by Lynn Hagen
Taking his freedom from him was offensive as hell to Dorian.
The man leaned in close, tucking a long finger under Dorian’s chin, bringing his head up so that Dorian had no choice but to look the motherfucker in his eyes.
“Tell me, human,” the vampire said as the scent of dry leaves and wet earth filled Dorian’s lungs, “where might I find Kraven Rubinsky?”
“Hamilton County.” Dorian spoke as if he were walking through a dream.
The vampire gazed deeply into Dorian’s eyes, as if searching for something, and then nodded. “Your memory will take me there.”
Dorian blinked and found that he was no longer standing on the side of the road. Instead he was standing outside a building with no windows.
Kraven’s nightclub.
Kraven was the worst vampire Dorian had ever had the displeasure of meeting—the same vampire who wanted him dead.
As the ancient vampire moved toward the door, Dorian found himself following against his will. He wasn’t sure what the creepy man wanted, but Dorian was about to enter into enemy territory.
Chapter Two
“Hello.”
“Freedman, it’s Rick.”
Lieutenant Commander John Freedman—formerly the leader of the now-dead Death Squad and probably wanted as a traitor to his country—had been walking the back roads as he headed to Nevada until his cell phone rang.
Freedman slung the backpack strap over one shoulder and continued walking. “What’s going on?” He hadn’t heard from Rick in a few months, and Freedman hadn’t expected to hear from the man at all. The werewolf alpha had a lot on his plate to deal with.
For months Freedman had been trying to find a way to get Omar—a werewolf changeling who had come along with Freedman to find his best friend—out of the last remaining detention center. Omar had trusted Freedman, and in the blink of an eye, the man had been taken to the one place that was a nightmare for any changeling.
“Dorian’s missing.”
Freedman stopped walking. “How? When?”
“He was heading back to the safe house. I stayed behind to fight…shit, I found the Hummer on an isolated road, the motor still running, the driver’s door open. I’ve searched the area ten times over, but it’s as if his scent just vanished right by the Hummer. There’s no trace of him.”
There was a steel edge in Rick’s voice, but Freedman also heard the panic. “What do you need me to do?”
“The Rebellions have pushed the enemy east. I was going to meet up with them and take down a large military outpost in Wyoming, but…”
“Where are you at now?”
“Close to Twin Falls in Idaho. I’d take my group and hunt him down, but fuck, Freedman, I don’t know where to look. Brooke and Deluca said you know this area like the back of your hand.”
“I do.” Freedman had spent his childhood in Twin Falls. The canyons, snowcapped mountains, and falls always brought him a nostalgic feeling. The wildlife and mountain ranges were no place for someone who had no idea of the lay of the land.
“I need your knowledge.”
Freedman ran a hand over his head. “You know I’m already on a mission of my own. Omar has been in that detention center for too damn long, Rick. There’s no telling what has gone on or if he is even still alive. I can’t leave him there.” His emotions were a tight knot in his chest. Freedman had developed feelings for Omar. It was something he knew better than to do in this uncertain world. But soon after meeting the man, and then spending time with him, feelings began to blossom. Freedman knew there was no way to stop those feelings from growing. He thought of Omar’s short blond stylish hair and his pale blue eyes. The man had been through a lot and Omar carried that pain in his eyes.
“Help me search for Dorian and I’ll bring down that fucking detention center with a unit of Rebellions that the military has never seen the likes of.”
Freedman clenched his jaw. White-hot lightning scorched through him at Rick’s offer. “I know you have your own fight to lead. You’re the leader of the Rebellions. But that offer would have been nice months ago when I called you and told you they took Omar. Now that Dorian is missing, you want to cut me an offer?” Freedman couldn’t contain his anger. For damn near ten months he had been trying to enlist help to get inside the detention center, but everyone he talked to had told him it was a suicide mission. There were tanks placed at every corner of the building, helicopters that flew overhead, and guards in towers, on the ground, and patrolling the outer perimeters twenty-four seven. There was no underground to use for getting inside. There was nothing but wide open space and a death wish.
Rick growled into the phone. “Who is the one who called over a year ago and told me to try to stop this war and never give up? Who told me that everyone was depending on me to win? I’ve been out here busting my ass, watching my species die by the thousands, and feeling as if there was no end in sight. I’ve done what you asked, Freedman. I took up the torch and led the fight. And now you want to bust my balls because I’ve been ass deep in alligators and couldn’t come to help you?”
Rick was right. Freedman was frustrated and angry. He was taking it out on the one man who had been nothing more than a district manager, yet took on an entire war just to ensure his species survived. “I’m heading south on Route 93, close to Steptoe in Nevada. You’ll have to pick me up.”
“On my way.”
Freedman tucked the phone back into the pocket it had been in and took a seat on the side of the road. He needed to stop letting his emotions rule him. He was better than that. Freedman had always been in control, always inscrutable in the face of danger. They used to joke in his unit that he was Mr. Ice with the ability to turn anyone frigid who crossed him.
And here he sat an emotional wreck.
How had Omar gotten past his defenses? The man had done nothing to lead Freedman to believe he wanted him. Omar had helped Freedman deal with a very tough time in his life when he found his best friend dead, cut up into pieces by savage weretigers. It had broken something inside of him, shattering a deep part of his soul when he buried Henderson.
But Omar had been by his side, helping Freedman when he didn’t have to. The man had helped him track Henderson down, had sat quietly next to Freedman as he wept for his lost friendship, and then helped him bury Henderson’s remains.
He knew from the way Omar acted that he didn’t really care for humans. But he had still been there for Freedman.
That kind of loyalty would not be forgotten.
Instead of sitting there and waiting, Freedman decided to get up and start walking back the way he had come. It would give him time to think while he headed in the direction Rick would be driving to pick him up.
Freedman crouched low, hurrying toward a clump of bushes when he saw a large vehicle heading his way. He didn’t know who it could be, but these days, it paid to be cautious. If it were Breed Hunters, Freedman knew he would be safe—although the men and woman who hunted down nonhumans sickened him to his core.
If it was changeling mercenaries, they may or may not fuck with him, possibly maiming or killing him for shits and giggles.
But if it was military, Freedman was screwed. He had turned his back on them when he shot a fellow soldier for trying to kill a group of young changelings. The government wasn’t going to forgive him that deed.
They would hang him and use his dead body as an example on becoming traitorous to his own race.
Freedman normally didn’t run. He was a fighter by nature, a man who went toe-to-toe with danger. But he wasn’t foolish enough to tangle with a truckload of men. He might be brave to a fault, but he wasn’t stupid.
Unfortunately, the bushes weren’t enough to conceal him all the way. He wasn’t exactly a small man. He braced himself and stood as the truck came to a rolling stop. They weren’t military from the looks of the men sitting in the back with shotguns tucked into their arms. And Freedman was almost positive they weren’t changeling mercenaries.
/> That only left Breed Hunters—or some local yahoos out to harass someone this late at night.
“Need a lift?” the driver asked. Freedman could see the ill intentions in the man’s pale blue eyes. They were sparkling with dark humor.
“I’m good, but thanks for the offer.” Freedman strode back to the road and began to walk in the opposite direction the truck was facing. He slid the military issued nine millimeter from under his jacket and clicked the safety off, holding it in front of him, still under his jacket, as he walked. He didn’t like having his back to them, but he wasn’t going to have them slow rolling next to him either.
“That wasn’t the answer I was looking for,” the driver called out. Freedman heard the commotion behind him and knew a few of the men had gotten out of the truck. He didn’t need this bullshit right now. He didn’t need it period. But right now he had too much on his mind, a man to rescue, and another to find who was lost god knows where.
An uncomfortable heaviness settled inside of him when he heard the footsteps getting closer. Freedman lowered the bag from his shoulder, letting the strap slip down his arm, and then dropped it right before he spun around, aiming the gun in the driver’s face.
The man held up his hands, a wide smile on his face. “Whoa, there.” The smile remained, but Freedman could see the cold, hard calculation in the man’s eyes. “No need for the gun.”
“And there is no need to follow me when I already told you I don’t need a ride.” His voice was even, steady as steel as he glared at each man who stood next to the driver. Some of the men were still sitting in the back of the truck, but three had jumped free to stand next to this asshole. Freedman wasn’t too worried. He’d been in worse fights and had been surrounded by many more men than this.
But he was on a back road, alone, and with a truck full of men looking to hurt someone. Freedman had a steel spine and an iron will, but he knew when he was in deep shit. He sized them up, telling himself that taking the driver out first would be his best option. Not knowing these men, there was no way to know how they would react once their ragtag leader was dead.
“Lower the gun, boy,” the driver warned in a tone that belied the smile on his face. “You don’t want to shoot anyone, trust me.”
Freedman snorted. “Trust you? I don’t even know you, and from the looks of things, you don’t have a tea party in mind.”
The driver rolled his shoulders and Freedman gripped his gun tighter. He knew when a man was getting ready to rumble. The tension was building in his shoulders the longer he stood there holding his gun. He didn’t like pulling it out and aiming it unless he was ready to shoot someone. But until this yahoo made the first move, Freedman would stand where he was and just watch.
No use riling his new buddies just yet. Not until he had to. He’d let the driver make the first move, and then Freedman would teach him why it wasn’t wise to mess with a man on the edge. He had been through so much shit since meeting Captain O’Hanlon on that dark and deserted street near the Mexican border that Freedman was itching to take it out on someone—and this bastard was the perfect outlet.
With steady hands, Freedman watched the driver slide a piece of paper out of his front pocket, unfold it, and then turn it so show a picture of Freedman with the words Wanted for Treason on the front.
“I suspect you are a very big payday for me and my boys here,” the driver said with a sinister smile. “I wonder how much you’re worth.”
“Trust me.” Freedman tossed the man’s words back at him. “They’ll never pay you. O’Hanlon would kill you before you received a dime of that money.”
“Liar,” the man next to the driver spoke. “You’re just trying to get out of being turned in.” He turned and looked at the men still sitting in the bed of the truck. “We got us a real-life Jesse James here, fellas.”
What an idiot. If the man only knew why Freedman was a wanted man. If any of them knew even half the truth, they would go running home to their mammas and never come outside again. The world had changed, and it was playing for keeps now.
“I think you’ve seen way too many westerns,” Freedman replied to the man standing next to the driver. “In the real world, that is not how it works. The government is cheap as hell and would rather pay a unit of soldiers to dispose of you than give you the reward money.” Freedman wasn’t sure if that was true, but he wasn’t about to let these men think they had hit pay dirt. No one was using him as a paycheck.
The driver’s eyes scanned over Freedman and then back at the paper in his hand, as if he was considering what Freedman was saying to him. He could have sworn he saw the tiny little wheels turning in the driver’s head, trying to figure out if Freedman was right, and if he was, how to turn this in his favor in order to get paid.
“Then maybe you’ll fetch a handsome price by the Breed Hunters,” the driver finally said, confirming that these men were just a bunch of jackasses out to harass someone.
Freedman’s fingers gripped the gun tighter. “Let me guess, the Breed Hunters wouldn’t let you join their little club? They say you fellas weren’t Breed Hunter material?”
The truth lit the driver’s pale-blue eyes to flames. That was exactly what had happened, and these men were out to prove they could be Breed Hunters. They were out to prove they were better than Breed Hunters.
Which meant Freedman was in a world of shit. If these men were out to show they could hunt better than the hate groups, they would use Freedman as cannon fodder to prove themselves.
He wasn’t going to let that happen.
“You don’t know shit!” the driver spat. “Those assholes don’t know shit. We’re just as good as they are.” He pointed a finger at Freedman. “We’re better. We found the second most wanted man in America. Could they do that?”
“Second?” Freedman asked with a note of mockery in his tone. “And who is the first?” He knew who the first man was. Enrique Marcelo was still at the top of the most wanted list because O’Hanlon couldn’t stand the thought of siring an animal. It still amazed Freedman that one man would go through all this trouble to cover up the fact that he had a changeling for a son. Freedman wasn’t foolish. He knew that if anyone found out Rick was O’Hanlon’s son, the Captain of Special Warfare would lose everything.
But starting a war was a bit on the extreme side. Was the man that power hungry? Did he have so little regard for life that he would throw the nation into the worst war that mankind had ever seen?
Apparently so, because Freedman was standing in front of men who would sacrifice his ass to get paid while a species barely known to the world was being wiped from the face of the planet.
Freedman didn’t even twitch when one of the men in the back of the truck fired his shotgun.
The driver smiled cunningly at him. “You’re good. You didn’t even fall for Daryl’s trick.”
The man was trying to distract Freedman so this bonehead in front of him could disarm Freedman. They were going to have to do better than that.
In the blink of an eye, not only the driver, but his pack of goons came at Freedman, and Freedman didn’t hesitate when he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Three
“What is this place, pequeno guerreiro?” Salvador Santos Almeida walked through the strangely decorated building taking in the sight. Never before had he seen such instruments of torture gathered in abundance and ready for use. The devices hung from walls and were strewn about on tables for all to see.
The human crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. Salvador could tell the man had a very strong personality, but he did not come to America for this man. The human had not insulted him in any way, so he would live…for now.
“What the hell did you just call me?” he asked with attitude. “And it better not be an endearment because I don’t think my mate would like you talking to me that way.”
Salvador inwardly smiled. He was not used to anyone speaking to him in this manner, and oddly enough, he did not take offense from this sm
all man. “It means ‘little warrior.’”
“Oh,” the man said. “But for reference, my name is Dorian.”
“One of the Hellenic people who invaded Greece,” Salvador replied.
Dorian stood in the middle of the distastefully decorated building and stared at him in puzzlement. “Hell if I know. It was my grandfather’s name.”
Salvador gave a slight nod. “I am known as Salvador. Tell me, Dorian. Why is this place deserted? Have your memories fooled me in some way?” Salvador had never been fooled by a mere human before. For that matter, no other being had been able to deceive him either. It would be most disconcerting if this male had managed to pull off such a feat. Salvador took a step toward the shorter man, glaring down at him. “I do not take trickery of any sort kindly.”
Dorian scowled at him, but was only looking at Salvador’s chest. Someone had schooled this young man about vampires and their ability to pull beings into the snare of their mesmerizing eyes. “Well, good, because I didn’t fucking trick you. It wasn’t my turn to watch Kraven. But if you send me a memo next time, I’ll camp my happy ass out on his damn doorstep.”
“I would be careful, pequeno guerreiro. My tolerance of your sharp tongue is not infinite.”
The man shrugged. “Fact is fact. I know where Kraven’s club is, but I have no idea where the vampire could be. He’s probably out draining a few people if you ask me.” Dorian’s expression was thoughtful. “You know, ever since this war started, no one has gone after the vampires. Maybe that has changed. Maybe the military are tired of picking on just changelings.”
Salvador cocked his head, listening. Being as old as he was—and who he was—one of his talents had had enough time to mature. It was the talent of picking up resonate conversations that had already taken place, the voices still trapped between the walls. If he were out in the open, it wouldn’t have worked. But this building was tightly sealed, enabling him to pick up many conversations.
But he was looking for only one.
