by Paige Tyler
Exactly how much did Cohen know? Brooks was confident in saying Oliver didn’t hire the man, which meant Cohen almost certainly worked for the hunters. Did that mean he knew about werewolves? Considering how calm the man sitting across from them was, Brooks didn’t think so.
“What are we signing?” he asked, sliding the document closer and scanning it.
Cohen gave them a small smile. “You’re agreeing not to record this meeting or any that follow. In addition, you won’t take notes of any kind, nor will anyone else be allowed to listen in from the observation room. And finally, any statements my client makes during this or any other meetings will be considered hypothetical, and nothing said in this room can be used against my client in a court of law in any way.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we agree to any of that rubbish?”
Cohen shrugged. “I have no idea. But my client assured me you would. Was he wrong?”
As a cop, Brooks knew he shouldn’t sign it. But as a werewolf desperate for information on the hunters, he had no choice. They needed to know what was coming their way, and he’d pay any price to find out.
Biting back a growl, he signed the document on the line above his name, then handed Zane the pen. Zane hesitated but, after a moment, put his name to paper, then shoved it across the table to the lawyer. Cohen put the document and the pen back in his briefcase, then snapped it shut. Sliding back his chair, he got to his feet.
“Gentlemen.” Giving them a nod, Cohen left, closing the door behind him.
“I’d feel better if we had something we could hold over Oliver’s head when we talk to him,” Zane muttered.
“I’m with you there,” Brooks said.
Unfortunately, Oliver hadn’t gotten into much trouble growing up in Rapid City, South Dakota. He had played sports in high school, then did three years in the army infantry, where he’d gone on deployment to Iraq. He had gotten out of the military shortly after that with an honorable discharge, then bounced around a few oil field and mining jobs before falling off the radar, only to show up in Dallas with a group of hunters.
“It would be even nicer if we could find a connection between Oliver and whoever is working with the hunters inside the department,” Brooks added.
It was bad enough there were people who wanted to kill werewolves simply because of what they were. It was even worse knowing somebody in the Dallas Police Department was helping them. But when they’d attacked the medical center, Lana had overheard a phone conversation between one of the hunters and a man who knew where Zane was being treated, that she was there, and exactly how long it would take SWAT to move on the clinic. The only person who could know all that stuff was a cop.
But after weeks of digging into the background of every cop and department employee who’d ever looked at the team sideways, they had nothing to show for it. They couldn’t find a link between anyone in the department and Oliver or any of the hunters who’d been killed during the raid.
“It doesn’t help that the feds are investigating the murders now,” Brooks continued. Of course, they didn’t know the victims were werewolves. They thought Oliver was a run-of-the-mill serial killer. “Becker is digging as deep as he can into Oliver’s background, but he has to be careful not to let the FBI know what we’re doing.”
“So what, we play it safe and hope the next time the hunters show up, they don’t kill one of us?” Zane snarled. “Or maybe we’ll get lucky again, and they’ll only cripple someone else.”
Brooks didn’t answer.
Beside him, Zane cursed. Lifting his good arm, he ran his hand through his dark hair. “Sorry. I’m just cross. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re Pack. I’m not going to patronize you and say I understand what you’re going through, because I don’t. None of us do. But your arm is going to heal. You just have to give it time.”
Zane looked dubious but didn’t argue. If he had, Brooks might have punched him. He and the rest of the Pack weren’t giving up on Zane, and Brooks damn sure wasn’t letting him give up on himself.
The thump of footsteps approaching the door put an end to any more conversation. Both he and Zane got to their feet as the door opened. Two beefy guards came in, leading Seth Oliver between them. Tall and wiry, Oliver had grown a beard since the last time Brooks had seen him, but he still had that same hatred in his eyes.
The guards moved him over to the table positioned in the center of the room, then sat him down in the chair and attached the handcuffs he was wearing to the shackle point bolted on his side of the table. One of the guards yanked on it a few times to make sure it was secure, then looked at Brooks and Zane.
“The prisoner stays in cuffs the whole time,” he said. “You aren’t to give him anything. By anything, I mean no gum, no water, no pencils, no pens, no good luck charms—nothing. Understood?”
Brooks nodded. He and Zane didn’t spend a lot of time talking to suspects in prison, but it wasn’t like they were planning to get friendly with this guy. It was much more likely Zane would get mad and rip Oliver’s head off. If that happened, Brooks would make sure to point out that the cuffs and shackles had stayed on throughout the process.
“We’ll be down in the office at the end of the hall if you need us,” the second guard said.
After giving Oliver’s handcuffs one more look to make sure they were secure, the guards left the room and closed the door. Brooks listened to the echo of their footsteps as they disappeared down the hall.
Across from them, Oliver leaned back in his chair, regarding Zane with amusement. “Last time I saw you, you were stuffed in a fancy ice chest like a werewolf Popsicle. I thought you’d be dead by now for sure.”
Zane growled, his eyes flashing gold as he half rose from his seat. Brooks reached out and grabbed his shoulder, urging him back down. Zane’s entire body was tense, the anger pouring off him. Oliver had just come in, and Zane was already on the verge of losing it.
Not that Brooks blamed him. Zane had been unconscious during the attack at the medical center, something that ate at him as much as the injury to his arm. Not that he’d had any say in the matter. After getting hit with one of the hunter’s poison bullets, Dr. Saunders—the only human who knew enough about werewolves to treat them—had put Zane into a hypothermic coma, dropping his body temperature down to dangerous levels in an attempt to slow his heart rate and limit the effects of the synthetic wolfsbane. It was the only reason Zane was still alive. Even so, he hated the fact that he hadn’t been there to fight alongside the Pack during the raid.
On the other side of the table, Oliver regarded Brooks thoughtfully. “We figured you were the top dog of the group. Alpha, I’m guessing. You’re the biggest, so it makes sense.”
“We?” Brooks asked.
Oliver ignored the question. “We’re still trying to figure out how the hell a big pack of you mutts can live and work this close together. All the previous werewolves we ran across were either high-strung, violent loners or small ones living in tiny packs. Then we found out there’s a whole SWAT team filled with you freaks. When I saw you crashing through those doors in that clinic, throwing my guys around like they were toys, I knew right away you were the boss. You’re the only one big enough to keep these other mutts in line.”
Brooks could tell from how steady Oliver’s heartbeat and respiration were that the man believed every word he said. The hunters genuinely knew nothing about werewolves. Those high-strung, violent loners Oliver described were almost certainly omegas, big strong werewolves who’d never experienced pack life and therefore tended to possess little control over their behavior and abilities. The smaller werewolves were betas. They weren’t as physically strong as the alphas and omegas, but they were completely dialed-in and committed to their packs.
Brooks knew he’d never be able to explain a pack bond or the way that bond could keep even a group of big alphas like the Dallas SWAT team together. Oliver and the assholes he rolled wit
h would never get that Brooks and his packmates were closer than family.
Not that Brooks would tell the hunter any of that. The less they knew about werewolves the better. Because the truth was, those werewolves he’d talked about running into were probably dead now. Knowing how many innocent werewolves this guy had killed made Brooks want to reach across the table and twist his head off.
“What’s this meeting about, Oliver?” Brooks demanded.
Oliver leaned forward, his shackles clinking against the table. “You know exactly what it’s about. It’s the same reason you agreed to come. We both want something the other has—information. And we both think we can get it without betraying our own.”
“Then let’s get to the point,” Zane said, eyes flaring gold again. “Who do you work for?”
Oliver eyed Zane like he was something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Not the way it works, mutt. Think of this as the scene in Silence of the Lambs. I’m Hannibal Lecter, you’re Clarice, and we’re going to play a game of quid pro quo. You tell me something. I tell you something.”
“We already told you Senior Corporal Brooks is the alpha of our pack,” Zane pointed out. “That makes it your turn to tell us something.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change. “We both know I figured that one out on my own. So it’s not my turn. But nice try…for a mutt.”
Brooks extended his fangs and bared them at Oliver. He wasn’t in the mood for this crap. “What do you want to know?”
“No reason to get hostile, big dog. My first question is simple. All I want to know is how the fuck this mutt is still alive?” Oliver gestured at Zane with his chin. “That wolfsbane bullet I put in his arm should have killed him in less than two hours, yet here he is, alive and kicking.”
Brooks’s claws came out to go along with the fangs. It was a struggle not to leap over the table and rip out Oliver’s throat. Beside him, Zane looked like he had the same problem. As for Oliver, the asshole sat there smugly, like he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him.
As much as Brooks hated to admit it, Oliver was right about that. They needed information on the hunters, and this prick—as irritating as he might be—had it. But that didn’t mean Brooks was going to give a piece of intel this valuable away for nothing.
“And what exactly are you going to tell us in exchange for something this important?” he asked.
Oliver grinned. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.”
Brooks might be willing to play Oliver’s stupid game, but he wasn’t going to let the man dictate all the rules. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, then headed for the door. Zane followed.
“Hunters are sent out in teams of three to five guys,” Oliver said, his voice urgent, like he didn’t want them to leave. “Most of the teams—like the one I was with—are pretty much hired guns. We’re well-paid killers, though we like to call ourselves independent contractors instead.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Brooks stopped and turned back to see Oliver looking at him expectantly. He’d give almost anything to know who the hell hired these independent contractors, but he knew there was no chance Oliver was going to tell him something like that right off the bat.
“How many of these teams are there?” he asked instead.
Oliver relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t really give you a concrete answer. The teams get a text or email with the location of a possible werewolf and a dollar figure. If we find the mutt and exterminate it, we get paid. But I’ve crossed paths with half a dozen other teams over the years. I’m guessing there are probably more.” He gestured to the seats across from him. “Quid pro quo, remember? How did the mutt survive that bullet?”
Brooks glanced over at Zane before moving back to the table. His packmate joined him, his eyes still flashing in anger, but apparently willing to see where this went.
Brooks had no intention of telling the hunter that Dr. Saunders and members of their extended pack had come up with an antidote to the wolfsbane poison. Or that they’d used that antidote to create a vaccine to make werewolves immune to that poison. But considering how little Oliver seemed to know about werewolves, he hoped he wouldn’t have to.
“Alphas can cure members of their pack from nearly any affliction, if they’re strong enough,” Brooks said.
“How?” Oliver demanded.
“I bite them.” He let his fangs slide out. “If they survive being turned again, whatever wounds or sickness they had before that point is healed.”
While Oliver looked back and forth between him and Zane curiously, Brooks jumped in with his next question before the man could look for holes in the BS story he fed him.
“How did you become a hunter?”
Brooks didn’t give a crap about Oliver’s life story, but his gut told him he’d get more out of the guy if he worked him slowly.
Across from him, Oliver chuckled and leaned forward, his face lighting up. “That’s my favorite story. I used it to tell my buddies all the time, and it never got old.”
Brooks had the feeling he and Zane weren’t going to be nearly as thrilled with it. “We’re listening.”
Oliver grinned. “I was in this bar in Tulsa when this fight broke out between this big ugly guy and a few other dudes. I didn’t know it at the time, but that ugly guy was a werewolf. And those other dudes? They were hunters. Gotta tell you, it was one awesome fight. Well, right up to the point when I shoved a broken bottle in the mutt’s neck. I remember it like it was yesterday.”
His eyes took on a dreamy look, like he was reliving the whole thing as he told them the story in excruciating detail.
Chapter 5
“Have we gotten anything on this new player in charge of the gangs yet?” Brooks asked.
He was in the training room at the SWAT compound, along with Diego, Connor, Trey, Remy, Ray, and the rest of the task force. Up until today, they’d held all their other meetings at police headquarters downtown. But with the media crawling all over the shootings at the warehouse, it was impossible to get anywhere near HQ without getting a microphone or camera shoved in your face.
It had been twenty-four hours since the raid on the east side warehouse, and they were still trying to figure out who was behind the murders.
On the other side of the conference table, Ray shook his head. “Afraid not.”
Brooks frowned. “How can that be? This guy had four people executed. And none of the gangbangers we arrested are talking?”
“I took another run at them this morning,” Ray said with a scowl. “Nothing.”
“What about the streets?” Brooks asked. “There has to be somebody associated with this new guy who’ll talk. Half the city should know his name by now.”
“You’d think so, but that’s part of the problem.” Ray spread his hands. “Whoever this new boss is, he’s not playing by the normal gang rules. And everyone on the street is lining up to follow his lead. Nobody is talking to us, and the people we arrested are willing to go to prison rather than cross this new guy.”
Brooks cursed. Ray was right. Gangs could be vicious and cutthroat in dealing with each other, but none of them liked the cops. It was ingrained into their DNA. No matter how bad it got out on the streets, no matter how many of their fellow gang members got wiped out, few of them would ever turn to the cops for help.
They went around the room, getting updates from each gang unit and narcotics officer present. When it was his turn, Rodriguez mentioned that fentanyl had disappeared off the street overnight.
“So, what the hell are we going to do about it?” Remy asked.
Ray sighed. “Look, I know you’d all love to figure out a quick, simple way to deal with this gang war, but the bottom line is that it’s been going on long before we all got on the job and will go on long after we walk away from it. If we want to do something about what happened in that warehouse and catch the guy responsible, we’re going to have to figure out who he is and what he’s planning. The only way we’l
l do that is with good old-fashioned police work. Let’s get the hell out there and find a lead.”
There were grunts of agreement around the table. Rodriguez and the other members of the task force left a little while afterward, a sense of determination about them that hadn’t been there at the start of the meeting. Ray always knew how to get his people motivated. But as Brooks stood and watched his old friend slowly wipe down the white board at the front of the room, he couldn’t miss the furrow between his brow.
“What’s wrong?” Brooks asked after his packmates left. “And don’t try telling me it’s nothing. We’ve been friends for a long time, and I can tell when something’s bothering you.”
“Chief Curtis paid me a visit this morning,” Ray said softly without turning around. “He’s not too thrilled with how things turned out at the warehouse. Times are changing, and the department is under a lot of pressure to somehow fix the gang problem. He suggested that maybe it’s time for someone else to take over the gang unit. Someone with new ideas.”
“Screw him,” Brooks growled. “You’ve got over thirty-five years on the force with a list of citations longer than your arm. He might be the chief, but he can’t force you out of your unit without reason.”
Ray set the eraser on the tray along the bottom of the board, then turned around to give him a sad smile. “Maybe that’s true. If I wanted to fight it.”
Brooks stared. “Why wouldn’t you fight it?”
Ray pulled out a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh. “Jayden, I’ve been doing this for a long time, fighting the good fight and all that crap. But no matter what I do or how much I do it, things don’t get any better. Gangs are worse than they ever were, and kids are joining them younger and younger, screwing up their lives before they even start.”
“What are you saying?”
The man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m saying I’m tired, Jayden, and I think maybe it’s time for me to step back.”
That was bullshit. Brooks opened his mouth to tell Ray as much, but Becker stuck his head in the door. “Hey, Brooks. You got a visitor in the admin building.”
