CHAPTER TWO - AXEL
“You’re a big fat softie, boss,” Colt slurs, barely getting the bottle of rum to his lips before he takes a swig.
The front of his flannel jacket is damp from spillage, and the inside of my vehicle smells like the bowels of a pirate ship.
A couple of miles back he let out a burp that burned my nose hairs, and I’m tempted to reach over and slam his head into the window, just to put us both out of our misery. “Want to know why?”
“Not really.” When he’s sober, Colt has a quick tongue and a chaotic sense of humor, but he’s been juiced up for so long, I’ve stopped listening to his pointless ramblings.
My disinterest doesn’t faze him, though.
“Who else would drive an hour through the snow to collect a couple of boxes? You should have told the three-star to FedEx that shit. Does he think we have nothing better to do than slog down a mountainside? I mean, he only called us so he can put a little tick on his paperwork…”
Against my better instincts, I jerk the wheel, and Colt makes a little oof sound as his head bounces off the glass. “Sorry,” I tell him, sounding anything but. “Didn’t want to hit that deer.”
“There’s deer?” He peers around blearily. “Where’s my gun? We could have venison stew for dinner tonight.”
Just to be clear, I locked up his weapons weeks ago, and I can’t help curling a lip in his direction. I want to tell him he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn right now, but that would be too cold, even for me, so I settle for the obvious question. “When have you ever cooked venison stew?”
“Never, but Hog probably has.” He scratches his head, his scalp pink from where his constant picking is giving him a raw patch. “That guy is part Sasquatch, I swear…”
He lulls into silence, except for the growling sounds coming from his stomach.
As annoyed as I am with his sloshed ass, I feel my chest tighten.
Yes, he’s an adult, and can grab a bowl of oatmeal or an energy bar out of the kitchen he never visits.
He could also take a shower, change his clothes, and remember he’s an elite soldier for five minutes straight.
But none of that is going to happen in a hurry, and bouncing his head off the window isn’t going to fix things for either of us.
Which is why I’m driving down the mountain to collect a couple of boxes from the train station. Closure, General Booth called it, as if sifting through old junk will really change anything about our situation. But when a three-star general gives you an order, you jump.
Or, at least, I do. As team leader of our military unit, I’m General Booth’s point of contact, and while he’s usually pretty hands off with our pack, he’s taken particular interest in our wellbeing since we moved to the cabin.
It’s so remote that we go for days without seeing anyone, but the general still video calls once a week to check in.
It’s an exercise in humility, since half the time Hog doesn’t show, and Colt is too plastered to contribute more than burps and the occasional room-clearing fart.
The general never calls me out on it, but we both know I’m responsible for my pack’s care, and I’m doing a shit-poor job in just about every way.
Not that he needs to tell me. Thanks to our mating bond, my packmates’ emotions are as viscerally real to me as blood splatter at the scene of a bear attack.
You’re fucking this up, pack alpha.
Tell me something I don’t know, sweet boy.
“We’re here,” I announce, my voice like beaten gravel as we pull into the small parking lot outside the station.
The snow isn’t as thick at this elevation, but the streets are still deserted, and I feel a bone-deep weariness as I stare at the empty landscape.
“Wait with the vehicle.” Colt just snorts, already half asleep, and I tap the roof to get his attention.
“Want me to grab you something from the vending machine?”
He perks up at the offer, a faint twinkle in his bleary eyes. “Yeah, get me some gummies. And a pack of Twizzlers for movie night.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, since we don’t have a television in the cabin. Not that it would matter, since we haven’t watched a movie together since…
Fuck.
I guess closure is a lot like picking off an infected scab.
Got to resurrect the pain before you can bury it for good.
I hunch my shoulders, my hands stuffed into my alpine jacket as I crunch through the snow. It’s not the cold that’s making me numb – I’m conditioned to ignore shit like that – but I’ve been feeling disconnected from reality ever since the general contacted me to collect Charlie’s things.
He was vague about the contents, just that I needed to meet the afternoon train, and they’d be labelled with our pack name.
Charlie was military intelligence and had bolt holes all over the country, so I’m not really surprised he left things behind.
It’s a lot of effort for a general, though, and I have to admit, I’m equal parts curious and dreading what I’m about to find.
What I’m not expecting is an empty platform, the afternoon train long since gone. I check my watch and curse. The hands have stopped dead, and a quick glance at the railway clock tells me I’m twenty minutes late. What kind of recon and logistics expert is late for anything?
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath, then lift a hand in apology to the young guy huddled on the bench at the end of the platform.
He doesn’t respond – not even a twitch of acknowledgement – and I wonder if he’s sleeping.
Too bad. Charlie’s too important, and the kid shouldn’t be snoozing at this temperature, anyway.
“Hey, man, did you see some boxes arrive…?”
My voice fades as I approach the huddled figure. Not a kid, not a guy, and definitely not sleeping. There’s only a faint whisper of a scent, but cat’s eyes, somewhere between green and gold, blink up at me, and I feel my mouth go dry. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
The omega just stares back at me through a fringe of dirty hair.
It’s no wonder I thought she was an adolescent male; the old sweater swims on her thin frame, and she’s wearing a pair of blue jeans so baggy, I’m surprised they haven’t slipped off her feet…
My head jerks, my eyes bulging in shock. “Where the hell are your shoes, Omega?”
At my angry bark, her bare toes retract under the hem of her stretched-out sweater. It’s a defensive action, but the look on her face is weirdly blank, her chin resting on her knees as she holds something out to me.
I’ve stormed enemy compounds, crossed fields riddled with landmines, and spent three months as a POW in a hellhole even the devil would be ashamed of, but I really don’t want to get any closer to this omega. “What is it?”
Instead of answering, she places the scrap of paper on the bench beside her. Even from a few feet away I can see our pack name written in the general’s tight script.
“What does that mean?”
The girl just stares at me, and I waste a couple of seconds looking under the bench. There’s an old train ticket, a wad of dried-out gum, and a few unpleasant stains, but no sign of anything that could pass for a box. “Charlie…” I begin, but my throat can’t force out another word.
Her flinch, though… That tells me something. She knew Charlie, or she has some connection to him.
Unless someone stole the boxes, and she found the note…
“Wait here,” I bark, striding to the other end of the platform and fumbling for my phone. I rarely turn it on given the shitty reception in the cabin, but I have the general’s number on speed dial.
“General Booth’s office.”
“It’s Captain Axel Lawson here. I need to speak with the general.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” his adjutant informs me, fingers clacking away on his keyboard. “Do you want to leave a message, Captain?”
“No. Just tell him… the boxes didn’t arrive.”
“Oh.” There’s a shuffling sound, and then the adjutant clears his throat. “The general said to apologize for the surprise. He was only informed at the last minute that the item in question was unusual. Do you want the details?”
I’m shaking my head, but I force myself to say, “Yes.”
“Beatrice Ann Wallace, designation omega, goes by the name Birdie. Estranged sibling of Corporal Charles Wallace. Born February 6, 2002. Last known address is a halfway house in Eastmont, but that was three years ago. She’s been in and out of correctional facilities for drug and alcohol offenses and was in a rehabilitation clinic for soliciting charges on three separate occasions.
There’s also some history of violence, both as victim and perpetrator.
Do you want me to email the packet to you, Captain? ”
“Yes.” No. I want nothing to do with it, because this isn’t a scab, it’s a fucking massive gushing wound… “Please ask the general to call me at his earliest convenience, Lieutenant Peak.”
“Ah, one last thing, Captain. There’s a handwritten note… Should I read it?” My grunt must sound like permission, because Peak says, “‘Axel, if you can’t take her in, no one would think badly of you. This is not a mission.’ That’s it, Captain.”
Not a mission? It’s a goddamn amputation without an anesthetic…
I hang up before he can drive the knife in any deeper.
Fuck my broken excuse of a life.
I thought the general knew how close we were to rupturing at the seams. It’s not like I’ve been able to hide it in our weekly check-ins.
From elite tactical unit to traumatized shitshow in eleven short months.
So, why did he send this nightmare of an omega to our doorstep?
Does he want me to play babysitter? Tough love therapist?
After losing the best part of ourselves in our last mission, he must know that Pack Lawson is the furthest thing from anyone’s last hope.