Chapter Nine #2
Butch closed the door behind us, then moved around to sit behind his desk. His movements were deliberate, controlled—the movements of an alpha predator accustomed to command.
Every instinct I had screamed to keep my distance from such a dominant presence, yet I forced myself to approach the desk when Rooster nodded encouragingly.
"Rooster says you've got something important to show me," Butch said, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made me want to disappear into the floor.
I glanced at Rooster, who gave me a small nod. "Go ahead, kid. Show him what you showed me."
With trembling hands, I placed my notepad on the desk and opened it to the first drawing—the compound layout with the marked positions of Victor's devices.
I spread out several pages, arranging them in a sequence that told the story I couldn't voice aloud: the tracking network, the suited men, the pattern of surveillance, the specific targeting of shifters.
Butch leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he studied each drawing in turn. His fingers traced the X marks on the compound sketch, much as Rooster's had done earlier.
"These are all places where tracking devices are buried?" he asked, looking up at me.
I nodded, then flipped to the drawing showing the device's internal components—the antenna, the blinking light, the power source.
"And you're certain these are designed to track shifters specifically? Not just standard surveillance?"
I hesitated, then reached for my pencil.
On a fresh sheet, I drew a simplified version of what I'd seen in a city three years ago—a device similar to Victor's being tested in a park.
I sketched a human walking past it—the device remaining inactive—followed by a shifter approaching—the device lighting up with activity.
Then I added the suited men arriving minutes later, converging on the shifter's location.
Butch's eyes widened slightly as he understood. "They can differentiate between humans and shifters? How the hell is that possible?"
I shrugged, unable to explain the science behind it. All I knew was what I'd observed—that these devices responded differently to shifters than to ordinary humans. I sketched another quick drawing—a simplified molecular structure with question marks around it.
"Something in our biology," Rooster guessed, watching over my shoulder. "Something these devices can detect."
I nodded, relieved he understood. Then I flipped to another page and drew a small calendar, marking off days leading to tomorrow with a large X circled repeatedly.
"Tomorrow," Butch said flatly. "Whatever they're planning happens tomorrow."
I confirmed with another nod, then drew a final image—the most difficult to convey.
A small lynx hiding in bushes, watching as men in suits installed equipment around various territories.
I added small details to each location—a wolf paw print beside one, bear claw marks on a tree near another, fox tracks by a third.
Then I drew empty cages where those markers had been, with the suited men loading them into vans.
"How long have you been tracking these people?" Butch asked, his voice quieter now, serious.
I held up five fingers.
"Five years?" he guessed.
I shook my head.
"Five... months?" Rooster suggested.
Another head shake. I drew a quick map of the United States with five cities circled.
"Five different locations," Butch realized. "You've seen this happen in five different places."
I nodded, then pointed to myself and mimed walking from one circle to another on the map.
"You've been moving around, staying ahead of them," Rooster said softly. "That's why you never stay in one place too long."
The accuracy of his assessment surprised me.
I'd never told anyone about my constant relocations, my careful patterns of movement designed to avoid detection.
Yet he'd understood immediately—this giant of a man with the gentle eyes and endless patience had seen right through my defenses to the survival strategy beneath.
"And now they're here," Butch said grimly. "After us."
I picked up my pencil again and added one more detail to my drawing—a small lynx near the Soldiers of Fortune compound, watching, noting, warning. Me.
Butch studied the image for a long moment, then looked up at me with new understanding in his eyes.
"You could have just disappeared when you realized what was happening.
Most people would have. Most people who've survived what you have definitely would have.
" He leaned back in his chair, regarding me with what seemed like respect. "But you came back to warn us instead."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with his assessment.
It hadn't felt like bravery when I'd made the decision—just necessity.
These people, this club—they'd unwittingly created a space where I could exist on the periphery, taking what I needed without being hunted or harmed.
Rooster had fed me without demands. The least I could do was return the favor with information that might save them.
"Thank you," Butch said simply. "Not many would take that risk for strangers."
I glanced at Rooster, whose eyes were fixed on me with an expression that made my chest feel strangely tight. "Not strangers," he corrected quietly. "Family."
The word hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to examine. I looked down at my drawings instead, focusing on the concrete threat rather than the complex emotions Rooster's statement had stirred.
Butch's expression had shifted from contemplative to determined. "We need to find these devices. Now. And then we need to prepare for whatever's coming tomorrow."
I nodded, already planning how to locate each buried tracker with the plants' help. It was time to show them exactly what I could do—and hope it would be enough to keep us all alive.
Outside, I pulled Rooster toward the fence line where Victor had planted the newest device, my fingers wrapped around the cuff of his leather jacket rather than touching his skin.
My steps were purposeful despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. I hadn't revealed this ability to anyone before—this strange connection to plants that had kept me alive when all else failed.
Even as a child, before I'd been abandoned, I'd learned to hide how leaves seemed to whisper to me, how roots reached toward my fingers when I sat in gardens.
My parents had called it unnatural, freakish.
But now, this "freakish" ability might be the only thing standing between these shifters and whatever trap Victor was setting.
"This is where you saw him plant it?" Rooster asked as we approached the spot where Victor had knelt earlier.
I nodded, then released his jacket and dropped to my knees in the dirt.
The sun was beginning its afternoon descent, casting long shadows across the compound as I placed my palm flat against the ground.
Closing my eyes, I focused on the subtle vibrations pulsing through the soil—the silent language of roots and microorganisms that humans couldn't hear, but I had understood since childhood.
Here-danger. Buried-death. Here-here-here.
The message came immediately, the plants' distress sharp and clear. They hated the foreign object buried among them, this metal intruder leaking its poisonous signals into their network.
I opened my eyes and pointed to an exact spot near the fence post, not quite where Victor had appeared to place it—he'd been clever enough to misdirect, burying the actual device several inches from where he'd pretended to kneel.
"Right here?" Rooster confirmed, crouching beside me.
I nodded, watching intently as he pulled a small folding knife from his pocket and began to carefully loosen the soil. He worked with surprising delicacy for such large hands, removing small scoops of dirt until a glint of metal reflected the afternoon sunlight.
"There," he murmured, brushing away the last of the soil to reveal a small disc about the size of a quarter. A tiny red light blinked steadily on its surface, and what looked like a minuscule antenna protruded from one side. "Son of a bitch."
He moved to pick it up, but I caught his wrist, shaking my head frantically. If the device could detect shifters, touching it directly might trigger some kind of alert. Instead, I gestured for him to scoop it onto the knife blade, which he did with a nod of understanding.
Once the device rested on the flat of his blade, I leaned in to study it more closely. The design was familiar—similar to others I'd seen, but with subtle differences. This one was newer, more sophisticated.
I pulled my notepad from my pocket and quickly sketched the device, adding details of its internal components based on what I'd observed in other locations when hunters had been less careful about concealing their technology.
Rooster watched me draw with undisguised amazement. "How do you know what's inside it?"
I tapped my eye, then made a gesture encompassing various cities—I'd seen these things before, in different stages of assembly, in different locations.
"You've been watching them a long time," he said softly. "Learning their methods."
I nodded, then stood and pointed toward another section of the fence about fifty yards away. The plants were already calling to me, their distress signals forming a map of buried threats around the compound's perimeter.
"Another one over there?" Rooster asked, carefully wrapping the first device in his bandana before pocketing it.
I nodded again, already moving in that direction. For the next hour, we worked our way around the compound's perimeter, with me leading Rooster from one buried device to another.
At each location, I'd kneel, commune with the plants through touch, then point to the exact spot where the tracker was hidden. Rooster would dig it up, wrap it carefully, and add it to our growing collection.