevine about the shooting. How are you holding up?”

“Jeez, that was fast,” she muttered. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He patted her hand, his gaze softening. “That’s normal. You’ll be all right, trust me. Especially after I give you something else to occupy your mind.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a legal-sized white envelope and slid it across the table.

Swallowing hard, she eyed it. “My tickets?”

The agent glanced around, but there was no one nearby to listen. Still, he spoke in a low voice. “Read that, memorize it, then destroy it.”

Turning the envelope over she glanced at her friend. “What’s inside?”

“Directions to a place that doesn’t officially exist.” He paused. “A compound in Wyoming, situated deep in the Shoshone National Forest. Top secret, black ops.”

“Unless you know the right people to squeeze.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Exactly.”

Taking a deep breath, she asked the one question burning in her heart. “Is my brother alive?”

“I don’t know,” he said, tapping the envelope. “But those are the ones who will.”

So close, but still no answer. Yet. She fought back the tears that would do neither herself nor Micah any good. “You risked everything to get this information for me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“By not getting yourself killed.” He wasn’t joking.

“I’ll put that on the list right after finishing with IA, taking personal leave, packing, and hitting the road.”

“Call me when you leave town, and keep in touch.”

“I will,” she promised.

“You hungry? I’m buying.”

To Rowan’s surprise, her stomach snarled. Funny how a sliver of hope could revive a person’s appetite. “I could eat, but it’s on me. And if this lead takes me to the truth about what happened to Micah, there’s a steak dinner in it for you when I return. It’s the least I can do.”

“Only if you bring Micah with you,” he said softly.

Damn it, she would notcry.

“It’s a deal.”

Understandably, their meal was quite a bit more subdued than usual. Rowan was far too preoccupied to make a good companion, but that was the beauty of true friendship; neither of them had to say a word to be comfortable. They had each other’s backs.

While they ate, her thoughts drifted to this mysterious compound and what kind of operation she would find. Not to mention the reception she’d receive, especially when they learned of her mission.

But she wouldn’t leave there without finding out, once and for all, what had happened to her brother. She and Micah had always shared a mental connection that most people would scoff at, and certainly wouldn’t understand. They weren’t twins, but she felt strongly that she would knowin her heart if and when he died. He was alive. Had to be.

No, this wasn’t the end at all, but just the beginning. She’d find her brother if it was the last thing she ever did.

And then she’d make reservations for three at the finest restaurant in L.A.

With every mile that took her closer to her destination, Rowan’s anxiety grew by leaps and bounds. The gorgeous backdrop of the Shoshone National Forest, resplendent in full summer greenery, hardly registered as she steered her truck up the winding road.

Gripping the wheel, she eyed the left-hand side of the road, looking for the obscure turn outlined in the directions she’d memorized and then burned three weeks ago. Three miles later she found it. Or hoped she had.

Turning, she braked in front of a metal gate. It was simple, the kind any landowner might use, along with the black and white NO TRESPASSING sign nailed to a post next to the chain and padlock. Neither posed a deterrent to her bolt cutters or her determination.

Leaving the truck running, she grabbed the cutters and made short work of the chain, then unwrapped it, letting it hang from the gate. In for a penny.If she was in the right place, she’d soon have a lot more to worry about than a measly charge of trespassing on government property.

After swinging the gate open enough to drive the vehicle through, she returned to the truck and did just that. Then she got out and closed the gate again, wrapping the chain around it so that, hopefully, nothing would appear out of the ordinary to a casual passerby. So far, so good. She continued on her way.

A couple of miles deeper into the forest, the second barrier was an unpleasant surprise, and a formidable obstacle. She could have screamed in frustration.

The chain-link fence was about ten feet tall and topped with razor wire. This gate was much more sophisticated, at least two feet taller than the fence on either side, and automated, with a pass code box on the driver’s side. On top of the security box, a camera lens stared her in the face like an all-knowing eye.

“Shit.”

She didn’t have the code. And after several minutes of punching a green CALL button and then waiting, it became evident that no one planned to answer her summons. The operatives inside were probably having a good laugh. Maybe they thought she’d get bored and go on her merry way.

They thought wrong.

Calmly, she reached for her purse, never happier that the captain had returned her weapon. Extracting the Glock from within and squinting, she pointed the gun at the camera lens. “Knock-knock, assholes.”

And fired, sending a shower of glass and metal raining all over the drive.

That ought to get their fucking attention. Best to meet them head-on. Stepping away from the truck, she tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans and walked over to inspect the gate. State-of-the-art stuff, a real fortress. What was this place and how was Micah involved? She wasn’t leaving until they enlightened her.

A shuffle sounded to her left. And low growling.

Turning, she cursed softly, eyes widening. Guard dogs? Several of them, on herside of the fence, fanning out to surround her, heads down, ears flat, fangs bared. Moving almost silently through the sun-dappled forest.

But no, these weren’t dogs. They were…

Wolves! And one really large black panther?

She blinked rapidly as they approached and backed slowly toward her truck, thinking she must be seeing things. Wolves were now common in the Shoshone, thanks to wildlife rescue efforts. But she’d heard that wolves went out of their way to avoid humans. Right? Just not thesewolves.

And what about the big cat? Black panthers didn’t even technically exist!

Tell that to this one.

“Stay,” she called, holding out a shaking hand. “Nice doggies. I’m not going to hurt you.”

A loud snarl came from behind her, and a glance nearly stopped her heart. One wolf had moved behind her, blocking her escape to the truck. She was completely surrounded. Her pulse beat a terrified tattoo in her throat as she gripped the butt of her gun, easing the weapon from the waist of her jeans.

Just then, the images of three of the wolves and the cat began to shimmer. Sort of like heat waves on hot pavement. Their bodies began to re-form, the fur retracting. Canine and feline limbs becoming arms and legs. What the shit?Staring, she told herself she was notseeing a group of sexy, naked men standing among the rest of the wolves and wearing a range of emotions on their faces, from amusement to grim resignation.

A dark-haired god of a man—wolf, whatever—strolled forward. “I’m Nick Westfall, commander of the Alpha Pack team. And you’re in a shitload of trouble, Miss Chase.”

How did he know her name? Rowan couldn’t catch her breath to reply, even if she could’ve formed a response. Her vision blurred and the tough woman raised in an East L.A. barrio did something she’d never done in her life. Not even when she’d been informed of Micah’s “death.”

She fainted dead away.