Page 18 of Run Wild Omega

“I intercepted them on the ridge. Sent them down. They weren’t happy about it.”

“Better unhappy than dead.” Miles caps the marker. “That’s it for the data.”

The door opens, and two of the junior volunteers, Ben and Kyle, shuffle in, carrying a stack of greasy pizza boxes. The smell of pepperoni and cheese fills the sterile room, chasing away the antiseptic scent of the office.

“Pizza’s here, boss,” Ben says, dropping the boxes on the table. “From Vinny’s. He threw in extra garlic knots.”

“Grab a slice and sit down,” I tell them. “Briefing is over, but we need to finalize the roster for tomorrow’s sweep.”

We eat standing up, leaning against the map tables, reviewing the sectors one last time. The mood is light now that the serious work is done. Ben cracks a joke about the tourists, and Kyle laughs. I eat two slices without really tasting them, washing them down with lukewarm coffee.

“All right,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin and tossing it in the trash. “We reconvene here at 0600. Don’t be late. If the weather holds, we’re doing the blasting on the cornice.”

“See you at six, Cap,” Miles says, already packing his bag.

I grab my coat and head out into the night.

The cold air hits me like a slap. My truck is the only one left in the lot. I climb in, the suspension groaning under my weight. I should feel satisfied. We did good work today. We identified a threat before it hurt anyone.

But as I drive out of town, the silence in the cab is heavy. Seeing Tess… it rattles me every time. She looked fierce, standing up to that Alpha tourist, her chin lifted in defiance. She looked like the girl who used to climb out her window to go stargazing, but harder now. Armored.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder.

I glance over.

Dylan: You home yet?

I thumb a reply at the stop sign. Heading there now.

Dylan: Be there in 30.

I stare at the screen for a second. Dylan’s house is in the opposite direction. He must already be in town. Probably at the bar. I toss the phone down and drive the rest of the way in the dark.

My cabin is on the edge of the national forest, a mile of gravel road separating me from the nearest neighbor. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I pull into the driveway and kill the engine.

As soon as I open the door, I hear it.

Meow.

A tiny, demanding sound from the darkness of the living room.

“Hey, Pip,” I say, kicking off my boots.

A streak of calico fur shoots out from under the couch. Pip is a nightmare—a tiny, feral calico kitten I found half-frozen in a drainage pipe three weeks ago. She was a ball of ice and matted fur, barely breathing. I spent three nights sleeping on the floor next to the heating vent, bottle-feeding her every two hours.

Now she thinks she owns the place.

I walk into the kitchen, her claws clicking on the linoleum behind me. I scoop kibble into her bowl.

“Here you go, your majesty.”

She dives in, purring so loudly I can feel the vibration in the floorboards.

I strip off my uniform, tossing it into the hamper. The shower feels amazing—hot water pounding against my shoulders, washing away the sweat and the smell of smoke. I stay there longer than I need to, letting the heat soak into my bones.

When I get out, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. I grab a beer from the fridge, pop the cap, and flop onto the couch. Pip jumps onto my chest, kneading her paws into my shirt. I scratch her behind the ears, turning on the TV.

The news drones on about local politics and the forecasted storm. I take a long pull of the beer, feeling my eyelids grow heavy.