Cocky Cougar (Fated Mates of SpecOpsSierra #2)

Chapter 1

Cricket Pumarston

“Yes, sir.”

I glance at Erick, who arches his brow in question.

Holding up a finger, I continue my phone call. “I can be there by nightfall.”

…

“It’s not a problem. Kade and Erick don’t need me here.”

…

“Zero Nine Hundred. Yes, sir, I’ll see you then.” I hang up and slip my cell phone into my back pocket.

“Mission?” Erick asks.

“Yeah.” I rub my hair, noticing that it's longer than usual. Probably should get it cut before I show up at the command post, but meh—fuck it. I’m not on active duty anymore.

I’m a Special Forces contractor and we never adhered to regulation, anyway.

“What’s the mission?”

Shaking my head, I pop the last of my sandwich into my mouth. “Some multi-agency task force thing, but I won’t know more until I get there.”

“That’s weird.” Erick frowns. “Usually he gives more detail before calling us in.”

I shrug. “It's good money, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get to beat the hell out of some bad guys.”

Erick snorts his agreement. “How long will you be gone?”

“He said two, maybe three weeks.”

We both glance toward the back of the building as the roar of Kade’s motorcycle engine cuts off.

Erick sighs. “He’s going to be pissed Packard called you when our old commander has been dodging his calls.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” I frown.

“What were you thinking?” Kade asks, his voice gruff but his mood light. Pheromones are wafting off of him, so I’m guessing his lunch date with his mate Dinah went incredibly well, and they got freaky in the woods or some shit.

Balling up the sandwich wrapper, I shoot for a goal at the closest wastebasket and make it—of course. “I got a mission.”

Kade arches his brow. “From Packard?”

“Yeah,” I admit. Kade has every right to be pissed at our former commander. He’s been asking about the whereabouts of his brother for months, and the Colonel has been sending Kade to voicemail and replying with non-committal texts.

Kash Barrington is one of us—a SpecOps Sierra bear-shifter and twin to Kade’s younger brother, Karter, who manages the family back home in Fortune Falls.

I’ve met Kash, trained with him, and we’ve even pulled a couple of missions together.

We’re closer in age than I am to either Kade or Erick, but Kade was my unit leader, and ultimately the guy who gave me a home when my enlistment was up.

We thought Kash would come here when he separated, but he’s been missing for almost a year—although Kade didn’t know until a few months ago when Karter asked him to make inquiries.

It’s not unusual to go extended periods without outside communications when we’re on a mission, but ten months is a long time to be dark, and when the commander won’t confirm or deny a soldier’s whereabouts, that makes the rest of us twitchy.

“Son of a bitch,” Kade grumbles, his eyes moving from me to Erick, another bear-shifter.

After separating from the military, a bunch of us settled in Broken Falls. These men are my pack and my family—despite the blood we don’t share.

Actually, I no longer have blood relations. At least none I claim.

“Maybe you can poke around while inside?” Erick suggests.

“Absolutely, I will.” I nod enthusiastically. Kash might not be my brother, but he’s family, nonetheless. “If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Kade nods, although his agitated bear continues to grumble his complaints.

Eight hours later, I’ve checked into my hotel room and ordered a delivery pizza.

I have no idea what kind of mission this is, so I brought a bit of everything to include a pair of ACUs, my tactical gear, and a couple pairs of jeans.

Who do I get to be this time? Secret agent man?

Hired muscle? Command post? Will I help run the operation as an extra pair of eyes or ears?

Or will they insert me into the action, so I can lay hands on bad guys?

I prefer the latter.

I know I sound bloodthirsty, but there is something about tearing the throats out of shitty people doing repugnant things that makes my cat purr. It’s the best thing about being a SpecOps Sierra soldier, because it’s really the only time I get to let my animal’s baser instincts loose.

Well, except for a recent event when I killed some hunter jacking off with Kade’s fated mate’s t-shirt, but that was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I hope never happens again.

Otherwise, my animal side rarely gets to let loose.

Hunt, protect, kill.

I never hunt for food because pizza doesn’t require stealth or precision, and is infinitely better grub.

Outside of my found family in Broken Falls, most of whom can take care of themselves, I have no one to protect. The Fates haven’t deemed me worthy of a mate yet, and probably never will.

And the justice system is too slow and corrupt for my liking. When you catch a vile person doing evil things, removing them from this earth is very satisfying.

There’s a knock at my door. I swing it open—assuming it’s my pizza, which it is—to find the delivery person is Colonel Packard. His astute gaze takes me in, starting at my wild blond hair and ending at my Harley-Davidson motorcycle boots.

He arches his brow and pushes his way in, setting my pizza down on a small table. “Don’t get settled. You’ll be moving tomorrow.”

“Where am I going?” I flip open the pizza box and grab a slice before pushing the container in his direction.

While there was a time I was scared shitless of this man, those days are over.

He’s a tight-ass—as thirty years of regimented military experience dictates—but he’s fair, and more importantly, he needs us.

Our active duty numbers are small—less than a dozen at any given time—which is why so many of us come back as contractors for the ad hoc operation.

The regular Army has no idea who we are for obvious reasons, but they seem to know when they need to call Packard over the other Special Forces units.

Either that, or he volunteers us when the mission could benefit from our special, secret talents.

He shakes his head at my proffered pizza. “We’re lending our support to a multi-agency operation. FBI, DHS, and ATF, to name a few.”

Pausing mid-bite, I frown. “Those agencies don’t normally play together. Who’s in charge?”

Packard sighs and rubs his hand down his face, scratching at the salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw.

He looks tired, and I’m wondering how close he is to retirement.

And who, if anyone, will take the reins when he does?

As a rare and unmated lion-shifter, I’m not sure what his plans are for his future, or if he’ll head back to Africa to search for a mate once he’s done.

He’s a private man, so I don’t know a lot about him, but the rumor is his pack was eradicated when he was a teenager, and he was brought to the US as a refugee.

He went to college, joined the military, and was authorized to create the most lethal Special Forces group in the world. We don’t know how that happened, but again, the rumor is that he sniffed out a few shifters hiding in Congress and it grew from there.

The big question is, what becomes of us after he’s done?

“Who knows who’s in charge? They bicker like a bunch of school kids on the playground. But their jurisdiction isn’t our concern.”

“What is?” I snag a second slice and lean my ass against the wall. Part of me hoped we’d be heading overseas, whether it be a post-Soviet country or the Middle East. But with the star-studded lineup he’s mentioned, this is definitely a US soil kind of gig.

Damn—no hearty, chemical-free goulash for me.

“They’re investigating a trafficking ring financed by a hedge fund secretly owned by a couple of billionaires and high-ranking government officials.

Politically, the fallout would be disastrous if the right evidence is collected and brought forward, but we’re not interested in that either.

We’re interested in the children they’re rounding up and detaining out of a handful of shifter communities across the northern states and Canada. ”

My gut tightens, and I toss the rest of my uneaten slice in the trash can. “They’re stealing children out of shifter communities?”

He nods. “There’s been at least a dozen reports in the last six weeks to a special hotline I set up years ago.

As you know, shifters from closed communities don’t trust outsiders, but we’ve been doing outreach to let them know there is an underground community embedded within the government.

For years our hotline has remained silent, but now they’re reaching out. ”

Packard crosses his arms over his broad chest, his jaw working back and forth as he picks his words carefully. “These are children who haven’t shifted yet, and we don’t know what will happen if they do while in custody.”

“Under what legal grounds have shifter children been detained?” I can’t believe this is happening, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Human trafficking is a two hundred and fifty billion-dollar a year business.

Yes, that was billion with a B.

It’s disgusting on all levels, and I’m not surprised there are politicians and other government officials with their fingers in it. How else would they get victims in and out of the country undetected?

“ICE is running an immigration reform directive to round up undocumented individuals, some of whom are here ‘illegally’.” He raises his hands and does air quotes with his fingers.

“Most adult shifters have identities and have been inputted into the system, but a lot of the children in closed communities don’t.

We’re working to remedy that in the periphery, but it’s going to take Junta months to get their papers created—birth certificates, social security cards, IDs, passports, etc. ”

“This is bullshit.” I push off the wall.

Shifting the first few times is difficult enough when you have a pack to support you, but without guidance, it’s dangerous.

Orphaned shifters have a hard time regulating the flood of hormones rushing through their bloodstreams or controlling when and how to shift and often become a danger to themselves and others. “Can we spring them?”

“That’s what we’re working on with HSI. We’re posing as buyers with foreign contacts.”

“What kind of buyers?”

His eyes go down to the obnoxious multicolored hotel carpet. “Traders.”

“Oh, fuck me.” My lips curl in disgust. He doesn’t say the word, but it’s implied. It’s one thing to kill them, but it’s another thing to pose as one of them.

“Will I meet others?” I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Legit ones?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get to kill them?” I grin like a kid at Christmas.

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

“Fine,” I roll my eyes. “I’ll play a fucking asshole for a while.”

“Actually, you’ll be in a slightly different role.”

“What role is that?”

“Decoy.”

I shake my head. “I’m not following.”

He walks to the door and rests his hand on the knob.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow at the command post. There’s going to be parts of this mission you don’t like, Cricket, but I wanted you to understand what’s at stake before you decide.

Regardless of everything else, this is about shifter children being stolen from their homes. Everything else is noise.”

He leaves before I can ask questions as an uneasiness settles in my stomach.

Fuck me. What else about this operation am I not going to like?