Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kain
The forest is too still.
It’s the kind of unnatural silence that descends when predators are near—when the prey animals sense danger and freeze, hoping to go unnoticed.
I stand at a secluded section of Moonvale’s border where thick trees give way to pack territory, completely alone and waiting for the Covenant operatives I was ordered to give access to.
They’re close; I can tell from the quiet woods even though I can’t see or smell them yet.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to ignore the tension coiling in my gut.
I wipe it away gently. The makeup artists Darius hired did incredible work this morning, transforming me into a corpse that hasn’t realized it’s dead yet.
Sunken eyes ringed with purple and black bruising.
Hollow cheeks. Skin with a grayish pallor that makes it look like the poison is eating me from the inside out.
The makeup is waterproof, but I still have to be careful. One wrong move and I might smudge the illusion.
I check my watch. 9:58 a.m.
My heart pounds against my ribs, but I force my breathing to stay shallow and ragged. Sick. Dying. That’s how I need them to see me.
At exactly ten o’clock, the operatives pop into view, dressed head to toe in tactical black—combat boots, Kevlar vests, weapons strapped to thighs and across backs. They look exactly like a SWAT team about to run a raid.
I recognize a few faces from my years in captivity—operatives who’d been there longer than me, the ones we called “seniors” because they’d survived enough missions to earn the title.
There’s one handler, too, but it’s not Rick.
Confusion sweeps over me, but I maintain my cover, letting out a wet cough that sounds like my lungs are drowning.
Why isn’t Rick here?
This handler is older, maybe mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of cold eyes I’ve seen on men who enjoy causing pain. He’s dressed like the others but carries himself differently. Authority radiates from him.
The senior operative leading the group is 252—I know him only by his operative number. He reaches me first. His lips curl into a mocking smile as he takes in my appearance.
“Wow,” he says, looking me up and down. “You don’t look too good, 621.”
“Where’s Rick?” I croak, acting like I’m on my last leg but really fishing for information. “He promised I’d get the antidote.”
A quick count tells me there’s only twenty men. Surely they don’t think twenty operatives will be enough to take down Moonvale, right? Even in a sneak attack, Violet, as a hybrid, would be hard to capture, not to mention Darius and Ethan.
252 chuckles, the sound harsh and amused. “Oh, he told you he’d bring you one?” He exchanges glances with the handler, who smirks. “Maybe after the operation is over and we go back. How long do you have left? A week? A few days?”
I let my shoulders slump. “Days. Maybe.”
“Well then.” 252 steps closer, close enough that I can smell the forest on his clothes. “You’re being punished for failing your mission and costing us the manpower to come here. So, be patient, 621.”
The lie is obvious. They have no intention of giving me anything.
I nod weakly, playing the desperate operative willing to cling to any scrap of hope. “I have everything ready. The security feeds, the vehicles, the route.”
“Show me.”
I pull out the tablet I prepared in advance and show them the live feed of Moonvale headquarters.
The lobby bustles with activity—people at desks, walking between cubicles, the normal rhythm of a workday.
On the third floor, in what appears to be the Luna’s office, a woman sits at a desk, reviewing documents.
Violet.
Except it’s not. It’s a female soldier named Maya who is roughly Violet’s height and build, wearing a wig and makeup that transform her into a convincing double from the camera’s distance.
252 studies the feed, his eyes sharp. “Security?”
“Minimal inside the building. Most guards are stationed at the pack borders and the Alpha’s residence. The Luna prefers not to have heavy security in her workspace. Says it makes her packmates nervous.”
Another lie wrapped in truth. Violet did say that once. But today, the entire building is a trap.
“Good.” 252 turns to address the other operatives.
“Standard extraction protocol. Teams of four. We neutralize civilians first, then target the primary threats—the Alpha, his Beta, and the hybrid. Remember, we need her alive and functional. Kill shots are authorized only for the Alpha and Beta, if necessary.”
The operatives nod and start checking their equipment. I catch glimpses of silver blades strapped to thighs and forearms, as well as vials of what I know is wolfsbane solution in tactical pouches. As I expected, there are no guns.
I know firsthand that silver bullets are impractical; they don’t penetrate well against shifter skin and bone. Unless you’re at point-blank range, they’ll bounce off the skin, causing pain but rarely fatal wounds. But a silver blade, driven into vital organs? That kills.
252 looks back at me. “The vehicles?”
“This way.”
I lead them out of the forest, my steps deliberately unsteady, like each one might be my last. We emerge onto a service road where four black cars sit waiting—SUVs I requisitioned from the security fleet this morning.
“You did your part well, 621,” 252 says as he slides into the driver’s seat of the lead vehicle. I climb in on the passenger side, my movements appearing slow and pained. “How’d you pull this off? The empty border, I mean.”
I cough again, making it sound wet and horrible. “Messed with the rotation schedule. The team that should be here thinks another team has it covered. By the time anyone realizes the gap in coverage, you’ll already be inside.”
“Well done.” There’s approval in his voice now, the kind an owner gives when their dog performs a trick correctly. “Maybe we will give you that antidote after all.”
We both know he’s lying.
The other operatives pile into the remaining vehicles. Engines start. We pull onto the road leading toward headquarters, and I feed 252 directions—information I’ve carefully provided to the Covenant over the past two days. Left here. Straight for three miles. Right at the intersection.
“How exactly do you plan to take Violet with only twenty operatives?” I ask, letting curiosity color my voice. “She’s a hybrid. Stronger than a normal wolf. And she has the Alpha and Beta protecting her.”
252 smiles, the expression sharp and predatory. “Check beneath your seat.”
I reach down, and my fingers find a small, metal case. I pull it out and open it.
Three darts rest in foam padding. The tips gleam with a dark, oily substance. Another chemical these bastards have come up with, clearly.
“New formula,” 252 explains, his eyes on the road.
“Strong enough to knock out a hybrid for days. We just need to get close enough to use them. One for each of the primary targets—the Alpha, the Beta, the hybrid. Once they’re down, the pack members will surrender rather than watch their leaders die. ”
My throat tightens, but I keep my expression slack. Dying men don’t have the energy for anger. “That’s…smart,” I rasp.
“We learned from your failure.” The words are casual, but the insult is deliberate. “You tried subtlety and infiltration but couldn’t finish the job. This time, we hit hard and fast.”
We’re getting close to HQ now. I can see the building rising in the distance, glass and steel gleaming in the morning sun.
“There,” I say, pointing. “Main entrance.”
252 pulls into the parking lot, the other vehicles following close behind. The operatives exit in synchronized movements, weapons visible now. Silver blades catch the sunlight. There’s no pretense here; they look exactly like what they are. A tactical strike team.
We enter through the side door, avoiding the elevators, which could be halted if we were spotted on security cameras. The stairwell is concrete and metal, and our footsteps echo as we climb. I lag behind, playing up my weakness, hobbling up each step like it’s a mountain.
The operatives ignore me. I’m not a threat. Just a dying man who has already served his purpose.
At the third-floor landing, 252 holds up a fist. Everyone stops.
“Form teams here,” he orders quietly, handing out two of the darts. “Once we’re in, eight of you split off. Find the Alpha and Beta. Four operatives each. Neutralize with the darts. Confirm the kill if necessary. The rest, with me. We handle the civilians and secure the hybrid.”
Clearly considered of no further use, I am waved off to the side with the handler.
Perfect.
252 counts down silently with his fingers in the air. Three. Two. One.
They burst through the stairwell door and straight into hell.
The office isn’t full of terrified civilians. It’s full of warriors.
The “employees” at their desks surge upward, and suddenly, the operatives aren’t facing accountants and assistants—they’re facing trained Moonvale soldiers who have been waiting for this exact moment.
The first operative manages one shocked curse before a “secretary” grabs his weapon hand and snaps his wrist with a crack that echoes across the room. He screams. She doesn’t let go, using his momentum to flip him over a desk that splinters under the impact.
Chaos erupts.
252 spins toward me, his eyes wide with realization, but I’m already moving, dropping the “dying man” act like I’m shedding a coat. I snap the handler’s neck, and then my fist catches 252 in the solar plexus—a blow that would drop most men. He staggers back, shock and fury warring on his face.
“You don’t move like you’re sick,” he gasps.
“That’s because I’m not.”
I don’t give him any more time to recover. My elbow crashes into his jaw. His head snaps to the side as blood sprays from his split lip.
He’s good, though. Just as I expect of someone with his level of experience, he rolls with the hit, creating distance, and his hand goes for the silver blade at his thigh.
I’m younger than 252, however, so I bet I’m faster.
Before the blade clears its sheath, I grab his wrist, twisting hard. Bone grinds. He tries to headbutt me, but I jerk to one side. His forehead glances off my cheekbone instead of breaking my nose.
“How did you get rid of the poison?” he asks angrily.
“It was a lie,” I snarl as we grapple. “I’m not bound to the Covenant anymore. I know the truth.”
252’s eyes narrow mockingly. “So, you figured it out.” He brings his knee up, aiming for my groin. I twist my hips and take it on the thigh instead. “You think you’re special? You think you’re the first to find out?”
The words hit harder than his knee did. “What?”
He laughs, the sound breathless as we struggle against each other. “There is no escape, 621. Poison or not, failed operatives must die.”
Understanding washes over me like a bucket of ice water. There have been others who found out and tried to escape, but these bastards killed them.
I can’t let that happen to me.
I slam my forehead into his nose. Cartilage crunches and blood pours down his face. He staggers, his grip loosening, and I rip the blade from his hand and toss it across the room.
Around us, the fight rages on.
Off to my left, a Covenant operative tries to use a “civilian” as a shield, but the man—a Moonvale warrior named Thomas—elbows him in the throat and flips him over his shoulder.
I notice another operative swing a silver blade at a female soldier. She ducks under the strike, comes up on the other side, and drives her palm into his elbow. The joint hyperextends with a loud pop.
In my peripheral vision, two operatives try to make a run for the stairwell. They don’t make it. Pack warriors tackle them from both sides, bringing them to the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarling fury.
“Seize them!” Darius’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding and absolute. “I want them alive!”
The Alpha strides through the office like a force of nature, directing his people expertly. Ethan is at his side, his fists bloody, a grim smile on his face.
This isn’t a fight. It’s a slaughter.
The Covenant operatives are skilled—I’ll give them that. Trained and deadly and efficient. But they walked into a trap, and they’re outnumbered three to one by warriors who have been preparing for this for two days.
252 lunges at me again, desperation making him sloppy. I sidestep, grab the back of his neck, and drive his face into the nearest desk. Once. Twice. The third time, he goes limp.
Breathing hard, I let him drop, adrenaline singing in my veins.
I look for my next target, but the fight is already over.
Operatives lie scattered on the floor—some unconscious, others groaning and struggling against the warriors holding them down. Silver handcuffs appear, snapping around wrists and ankles.
“Secure them all,” Darius orders. “I want every survivor restrained and in the holding cells within an hour.”
The pack warriors move as they’ve been trained, hauling the Covenant operatives to their feet and checking them for weapons and hidden devices. The ones who can’t walk are dragged.
It’s done. We won. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
As I stand here, watching the cleanup, a sense of unease crawls up my spine. Wasn’t that…too easy?
We let them come all the way here so we would be sure we’ve seen all their cards and be confident that none of them could escape. But only twenty operatives? That’s really all they sent? And no Rick?
Too easy. Definitely too easy.