The large coach bus hummed through the inky blackness of the night. Its windows, darkly tinted, effectively concealed the human cargo within, though the precaution felt almost superfluous on the deserted stretch of road they traversed.
A thick glass partition sealed off the driver's compartment from the rows of captive passengers. Similarly, the emergency exit at the rear was guarded by another impenetrable glass panel, behind which stood two more men, clad in black tactical gear, their postures rigid and alert.
All four men maintained a vigilant watch over their quarry. One, a hulking figure named Billy, kept an especially keen eye on the unconscious woman, Trinity. Her hands and feet were securely bound, and a thin, glinting silver rope cinched her to her seat. It was a measure they hadn't anticipated needing for any of the defectives.
But Billy, holding the highest rank among the pack members present, had insisted.
No matter how many times his gaze swept over the subdued group, it inevitably returned to the black-haired girl. He had briefly considered leaving her in the bar parking lot with the rogue male who had caused the initial disruption. But her name was on the list. She was designated as one of the defectives.
Her scent, a faint but distinct anomaly, had been the first confirmation of her defective status. That alone was grounds enough for capture. But he also recognized her face from the countless others he'd been tasked with apprehending. Her striking combination of bright blue eyes, stark black hair, and pale skin gave her an almost vampiric appearance, even if she was a defective wolf.
Billy's initial intention had been to secure her like the others, with as much efficiency and as little fuss as possible. But then he'd seen it – the fleeting, almost imperceptible shift in the color of her eyes when she'd looked at the rogue. It had been so quick, a mere flicker, but he knew what he'd witnessed. It had looked like her wolf trying to emerge.
Which made no logical sense. Wolves emerged in prepubescence, around eighteen months to two years of age. A pup might display nascent wolf traits, a subtle change in eye color signaling the shift from human to wolf cells, but not a full, adult emergence. It could have been a trick of the dim neon light in the bar, a phantom echo of what she was supposed to be, like them.
He hadn't been willing to risk it. A swift, precise punch to the side of her head had rendered her unconscious. He'd had to carefully calibrate his strength; after all, she shouldn't possess the enhanced resilience of a full-blooded wolf, the gulf between her and him in terms of physical power vast.
Once she was out, he'd quickly checked for a pulse. He had a gut feeling this one was significant. Her name, specifically her last name, echoed through fragmented pack lore. If his hunch was correct, she might garner a sliver more consideration than the others.
"Sir?"
The wolf stationed beside him spoke, his gaze also fixed on the girl, but his attention was drawn to her bound wrists. The thin silver rope, innocuous to humans, was already causing a visible reaction. Unlike their own immediate, agonizing burn and cellular breakdown upon contact with silver, the girl was developing a severe rash wherever the metal touched her skin. It wasn't the same lethal reaction, but it was clearly causing her discomfort.
The tall, muscular young man beside her was another matter. His protective stance, the fierce worry etched on his face, screamed of a deep connection to the unconscious girl. They had opted to seat them together, hoping proximity would pacify the agitated male. Separating mates, if that's what they were, would necessitate further, potentially messy, subduing.
The young man, identified as Ryan, gently brushed a stray strand of black hair from Trinity's pale cheek. He then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his glare fixed on their captors with raw, untamed fury. Even though holding her to him undoubtedly exacerbated the rash forming on his own skin where the silver touched her, he seemed oblivious to his own discomfort.
Definitely her mate, Billy thought, a flicker of surprise registering within him. He hadn't known defectives could form such strong bonds. He'd make a note of this unusual pairing in both their files, a crucial detail to avoid unnecessary conflict if separation became necessary.
Soft whimpers punctuated the tense silence within the bus. Billy's enhanced hearing picked out the faint sounds of distress – the quiet sobs of some of the younger captives, their fear a palpable entity in the confined space. Ryan's jaw was clenched tight, his gaze darting between Trinity's still form and the impassive faces of their captors. Grayson… where are you? he thought, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He had seen his brother's desperate struggle outside, heard his enraged shouts. The image of Grayson being overpowered, his raw power useless against the coordinated attack, replayed in his mind, fueling his impotent rage.
The bus driver, one of the two men in the cab, suddenly stiffened. A soft, almost inaudible beep sounded from the dashboard.
"Billy, pull up," the driver muttered, his voice amplified slightly by the intercom.
Through the darkness, the beam of the headlights suddenly caught a stationary vehicle—a dusty, decades-old sedan parked haphazardly on the shoulder. Its hood was up, and a tall, panicked figure was frantically waving his arms in the middle of the road.
Billy cursed under his breath. A witness. The last thing they needed.
"Execute plan three. Quickly, and make it look right," Billy hissed, leaning forward to address the driver. The bus slowed, its air brakes hissing loudly.
As the bus glided to a halt ten feet from the sedan, the civilian scrambled toward them. He was a middle-aged man in a worn jacket, his face etched with desperation.
"Thank God! Please, I've broken down, my phone's dead. Could you just call a tow truck for me? I'll pay anything!"
Billy signaled to the rear guard, a lean, dark-haired man named Trent, who had been standing impassively by the rear partition.
"Trent, you know what to do. The bus will be waiting a mile up the road. Get it done."
Trent nodded once, his eyes cold and devoid of expression. He reached to unlatch the rear emergency exit—not the glass partition, but the outer door. He stepped out onto the asphalt and vanished into the darkness outside. The sudden, momentary blast of cool air and the whoosh of the door closing were the only sign that one of their captors had left.
The bus, following Billy's instruction, began to move again immediately, accelerating quickly. The civilian, left standing alone under the harsh glare of the retreating taillights, looked utterly bewildered.
Ryan kept his eyes fixed on the man in the mirror until the civilian was a dark speck. He could see him still looking down the road, confused. Then, the man turned and started to walk toward the woods, perhaps to retrieve a tool, or just to wait.
The silence after the bus pulled away was absolute, but the captives flinched as if a bomb had gone off. Ryan, whose senses were already stretched thin by stress, heard a sound from outside that was swallowed almost immediately by the road noise—a sudden, wet screaming rip, followed by a desperate, gurgling cry that was abruptly silenced. It was the sound of something large, powerful, and utterly merciless tearing through flesh.
It was not the sound of a simple, clean murder. It was the sound of a slaughter.
The drive lasted for a silent, nerve-wracking mile. The driver slowed, peering into the rearview mirrors.
A few moments later, a shape detached itself from the forest lining the road up ahead. It was low to the ground, moving with unbelievable speed, its shadow stretching and contracting under the faint moon. It was large and dark, moving with the terrifying velocity of a true predator. Ryan didn't know what he was looking at—a shadow, a trick of the light—but it moved with a primal grace that sent a fresh wave of dread through him.
The creature vanished into the thick undergrowth just as the bus came to a gentle stop.
Seconds later, the front door hissed open.
Trent stepped back onto the bus, zipping up his black tactical jacket, his clothing perfectly neat, his expression impassive. He carried his rifle easily, his posture unchanged. He walked straight past the rows of captives and took up his position next to Billy. The driver pulled the door shut and accelerated again, not saying a word.
The people on the bus relaxed slightly, convinced the guard had simply radioed for a recovery truck and caught a ride to meet them.
But Ryan was watching Trent's feet. His boots were black, but not dry. There was moisture on the rubber sole, dust clinging to it. But in the dim, red glow of the emergency aisle lighting, Ryan saw it: two distinct, thick spatters of dark, glistening blood near the heel of the boot. It was fresh.
The sight made Ryan's stomach clench. He knew what he'd heard, and he knew what he was seeing. Their captors weren't just men in black gear. They were something else, something that could commit an atrocity in the dark and return seconds later without a hair out of place. The blood was proof of a sudden, incredibly violent confrontation—one Trent had walked away from untouched, save for that telling splatter.
We are in deeper trouble than I thought, Ryan realized, tightening his hold on Trinity until his knuckles went white. Much, much deeper.