by Alisa Woods
Noah slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Dammit! I never should have involved her in this. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“Hey!” Owen’s sharp tone cut through the fog clouding Noah’s head. “You can feel like shit about this later, okay? Keep your head clear.”
“Right. Okay.” Focus, Noah. Jesus.
“So the bomber saw her, figured out she was a WildLove programmer and went after her this morning… after he had figured out she wasn’t killed in the blast,” Owen reasoned. “What’s his play on this? Is he holding her hostage? Is he hoping to ransom her? I mean, she managed to get a text to you, through the WildLove app. He hasn’t killed her outright. She’s still alive for some reason. Maybe he’s not after her at all. Maybe she’s hiding out under a desk somewhere.”
“The database.” The words came out soft as Noah realized what that meant. “Oh shit. Owen, he’s after the database.”
“The one with all the shifters in it.” Owen just shook his head. “All right. Priority one, after making sure Emily is safe, of course, is to keep that database secure.”
“Copy that.” Noah pulled into the parking garage of Emily’s building at a speed that had the tires screeching on the smooth concrete floor. He didn’t bother parking, just pulled up to the elevators and sprinted from the car to the doors. Owen was close behind.
He would have run the stairs, but the elevator would get them there faster… only it was killing him to wait. Owen handed him a gun, which he held at the ready. The ride up was painfully slow, but the two of them came out, guns first, when they arrived at the floor that held the agency office. They cautiously approached the glass double doors, but there was no sign of anyone inside. Of course, they couldn’t see past the reception area.
“What do you think?” Owen asked.
“I’m thinking we get the hell in there and find Emily.” Noah’s hand was already on the door.
Owen held up a hand to stop him. “All right, but we go quiet, yes? You know where her office is, so you lead the way. But he could be anywhere. Keep your eyes open.”
Noah nodded and tried to pull open the door: locked.
“Fuck,” he spit out. Then he tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and shifted his hands to the long, knife-like claws that were the curse of his new white wolf.
Owen did the same. “So much for quiet. Better make it fast, then.”
Noah nodded, and together they sliced through the metal plates holding the doors locked tight. The screeching sound was horrific, and anyone inside had to know something was up. Noah shifted his hands back, yanked open the door, and barreled inside, pulling his gun back out along the way. Owen was right behind him as he hustled through the maze of cubicles, searching out Emily’s desk.
The place was dead quiet. No one in sight. When they reached her office… it was empty. Her Coffee is My Boyfriend mug had tipped sideways and dumped its contents on the floor. Somehow that made it hard for him to breathe.
“He took her,” Noah said, throat tight. “He grabbed her from her office.”
Owen was checking the other cubicles, but there was nothing to see. “Emily?” he called out. There was no answer. “Is there a server bank around here somewhere?” he asked Noah.
“A what?” Noah blinked at him, his head fogged again. Get it together! he told himself.
“The place where they keep all the data servers, the computers,” Owen said. “If he was after the database, maybe he took her there.”
“Right. Good thinking. Back here.” Noah led him past the cubicles to a large, heavily air-conditioned room in the center of the office. Emily had shown him the server room at one point. He pushed open the thick steel doors, revealing a dozen banks of tall, black metal servers. It was rack after rack of computational power, blinking with red and blue lights… but no people.
Noah listened over the soft hum of the climate control and the machines, but there were no human sounds. “Emily?” he called, just to be sure. “Are you in here?”
But there was no reply.
“What the hell is that?” Owen pointed to a box at the end of the nearest server bank.
It was counting down something in luminescent red numerals.
A timer. With only seconds left.
Oh shit. “Bomb!” Noah shouted, hauling Owen away from the device and toward the door. “Move, move, move!”
But he didn’t have to say it—they both slammed through the doors and ran for their lives. They barely reached the end of the cubicle area, when the blast ripped through the walls, sending fragments of computers, wiring, and plaster hurtling through the air. The concussive force threw them against the reception area doors, slamming them on the clear glass, but not breaking it.
Smoke and debris filled the air, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, Noah’s ears were ringing from the shock wave of a bomb that was meant to kill him… but didn’t.
Or maybe the bomber was just trying to wreak vengeance on WildLove.
Owen helped Noah to his feet, and they both stared blankly at the debris-filled air and the giant hole in the building where the server farm used to be.
“He just blew up WildLove,” Noah said, struggling to piece it together.
“And almost us,” Owen said under his breath. “That was too damn close.” He brushed off some of the debris clinging to his shirt.
Then Noah realized something. “The bomber must have set the timer just before he left.” He turned and slammed his fist against the glass door, making it shake. “We just missed him!”
Owen frowned. “And Emily’s not here, so he took her with him.”
“But where?” Noah asked, anguish creeping into his voice.
Suddenly the entrance of the agency was flung open, and a half dozen of the Riverwise pack dashed through the double glass doors, with his brother in the lead. Daniel’s eyes were wide, but they quickly took in the fact that Noah and Owen were still upright, and the alarm on his face stepped down a level.
Owen pushed open the interior glass doors to meet him.
Daniel frowned at the office past their shoulders. “Jesus Christ. What happened here?”
“We just missed the bomber,” Noah said in a tight voice.
“Looks like he just missed you,” Daniel said with a scowl.
“He still has Emily.” Noah couldn’t help the growl in his voice.
Owen’s hand landed on Noah’s shoulder. “Maybe we can pull something off the surveillance video. Security has to have something.”
“Police are going to be crawling all over this place in five minutes and locking everything down.” Noah ran both hands through his hair and came back with bits of drywall. “We’ve got to move.”
“Copy that,” Daniel said, waving them away from the blast scene. “But even if we get an ID on the car, Noah…” His lips pinched together, but Noah knew what he was leaving unsaid.
That they had no idea where the bomber was taking Emily. And now that the bomber presumably had whatever he came for, blowing up everything once he was done, there was no telling what he would do with the lead programmer for WildLove. That idea twisted Noah’s stomach in a knot so tight he could barely breathe. A hostage is worthless, a liability, once their kidnapper has what they want. Why did he take Emily?
“Let’s go,” Noah said. He was the first to the elevator doors. He didn’t care what the odds were of finding Emily alive, he sure as hell wasn’t giving up… not until she was safe again.
Or the bomber was shredded under Noah’s claws.
Emily was terrified.
The shaking of her hands was visible, even though they were duct-taped together. And she had to clamp her teeth shut to keep them from chattering with every bump in the road. She couldn’t help the full-body shudder every time the bomber leered at her from the driver’s seat next to her. He was taking her somewhere… and there was nothing that could possibly be good about that.
Worst of all, she’d managed to endanger Noah in call
ing for help. When she’d slipped that text to him, she’d had no idea the bomber—Richard, although that couldn’t be his real name—was going to blow up the whole office. Once she’d downloaded the database to his portable drive, he’d forced her to watch while he set the explosives to take down the server farm. She couldn’t fathom why he hated so much—her, shifters, the entire WildLove company. It wasn’t like her life was perfect. Far from it. But it was beyond her comprehension how someone’s soul could be so dark, so filled with anger and loathing, that they would want to destroy so many people’s lives, both by killing them outright and by destroying their jobs. She prayed Noah didn’t actually come for her and that he escaped the bomber’s trap.
But she doubted she would do the same.
In spite of the terror running through her body, her mind didn’t give up. It was still whirling and clicking along, trying to figure out a way to escape. Maybe it was just her survival instinct kicking in—whatever it was, she’d considered and discarded a half dozen ideas, including wrenching open the car door and jumping out to avoid whatever fate awaited her at their destination. But she couldn’t force herself to take that last desperate option.
Not yet.
The bomber had brought his black bag of bomb tricks along with him. It sat on the seat behind her. She’d seen him rifle through it, and she thought she saw him slip her phone into the bag along with the drive with the WildLove data on it, although she wasn’t sure. If she could manage to get the drive out of the bag and toss it out the window, or destroy it somehow, that would at least spare the shifters he would no doubt target next. Or if she could get hold of her phone, she could text Noah for help again. Or simply call the police. But Noah would come faster. If he wasn’t already in pieces.
Angry, frightened tears blurred her vision… but she couldn’t afford that right now. She reached up to wipe them away with her tape-bound hands, loathing the fact that the bomber noticed and smirked at her obvious fear. He was getting off on it. She choked back the hot anger that threatened to bring more tears and stared straight ahead, trying not to give him the satisfaction of watching her break down. As her vision cleared, she saw they were turning into the parking lot of a seedy motel. They’d been in the car less than ten minutes, but another shudder ran through her as she realized this was where they were headed. Visions of the explosion from the night before—the one in another motel room that she and Noah barely survived—barraged her mind.
She looked to the bomber. His smirk was firmly in place. “Honey, we’re here!” he said with an insanely cheery voice.
Her stomach heaved.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back for you,” he said, reaching to the back seat and his black bag. He came back with the roll of duct tape, grabbed her already bound hands, and pulled her toward him. “Can’t have you running off while I check in, honey!” He looped another series of wrappings around her hands then bound them to the steering wheel. His eyes sparkled as he ran his hand along her hair, pushing it away from where it had fallen across her face. A wave of revulsion threatened to choke her. Then he climbed out of the car and strode toward the motel office.
Presumably to get them a room.
Once she was there, she was a dead woman. She knew this.
A wave of fear animated her, and she thrashed against the steering wheel. Surprisingly, the quick tape job didn’t hold—it slipped a little as she struggled, freeing one edge. Using her teeth, she grabbed the loose piece and peeled it back. A frantic ten seconds later she was free.
She should run.
A quick look at the glassed-in office told her the bomber would see her. And come after her. Even if she ran, she wouldn’t escape. Maybe the manager would notice. Maybe not. She should get her phone out of the bag and call for help instead. She had enough time to run or call, but not both.
No time to decide.
She twisted between the two front bucket seats, reaching for the black bag. The angle was terrible, and her hands were still bound by the tape, but she managed to work the zipper open. Fumbling through it, her fingers quickly found her phone. She willed her shaking hands to calm enough to text Noah. Cassidy Motel. That was all she had time for. Then she wiped the screen and threw the phone back in the bag, terrified the bomber would return to find her in the middle of texting. When she was sure he was still inside, she fished for the drive next. Amazingly, her fingers found its smooth surface, and she pulled it free of the tangle of wires, electronic boxes, tools and other things filling the bag. There was no time to throw the drive from the car—not that she could even get the window down without the keys—so she leaned forward and stashed it under the seat instead. Maybe hiding it would be enough to make him think he’d lost it. She shoved the drive back as far as she could, giving it an extra kick with the heel of her foot. Just as she looked up, hair flying wild around her, the bomber came striding out of the motel office, anger blazing on his face when he saw her.
She shrank against the passenger door as he yanked open the driver’s side and climbed in.
He glared at the tattered tape dangling from the steering wheel. “You’re a slippery little thing, aren’t you?”
Her stomach heaved again with the way his eyes raked over her body.
He threw the car into reverse, pulled away from the office, then drove around to the back of the motel, out of sight of the road, the office, and just about anyone who might notice he had a kidnapped woman in his car. He stopped at the very last room at the end of a long, two-story line of them, parking near the forested lot that backed up to the motel. Her heart pounded as he grabbed the black bag and got out of the car.
Run, her mind was screaming, but she waited until he got to her side of the car and started to open her door. Then she lifted her legs and kicked hard against the door, banging it against him and sending him tumbling back. She struggled to get out of the car with her hands bound, and she didn’t get a dozen feet before his arms clamped hard around her. She struggled and tried to kick him, but he quickly had her back pinned against him, his hand clasped around her throat, choking her.
“Keep struggling, and I’ll kill you right here,” he hissed in her ear.
Black spots swam in front of her eyes.
She stopped struggling.
The pressure eased on her throat enough that she could get air. She gasped, heaving air into her lungs as he hauled her toward the room. His hand was still on her throat, holding her tight, as he fussed with the lock, kicked the door open, and pulled her inside.
She thought her heart might just quit then.
Or maybe she simply wished it would.
He dragged her to the bed in the middle of the room. It had a headboard with posts. He slung the black bag on the bed and pulled out the tape again. Breath was still heaving in and out of her, but she had no will to fight him anymore. He bound one wrist to the post on one side, then made some kind of rope with the tape and tied her other wrist to the far post. She was strung between them, barely able to move, hung up like he was crucifying her on the bed.
God, she prayed whatever he had in mind would end fast. But the way he licked his lips when he surveyed his work made tears leak out of the corners of her eyes.
Explosives were sounding better all the time.
And maybe she should have jumped out of the car.
At least there was the possibility he wouldn’t find the drive she’d hidden under the seat. Maybe. She hoped her death would count for something—saving that many shifters, that many innocent people, almost made whatever she would have to endure before the end worthwhile.
She watched the bomber with a dull sort of awareness as he fished materials out of his bag. He was whistling happily as he lined items up on the dresser opposite the bed where she was trussed up like a sacrificial lamb. It wasn’t until he started taping something to the bedposts next to her bound wrists that she recognized the gray bricks and shiny control boxes for what they were—bombs. Just like the ones he had set up on the servers.
They weren’t active yet—or at least the timers weren’t counting down—but he wasn’t finished, either. Two more were placed on either side of the window and two more next to the door. With the amount of explosives he had deployed around the room, Emily wouldn’t be surprised if it took down the entire motel… or at least the far end of the building.
The last item to come out of the bag was a laptop, which he set on the dresser and tapped furiously at for a long while. She was afraid he would notice the missing drive, but he didn’t seem to. She couldn’t understand what he was doing at all. Pulling up data on his laptop for some bizarre reason right in the middle of this elaborate setup to kill her? But as the minutes dragged on, she just didn’t care. Her mind was finally shutting down, refusing to try to figure out the evil that was this person, this hater, this awful being who only knew how to hurt and destroy.
Some vague time later, when the bomber finally stepped away from the laptop, she could see the red recording light was lit up.
Oh God. The terror that had been glossed over and numbed out by her defeat surged back up again. She’d seen the videos the Wolf Hunter had made before. There was the original doxing, the exposing of all the names and addresses of the shifters in the River and Wilding packs. Then the awful dismemberment videos. Then the livestreaming of a shifter’s almost-death.
What in God’s name was he planning for her? And was this the Wolf Hunter himself?
She watched with wide eyes as he pulled a mask from the depths of the bag and slipped it over his face. When he turned to her, she saw the mask was a plain face, just an average person… some guy whose average-guy-looks were stamped into plastic. Not at all like the previous Wolf Hunter masks. But it obscured the bomber’s real face, and that was all he was after. Because apparently he was planning to walk out of the motel room before it—and her—blew into tiny bits.
“Emily Jones,” he intoned like the judge at her execution, “your work has allowed hundreds, if not thousands, of shifters to pollute our gene pool, seducing our women to spread their vile seed.”
