Operation Hairbrush
Rowan
Eventually, Milo climbs out too. My black T-shirt is tied at the waist, as per my explicit instruction, and I wonder if perhaps I made a mistake…
How come I can handle four alpha wolves, a murderous omega, and a guardian angel… but not one chaotic witch? Putting my thoughts on a very tight—and very short—leash, I resume command of my pack.
“Right,” I say, hoping that one word magically helps me pull myself together.
“We need a cover story in case a resident stops us and asks what we’re doing.
And as much as I loathe to say this Magpie, my accent is the one thing about me I’ve always struggled to change. Add to that my general appearance…”
Milo gives me an obvious and flirtatious once-over. “I agree, Ranger. You’re hard to miss.”
I falter, my tenuous grip on this mission slipping while I try to work out if… no. I’m the commanding officer here.
“Which means,” I redirect. “If we’re stopped, yer going to have to do the talking, Magpie.”
Werewolves don’t have a god, or a patron saint, but when I tilt my face skyward, I pray to any deity that might be listening that no one within a one mile radius of our current location needs to speak to us for at least an hour.
When I look back at Milo, I expect to see him smiling at the idea that he gets to invent another tall tale and sell it to some unsuspecting civvie, but instead there’s a look of focused determination.
It helps me relax. If Milo can hang onto that, then this might just work.
“We stay together at all times; yer still under my care. Time Guy is out there somewhere, and we don’t know how his powers work, but he’s found ye three times now, which means he could find us here too.”
Again, I expect an argument, but it doesn’t happen.
“There’s a turning twenty yards before the Target—that’s our destination. We’re going to walk down on this side, and when we reach it, we’ll cross the road. Depending on what we see on the way past, we’ll develop a plan on the fly—yer good with that, right?”
Again, there’s no cheeky smile, nor mischievous glint in Milo’s eyes, just pure concentration.
“Magpie?” I ask. “Yer good?”
“Yeah, it’s just… I was thinking…”
I up-nod in encouragement.
“If they stop us, I think you should be my uncle—who just got out of prison.”
My lowering brow narrows my vision.
“Hear me out. People don’t like talking to ex-cons, so they won’t stay long after that, and it would explain why you look so…
” He gestures vaguely in my direction with a hand.
I’d be offended if I didn’t already know I could pass for a convict.
A fact my sister, Riley, delights in reminding me of every time we’re together.
“But if they do ask anything else, then I can say that I’m thinking of relocating here from Roanoke City—because living there is daylight robbery, and why have that when I could have all this for only a third more rent?
And anyway, I reckon the good folks of this subdivision might be interested in the benefits of aloe vera. ”
I chuckle. Only Milo could flip an insult into a charming and believable mission cover. “Alright, Magpie. It’s yer first mission with the Dogs, let’s go with yer story.”
Jamming my hands deep in my pockets, I angle my head to point us toward the Target, and set off at what I think is the correct pace for an ex-con uncle helping his wayward nephew choose a new home.
As we draw parallel with the Target, I keep my voice low and ask, “Do ye see the flickering light through the window?”
“Mhm. The TV?”
“Aye. Do ye see any other lights in any other windows?”
Milo shakes his head.
Purposefully, I turn us to look at the house directly opposite, putting our backs to the Target. “What does that tell ye, if yer earlier prediction is right?”
“That dad’s watching the TV to chill after his shift, and the kid’s still asleep in the back.”
“Why in the back?”
“Because if that’s the living room, then the bedrooms are at the back.”
A proud smile takes over my face. “Exactly. And what is it ye need, Magpie?”
“A hairbrush…”
“Which is?”
“In the bedroom.” Milo’s smile matches my own.
Continuing our stroll, I guide us further on toward the crossing point. While we wait, I point out a little path that cuts up between the houses just two down from our Target. “We’re heading for that.”
The path is for rear property access, and there’s one every tenth house. With my wolf forward, I check that no one is paying particular attention to us, and when I’m confident, I give Magpie a little nudge. Together, we jog down the narrow path using the cover of the taller hedges to our advantage.
At the rear of the property, we find a decent-sized family yard that has an upturned paddling pool and a couple of abandoned toys. The resident child is still too young to fully make use of the space. I also note the unkempt hedge that sits tight against the full backside of the Target.
“Tell me what ye see?” I motion to the back of the double-wide through the chain-link fence that separates us.
Milo doesn’t miss a beat. “An open window; a small, open window.”
“Why’d ye think it’s open?”
Milo takes a moment, then he says, “They think the hedge is protection.”
The corner of my mouth tugs upward. Clever, Magpie. “Aye. Which room do ye think it is?”
Milo shrugs. “Kid’s?”
I shake my head—no. “New mothers will barely ever leave their firstborn alone in a room with an open window. Took my sister, Raina, until my nieces were almost eight before she felt comfortable with that.”
“So that’s where I’m heading?”
I nod, then immediately frown. I said we weren’t to split up, but there’s no way I can get through that window, and even if I could, my weight would rattle the home too much and alert the occupant.
Milo bounces in place beside me. “So I…?” He looks at the fence, probably calculating if he can get over it. “And then…?”
“Yeah. I can help ye get over, but coming back will be noisy. We’re not overlooked though, which is fortunate.”
“How high do you reckon that hedge is?”
I glance over at it, then position my hand palm down between us, marking the height against Milo’s sternum.
He lets out a soft laugh. “Welp. RIP my nipples.”
My returning laugh is uneasy. I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans. My palms are never clammy before a mission—this is what I excel at. To bolster me, my wolf pushes forward.
As if Milo can see that internal shift, he pats me on the bicep. “S’okay, big boy. I might look like a princess, but I’m not one.”
Ignoring everything he just said, I direct, “Pass me yer phone. Ye don’t want it falling out of a pocket.
If ye need me, ye can just whisper.” I tap the shell of my ear.
“I’ll hear ye. If ye need a distraction so ye can get out, I’ll knock on the door.
If ye get in trouble… Do ye remember yer safe word? ”
Milo gigglesnorts. “Fucksparagus.”
Despite it all, I smile. “I’m right here, Magpie. Ye go in, get yer brush, and come straight back to me.”
Milo’s expression softens, and I could kick myself. I hadn’t meant to say it like that.
“Got it,” he says, expression hardening a split second before he leaps the fence with barely so much as the rattle of chain.
He squats low on the other side, then darts over the yard to underneath the open window.
My wolf, who’s been more forward than not since we left the Nest, monitors the quiet and short breaths of an infant, as well as the faint chatter of the TV from the other end of the property. Everything’s stable.
I nod to give Magpie the go-ahead on Operation Hairbrush.
Milo presses himself into the hedge, finds a foothold on a thicker branch, then heaves himself up and through the open window, where he vanishes from my line of sight.
To monitor his vitals, my wolf comes so close to the surface that my cuspids elongate, my field of view increases to allow for the wider setting of his eyes, and my low brow rests heavily across the bridge of my nose.
The buzzing of an incoming call to my phone jolts my heart, and in this more lupine form it seems loud enough to alert the whole neighbourhood. As hurriedly as clawed fingers allow, I check the screen to see Guardian’s name.
He never calls with a mission update, just in case others are listening, so whatever he wants must be personal.
My finger hovers over the accept button, when Milo’s quiet pain rings in my ears. “Owww, ow. Ouch.”
I decline the call, diverting Guardian to voicemail, and stare hard at the window.
There’s an up-tick in Magpie’s heart rate, and I hold my breath while I wait restlessly.
He drifts closer to the window, his white-blond hair easily visible in an otherwise dark room, then offers a wide smile and a thumbs up.
The television in the front clicks off.
A second of silence passes.
Then my wolf detects the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Shit!
I gesticulate wildly for Milo to get his arse out of there, but the window is an awning-style one that’s hinged at the top, and when he jumps up he hits his head on the glass. Rubbing his forehead, he turns to look over his shoulder…
Now he hears it. The occupant is coming.
Readying to rush around the front and ring the doorbell, I freeze in place when Milo dives out of the window headfirst like he’s landing in a swimming pool and not sharp shrubbery.
Fixed in place with an uneasy mix of sick dread and anticipation, I replay the awkward angle of his landing in my mind.
My wolf didn’t hear any bones break, yet I’m convinced that I just watched him snap his neck.
The occupant, a human male of average height and build with mousy brown hair, appears in the exact spot Milo just leaped from. He frowns at the window, then leans forward to peer out of it.
From my current position, tucked away behind overgrown hedges and a fence, I’m not visible, but Magpie… who’s lying face down in the dirt at the foot of the window…
The man shuts it with a shake of his head and walks back inside the house.
My heart bursts into a gallop, and Milo rolls over and just… lies on the ground. I’m about to call out, when he effortfully pushes himself up.
Scanning all the windows—twice—guarantees the coast is clear, and I beckon him over.
At the fence, I brace my foot on the parallel bar halfway up to gain enough elevation to reach over the top and wrap my hand around his wrist. Using my werewolf strength, when Magpie jumps, I capitalise on the momentum and pull him back to the relative safety and seclusion of the narrow path behind the Target.
He practically lands on top of me, and I hook both arms around his shoulders to stabilise him. My wolf and I both check Milo closely, cataloguing every injury no matter how minor.
There’s a shine in Magpie’s eyes that I’ve seen countless times in other soldiers during a mission—that exhilarating combination of adrenaline and dopamine. There’s also part of a leaf stuck in his tunnel piercing.
I remove it, and can’t help trying to tame the mess of knots and sprinkling of soil he also picked up while tumbling through the hedge. There’s a small scratch just under Milo’s eye, and my gaze sticks on it.
He’s breathing hard, we both are, and we’re so close that we share each other’s air.
I smooth the pad of my thumb along Milo’s high cheekbone. “Yer hurt.”
He nods but doesn’t take his head from the cradle of my palm. Crystal-grey eyes flick between both of mine, and his pink tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip.
The vibrating alert of an incoming call cuts through the minute space between us with the surgical precision of a scalpel, and Milo steps back to dust himself off.
My gaze drops to the screen on my phone. Guardian. Again. But I can’t talk to him here, it’s not… private.
For the second time, I cancel his call.
Without making eye contact with Milo, I ask, “Was yer mission a success, Magpie?”
“Erm, yeah.” His voice is wobbly. “Yeah. Got it. We should leave.”