The Silver Creek main hall looked like a war room designed by someone who'd run out of time and patience for proper planning.
Maps covered every available surface, marked with red pins that showed confirmed attacks and black pins that marked locations where we'd lost contact entirely. Communication equipment that had been hastily dragged in from three different sources created a web of cables across the hardwood floor. And in the middle of it all, twenty-three pack leaders who'd spent decades perfecting the art of hating each other were trying to coordinate a species-wide defense strategy.
"Vancouver's gone dark completely," Alpha Harrison reported from behind a laptop that looked like it had seen better decades. "Last communication was a distress call about electromagnetic weapons, then nothing."
