Shivs and Carrie
The first alarm was subtle, an old-school vibration in my bones—low frequency, the kind you only feel if you’re part animal or owned by a woman who didn’t fuck around with security.
I was standing by the west gate, hands on the rails, eyes scanning the dusk, when it started.
At first, I thought it was just another test of the new motion sensors Carrie had put in last week, but then the perimeter lights flicked from white to pulsing red, and I got a face full of it on the wind.
Upstairs, I could hear her moving. She never slammed a door, but the tempo of her bare feet on the hardwood was a dead giveaway: staccato, then triple-time, then nothing for two full seconds, as if she’d remembered that panic was for amateurs and steadied herself in the mirror.
I smiled, proud, even as my own hackles went up.
I was halfway across the drive when the first drone buzzed overhead, infrared scanning for heat signatures.
They’d kept pace with the market: thermal, silent, the size of a goddamn beer can.
The only reason I spotted it was that it dipped to check the corner of the guesthouse and reflected in the pool.
A pro move. I ducked under the eaves and radioed the shed where Moab and Canon were supposed to be cleaning the bikes, but all I got was static.
Upstairs, Carrie must’ve heard it too, because her voice blared over the intercom: “Shivs, we have company. Two vans, east approach. Thirty seconds, maybe less.”
She was right. I saw the van headlights swerve off the gravel and up the side lawn, barely slowing for the landscaping. The second followed at a hundred yards, tight convoy formation, tires rutting through the sod like it was a planned escape route.
“They’re not here for bourbon,” I said, and sprinted for the front steps.
She’d already locked down the SmartGlass by the time I made it to the porch. I keyed in and bolted for the stairs, two at a time. “Bedroom. Now.”
Carrie’s voice was icy calm. “Already there.”
I tore down the hall, body low, my every sense spiked. The world had gone gunmetal and black, every shadow a threat. My pheromones prickled, sending pulses of panic and want up my jaw. I could taste her adrenaline, the metallic tang of fear. It made my mouth water and my hands steady.
The house shook as the first van rammed the gate. Not a slow approach—they’d planned on brute force and speed. Two seconds later, the crash of the reinforced glass was followed by a pop-pop-pop of suppressed rounds. Not at us, but at the motion sensors. Surgical.
I slid into the master suite. She was already moving the bed aside, kneeling to grab a gun safe from under the frame.
She wore only a silk slip, legs bare, hair up in a messy knot that made her look younger, more dangerous.
She didn’t flinch when I came in, just keyed in her code and grabbed the Glock inside.
I went to the window and peered through the slit. The men were out of the first van, four of them in black tac gear and neoprene masks, low-slung carbines, every move tight and controlled. Not weekend warriors. Not even ex-cops. These were mercs.
I locked eyes with her. “You go to the closet, wait for the all-clear.”
She was already shaking her head, loading the Glock with a fresh mag. “Fuck that,” she said. “This is my house. My family. I stay here.”
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” And then the second van crashed into the fountain, sending up a plume of water and granite shrapnel. They were using the mess as cover. Smart.
I heard the soft footfalls up the stairs—deliberate, two men, maybe three. The others would be fanning out, perimeter sweep, but the ones coming up the stairs were the kill team.
I handed her the backup piece from my ankle holster and took up a position by the door, heart rate down to a calm thump. “Ready?”
She clicked off the safety. “Ready.”
The first guy through didn’t hesitate, but he should have.
I caught the barrel of his carbine, twisted, and jammed the butt into his throat.
He gagged, and I used him as a shield as his partner fired a controlled burst—two in the back, one in the vest, none in me.
I slammed the first guy into the wall, disarmed the second, and buried my elbow in his temple.
He slumped, weapon dangling from the strap.
Carrie fired past my ear—one shot, clean, straight through the chest of a third man coming up the landing. He howled, fell, and bled out in two seconds flat. The house was eerily quiet after that, the only sound the buzz of the drone outside and the wet gasp of the guy at my feet.
I kicked the guns down the hallway, then yanked the mask off the first one. He looked pissed, but professional. “Who sent you?” I growled.
He said nothing. His hand went for the comms in his ear. I yanked it and tossed it to Carrie, who held it to her own.
Then the next wave started, gunfire from all directions. The first burning sensation came in my shoulder, and then in my leg. But neither bullet was equal to what happened next.
The sound started low and then increased exponentially, a high-pitched shriek, like metal scraping inside my skull.
The sound weapon hit me out of nowhere. It felt like a spike driven straight through my cochlea, every bone vibrating, teeth rattling. I dropped to my knees, gun clattering. Blood oozed from my ears. The world went pink and then black at the edges, vision tunneling to nothing but pain.
I fought to keep my eyes open. Through the slit, I saw the men advance: two more, both masked, both carrying heavy-duty sound cannons, like the ones they used for crowd control in war zones. They pointed at me and dialed up the frequency. My wolf howled—literal, mental, every nerve on fire.
And then, in that haze, I saw them dragging Carrie down the hall. She was fighting, even as they zip-tied her wrists and shoved Duct Tape over her mouth. I wanted to get up, wanted to kill them all, but the pain was a full-body electric crucifixion.
I tried to crawl. My hands wouldn’t work, legs spasmed. I heard the muffled slam of the front door and the rev of an engine. I clawed at the floor, nails ripping, blood leaving streaks on the hardwood. I made it as far as the stairwell before my body quit.
The van door slammed. Two of the men held Carrie between them, her head hanging, blood dripping from her lip. She looked up, just once, and even through the haze, the mate mark flared. She screamed my name. “Shivs!”
The sound cannon pivoted again, and the world turned white.
I lost time.
When I came to, the vans were gone, tire tracks chewed into the grass, and a haze of burnt rubber in the air. The drone hovered overhead, then zipped off after them, silent as a shark. The only thing left was the echo of her scream and the taste of my own blood in my mouth.
I staggered to my feet, unsteady, every sound raw and bright. The wolf in me wanted to run, to chase, to tear the world apart. I stumbled down the drive, howling until my throat tore.
But they were gone. And all I had left was the promise that I’d get her back, or die trying.
Carrie
I came to with my head lolling to the side, jaw pressed against cold metal. My arms were bound behind me, zip-tie burning into my wrists. The world spun, then snapped into a point of agony above my eyebrow—someone clocked me good. Blood in my mouth, and the acrid tang of fury.
I took stock: a metal folding chair, feet on wet cement, one ankle zip-tied to the crossbar.
My tongue found a loose molar but nothing that would slow me.
I forced my eyes open. Horror-movie warehouse: high windows smeared with grime, one bulb dangling overhead, its cage ringed with dead insects.
Oil and old blood stained the floor, walls a riot of graffiti, peeling paint, Russian warning signs.
Chains hung from exposed beams—some snapped, some looped like nooses.
Then I watched the men.
Marcus paced in front of me, dress shoes clicking, still in his TV suit—shirt rumpled, sweat blooming at the armpits. He cradled a cell phone, eyes flicking between me and the screen. Waiting for permission to kill.
In the corner, Evelyn Hart loomed like a ghost, coat buttoned to her chin, face unreadable. Her gloves were off—her fingers trembled as she crossed her arms. Corporate legitimacy for Marcus’s fucked-up theater. I let a slow smile spread.
“You find this funny?” Marcus barked. “Stillwater bourbon is a punchline. Your name’s a punchline. If you’d given me what I wanted, you’d be at the Four Seasons, not in a piss-soaked warehouse in Shively.”
I rattled the chair. “You’re obsessed with legacy, Marcus. Most men your age settle for a Porsche and a second wife.”
His face twitched. “You never took me seriously. That’s the problem with women like you. Untouchable. But the rules apply. You’re breathing only because I need your signature.” He flung a sheaf of papers onto my lap; some slid to the floor.
I glanced at the headers: Transfer of Power. Non-Compete. Shareholder Proxy. My name in bold. I grinned. “You think this is about the bourbon?”
He backhanded me, so precise the chair barely shifted. I tasted copper. Evelyn flinched but stayed frozen.
“It’s about everything,” he spat. “Your father left you the world, and you pissed it away. I rebuilt this company while you fucked a biker, pissed off the Feds, and leaked secrets to every competitor with a podcast. You’re a child. Now you’re going to fix it.”
I saw the play. Degrade me, make me beg. But he was terrified of what I had left, and of my security if he played it wrong. The more he talked, the more desperate he got.
I looked at Evelyn. “You good with this? Think he won’t put a bullet in me once you sign?”
She pressed her lips thin. “I’m just a witness, Caroline. Nothing more.”
I nodded—stall, distract, make them miscalculate. “Marcus, the board knows you torched the rickhouse. Audit’s done. You won’t get two steps with those papers before the FBI tears you apart.”