by Julie Frost
They didn’t get to finish, though Ben wolfed down his entire steak and most of the potato with the single-minded intensity of a soldier about to go into battle, not knowing if or when he’d get to eat again. A hooting alarm caused him to twitch, and they set their forks deliberately aside and picked up their weapons, exchanging grim glances.
Alex hit a couple of buttons on his computer, and the screen showed security camera footage of a black Cadillac SUV pulling into the driveway.
Chambliss wiped his hands on a big cloth napkin. Alex tapped his foot. The tang of nervous sweat filled the air. “Come around here,” Alex muttered. Metal shutters closed off every single window in the house, and the only way in was through this room.
Ben compulsively checked his M4 again, making sure it was set to a three-round burst rather than semi-auto, making sure the safety was off, making sure he had one in the chamber, making sure the mags in his pocket were readily accessible and turned the right way for fast reloading. He placed himself slightly in front of Alex, because he was still a soldier and protecting civilians was his job, because this was all he had left to give and he hoped it was enough—and because he was just angry enough to want to take that first shot.
Alex continued to hit keys on the computer, following the SUV from camera to camera as it drove around the enormous house and stopped in front of the French doors to the basement. Two burly men got out of the front, wearing sunglasses and carrying pistols. The one on the driver’s side opened the back door, and Ostheim got out, pulling someone by the arm.
Alex cursed. “How in the hell did he get ahold of Kincaid?”
“Probably the same way we did,” Ben said. He remembered Janni half-dragging the scientist past him through the living room down to the basement the other day. “He should have left town.”
“And didn’t. Shit.”
Ostheim pounded on the door with the flat of his hand, holding a gun to Kincaid’s head and looking up at the camera. “Let us in, Jarrett,” he shouted. “Or your man dies.”
Alex stood up and faced off across the room from the door between Ben and Chambliss. “It’s open.” He held his rifle easily at his side, finger off the trigger but next to it.
Ben had no such compunctions about gun safety. His own finger rested lightly on the trigger, ready to rock and roll. He noted that Chambliss stood slightly in front of Alex as well, his relaxed-but-alert stance telling Ben that Chambliss hadn't been lying when he'd mentioned being a soldier once upon a time. It made him feel a little better about the situation.
The door opened, and Kincaid came in first, hands in the air, gibbering and terrified. Ostheim followed with Kincaid’s collar bunched in his fist and his handgun beside Kincaid’s ear, and the two thugs entered right behind him.
“You’re outgunned, Ostheim,” Alex said. His voice was remarkably calm. “Let Brandon go and we can talk about this.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Ostheim snarled. “You were drunk and you killed my Idna.” His gaze flicked over to Ben. “And you killed Deiter. I’m glad you’re both here together. It will make it easier for me.” He dug his gun into Kincaid’s face. “Drop your weapons.”
“Yeah, no,” Ben said, bringing his M4 up. “I think you should drop yours.”
“I wasn’t drunk—” Alex started.
“Shut up, Jarrett, we all know how you are. I’ll kill him unless you drop your weapons now.”
“And then we’ll kill you.” Ben bared his fangs, letting the wolf off the chain a tiny bit. “I’d rather no one else died, but if you insist …”
“I slaughtered you like a steer once, boy.” Ostheim’s own teeth came out. “Don’t think I’ll be shy about finishing the job this time.”
“I’m not strapped to a table and down three pints of blood. You’ll find it a little tougher.” Ben still wasn’t a hundred percent better from the illness that Idna had considerately transmitted to him—not even close, in fact—but Ostheim didn’t need to know that. The M4 was a pretty good equalizer. And with Janni upstairs, the wolf was on high alert, snapping and snarling and wanting to just attack with no regard for the tactical situation. Ben sympathized but pushed it back.
“You will all drop your weapons and Lockwood and Jarrett will come with me.” Ostheim’s voice was ragged, his expression wild. “Do you think I won’t shoot this man right in the head?”
Ben stepped forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I’m pretty sure you would. Which is why this needs to stop, here and now.”
“Drop your weapons!”
“Not. Happening,” Alex said.
A gun roared, and for the barest second Ben didn’t know who’d fired. Then Kincaid fell bonelessly to the floor in a spray of blood and brains, and the room dissolved into chaos.
Ostheim should have known better than to mess with a pissed-off combat veteran with PTSD, Ben had time to think grimly, while he reacted on pure instinct, reverting to training. He squeezed the trigger twice, and Ostheim staggered backwards and fell with six rounds to his ten-ring. The two bodyguards dropped beside him, drilled through their foreheads once each and not by Ben’s gun.
Ben turned to see Alex on the floor, wheezing. “Shit, that hurt,” the billionaire managed. “You guys are good, I didn’t even get one off—watch it!”
Something hit Ben’s shoulder blade with punishing force, driving his breath from his lungs, ramming him to the floor. He rolled with it and spun, bringing the M4 back up and firing a burst that caught Ostheim in the gun arm and sent his pistol flying backwards out the still-open door. He shifted aim—
And Chambliss was standing next to Ostheim with the barrel of his H&K resting inside the man’s ear, smoke still curling out of the barrel. Ben hadn’t even seen him move. “Stop,” the butler said. “The killing stops, now.”
Ostheim grasped his bleeding arm with his good hand, swearing. The odor of burning flesh from the silver filled the air.
Ben stared, his hackles still raised. “I hit you in the chest six damn times. How…?”
“I’m wearing body armor under my clothes,” Ostheim snapped. “I am not an utter fool. Well played,” he said to Chambliss. “Not many people are confident enough in their marksmanship to go for head shots.”
Chambliss’s eyes were flat and hard. He gestured with his rifle at an office chair. “Up and into that seat. Twitch so much as a muscle wrong and the next one goes into your leg and possibly your femoral artery, which would be quite unpleasant for you.”
Ben set his rifle on a desk and helped Alex onto the couch. He bared a fang at Ostheim before collapsing beside their resident genius with a grunt of discomfort.
Alex pulled the vest off, then his shirt, and rubbed at the two round red spots to the left of his sternum. “I think I have a broken rib. If we hadn’t …” He was shaking from reaction.
Ben didn’t blame him. He felt pretty shaky himself. “Bastard shot me in the back.”
“Let me have a look,” Alex said. He waited for Ben to strip off his armor and the tee, and peered at his back. “Yep, that left a mark. Chambliss, remind me to give you a raise and a bonus for saving my life literally instead of just figuratively this time.”
“Yes, sir. Now, if you’re done commiserating over your bruises, could you tie this gentleman up, please?” He stepped back from a quick, professional frisking. His gun pointed, steady as a rock, at Ostheim’s grimacing and blood-spattered face.
Alex pulled his shirt back on and started rummaging through his desk drawers, muttering, “Zip-ties, zip-ties, where do I keep my zip-ties …”
Ben tugged his own shirt on and walked over to stand in front of the chair. He stared down at Ostheim, fists clenching and unclenching, vision sharp through eyes he was sure had turned amber as his fangs pushed through.
Ostheim sneered up at him. “Every time you thwart me, pup, you make me that much more determined.”
“You’re oh for three now in trying to kill me,” Ben said tightly. “Give it up.”
<
br /> “All it takes is one success. One time when you’re not as alert as you should be. And I’ll be there, waiting.” Ostheim bared his teeth in an expression that wasn’t a smile. “I only hope your young lady is there as well.”
Ben couldn’t help it; he lunged forward with naked fangs, and was only halted by Chambliss’s firmer-than-expected hand on his arm. “You’re better than he is, Master Ben, and don’t forget it.”
“Am I?” Ben took a step back, breathing heavily through his nose. “He’d better hope so.”
“Mr. Ostheim, perhaps taunting someone who has a real reason to wish you dead and has you at his mercy isn’t a prudent course of action,” Chambliss pointed out. Ben had a moment to wonder if Alex’s butler might not be entirely human, although nothing in his scent gave him away. His calm in the face of this was unnatural.
“Put the gun away and let me out of this chair, and we’ll see how much mercy he has me at,” Ostheim growled.
“How about no?” Alex said, coming out of the third drawer he tried with a canister of multicolored zip-ties. He set to work securing their unwanted guest to the chair. Ostheim flexed his hands and winced when Alex tightened the plastic over his wounded arm. Alex didn’t appear very sympathetic.
Ben watched with some concern. “You sure about the zip ties? Werewolf strength …”
“Still requires leverage,” Alex said. “I haven’t left him much.” He stood back and crossed his arms. “Now I guess we get to decide what to do with him.” He hit the intercom button. “Miss Graham? How’re you doing up there?”
“We heard shots. Everyone okay?”
Alex eyed the three bodies. “Yes and no. Could use you down here.”
“On our way.”
Janni raced down first. She ran across the floor and hugged Ben fiercely, burying her face in his chest while he rubbed circles on her back.
“Piece of cake,” he managed.
“Liar.” She glared at Ostheim. “You bastard. I should tear your face off.”
Ben squeezed her. “Put your claws back, Hermia.”
“What are we going to do with him?” Janni asked, subsiding with ill grace.
“That’s a real good question, Alex,” Ben said. “Calling the police is even more problematic now, considering all the highly illegal firepower and the dead bodies. I’m not sure donations to the Widows and Orphans Fund can smooth something like this over.”
“We can’t let him go, either,” Janni pointed out, “since he wants at least two of us dead and probably won’t stop until we are.”
Ostheim didn’t contradict that statement, but sat in his chair, snarling, with his claws retracting and extending.
“I can’t keep him in my basement for the rest of his life,” Alex said.
“Not that I mind you all talking about me like I’m not in the room—” Ostheim started.
“Shut up,” said several people, and Ostheim snapped his mouth closed, fuming.
“I could make him disappear for you, sir,” Chambliss offered. “You wouldn’t have to know how.”
“What?” Alex’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Chambliss, you’ve gone out on a limb enough for several lifetimes this week. It’s one thing to hide a body. It’s quite another to make one.”
“Nevertheless, sir,” Chambliss said, unruffled.
“What if we—” They never got to find out what Jeremy was going to suggest.
Ostheim roared and exploded from the chair, which shattered into several pieces, clanging off the walls and taking out a couple of computer monitors. The armrests dangled from his wrists by the zip ties. Moving with inhuman speed, he lunged over to the desk where Ben had set his M4, snatched the weapon up, and grabbed Janni by the hair close to her scalp in the same motion, bringing the muzzle to her face and leaving everyone frozen.
Petrified, unable to breathe, Ben put a hand up. “Don’t. Ostheim, please …”
Ostheim’s face contorted into a mask of hate. “I think it’s time for you to find out what it’s like to lose the woman you love, boy.” His finger tightened on the trigger.
Ben had nicknamed Janni “Hermia” for a reason, and she slammed her elbow into Ostheim’s gut at the same moment he fired Ben’s gun. Fuck, that was Ben’s gun, still set on a three-round burst. He hadn’t engaged the safety when he’d put it down, which was a newbie mistake; his Sarge would have reamed him a new one for that—
Janni fell to the floor, blood pouring from the side of her head.
A bullet burned through Ben’s shoulder as well, but he barely felt it. He didn’t even think. His wolf tore free, shredding the clothes from his back and leaping before he’d half shaken them off.
Ostheim swung the gun around, but Ben was already inside the arc of his arm. His fangs met in Ostheim’s throat, and he felt Ostheim try to Change under his jaws, too late, although front talons gashed at Ben’s shoulders and ribs. He wrenched his neck muscles and ripped and drove in again, riding Ostheim to the floor and worrying at his face like a beast possessed, which, a far distant part of his mind realized, he was.
A shoe went flying, and back claws slashed at Ben’s belly before he jerked aside so he wasn’t astride his enemy anymore. Ostheim rolled them, but Ben used the momentum to roll them again, knocking a desk over and pinning Ostheim against it, yanking his teeth loose, slashing. Ostheim’s struggles weakened rapidly, the blood gushing from his body in rivers, and he lay still a few moments later.
Ben didn’t care; he kept tearing at him long after it ceased being necessary or logical to do so, his heartbeat roaring in his ears so he wasn’t aware of anything but the taste of blood and the sound of rending flesh and his own madness.
Gradually, other noises impinged on his hearing. People shouting. Shouting his name. He looked up in time to see McFoucher toss the pole syringe to Hasgrave, who sprang at him, stabbed the needle into the meat of his hind leg, and pushed the button before pulling the pole free and leaping away.
Ben’s gaze jumped around the room. Pack. Pack. Dead enemy. Pack. Mate …
Dead mate.
His breath deserted his lungs at the sight of Janni bleeding on the floor, and then he drove in on Ostheim’s body again and ripped his arm off before more shouting got his attention.
Alex had grabbed his Beretta from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it shakily in Ben’s direction, while Megan held onto her boss’s free arm from behind him, where he’d obviously shoved her. Alex is going to put me down, Ben thought, and so he should, because my mistake cost Janni her life. She lay face down in a widening pool of red.
Ben tore his eyes away from her body, picked his M4 up in his jaws, and ran out the door into the darkness, with Megan’s shout of “Ben, wait!” fading into the night behind him.
O O O
Alex snatched Megan’s arm as she turned to follow him. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
She looked at him like he was an idiot. He didn’t care. “After Ben,” she answered, as if it was obvious.
“Wait, what, whoa! No way. Are you crazy?” Alex was adamant. “He’s out of control and he took an automatic weapon with him, Megan. Who knows what he’d do under these circumstances?”
“Exactly. She’s dead. What do you think he’s going to do with the gun?”
His grip on her elbow tightened. “He might hurt you—”
She scoffed. “He won’t hurt me. But the longer you fight me about this, the longer he has to hurt himself.” She twitched her arm, but he refused to release it. “Dammit, Alex, if he dies because you stood here arguing with me instead of letting me go, I will by-god quit. We don’t have time for this.”
Alex searched her face and saw nothing but determination there. He’d never been able to stop Megan from doing the right thing, and now was the wrong time to start. He dropped his hand and his gaze. “Just … be careful. I’d—” He swallowed. “—hate to have to hunt for another PA.” And that was more stuff he wasn’t saying.
“I brought him back once. I can do it again.” And she sprinted out the door before anyone else could say anything.
Doc Allen looked up from where he knelt beside Janni. “She’s not dead.”
Alex stared. “What?”
“It’s a graze. A serious one, but I think she’s going to be okay.” He sat back on his heels. “Head wounds bleed a hell of a lot, but I think when she elbowed Ostheim right before he fired, she knocked his aim off just enough.”
Alex closed his eyes and sank into his chair with his face in his hand. “Well, shit. I bet that would have been good for Megan to know before she went after Ben.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Following Ben wasn’t difficult; he’d made no effort to hide his tracks. The stink of gunpowder from the fired rifle hung in the air like a flaming neon sign that said “This way!” along with his blood trail. Megan listened for the sound of a shot, terrified she’d be too late. She stripped behind a handy bush and Changed so she could go faster, because trying to run through the scrub in heels sucked.
Ten minutes that felt like an eternity later, she found Ben huddled next to a pile of rocks, still in wolf form, one paw on the gun. She stopped and approached him carefully, step by step, until she was close enough to nose his shoulder, which was still bleeding, along with other parts of him. Ostheim had torn him terribly in his death throes—she wondered if Ben had even noticed. He turned his face away and heaved a massive, shuddering sigh.
She wuffled at him, and he flicked his ear but had no other response. Every line of his body screamed despair, loss, and anguish; she could smell his distress, and her heart cried for everything he’d been through. She Changed back to human and sat down beside him, petting his bloodstained head.
She found herself with a lap full of wolf, and he shoved his face into her stomach and wailed, a pitiful, animal sound that wrenched at her soul. She wrapped her arms around his neck, aching for him. “Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry.”
