Thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, and I still can't stop staring at the photos. My fingers trace the image on the tablet screen, following the distinctive pattern—double canines. This is my chance. This is when I get justice for my father.
Ghost snores softly across the aisle, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle against the window of GUIDE's private jet. Sherlock sits two rows ahead, the glow of his screen illuminating his profile as he meticulously reviews case notes.
Neither speaks. We've been a team long enough to know when silence is better for all of us.
The closer we get to Rome, the more settled I feel, that strange electric restlessness from yesterday fading with each passing mile. Maybe it was just pre-mission jitters, though that's never been a problem before.
"ETA ninety minutes," the pilot announces over the intercom. "Weather in Rome is clear, 17 degrees Celsius. Local time will be 4:39pm."
My secure tablet pings with an incoming message. New intelligence briefing, priority level alpha. I enter my authentication code, fingerprint, and retinal scan in sequence.
The video loads instantly—shaky cell phone footage, dark forest, men's voices tinged with fear. The camera pans wildly before settling on massive paw prints in disturbed forest soil. Then a glimpse of something large and dark moving between trees. A flash of eyes reflecting light. The footage stabilizes momentarily on what looks like the aftermath of a predator attack—a partially consumed bear carcass, throat torn out with devastating precision.
"What the hell did this?" A man's voice asks off-camera.
The footage jumps to a new angle—distant figures running toward water, too blurry to identify clearly. Then nothing but shaky shots of the forest floor as the men retreat.
I check the location data and my blood turns to ice. Branson, Missouri. Way to close to my mom for comfort.
"Control, this is Agent Mathieson." I move to the secure comms station at the front of the aircraft, keeping my voice level despite the panic rising in my chest. "Requesting clarification on the Missouri incident report."
The screen flickers, and a communications officer appears. "Agent Mathieson, we've just filed the preliminary assessment. Unknown creature, likely Class Three, possibly shapeshifter based on witness statements about 'men transforming into a giant wolf.' Highly aggressive territorial behavior. Team Echo is mobilizing."
"Team Echo?" I dig my nails into the console. "This thing looks rough and Echo doesn't usually deal with animals. My team has more experience?—"
"Your mission parameters remain unchanged, Agent. Rome is your priority."
For sixteen years I've hunted the creature that killed my father, followed every false lead and dead end. Now, with the first real match to those distinctive bite marks, I'm being sent across an ocean. Meanwhile, something dangerous lurks less than fifty miles from Mom's home.
"The Missouri incident is less than fifty miles from a populated area." I'm careful not to mention my mother specifically. Personal connections are viewed as liabilities at GUIDE. "Given our team's expertise?—"
"Team Echo has already deployed, Agent Mathieson." The cool dismissal in his tone tells me everything. "Deputy Director Hayes specifically denied any reassignment requests."
I hesitate, torn between duty and family. Rome means vengeance for my father—the mission that's defined my entire life. But Missouri means protecting the only person who knows what I am and loves me anyway. My fingers hover over the comm controls, almost ready to demand reassignment, to abandon the one lead I've had in over a decade.
"Put me through to Hayes," I demand, making my choice.
"Agent—"
"Now."
The screen blinks, then Hayes appears, his expression already set in that immovable mask I know too well. "Agent Mathieson, how can I help you?"
"Sir, with respect, my team should?—"
"We've been tracking the Rome creature for months, Agent. It's killed eleven people across three countries and two well-trained GUIDE teams. Your expertise is precisely why you're on that plane." His voice has that dangerous quiet that no agent with sense would challenge. "Team Echo is more than capable of handling a feral wolf shifter."
"But, sir?—"
"Your focus is Rome. Period." His eyes narrow slightly. "Unless there's something specific about Missouri that concerns you beyond professional assessment?"
The trap is perfectly laid. Any personal interest I admit becomes a liability, a reason to keep me further away, not closer. The visceral worry for my mother's safety burns like acid in my throat, my instinct screaming that whatever killed that bear is more dangerous than Hayes realizes.
"No, sir. Just ensuring optimal resource allocation."
"Then I suggest you prepare for landing. You have a job to do." The connection terminates before I can respond.
Fucking asshat.
