CHAPTER TWO
Misty half woke when she was carried from the truck and into a house. Outside it was bright and hot, the day warming to its usual late summer temps. The men hadn’t bothered to blindfold her, but Misty had no idea where she was. Somewhere in Las Vegas, but it was a big city. Her vision was still blurry from the blows to her face and from the long, hot ride stuffed in the back of the truck’s cab, and looking around at the generic buildings didn’t tell her much.
The house was cooler than outside, though it smelled of damp garbage. Stale cigarette smells overlaid those scents, ashtrays overflowing.
The man who carried Misty dumped her on a couch that was strewn with clothes. The couch’s springs were broken, the cushions made of scratchy material, stuffing coming out the edges.
The leader sat down beside her. “Do you know who I am, Misty?”
“Sam Flores.” The words stuck on her tongue. She needed water.
“That’s right. Do you know why I’m looking for your brother?”
Misty licked her lips, tasting salt and dryness. “You were with him in prison.”
“Right again. And he screwed me royally. I just want to see him. To have a little talk.”
“To kill him, you mean.”
“Maybe.”
Misty drew a breath, trying not to gag on the living room’s odors. “He could have reported you. You’d still be in there if he had, maybe even in maximum security.”
“Oh, yeah, Paul was a little angel.” Flores put his face close to Misty’s. “But I had a good thing going, until he screwed it up for me. He didn’t think I’d get my parole, did he? Well, I have a good lawyer, who does what I want.”
Probably in exchange for the money Flores got for coke. Misty didn’t know the whole story, because Paul still wasn’t coherent about it, but apparently Sam had been good at drug dealing inside prison. Paul, whether he’d meant to or not, had helped an even meaner drug guy take away Sam’s business. Paul hadn’t explained very carefully, only that he’d had to choose between two evils. The second guy had promised to keep Flores away from Paul—Flores and his boys had beaten Paul every day before that.
“You’ll probably need that lawyer again,” Misty said, her voice a croak.
“No, because no one’s going to find you for a very long time, or your brother either.” Flores held up a cell phone. “Now, I was so pissed off I crushed your phone before I thought about it, and now, I’m going to need Paul’s number. So tell me what it is without making a big deal, and I might go easy on you.”
“I’m not about to tell Paul to come running over here so you can kill him,” Misty said hotly. “He’s my brother. Would you do that to your brother?”
“Yeah.” Flores grinned. “My brother’s an a*shole.” He leaned closer. “You have a choice, pretty thing. If you give me Paul’s phone number, I won’t hurt you so bad. If you don’t, I’ll just kill you now and take your body out to the desert. All right?”
Misty wet her lips again. She needed water, but thirst was the least of her worries. If Sam stabbed her or shot her, a dry mouth wouldn’t matter.
She decided to gamble. What did she have to lose? “All right,” she said in a near whisper. “But give him a chance to explain. He had no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice. Even you, sweetheart, and you made the right one. What is it?”
Misty closed her eyes, repeated the number, and started to pray. She heard the little beeps as Flores punched in the digits, then the phone rang on the other end. In a few seconds, a harsh voice said, “What?”
She opened her eyes as Flores jerked. “Who the hell is this? Where’s Paul?”
Silence. Then the voice said. “He’s in the bathroom. What do you want?”
“Tell him to get his ass on the phone.”
“Shit.” More silence. Then another voice. Not Paul, Misty knew, but one doing a close approximation of him. “Yeah?”
“If you want to see your sister again, you’ll get out to where I might give her back to you.” Flores gave directions down a highway then to a turnoff, way out of town, some remote place in the desert. “I’m not going to wait long.” He clicked off.
Misty said nothing. Sam might decide to go ahead and kill her, and Misty would have to fight for her life. She would probably lose. But she had hope.
She had no idea who the Shifter was who’d answered as Paul, and she had no idea what Sam would do when he lured them out to the desert. But she knew Graham would be coming.
? ? ?
Graham rode out on his motorcycle, his nephew, Dougal, following. North out of town, then east on a county road, north on another dirt road, out into vast desert with knifelike mountains. The only vegetation was the creosote, with its long, slender white limbs and tiny gray green leaves reaching to the white blue sky.
The Mojave was a land of stark beauty, but it was deadly. The tourists who came to Las Vegas by the bucketload flew safely over this desert every day, but those who lived permanently in town knew its dangers. A human could die of dehydration and heatstroke out here quicker than he knew what was happening, and it wasn’t much better for Shifters.
Misty had been smart to trick her abductors into calling Graham. He’d grabbed Dougal, who’d come out to help, and told him to pretend to be Misty’s brother. Dougal had convinced whoever was on the other end that he was Paul Granger, which didn’t feel right to Graham. The man who had Misty couldn’t be that stupid. Or else the guy wasn’t afraid of whoever would come to him out in the hole in the desert. So, either he was overconfident, or he had a nasty surprise waiting.
Either way, the man was dead. He’d taken Misty, and Graham was going to rip him open.
Shifters weren’t allowed to kill humans though. A Shifter killing a human would bring human wrath down upon all Shifters.
All right, so maybe Graham would control his instincts and not do any actual killing. Maiming though—maiming he could do. It’s what he would do, whether humans liked it or not.
The turnoff came up, and Graham swung his bike into it, Dougal close behind him. Graham wished he could have a little more backup than his messed-up nephew, but there hadn’t been time. It was early in Shiftertown, when all the Felines slept heaviest, bears couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed, and even the Lupines were sluggish. If he’d called Eric, who would have been the best backup, Graham would have had to waste a lot of time explaining. Eric loved explanations.
The rough dirt road narrowed with each mile and finally petered out. They were a long way from the paved county road now, even farther from the highway. The desert floor, Graham knew from long experience, wasn’t the most stable of places to ride. What looked like solid earth could prove to be a crust for a giant dry hole, and washes hidden by brush opened out without warning.
Graham’s and Dougal’s motorcycles were leaving a trail any simpleton could follow, but Graham didn’t have time for stealth. The men ahead knew they were coming, they’d be armed, and they had Misty. The whole thing smelled of a big fat trap, but Graham would trip it and to hell with it.
They reached the appointed spot, which was at the bottom of a mountain. Around here, mountains began abruptly, rising straight up from the earth. No miles of foothills or gradual change in elevation, just horizontal and vertical.
A mining shaft had pierced the earth here but had been filled in—a mound of debris and stones protruded around rotted wood framing. An old shack, left over from the early part of the last century, squatted about twenty yards from the shaft. The tiny building had been reroofed at some point with corrugated metal, which was now square pieces of rust.
Five human men stood around the shack, waiting, guns in hands. Graham stopped his motorcycle and got off, Dougal behind him.
The men ignored Graham and focused on Dougal, who was shorter and much lankier than Graham. When Dougal took off his helmet, giving them a good-natured and toothy wolf grin, the lead man shoved his gun into Graham’s face.
“Where is he?”
“You mean Granger?” Graham asked. “He couldn’t come.”
“I want him. You were supposed to bring him.”
“He was busy. I came to get Misty. If she’s hurt, I’m going to kill you and not worry about it. We’re a long way from town—the humans won’t find your bodies for a while.”
“Yeah, it is a long way, isn’t it?” the gang leader asked.
Something was wrong. This guy, whoever he was, didn’t look scared enough. He took in Graham’s Collar and Dougal’s. “Two Shifters. I only need one.”
A growl formed in Graham’s throat. “Need one for what?”
“I wanted Granger too,” the man said. “But, oh well, I’ll just grab him later.”
What the hell was he talking about? Misty was inside the shack, Graham knew. He scented her in there, even over the fuel smell of the bikes and the rank odor of humans.
Flowers and spice. That’s how he always thought of her. Sweet and sassy.
“Get out of my way,” Graham said.
The gang leader touched the end of the pistol to Graham’s nose. “No.”
“I warned him, right?” Graham said to Dougal. “You saw me warning him? When Eric gives me crap about this later, tell him I warned him.”
“You’re funny, Shifter,” the gang leader said, even as Dougal gave Graham a serious nod.
“Yeah, I’m a tub of laughs.”
Graham ripped the gun out of the gang leader’s hands and smacked him hard in the face with it. The gang leader went back with a surprised grunt, hands going to his bloody mouth. As the other men started forward, Graham called the strength of his wolf and twisted the pistol in half. Pieces of metal and bullets rained to the ground.
The gang leader lifted his head, his nose and mouth dripping scarlet blood. “That was stupid.”
“But fun.” Graham grabbed the man by his shirt, hoisting him high. Then he stopped being civilized and went for it.
He threw the leader into the knot of his men. They scrambled either to grab him or get out of the way, and Graham was on them. He punched, elbowed, jabbed, swept his boot across ankles to send the men to the ground.
Dougal joined the fray, laughing. Dougal had a lot of anger in him, and he loved the chance to work it off. These dumb-ass humans were the perfect targets. Let the kid take it out on them.
He heard Misty yelling from inside the shack, and thumping as she kicked the wall. Not in terror—she was pissed off, probably bound and trying to get loose. You go, baby.
Graham punched and kicked, spun and jabbed. He didn’t bother becoming wolf or his in-between beast—it was a pleasure to kick ass without even shifting. His Collar sparked, driving pain into his neck, but he didn’t care. He’d care later, but not now. Pain didn’t slow Graham down; it galvanized him.
He heard the boom of a pistol, and then blood was running hot down Graham’s side, soaking his shirt. Damn.
The man who’d shot him looked up in terror as Graham bore down on him, half shifting as he went. Graham tasted blood as he tore into the guy, and the pistol became a pile of broken metal.
Howls filled the air behind Graham, but not howls of pain. Dougal had shifted, his wolf furious that someone dared wound the only parent he’d ever known. Fur flashed by Graham as Dougal, now a huge black wolf, charged the remaining humans standing.
They never had a chance to shoot. Dougal fought like a whirlwind, his Collar throwing sparks into the bright morning light. Graham slowed, his side hurting like hell, and watched as Dougal clawed and bit until the tough inner-city gang boys were pools of whimpering terror.
The leader managed to limp to the pickup parked behind the shack. Graham went after him, but the pain of the shot slowed him. The leader got into the truck and had it started up while Graham was still a few yards away.
“You’re screwed, Shifter,” the man said. Then the truck leapt forward, spun a little on the dirt, and rocketed down the track toward the road, leaving his yelling gang boys behind.
What an a*shole. He’d just run out on his own men.
The humans left didn’t waste time standing around being mad. They ran for the motorcycles, Dougal’s and Graham’s included.
Graham spun and tried to intercept them, but one guy punched Graham in the side, right where the bullet was. Pain blossomed in Graham’s body, his Collar biting deeper agony into him. Graham grunted as he fell to his knees, and the guy managed to twist away and keep running.
Dougal’s jeans lay forlorn on the ground near the bikes—easy for one of the men to lean down and scoop up Dougal’s keys. Graham leveraged himself to his feet, but the two men had reached Dougal’s bike, starting it up. As Graham staggered toward his own bike, the second man on Dougal’s motorcycle aimed his pistol at Graham’s Harley and shot it again and again.
Graham had to watch his motorcycle, the Harley Softail he lovingly worked on every day of his life, become as wounded as he was. The gas tank punctured, fuel poured onto the ground, and more bullets lodged in the engine.
The man driving Dougal’s bike moved it out, following the others, leaving them stranded.
Graham folded his arms over his stomach, trying and failing to draw deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain, and their way out of the desert plus all the water was racing toward the highway, a thin spiral of dust rising in its wake.
? ? ?
Misty kept tugging at the handcuff that held her to the one beam in the shack that looked stable. She’d been pulling and yanking to no avail, her wrist raw. She’d feared to pull too hard in case the whole shed came down on top of her.
She heard the vehicles roar away, and then the drawn-out howl of a wolf. “Graham!” she shouted.
Another howl came, holding a mournful note, and one of fear. Shifter wolves were supposed to be strong and terrifying, but this one sounded lost and alone.
“Graham!”
“I’m right here, baby.”
Graham yanked open the door to the shack. His eyes held deep pain, the skin around his Collar was black, and blood oozed from behind the hand he pressed to his side.
Misty tugged at the cuff again. “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”
Graham’s voice was as strong as ever. “Stop screeching. You’re hurting my ears. And you—” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Quit with the howling. I’m not dying. Not yet.”
“I’ll stop screeching when you call nine-one-one,” Misty told him.
“Already tried. No signal.”
Graham kept his hand on his side as he moved stiffly into the shack. He latched his fingers around the cuff that bound Misty’s wrist, yanked once, and broke the handcuff.
Misty lowered her arm in relief. “Can you ride? I might be able to drive your bike if you help me. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
“Nope. The a*sholes shot up my bike, and took Dougal’s, and their fearless leader took off in his pickup. They left us out here without water, transportation, or phones that work.”
He sounded so calm. “And you’ve been shot.” Misty touched his arm, finding his skin hot and slick with sweat.
“Yep. But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m used to it.”