Missing

by KH LeMoyne

  As the wind picked up, sweeping in the smell of chimney smoke down from the nearby mountain homes, she inched forward. The path to the front door looked clear and too easy an option, though she didn’t have a choice. Nathan might be in one of those trucks, but she hadn’t smelled any indication that was true.

  Sprinting across the open lot, she kept her guard up and then folded into a crouch at the front door. She flicked a quick check behind her and slipped a key card out of her pocket. At the click of the open lock, she pressed with her shoulder and shuffled inside, staying low as the door swung inward.

  On the balls of her feet, she closed the door and scanned around the room. The lights were off, but moonlight through the blinds of the door illuminated plastic bucket seats along the front wall and a narrow corridor heading into the rear. On the far side was a door she assumed led to the garage that had housed the trucks. She rose and crept down the corridor. One overhead light at the end lit the way. She sniffed again, detecting one fresh scent and a dozen or more faded ones in the space.

  If they’re gone, why leave the light on? The question fled from her thoughts as she entered the main warehouse, a space large enough to hold eight to ten SUVs the size of the ones that had just left. She froze beside a twenty-foot-long row of large mobile refrigerators with glass doors that towered over her by a foot. She stepped closer and peered inside at ten-gallon plastic tubs holding pouches of clear fluids. Along the top shelves, small bottles of drugs and prepared syringes sat in neat rows. She shoved one of the units, and it swiveled a bit.

  Damn. The entire stash held enough drugs and supplies to support a modest-sized clinic, and the storage units rolled easily enough to make relocation painless. No wonder she had such trouble keeping up with them. A shiver ran down her spine as she edged to the end of the units and around the side.

  Biting back a shout, she rushed forward.

  Nathan Wilson lay strapped to a gurney in only his jeans, IV lines tapped into his arms and ankles, with a gag tied over his mouth. She recognized his curly mop of brown hair and lanky build from the pictures in the Wilsons’ living room. He turned his head her way, and his eyes widened. The gurney squeaked and swayed as he bucked and tugged at the restraints.

  “Stop.” She moved to his side, planting one hand to keep the gurney from tipping over while she checked the bags—saline. Good, given his shifter physiology, he’d probably survive without it. Time for her to get him out of here.

  He grunted at her, and she reached for the knot behind his head holding the gag firmly in place. “Snarling at me won’t get you out of here faster.”

  His brows drew together, and he jutted his chin higher as his focus riveted to the ceiling. She followed his gaze, and dread crawled like ice water through her veins. “Crap.”

  A video camera wired to the support beams below the roof came to life as she finally loosened his gag. “A live feed?”

  “They set this up to catch you,” Nathan croaked out as he sat up and spat to the side. “They wanted me, but they got warning that someone was following them.”

  “Well. We’re leaving before they get back.” Rayven yanked the restraint away from his chest and turned to remove tape and IVs from his ankle. At least he seemed alert and able to move. “Just give me a minute to get you free.”

  He attacked the IV in his arm. “Rayven. You need to leave.”

  She halted, shocked, and spun back toward him. After plucking a lab coat from a supply cart and a pair of boots stored on the bottom shelf beside him, she shoved them at him. “How do you know me?”

  With an eye roll, he stuffed one foot into a boot, then slid off the gurney and hopped behind her, putting on the next one. “Umm, why wouldn’t I? It’s not like there’s any other decent Karn—”

  She slapped a hand over his mouth as she caught the crunch of tires outside. He’d heard it as well.

  “There’s another door in back,” he whispered against her fingers. He pulled her hand away. “They stacked boxes in front of it.”

  She ate up the distance to the crates stacked against the far wall, Nathan on her heels. Taller than she was, he plucked down the top crates and slung them to the floor. She dug in, helping him until they cleared the way to the exit and swung open the door. A gust of bitter wind stung her cheeks. As they exited, she could make out every detail of the small town of Crowsnest Pass and the stretch of interstate that ran beside it.

  “They’ll see us from the road.” She motioned past the steep drop to the dry gully and the west end of town. “Head to the railroad tracks. Follow them to the next township. I’ll have someone meet you there.”

  He scowled at her, fists at his side. “Come with me.”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m not leaving until you’re clear of this area.” He’d need her to buy him time.

  He pursed his lips and exhaled as if he’d argue, but jerked his head, accepting her command, and ran for the gully. The moment Nathan scrambled down the gravel-and-brush-covered hill, she turned back to clean up any last tracks.

  She never even saw the strike coming. Pain exploded over her cheek, and she flew backward, somehow managing to scramble into a crouch that stopped her from landing on her ass. Forearms braced in front of her face, she launched back toward her attacker and landed two rapid jabs.

  Between her twists and dodges, she deflected several rapid strikes toward her ribs.

  A punch from behind to her temple sent her to the ground.

  She blinked, uncertain where her attacker had come from, and wavered on her hands and knees. Sucking in air, she willed her legs to punch out for a sideswipe.

  Another blow took her in the kidney from an unexpected direction and sent her to the ground. How had she not smelled more of them creeping up on her?

  She lifted her head and counted six blurry pairs of boots. All right, her vision might be wacky, but she wasn’t dead yet. Kicking out, she spun. Her feet caught the man with a rifle over his shoulder in his shins as he reached for her.

  He cursed, but someone else slammed a weapon into her head, sending her back to the gravel. Swallowing hard, she fought the buzzing in her ears and the white spots in front of her eyes. She could make out the gun shoved in front of her face.

  “Don’t shoot her,” growled a man standing over her. “She’s to be delivered alive. I’ll keep her under control. Get the other vehicles.”

  Oh no. She knew that voice from the alpha’s enforcement team, Sam Faust. Rolling to her side, she wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’ve sunk to a new low, Sam.”

  “And you’re a pain in my ass.” He countered with a vicious kick to her hip, not bothering to rein in his shifter strength. She curled into a ball, or tried to as she gritted her teeth to keep from groaning. Yep, good thing she hadn’t dragged backup into this mess.

  “Pretty proud of yourself, princess?” Sam hauled her to her feet, not waiting for her response or the fact she couldn’t stand, and half dragged her toward a waiting SUV. The white panel van had returned and parked twenty feet away. The side panel on the vehicle shot open, and a long howl ripped through the air.

  Nathan struggled between the four men who held him with chains and leashes, shifted into wolf form with shredded remnants of the lab coat hanging from his shoulders and punctured boots around his hind paws.

  Rayven’s heart sank. They’d found him, and now he’d undergone his first shift, forced in captivity. “Hold on, Nathan. I’m not going to let them win,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Get him under control and out of here.” Sam gave her a fierce shake, his fingers digging into her shoulder. “See what you’ve done? He’s shifting. No longer a valid guinea pig. Now they’ll want to put him down. That’s on you.”

  “I’m not the one betraying the clan.”

  He slammed her cheek-first into the side of the SUV before he wrenched her hands behind her back and snapped titanium handcuffs tight around her wrists. Then he stabbed her in the arm with a
needle and threw her into the cargo hold in back with enough force that her ears rang. “You’ve never been my clan.”

  2

  Black Haven Stronghold, Montana

  One week later

  Breslin sat at his computer and punched in a security pass code for the website of Fitzpatrick Investments and Securities. He picked up the soft tread of Italian leather-soled shoes in the hallway.

  His beast tracked the slow, measured pace along the hardwood floor outside the office and the soft whoosh of the door as it opened and closed at his back. He didn’t bother to turn, instead mentally tracked his office mate as he traveled to the far wall of bookshelves instead of the partner’s desk on the other side of Breslin’s.

  Curious at the change in ritual that had earmarked Callum Mann as a professional driven by habit for most of the last century, Breslin waited, his fingers paused over his keyboard. He waited for the unfailing morning greeting and family update that carved minutes out of their day.

  Instead, silence deepened in the large space until anticipation had him quickly searching for some egregious social error on his part: a birthday missed, failure to return Gillian Mann’s call, one of the children whose visit he’d missed, or some other infraction that would gain him Callum’s cold silence.

  “Doesn’t it ever occur to you that we share a room larger than the footprint of some people’s homes and all the space you claim is one bookcase and a desk?” Callum’s even tone broke through Breslin’s self-reflection, and he steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. As brilliant as Callum was with managing the clan’s finances and hunting out new business opportunities, he and his mate were equally tenacious on their personal pet project of drawing Breslin out of his shell.

  Not happening. He didn’t need to shed his delicate shell before he embraced—hell, the world? His soul was mortared with stone, and tempered by past horrors and the cold-fired need for revenge. Nothing would change him.

  “I don’t need overstuffed chairs and couches picked out to match the red walls to do my job.”

  “I remember Gillian saying the paint for these walls was Terracotta Sunset, and what tools you need to do your job isn’t my point.”

  Braced for a more tedious lecture, Breslin shot back, “I don’t have diplomas to paper the walls. Wouldn’t do it even if I did.”

  “No. Instead, you have books.” The leather of Callum’s shoes squeaked as he squatted. “Efficient Building Design. Environment Psychology for Building Design. Adaptive Management of Renewable Resources. Climate Change Biology. Dry stuff. Yet the books overflow on the shelves from floor to ceiling. Every spine is cracked and the edges all worn, with sticky markers sprouting like weeds.”

  “You had children. I invested my time elsewhere,” Breslin lashed back, getting tired of the forced distraction. “Since I’m not having children, be my guest and mount my books on the wall next to your family’s college accolades and graduation photos.”

  “Pictures of my wife and six sons,” Callum responded, his voice tight. “You do remember accepting the role as their Protector when they were born? In spite of your open reluctance to bond with children, I’ve never doubted your promise if something happened to Gillian or me. Despite your dismissive attitude, I still don’t.”

  Yes, he had agreed, with equal parts trepidation and awe, to be the Mann children’s Protector. Some part of his cold heart understood the privilege of being asked to take responsibility for the youngsters’ lives, and he’d lived in fear that something would happen to their parents. Every day he’d dreaded the possibility, until the last Mann child successfully shifted for his beast rite of passage and then later graduated from college to flaunt his brilliant genetic DNA. He took small, if hidden, pride in each of them as they created legacies within the clan. It also didn’t slip his notice that Callum and Gillian could easily have asked their alpha to assume the role. The title of Protector was an honor. However, he understood their choice in choosing him was a calculated attempt to connect him to family.

  It hadn’t worked. He’d done his job by the boys and kept them safe when they strayed too far outside the lines of the sanctuary and the territory. But he left love and comfort to their parents, because he knew love couldn’t be tendered from a distance. And he’d kept his distance. He’d also lost the right to a family of his own a long time ago.

  “I’ve kept my word,” Breslin said. At Callum’s continued silence, he added. “I’d still make certain they were okay. Even though they’re grown.”

  Callum grunted and moved toward his desk, the large picture window behind him framing the tall, lanky man who looked much the same now as he had when Breslin had first seen him in a small diner in Lester, Washington.

  “Did you and Gillian come up with a new strategy for saving me, or is there another reason for this walk down memory lane?” What in Mother Earth’s name did the bobcat shifter have up his craw? However, years of experience warned him Callum wouldn’t get to the point until he’d had his say. Still, he didn’t have time for a lecture.

  “Gillian sends you her love. She also recommended I not try to fix something you refuse to change.”

  “Smart woman. You should listen to her.”

  “I’m stubborn.” Callum crossed his arms over his chest. “Most people keep libraries for their egos, but since you’ve actually read most of the tomes in this office, I consider you a smart man.”

  “Your point?”

  “If this new contract bid you’re pushing succeeds, it will ruin Rutland Mill and Lumber.”

  “Precisely.” Breslin registered Callum’s rising annoyance, yet returned his focus to the monitor in front of him and refused to look up. He flipped open a file folder on his desk to check information on the first page and turned back to input the verified figures on the financial screen. Rutland was poorly run with inevitable bankruptcy within eighteen months. Their acreage close to Vancouver’s growing metropolis made them prime for acquisition in order to convert the land to homes. And the forestation that used to be plentiful to feed their business had diminished by sixty percent. “They’ve mismanaged funds and aren’t competitive in their marketplace.”

  “Maybe. But the mill employs clan members who won’t be able to put food on the table after this financial coup of yours.”

  Breslin glared his way. “Not our clan members.”

  Callum shook his head and released his rigid posture. “Granted. But we’ve turned around businesses in worse shape for Deacon.”

  True. They’d both worked hard to salvage some of Deacon’s holdings after first one world war and then a second had unsettled many family-run businesses. But helping the enemy survive? No. Destruction was the whole point of this exercise. “People in Alpha Karndottir’s territory should have restructured their businesses with the changes in market trends years ago. This will give them incentive to move on.”

  Callum gripped his hair for a moment and actually growled. “They don’t have the freedom to make decisions given the alpha who rules them with an iron fist. I don’t blame you for hating Gauthier, but you’re almost as much of a coldhearted bastard as he is for destroying innocent people to get to him.”

  “No. I haven’t torn apart families, raped women, and killed children, much less stolen from my own people and driven them into the ground until they can’t put food on their tables.” Gauthier had done all that and worse for centuries. He’d hidden behind his alpha title as a justification for every heinous atrocity he’d committed. He deserved what was coming to him. And so did the enforcers who did his bidding.

  Callum had the decency to wince and Breslin waited for a dent in the too-familiar numbness he’d experienced more and more over the last few years. Since he hadn’t killed for a living in decades, some semblance of humanity might have crept back in.

  He glanced at a charred piece of wood on his desk for a full moment, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard. Three inches by two inches, the memento looked like nothing special. In fact, visit
ors to his office assumed it was a paperweight from rebuilding Black Haven. In a way, they were right. It served as a visual reminder that the man he sought to destroy was worth every moment of Breslin’s painstaking efforts.

  He could no longer remember his mother’s smile with crystal clarity or his older brothers’ smirks and laughter. Occasionally a stranger on the street with their identical carrot-colored hair gave his heart a jolt. Otherwise, the images were fading.

  Their cries and screams, however… Those rang as clear in his mind today as the day they were viciously murdered.

  He’d never surpass the alpha of the north for the title of the most ruthless and vile. Gauthier Karndottir won every time.

  So—regret for his actions? Not in this lifetime.

  Remorse? The iron-tough shield around his heart blocked even the smallest twinge of guilt. He’d developed a thick skin during his years of tracking and executing the worst criminals in the territory. Enforcers couldn’t afford feelings. Assassins like himself who delivered justice for Deacon, even less so.

  The charred wood sat unassuming on his desk, functioning better than any Pavlovian trigger. It required a soul to feel, faith to find a new direction.

  Breslin knew he didn’t warrant blessings or salvation. He didn’t miss either one.

  He understood the impact of the atrocities he’d committed in his past. Understood that, even though sanctioned by his alpha, the blood work he’d taken on exiled him from a normal life forever. What he did now seemed tame in comparison. Because each financial strike he planned hit deep into Gauthier’s pockets. Each was another opportunity for Breslin to bring his enemy to his knees.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he offered, “they can leave the clan and find safe haven.”

  “Not everyone can drop everything and live like the Ghost.” At the not-so-subtle tone layered somewhere between reprimand and challenge, Breslin shot a glance toward his alpha’s chief financial officer—his best friend—if a man who was only half-alive could have friends. Callum’s comment warned of dimming respect and triggered an uncomfortable sensation somewhere beneath the bone and muscle in Breslin’s rib cage. His cougar grumbled, but he rolled his shoulders and shrugged off the irritation.