Chapter 17
Cricket
I’m reclining on a worn sofa in the break room of MirMax headquarters. Next to me, Erick is dozing while Sly plays Call of Duty with Jimmy and Wiley back home.
“You have a shit-eating grin on your face,” Erick says without opening his eyes.
“How do you know?” I scoff.
“I can smell your damn pheromones, you filthy animal.” His lips curl, but his face stays otherwise serene.
When I settled in at MirMax a few hours ago, I admitted to Erick and Sly my truth about marking my mate without telling her about my animal or his need to claim her. As expected, they exchanged a look and said nothing—neither praising nor condemning my actions.
Of course, neither of them have met their mates.
They haven’t grappled with a thin string of control wrapped around their animals.
There is nothing to compare it to, and not even the worst experience shifting for the first time could prepare you for meeting a human mate that knows nothing about our animals prowling underneath.
“She loves me.” I smile.
Sly takes his eyes off the game to look at me over his shoulder. “Congrats, man.”
“Thanks.”
“Can’t wait to meet the woman who can deal with your cocky ass,” Erick snorts. “She must be a saint.”
“She’s amazing.” My head snaps to the door as Colonel Packard walks in with shifters I’ve met a few times in the past—Juice, Axis, Pixel, and Junta.
MirMax is everything SpecOps Sierra—administration, computer operations, training centers, shooting ranges, survival courses, barracks, chow hall, and medical facilities.
There’s even a brig, although I’ve never heard of anyone housed there.
“Sir?” Sly pulls off his headset and sets his controller down, his character blown away by an opponent within seconds.
Colonel Packard holds up his phone and presses the speaker. “Repeat that, Lieutenant Pumarston.”
Crash’s voice comes over the speaker. “Four semi-trucks pulled out onto Highway 287 a half a mile in front of us forty minutes ago. They’re heading south as expected, but I don’t advise waiting for them to hit the state line.
We should send two four-man teams north to intercept the convoy.
We’re keeping our distance, but we will engage at the roadblock. ”
My brow furrows and I pull my GPS app up on my phone. All the trackers I placed are at the cattle ranch, along with a handful Pitch planted the night before. I zoom in and faintly make out the ‘F U’ arrangement on the ground. “Shit.”
“Yeah, you see their message?” Crash answers me.
“Where’s Agent Baker?” My mind immediately goes to my mate.
“I sent her an innocuous text twenty minutes ago, and she answered normally, so I presume she’s safe.”
Closing my eyes, I try to tap into our connection made through the mating bond—my serum rushing through her veins is supposed to connect us on an ethereal level, letting me know when my mate or our children are in distress—but I’m not sure how to pluck that invisible thread tethering us.
We barely spent any time together this morning for me to tune into it.
I reach out and get nothing but calm slumber in return.
“Maybe she’s asleep?” I murmur to myself.
“Can’t feel her?” Erick raises his brow.
“No.” I shake my head.
He glances at his watch. “It’s after eleven and you said you were up late—I’m sure she’s asleep.”
“Yeah.” I send her a text while Crash continues to talk.
“We have two choppers, and I believe at least three of you can fly them, so I suggest you head north and meet us at the rendezvous point. I’ll send you coordinates.”
“How desolate is the area?” Erick sits up and rests his forearms on his knees.
“At one hundred hours, it’s pretty desolate and surrounded by mostly farmland.
I’d land a quarter mile south and hike in, full ops gear,” Crash answers.
“It’s before any highway intersections, but if they deviate their route, I’ll send updated coordinates.
We have another hundred miles to go, and you’ll have a hundred and eighty to the intercept point, so I suggest you get going. ”
Sly and Erick stand as I stare down at my phone. Doralee isn’t responding, but that could be because she’s asleep. Right?
“Ready, man?” Erick smacks my arm, and I stand on command, slipping my phone into my pocket.
“Let’s go.”
It takes less than ten minutes for eight of us to gear up and meet on the helipad.
We fly for an hour and land in a field south of a historic landmark with a parking lot and one vehicle camped out for the night.
Sly approaches the driver’s side and taps a flashlight against the window, shining the bright light into the camper’s face.
“Hit the road, buddy. It’s illegal to camp here overnight. ”
“Yes, officer.” They can’t tell he’s not a cop and quickly comply.
They take five minutes to crank their engine and put their small SUV in gear, pulling out of the parking lot and heading north.
I call Crash. “We just sent a Jeep north in your direction. How far away are you?”
“We’re fifteen miles out, at seventy-five miles per hour—so, twelve minutes give or take a few.”
“Has anyone passed you and the convoy in the last ten minutes?”
“No, but prior to that was a white Dodge Caravan and a red Nissan Rogue.”
“Roger. They might have already passed us, but we’ll be on the lookout and have a roadblock ready to go.
” It’s weird to talk to my brother like this, knee-deep in go-team mode without the animosity between us.
There’s no way he missed my serum embedded in Doralee’s blood when he saw her today, so he’s well aware I’ve marked and claimed my mate, not that my intention to do so wasn’t already abundantly clear the last time we clashed.
“See you soon.” He disconnects, as if he also feels uncomfortable with the lack of aggression between us.
I project to the team. “White Dodge Caravan and a red Nissan Rogue before the convoy.”
“A white Dodge Caravan passed two minutes ago,” Erick responds as a set of headlights crest the hill a few miles away.
As soon as their turn signal blinks, Sly grumbles, “Fucking hell, people.”
They slow down, intent on turning into the historical marker, but stop abruptly in the middle of the road. Sly talks to them with his flashlight in their face, “Stop is closed. Keep going.”
“But I have to pee!” a female cries out.
“There are no restrooms here. Drive another mile up the road and cop a squat in the gravel.” Any other situation and I’d laugh my ass off, but the rest of us are crouched down, hiding in the tall grass.
Half of us have stripped out of our gear and are ready to shift, while the other four are in full combat gear, ready to take on the drivers.
“But…” she whines.
Sly barks back, “Get out of here!”
They punch the gas pedal, their tires spinning out, causing Sly to jump back and snarl, “Fucking civilians.”
The first semi-truck’s headlights come into view. Junta, Axis, Juice, and I shift—two wolves and two cougars running down the middle of the road, darting back and forth in hopes the convoy will slow down.
Engine brakes engage, slowing down the first semi, which causes the rest to decrease speed as well.
By the time they reach the historic landmark and the flashing mobile red and blue lights blocking the road, they’re able to stop without incident.
We follow, prepared to intervene in our animal forms. One shot pops off, a flash of gunfire lighting up the second semi cab’s passenger side window.
The team returns fire—shooting from the side into the driver’s seat only. We’re not going to go through all of this only to wind up hurting the trafficking victims in the trailer.
Sly shoots into the third cab while Erick yanks open the driver’s side door, punching the driver across the face, unfastening his seatbelt, and flinging him across the pavement so quickly, no human could have fought him.
I pounce on the driver, sinking my teeth into his bicep and dragging him off the road into the grassy shoulder.
He screams, his wide eyes focusing on me. “What the fuck?”
Flashing my bloody fangs, I hiss in his face, the stench of urine filling the air.
“Great. This one pissed himself,” I project to the team.
“This one too,” someone says, although I’m not sure who.
“This one shit himself, so I won the most disgusting prisoner contest.” Another voice I don’t know.
“Shit! Who has driver number four?” Sly projects, his firearm up as he peers into the distance.
“I do.” Crash appears from behind the last semi-truck, dragging the driver behind him.
“Holy shit. What did you do to him?” I ask.
“Hit him with our truck.” He shrugs, dropping his guy next to mine while Pitch appears between the trailer of truck three and engine of truck four in his bear form.
“When did you have time to shift?” I ask the young bear.
“I climbed out of the truck at seventy-five miles per hour and shifted in the bed. It was awesome.”
His enthusiasm makes me chuckle, and he reminds me of a younger Wiley. I shake my head and trot back to my clothes while Erick drags my driver to the pile the other shifters created. I shift and yank on my pants, slipping my feet into my boots when a ball of pure agony hits me in the gut.
“Fuck.” Doubling over, I drop to my knees.
Crash, Erick, and Sly stand over me. “What’s wrong?”
“Doralee,” I pant. “She’s in pain.”