Chapter Six
Midnight narrowed the road to a ribbon of dirt. Crickets chirped in the ditch where rainwater sat stale beside the dirt lane. Farther on, the abandoned mill loomed as a dark block against a low ceiling of clouds, its broken letters still spelling something about feed and grain if you squinted.
Crouching low, Zeppelin crept through the overgrown weeds. A dozen of his pack followed, their forms melting into the deep shadows cast by the derelict structure.
The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, a smell that did little to mask the acrid tang of chemicals emanating from the squat house ahead.
He raised a hand, fingers splayed, and felt the forward momentum halt behind him.
Around them, the night was a quiet hum of crickets, a peaceful sound for a place that held none.
A wet strand of ivy snagged Zeppelin’s sleeve. He didn’t shake it off. Movement drew attention, and attention drew trouble. A hand settled on his shoulder for half an instant—Vaughn—then withdrew.
Counting windows came next. Two on the west side of the house, one cracked and patched with tape.
One small basement window half buried in weeds, its iron bars rusted.
The porch rail sagged at the front. A back door with a cheap latch and a barrel bolt bright as a coin.
On the roof, a cable line drooped, and a weathervane sat, feathers stuck in some parts.
Zeppelin flicked two fingers, and the pack spread out.
They broke off in pairs, silent wraiths detaching from the main group to circle the building. Every window and door became a guarded portal. Once they were set, a new signal—a clenched fist— sent the two largest pack members toward the front door.
The generator at the side coughed and settled into a thrum that threaded through the weeds. That hum would cover a lot of sins if they did this right.
A deafening crack shattered the night as the door splintered inward from its frame. From inside came a cacophony of panicked shouts and tumbling furniture.
Rushing through the doorway came easier than breathing. Bodies scattered across stained carpet, some scrambling for weapons, others diving behind furniture. Broken glass crunched under boots as the pack flooded inside.
To the left, a man in a tank top swung a baseball bat. Vaughn caught it mid-swing, wrenched it from his grip, and drove an elbow into his temple.
The guy folded to the carpet.
Kitchen sounds—drawers yanked open, metal scraping. Someone looking for knives. Zeppelin moved in that direction, ducking under a thrown bottle that exploded against the wall behind him. Cheap vodka fumes burned his nostrils.
His claws extended without conscious thought, that familiar burn running from fingertips to forearm. Around him, the house erupted into controlled chaos. His pack knew their jobs.
Around him, the house turned into controlled work—bodies pinned, drawers opened, mouths made useful. Subdue, search, interrogate.
A skinny guy, maybe early twenties, bolted for the back door. He made it three steps before Wade dragged him down, pinning him with a knee between his shoulder blades. The guy wheezed against dirty linoleum, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the floor.
From upstairs, wood splintered. Someone had tried barricading themselves in. It wouldn’t help. His wolves could tear through walls if needed.
In the living room, two men grappled with Sloane and Liam.
One threw wild haymakers that never connected.
The other had some training and managed to land a solid hit to Sloane’s jaw before Liam grabbed him from behind and slammed his face into the coffee table.
Blood sprayed across scattered playing cards and empty beer cans.
Where was Bayne?
Zeppelin scanned each room as he moved through the house, checking faces, searching for that familiar build and dark hair.
Nothing.
Just strangers with dilated pupils and the telltale twitch of users coming down from their highs.
A metallic click froze everyone for half a second.
Gun.
The stranger by the stairs had it aimed at Wade’s head, hands shaking but finger on the trigger. Before Zeppelin could move, Vaughn ripped the weapon away, crushing the man’s wrist in the process. Bones gave way with a loud snap. The guy screamed, dropping to his knees.
“Anyone else armed?” Vaughn called out, disassembling the gun and tossing the pieces.
Silence except for groaning and the generator’s hum outside.
Three bodies lay motionless. Two more had tried for the windows, only to find pack members waiting. They’d been dragged back inside and were now kneeling with hands behind their heads while Liam secured their wrists with some zip-ties he’d found.
The house reeked of unwashed bodies, old food, and something chemical that made Zeppelin’s nose twitch.
His pack had cleared every room in under two minutes, but still no sign of Bayne.
Anger coiled tighter in his gut. If these bastards had hurt him, had sold him something that put him back on that dark path...
“Zep.” Vaughn nodded toward the hallway, where one man stood differently than the others. Not cowering. Not high. Just watching with narrowed eyes. His scent reached Zeppelin.
Coyote shifter. He had to be the one running this operation since preternatural couldn’t get high off of human drugs. Why else would he be there?
Zeppelin crossed the distance in three strides, grabbed the coyote by the throat, and slammed him against peeling wallpaper. Picture frames rattled. One fell, glass shattering across warped hardwood.
“Where is he?” The words came out more growl than speech. With a coyote running shit, he would’ve known Bayne wasn’t there to score.
The coyote’s hands came up, not fighting, just resting against Zeppelin’s wrist. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Zeppelin’s claws pressed harder, breaking skin. Thin lines of blood trickled down the coyote’s neck, soaking into his collar. “Wolf shifter. Dark hair. Would’ve come through two nights ago looking to score.”
“Nobody like that came here.” The coyote’s voice stayed steady despite the pressure on his windpipe. “We don’t sell to shifters anyway. They can’t get high off our product.”
They could if the coyote was selling more than human drugs. The whole operation stank of preternatural involvement, and Zeppelin had the culprit against the wall.
From the living room, Liam’s voice cut through the tension. “Found something.”
Still holding the coyote, Zeppelin turned his head enough to see Liam prying up a loose floorboard near the fireplace. Wood groaned as it came free, revealing a metal lockbox underneath.
Liam grabbed it, used his claws to pop the cheap lock, and flipped it open.
Inside, neat stacks of cash sat beside small plastic bags filled with various pills and powders. But what made Zeppelin’s blood run cold was the phone sitting on top. Black case, cracked screen, definitely Bayne’s.
Why would they keep his phone? Unless…
His grip on the coyote’s throat tightened until the shifter’s eyes bulged. “Where is he? And don’t lie to me again.”
The coyote’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. His hands clawed weakly at Zeppelin’s arm, but there was something off about his panic. Too much fear for someone who supposedly didn’t know anything.
“Can’t…breathe.”
Loosening his hold just enough to let the coyote speak, Zeppelin leaned in close. “Start talking.”
“Look, I don’t know where your friend went.” The words tumbled out fast and desperate. “He came here two nights ago, yeah. Acted all twitchy, asking for the hard stuff. We don’t just hand that over to strangers, so we told him to wait while we checked him out.”
The son of a bitch was lying. Bayne would never make such a rookie move.
“And?”
“And he started asking questions about our supplier, who else bought from us. When we wouldn’t answer, he tried to leave. My boys thought he might be a cop, so they…” The coyote’s gaze darted away.
Rage flooded through Zeppelin’s system, his wolf pushing against his control. “So they what?”
“They tried to keep him here. Just to make sure he wasn’t law. But he fought back. Tore through three of my guys before he got out. We kept his phone because we thought maybe we could track him down, make sure he didn’t rat us out.”
Every word made Zeppelin want to tear this man apart. They’d attacked Bayne, forced him to fight his way out. No wonder he hadn’t come back or checked in. Injured, possibly confused from whatever drugs they might’ve forced on him, alone in the dark…
“Which way did he run?”
“East, toward the forest. But that was two nights ago. He could be anywhere—”
The coyote moved faster than expected, hands suddenly at Zeppelin’s throat with claws extended. A desperate move from someone who knew he was already dead. Zeppelin reacted on instinct, twisting sideways while driving his own claws deep into the coyote’s neck.
Warm blood poured over his hands. The coyote’s eyes went wide then vacant. His body slumped, held up only by Zeppelin’s grip for a moment before he let it fall.
Looking down at the corpse, Zeppelin understood. The coyote had known something worse was coming—interrogation, torture maybe, or just the slow realization that he’d signed his own death warrant by touching someone under Zeppelin’s protection.
Quick death was mercy compared to what might’ve been.