Chapter Eleven #17
“Didn’t know you were taking orders from coyotes now, Marcus,” Quinn said, keeping his tone conversational while his mind raced through escape scenarios. “Seems like a demotion.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “They’re business partners. They supply, I distribute.”
“You’ve been selling drugs in our territory?” Quinn directed the question at Marcus, but his attention remained fixed on the coyotes. If all three attacked at once, even he would have trouble protecting Sasha.
“Not just selling,” Scarface said, running a finger along the scar that bisected his face. “Expanding. Crimson Hollow is prime real estate. Cut off from the rest of the world, jobs hard to find. A lot of poverty to exploit.”
The confession sent a surge of fury through Quinn’s blood, hot enough to make his fingers itch with the need to shift.
“And your wolf pack has been making things difficult,” Lanky added, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather instead of territorial drug operations. “So we figured we’d send a message. Take something valuable from you.”
Quinn’s control slipped for just a second, a growl escaping his throat before he could stop it. These bastards had been targeting Sasha as a way to get to the pack. To him. That day at the waterfall. The coyotes hadn’t just stumbled on Quinn and Sasha. It’d been a planned attack.
“Move,” Scarface ordered, producing his own gun and gesturing toward a sedan parked at the far end of the lot. “Both of you. Nice and easy.”
Marcus shoved Sasha forward, keeping the gun pressed against him. Quinn had no choice but to comply, moving slowly, his mind calculating angles and timing. If he could just get close enough…
Quinn exchanged a quick glance with Sasha as they were herded toward the vehicle. His mate’s eyes were wide but clear—he was scared but thinking. Good. Between the two of them, they might find an opening.
As they approached the sedan, the distant wail of a siren broke the afternoon quiet. All five men paused, heads turning toward the sound. A police cruiser rolled into view, moving slowly through the parking lot on what appeared to be a routine patrol.
Marcus pressed the gun harder against Sasha’s side. “Don’t even think about it,” he hissed.
But Sasha had already drawn a deep breath. “Help!” he screamed, the sound tearing from his throat. “Police!”
Everything happened at once.
Quinn dropped low and pivoted, grabbing Marcus’s wrist and twisting it backward with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the pavement as Marcus howled in pain. Sasha kicked the weapon away as Quinn delivered a punch that sent Marcus sprawling.
The coyotes moved with supernatural speed, but Quinn was faster. He caught Lanky with an uppercut that lifted the man off his feet. Behind him, the police cruiser’s lights flashed to life, and the vehicle accelerated toward them.
Scarface lunged at Quinn, fingers already elongating into claws—a fatal mistake in broad daylight. Quinn sidestepped the attack and caught him by the throat, slamming him against the side of the sedan hard enough to dent the metal.
“Sheriff!” Quinn called as the cruiser screeched to a halt.
Sheriff Mitch Owen emerged with his weapon drawn. “Down on the ground! All of you!”
Lanky scrambled to his feet, spitting blood. His eyes darted between Quinn and the sheriff. Quinn knew what he was about to do.
Shift in broad daylight.
“He’s about to shift!” Quinn shouted in warning.
The sheriff didn’t hesitate. Two shots rang out, hitting Lanky in square in his forehead. The coyote collapsed.
Scarface, seeing his partner fall, made a desperate attempt to escape. He broke free from Quinn’s grip and darted toward the back of the building. Quinn pursued, tackling him before he could shift.
They rolled across the pavement, a tangle of limbs and half-formed claws. Quinn gained the upper hand, pinning the half-shifted coyote beneath him. Sheriff Owen approached, weapon trained on Scarface’s head.
“Stand down,” the sheriff ordered.
For a moment, it seemed Scarface might comply. Then his lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing lengthening canines, and he bucked upward with inhuman strength.
The sheriff's weapon discharged again. Once. Twice. The coyote went limp beneath Quinn, eyes fixed and vacant.
Quinn rose slowly, his knuckles bloody, breath coming in controlled bursts. He turned to find Marcus curled on the ground, cradling his broken wrist, moaning.
But Quinn’s attention fixed on Sasha, who stood frozen several feet away. His mate’s face had gone ashen, eyes wide with shock, body trembling visibly.
Quinn crossed the distance between them in three long strides. Sasha fell into his arms, collapsing against him as if his legs could no longer support his weight.
“I’ve got you,” Quinn murmured into Sasha’s hair, arms encircling him protectively. “You’re safe now. They can't hurt you anymore.”
Sasha’s fingers clutched at Quinn’s shirt, bunching the fabric. “They were going to—they wanted—” His words dissolved into shaky breaths.
“I know,” Quinn said, holding him tighter. “But they’re gone. For good this time.”
Over Sasha’s shoulder, Quinn watched as Sheriff Owen handcuffed Marcus, reciting his rights in a grim monotone. The sheriff caught Quinn’s eye and gave a small nod—an acknowledgment between men who understood what had happened here and what had nearly happened.
Quinn pressed his lips to Sasha’s temple.
His mate nodded against his shoulder, still trembling but already steadier. “Home,” he repeated, the word muffled against Quinn’s shirt. “Yeah.”
The sheriff approached them, holstering his weapon. “I’ll need statements from both of you, but it can wait until tomorrow. Go take care of your mate.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said, meaning it.
The pack would handle the aftermath, would make sure the right stories were told, the right evidence buried. What mattered now was Sasha, still trembling in his arms.
“You’re safe,” Quinn whispered into his mate’s hair, willing it to be true. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
For the first time since Marcus had appeared, Sasha’s breathing began to slow. He pulled back just enough to look up at Quinn, blue eyes swimming with tears behind smudged glasses.
“You’re still taking me to lunch,” he said.
Quinn pressed his forehead to Sasha’s, enamored with his resilience. “You got it, firefly.”
THE END