Cats Got Your Tongue (Shifter Squad Six)

by Anya Nowlan

  He knew that meant that the Night Hawk would be starting its sequence, moving in, and by the time it reached weapons range of the guard towers, there better not be anyone firing at the damn helicopter anymore.

  Silently, Grant counted to ten in his head before he ran out of cover, having snuck up to the very edge of the low foliage around it. The fence was still some twenty-five feet ahead, but exactly at ten, two large explosions went off, one to the far right and the other to the far left of him.

  Grant made it to the fence in a few steps, knowing that Grim was doing the same at the other end. He cut through the fence with record speed, running to the tower now and keeping himself low, hoping that the diversion was enough of a distraction. He slapped two small explosive kits that Tex had given him on the supporting beams, flipping on the countdown, before rounding back about twenty feet as searchlights came on one by one in the yard.

  “Tower One cleared,” came Dutch’s ragged voice over the comms.

  Then, a second later, four smaller explosions went off one by one, quickly collapsing the towers assigned to Grim and Grant. Grant watched his come down like some sort of prehistoric monster, collapsing onto itself with the screams of men inside. One of them jumped out mid-fall and before he’d hit the ground, Grant had gotten him in the head with a bullet from his assault rifle.

  He couldn’t help but grin.

  This is for all the pain you fuckers are causing my kids, he thought.

  Two shots sounded from across the yard as Grant moved closer, checking the wreckage. There was movement inside, the second guard still alive, but pinned under the rubble. He was flicking between his wolf form and human one, his blue eyes and blond hair changing to the long maw and pristine white of his wolf’s coat every few seconds.

  Grant grabbed his knife from his belt and stabbed the man in the neck with one smooth, almost offhanded movement. The twitching and the groaning stopped.

  “Tower Three clear,” he said into the comm.

  “Tower Four clear,” came Grim’s voice.

  Just in time, too. Grant could already hear the low whir of the helicopter moving in from the distance. But then he heard something a lot worse. The steady rattle of a machine gun. When he saw the flares that came with each shot, his stomach sunk.

  “Tower Two has a fucking railgun! I can’t get a clear shot,” Dutch hissed, sounding like he was on the move.

  The chopper was moving closer and it would be in range within a minute, Grant knew, checking his watch. By instinct, he dropped the rifle and took off in a run, shifting between steps, the steady footfalls of a soldier-for-hire turning to the almost graceful, soundless bounds of a large male cougar, speeding across the yard.

  He got caught in several of the searchlight beams that were originating from the building itself, but he didn’t care. If the helicopter was shot down, then even if Kelis survived their hopes of saving Dylan and Dante would be dashed.

  Grant had never run so fast. The tower came closer and closer and when he thought he could make the jump, Grant’s massive, powerful body stretched out, jumping more than fourteen feet into the air and clinging to the railing, pulling himself on top as his claws sunk into the siding.

  His teeth were bared as he balanced on the beam, like a monstrous gargoyle waiting to strike. Two men were handling the machine gun, clearly trying to get a fix on Dutch, before the roar of the helicopter became loud enough to tear their attention away.

  Grant didn’t hesitate. As the guy who’d been helping to feed the shells into the gun looked up, Grant pushed himself off with powerful legs, claws outstretched. He landed right on top of both of them, the gun kicking up in a wild flail for a moment before it hung forward limply, the shots replaced by blood-curdling screams as Grant ripped through the two men.

  Their blood tasted bitter in his mouth, coppery but disgusting. They were both bigger than they should have been, eyes slightly bloodshot, but nothing compared to the beasts they’d met in Detroit. More like the chumps who they’d killed on the airplane—all brawn, no brain.

  The Night Hawk whipped over Grant’s head, hovering over the building for a second as Connor and Thatch rappelled down, running toward the entrance of the stairwell the moment their boots hit the ground. For a second, Grant could see a flash of Kelis’s helmet as she pulled the Night Hawk up and away quickly, disappearing above the tree line as if she’d never been there at all.

  In his heart, Grant knew she was as thick in the battle as any of them.

  He jumped down from the edge and halfway there saw the large, tense body of Grim’s cougar stalking around the side of the building, obviously having diverted course. If he was in his shifter form, it could only mean that he’d been on his way to the tower as well.

  They were similar in their shifted forms. Both hulking, vicious-looking beasts with golden, sandy coats. Grim had more white on his chest and wider facial markings, where Grant had a white tuft to his tail. Not that it mattered much. When one or the other came for you, all you could see were flashing white fangs and imminent death.

  It was a relief to see his brother well, though Grant had been sure that nothing had happened to him regardless. There was a bond between Alpha twins strong enough to sense whether something was cataclysmically wrong or not and thankfully, all had remained intact so far. It only made him wonder if Dylan’s and Dante’s pain was now doubled because of the agony of the other brother, as it often was with Grim and Grant when one of them got injured.

  Shaking his heavy head, the large cat stalked forward, Grim at his heels, as they hugged the walls and moved toward the door that Tex was supposed to blow open as soon as he could. When Grant reached the corner of the building, his steps slowed, hearing movement. Crouching down, he felt Grim do the same, and a second later three Arctics soldiers came running past them, brandishing weapons.

  Grant didn’t hesitate for a moment. He jumped immediately, powerful jaws clamping around the face of the closest man, taking him down before he could fire a shot. Grant ripped half his face off, hearing a spray of bullets go off behind him as Grim took on the other two. Almost as soon as the first man had fallen, Grant pounced again, throwing the gun out of the arms of one of the soldiers and thrashing as he gripped onto it.

  But with these guys, Grant could see more determination, more fight. More of that familiar red in their eyes, dilated pupils, and faster breathing. They were definitely hopped up on something, and Grant could guess what it was. He felt a sharp pain as the man grabbed onto his gun, catching Grant in the thigh with a stray blast before Grant could get him down.

  He could finally let go when a thick gush of sticky red blood covered Grant thanks to Grim, who tore at his back. Grim had opened up the man’s carotid artery and he was slumped on his side in a moment. Standing up, Grant inspected their handiwork, feeling the throb of pain in his leg. Grim had practically peeled off the third guy’s clothes with his claws, filleting the man. It was a gruesome sight.

  Glancing down at the guns strewn around them now, Grant took a deep breath, willing the beast back inside of him. It took some coaxing, the cougar knowing that he’d be stronger in shifter form with an injury like that, but he couldn’t risk being only able to attack from close up at that moment. He had to get a gun and be useful from a distance as well.

  The gold slowly evaporated from his eyes, though his body changed faster. The thick, rich fur disappeared into him and his limbs contracted and elongated where needed. When he stood up, he found his shirt slightly tattered, but most everything was intact. Grant picked up one of The Arctics’ rifles, inspecting it quickly as Grim finished his transformation.

  By the time they were both armed and ready, Dutch appeared, the long sniper case on his back and his brows knit in concentration, an assault rifle in his hands.

  “What are you kittens playing around here for? We’ve got some ass to kick,” he huffed with a smile unbecoming a man who’d almost gotten mowed down by a freaking railgun a few minutes ago.

&nb
sp; “The man has a point,” Grant said dryly, willing his legs to move as he fell into a trot behind Dutch.

  “Duty calls,” Grim hollered, snagging an extra pack of ammo off of one of the dead guys’ belts and clipping it on his own.

  “What did we miss?” Grant asked as they slammed against the blown-open door, listening for a second before ducking in one by one.

  “Connor and Thatch are pinned down on the top floor. Tex made it to the second one before being pushed back, and has a bullet in his arm. Place is teeming with pissed-off commandos,” Dutch said, as if he were relaying the weather report.

  “Fantastic. Anyone found the labs yet?” Grant asked, knowing that their intel on the building was spotty at best and the documentation they’d gotten had barely told them where the damn thing existed, and especially not what the floor plan was.

  “Nope. Figured we’d try not to get killed first. Did you take the nest out?” Dutch asked, sweat dripping down the sides of his face as they split into a corridor that seemed to open up into a big central room farther down.

  “Yup,” Grant said, limping as he moved along.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I owed you and Ari one, after all,” Grant responded, feeling a dull throb go through his arm where Ari, Dutch’s wife, had patched it back together when Grant had almost gotten killed in a South American jungle.

  “Can we save the pleasantries for later?” Grim growled, passing both Grant and Dutch and heading in deeper first. “I hear we have babies to literally save.”

  Grim wasn’t wrong. Tick-tock. Time waits for no cougar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Grim

  Grim, Grant, and Dutch cleared a few rooms along the way to the central room, finding nothing but filing cabinets and storage space. Grim’s hackles were up and he was more aggravated than he could remember himself ever being.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten a stab wound to the side, something that was becoming almost all too common in his line of work. Seemed every fucker with an attitude was carrying a gun those days.

  Sounds of heavy fighting came from upstairs, marking where the rest of Squad Six was making their stand, catching The Arctics between Thatch and Connor and Tex. Grim almost felt bad for the wolfy bastards who’d drawn that end of the deal.

  When they made it to the fringes of the central room, Grim halted suddenly as a thin, ghostly hum thrummed at his ears. It sounded familiar but at the same time not. It was a little like the noise he’d heard when going toe-to-toe with those freaks in Haygrove, the mutant werewolves who looked like real nightmare fodder.

  He still hovered in the corridor, holding up his hand for the others to stand still as he looked out into the room. It was more of a ballroom than anything else, devoid of furnishings, with a clinical white glow to it. But what was weirdest about it was the floor. It was semi-transparent, throbbing with lights every now and then, teeming with icy coldness.

  Grim reached one hand into the space beyond the corridor and retracted it quickly, small ice crystals having already formed on his hand. His eyes wide with surprise, he glanced back, showing his hand to Grant and Dutch.

  “They must be working real hard to keep something cool down there,” Dutch said, pointing at the room and up toward the ceiling. “See those? Big ass vents. They’re venting the air out. Kelis said on the comms that there was a sudden updraft of something cold as fuck and Connor confirmed it as they broke in through the roof.”

  “So whatever we want has to be downstairs. In the basement,” Grant said quietly, his eyes already looking back, searching for stairs.

  Right then, something from above made the building shudder on its foundation. Grim frowned, meeting Dutch’s eyes, which were narrowing swiftly. The memories of Haygrove had been too clear in the man’s mind, and as much as Grim knew that odd noises in The Arctics’ bases were not good news, Dutch knew it even better.

  “Delta One, requesting backup. We’re getting murdered up here,” Connor’s strained voice came over the comms, wrought with static.

  “We need to go downstairs,” Grant growled, prowling along the hall away from the central room, which would have probably turned them into Popsicles had they tried to go through it. They were looking for a way down.

  “We can’t leave them up there either,” Grim said, following with fast paces.

  “I’ll go bail them out. You go find what your boys need,” Dutch said, practically running past Grim and clapping him on the shoulder.

  Grim was about to protest but the look Dutch gave him told him everything. Dutch had been in a similar situation. He knew how it felt to be holding the lives of someone you loved dearly in your hands. Tough choices had to be made. Squad Six could take care of themselves. Dylan and Dante couldn’t.

  Dutch rounded the corner fast enough and was soon out of sight. A moment later, Grant found an elevator heading downstairs, hidden behind a door that looked exactly like every other. Checking his rifle, Grim dubiously looked at the elevator.

  “You want to get into a steel box and ride into the abyss, not knowing what’s waiting for us down there?” Grim asked.

  Of course Grant did. Good thing then that it sounded like a hell of a good time to Grim as well.

  When the elevator reached downstairs and the doors flung open with a ping, at least five rifles were trained on the seemingly empty box. Two rifles sat on the floor, unmanned. Then, two smoke grenades flew into the midst of them, followed closely by two very pissed off ex-Navy SEALs.

  Grim and Grant flung themselves down from the ceiling, having held to it with arms and legs, knives between their teeth. Grim caught the first guy in the face with his elbow, spinning to kick a guy in the chest with the same move. Then, he grabbed his knife and plunged it straight into the heart of the man teetering back from the punch to the face, yanking the blade back immediately after.

  But the guy didn’t go down. Instead, his eyes flashed with rage and he practically flung himself on top of Grim, along with the man whose legs Grim had swept out from under him with the kick.

  “Shit,” Grim muttered, The Arctics guards down there clearly taking more of whatever they’d been huffing into their systems.

  It was uncharacteristically cold down there, made more obvious by the fact that the men attacking the twins were absolutely burning up. One of The Arctics guards on Grim made a seething hissing noise, his heavy fists pummeling Grim in the face as Grim thrust the dagger into his head this time, the blade making a crunching noise as it cut through thick bone and then squished into his brain.

  Blood gushed from the man’s clear blue eyes and he managed two more good punches, probably dislocating Grim’s jaw for a moment, before his body caught up with the fact that he was already dead.

  Grim flung the body off and hopped back up on his feet, only to duck the onslaught of the next man coming at him like a bull to a red cape as the fog started to clear. A lucky hit to the neck made the right kind of impact, the dagger cutting through delicate flesh and leaving the man gagging on his own blood.

  Disheveled and hurting like hell, Grim looked around for his brother, finding a trail of blood leading away from the elevator. He found one of The Arctics dead in about ten steps, his gun thrust down into his throat, and another still clinging to life, deep gashes on his stomach, neck, and face. Grim put the fucker out of his misery with the utmost of enjoyment.

  “Grant?” he called, the hum louder now, more insistent now that he moved closer.

  He got a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach as he walked forward, forgetting all about how he was burning from the punches and cuts he’d already sustained. His eye was going to swell shut soon enough and his jaw hurt like hell, but he’d weather through. Like he always did.

  Another few paces down through the murky halls he found the third dead body, his face caved in from getting repeatedly slammed into the wall. Every now and then, a twitch still ran through him, the brain wiring signals to a body long dead. Gr
im’s lips pressed into a thin line. Humans rarely did it, but with shifters, death could take a while to really set in.

  Like a chicken running around with its head cut off, a shifter’s body didn’t want to give in as easily as it perhaps should. The chemicals the guy must have been pumped full of didn’t make it any easier.

  There was a door ajar right up ahead and Grim grabbed a rifle off of the twitching mess of tissue at his feet. He skulked forward, his breathing ragged, looking like he’d gone through one deployment too many as he pulled the door open.

  That was when he found Grant. And he understood completely why his brother had not found the words to call back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Grant

  Grant could only vaguely tell that Grim was standing next to him now, staring at the horror that he was.

  Grant’s heart was somewhere around his ankles, beating slowly like it was considering giving up on life altogether. The sight before him was sucking the will to live right out of him and he didn’t really know what the fuck to do about it.

  His rational mind, that of a doctor, was coolly assessing the situation, cocking his head to the side, making notes. The cougar in him was thrashing against him, willing him to let it out so it could destroy every trace of this godforsaken place. And the man? The man was speechless.

  “Grant,” Grim said finally, and Grant felt the heavy hand of his brother on his shoulder, making him turn to face him. “We need to do this. For Dylan and Dante.”

  But there were tears in Grim’s eyes and when Grant saw them, he was immediately sure that he must have been crying too. Grant nodded dully, then shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. He grabbed the knife from his waist and moved forward into the ghostly glowing room, hardening himself against everything he was seeing around him.

  Unlike Haygrove, nothing in the vats in the nameless Arizona compound seemed to be alive. There were tubes and jars and cases of every sort filled with preserved bodies of babies in various forms, human and animal, most stuck somewhere in a twisted realm between shifted and not shifted. None of them could have been more than a few months old, most clearly too small to even have made it out of the womb.