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I looked at the colonel. “When did you find out about this? How much did you know when it was happening?”
“Not enough. Gordon acted on the principle that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And he was right, to a point. His squad had an amazing record in Afghanistan. It was one of the most successful units we’ve fielded out there. They handled the terrain like it was nothing, they could travel for weeks without support, get to places nothing else could, track down damn near anything. They didn’t need body armor or NVGs—”
“NVGs?”
“Night-vision goggles,” Stafford said. “We had them hunting Taliban leaders in the Kunar Province, in the high country. Their success rate was . . . was worth everything, we thought.”
“And then what?” I said, a chill twitching my spine. They kept using the past tense.
“There was a mortar attack,” Shumacher said. “Captain Gordon was one of several people caught in the explosion.
“It turns out a big enough explosion can kill a werewolf just fine,” Stafford said, deadpan.
“I know,” I said, my own bitter experience tainting my voice.
“The folklore doesn’t say anything about werewolves being killed by explosions,” Shumacher said.
“That’s because most of the folklore was in circulation before explosions of that scale existed,” I said.
“After Gordon’s death, everything fell apart,” Stafford said. “The remaining members of Gordon’s unit became unruly, I guess you’d call it. Rebellious. Insubordinate. We tried to appoint another commander—they refused to follow orders. Then Vanderman killed Yarrow.” He pointed out the two faces on the unit photo. The two biggest guys there, of course. Vanderman was a burly no-neck white guy. Yarrow was equally burly, with lips turned in a half grin, half snarl.
Stafford continued. “We wouldn’t have known who killed Yarrow, except Sergeant Crane reported the murder. He went to the base commander and asked for help. In the morning, he was dead, too. Ripped to pieces, same as Yarrow. That’s when we drugged the rest of the unit, took them into custody, and brought them home until we could figure out what to do with them.”
“That must have been some picnic,” I said. I didn’t want to imagine what that must have looked like and resisted an urge to look over my shoulder, as if the army werewolves were nearby, waiting to pounce. I didn’t want to get anywhere near them, not if they were as dangerous as I thought they were.
Shumacher gave me a grim frown. “That’s when Colonel Stafford called me. Unfortunately, I’m not much of a werewolf psychologist. I’m guessing that what happened in Afghanistan was some atypical pack behavior—”
“Gordon was the alpha,” I said. “He held the pack together. As long as he was there to lead them, the others had a center, a reason to stay in control. His word was law, and without him—no law.” I tapped the photo, pointing to Vanderman and Yarrow. “These two look like the strongest left in the bunch. I bet they fought it out to see who would lead them next. Vanderman won. After that, I’m thinking Crane deferred to his human side. He stayed rational, saw what was happening, and reported it to get help. Vanderman killed him for insubordination.”
“That was my feeling,” Shumacher said. “I’m glad to have the validation.”
I shook my head. “These guys had no independence under Gordon’s leadership. Without him, they don’t have a clue. They’re running on pure instinct—especially if Vanderman killed Crane for going outside the pack. That shut down any chance of sanity they had. I’ve seen this kind of thing before—do you realize how dangerous those men are?”
Stafford looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible. Holy crap, we weren’t done with the story yet?
“We thought we could work with them, rehabilitate them, maybe even return them to the field,” the colonel said. “From a training and tactical standpoint, these men are incredibly valuable. We had to try something.”
“Not to mention the fact that they’re too dangerous to release on a medical discharge,” Shumacher said more softly. “We had to either find a way to retrain them or find a way to heal them.”
Neither of them mentioned a third option, but I could see it in their expressions, in the way their gazes kept dropping, in the tang of anxiety touching them. Oh, God, they hadn’t already . . . what did I even call it—terminate the experiment? I glared at them, my hands resting in front of me, my shoulders tense. Aggressive body language, daring them to stand up to me. A stalking wolf. Stafford’s eyes widened—he recognized the stance. He’d probably seen in it his rogue army wolves.
“It’s time for you to tell me why I’m here,” I said. “You don’t think I can help these guys become happy, well-adjusted werewolves, do you?”
“It’s more complicated than that—” Stafford started.
“It’s more urgent than that,” Shumacher said, leaning forward. “We never had any intention of bringing an unauthorized civilian in on this. If all I needed was advice I’d have just called you. But I needed to warn you, and we need your help. Kitty, Gordon’s unit escaped custody. They left Fort Carson this morning. They’re on the loose, and they’re heading north.”
Chapter 4
OKAY. PACK of highly trained Green Beret werewolves are heading north, toward my territory. My city, my family, my wolves. My pack, which the wolves of Gordon’s unit would see either as followers to be recruited, or rivals to be destroyed. They had to be stopped, and Stafford and Shumacher didn’t have a clue. Right. I could handle this.
Maybe.
“You’re the fucking army,” I said. “You couldn’t stop them?”
“It’s not that simple,” Stafford said, speaking calmly to hide that he was just a little flustered—sweating, tapping his fingers on the table. He probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. “These men have the best escape and evasion training in the world.”
“But you know where they are?” I said.
