The safe house smelled like stale coffee and old cigarettes, with an undercurrent of fear that seemed permanently soaked into the concrete walls. It was one of Alexander's emergency bolt-holes—a nondescript warehouse in an industrial district where nobody asked questions about the comings and goings of expensive cars in the middle of the night.
I sat at a folding table covered with building schematics, security footage, and tactical reports, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The werewolf packs had dispersed after the battle, melting back into the Los Angeles night like they'd never been there. But the questions remained.
Too many questions.
"The timing was perfect," I said, tracing the attack timeline with my finger. "They hit us exactly four minutes after Elena arrived. Not before, when it would have been easier to take us. Not after, when we might have moved locations."
