Chapter 8
Arsenal
The alley behind Eyrie was a channel of silence, hot and breathless.
City steam curled around the dumpster in the corner, rolling slow in the streetlight.
The three of us were hidden in the shadow of the fire escape.
I had Big Papa to my left, his titanic presence a calming force as always.
Wrecker was on my right, boots planted, jaw locked.
We looked like we belonged there. We didn’t, not really.
Well, we looked that way to ourselves, anyway.
I checked my comms for the third time, thumbing the mic twice—a short pulse for “status good.” On the other end, a faint click in the static.
Parker’s line, at the far end of the alley, tucked in the battered Sprinter van painted utility gray.
If you stared long enough, it flickered, like a mirage.
Aspen’s work. Her cloaking spell was holding; to normal eyes, the van didn’t even exist. Just like we didn’t exist.
The smell of burnt coffee and ozone rolled from the van’s exhaust. I catalogued every scent—Eyrie’s kitchen grease, the spilled gin in the trash, the faint mineral of last week’s rain.
But it was the undercurrent of blood and terror, the trace of magic in the brick, that set my nerves to vibrating.
Wolves were supposed to be predators. Tonight, we were prey, waiting for a gap in the trap.
Big Papa kept one hand inside his jacket, the other on a pocket rosary.
He said he didn’t need it, but he worked the beads when he was thinking.
I saw his lips move every so often. Praying, or cussing out his dead enemies, maybe both.
I’d known him ten years; he was the only guy who made me feel short.
Wrecker never stopped moving, even when he was still.
One knee bounced, fingers drummed, shoulders flexed every time the wind shifted.
His face was stone, but his eyes never stopped working.
He kept glancing at the exit route, to the left, then right, then up the fire escape, then down to the van.
We all knew the plan, but we rehearsed it in our bodies, over and over. That’s how you made it home.
Two weeks of planning, one week of dry runs, three sleepless nights waiting for the right window.
Eyrie’s shifts ran late—girls got off at two, cleaning crew at three, but the guards worked in pairs and cycled out every ninety.
The only thing we had on them was the element of surprise, and the fact that the best shifter-ops team in the state had my back.
And, well, Aspen’s cloaking. That was the real ace; if we could get to Harper and hit her with the smoke, the club’s cameras would see her vanish into thin air.
I unsnapped the safety on my SIG, felt the weight settle into my palm.
I always carried with a round chambered, but I still checked, every time.
Ritual, not paranoia. Wrecker favored a trench knife, brass-knuckled and bladed; he spun it in his palm, back and forth, never drawing attention.
Big Papa didn’t carry at all, but if you ever saw him fight, you’d know he didn’t need to.
At 11:38, a van pulled up. The back door rattled open, and a bouncer stepped out, hauling a girl by her upper arm.
She was slight, maybe one-twenty, with long black hair.
She had on a pair of cut-off jeans and a tank top.
I saw the cut on her lip. The bouncer was ex-military; you could see it in the way he moved, knees soft, scanning every window.
He shoved the girl against the wall and waited.
A second later, a witch in a pencil skirt and heels stepped out, clipboard in hand then nodded to the door. The girl tried to resist, but the bouncer hauled her inside.
“Dammit,” Wrecker whispered. “She’s not a wolf. Likely someone they grabbed or took in exchange for a debt.”
I nodded. “Fuckers.”
Papa grunted, “That shit’s coming to an end as soon as possible.”
Midnight. What the fuck? A limo rolled up. Black-on-black, windows smoked, tires shining wet even though it hadn’t rained in a week. The engine didn’t idle; it just cut to silence. I felt the air pressure change, like the world sucked in its breath.
The door opened, and Maltraz stepped out.
He didn’t bother with his human skin. He must be going straight to a room out of sight.
You couldn’t miss this fucker. Almost seven feet tall, with skin the color of molten iron, eyes black as gun oil except for the red glow.
He wore a suit that cost more than my first car, and his hair was braided back in a way that made you think of snakes.
He walked slow, unhurried, and the bouncer at the door snapped to attention, then bowed.
My wolf surged, primal and ugly. Every muscle in my body tensed. I had to lock my knees to keep from lunging. Wrecker’s hand shot out, clamped on my wrist. It didn’t hurt, but it was enough.
Big Papa leaned in, voice almost inaudible. “Hold, brother. Not yet.”
Maltraz took his time up the steps, pausing at the door. He turned, looked straight into the alley. I knew he couldn’t see us, not in the darkness and distance, but for a split second, I swore he was looking at me. He smiled, a slow, cruel thing, then went inside.
I let out a breath I’d been holding. Wrecker did the same. For a minute, nobody spoke. We just listened to the city, and our own heartbeats.
“Parker, sitrep,” I whispered into the comm.
Her voice came back, low but clear: “Van holding steady. Oscar’s on the roof. Cloak is at ninety-eight percent. Aspen’s prepping the charm.”
I looked down the alley. The Sprinter glimmered in the weird light, a shimmer that bent the edges of reality.
Aspen was in the passenger seat, eyes closed, lips moving.
Her familiar, Oscar, sat on the roof, head swiveling.
You wouldn’t see him if you weren’t looking, but I’d learned to pick out the faint blur of his fur.
He was the best spotter we had, rodent or not.
I checked my watch. The sweep team would be back in eighteen minutes, the girls would start lining up for exit around two. That’s when Harper would come out, if she was on tonight. If she were alive.
My brain wanted to spiral, but I forced it down. Focus. Nothing else mattered.
“Status,” I said, more to myself than anyone.
Big Papa shifted, body loose, the way only giants can be. “We’re good, Arsenal. We got you.”
Wrecker flicked his knife back into his belt, flexed his hands. “I got left. Papa’s got right. You move on her, we move with you.”
I nodded once. “Copy.”
We waited.
Minutes crawled. The only sound was the hum of transformers and the far-off pulse of club music.
I found myself counting my own breaths, keeping my heart from jumping.
Every sense dialed up: I could hear the whisper of Parker’s typing, the rustle of Oscar’s claws on sheet metal, even the faint pulse of blood in the witch’s throat as she checked the alley again, ten minutes later.
I thought about Harper. I thought about what she’d endured, and what it had cost her. I thought about the time I saw her dance, when her body moved like she was making war against the world. I thought about what I would do to the men who tried to break her.
Mostly, I thought about the moment I’d see her again. What I’d say. What I’d do if she said she didn’t want saving.
I ran my thumb over the scar on my palm, grounding myself.
The door opened again at 2:00. The same bouncer, walking a troupe of girls.
This time, they were chatting and laughing walking towards the parking lot.
I heard a couple of snide remarks about “Steiner’s little princess.
” They seemed to be under the impression that Harper lived some kind of life of luxury and not the hell she’d implied to me.
That made my stomach twist. That can’t be true.
I saw the stress on her face. She was a prisoner, I was certain.
“Two minutes,” I said. “Last sweep.”
Wrecker checked his watch, then the door, then the street. Big Papa rolled his neck, a slow crackle of vertebrae. I felt them at my back, solid, ready.
Parker’s voice again: “Get ready, boss. Aspen said the veil is strongest at 2:17.”
“Copy.”
The waiting was the worst part. Waiting for the op to start. Waiting to see if your best was enough. Waiting to find out if you were going to be the hero, or just another name on the wall.
I kept my eyes on the door, breath steady, gun tucked tight in the holster.
Tonight, I was both wolf and soldier. And nothing on earth or in hell was going to keep me from my mate.
The minutes ticked down, and the world held its breath.
This was it.
At 2:14, the club’s back door stuttered open and Harper stumbled into the alleyway.
My pulse spiked, but my hands stayed steady.
She was shadowed by the regular bouncer, a slab of meat with a shaved skull and navy suit, the kind that flexed on ex-cons to make sure nobody forgot who ran the world.
He held her by the wrist, none too gently.
Even from a distance, I saw she’d been through something awful tonight.
Her hair hung loose past her shoulders; the blonde seemed colorless in the poor light.
She wore a t-shirt dress that sagged off her frame.
Her body was fit as always, but everything else about her screamed she was unwell.
Her face was a wreck—mascara streaks, a split at the corner of her mouth, eyes lifeless.
It was as though she’d somehow lost her will to go on. That changed tonight.
The bouncer marched her to the waiting Escalade, same as every night.
He did a sweep of the alley and didn’t see us.
Why would he? He was human. He unlocked the driver door, leaving Harper standing at the passenger side.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched against the chill. I counted the steps, readying myself.
Wrecker murmured, “Go.”
I moved.