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As the elevator rises, a boom rattles the cables, and the patter of gunfire echoes down the shaft.
No wonder no one’s coming after me.
The base is under attack.
I’d work the chaos into some grand plan, but I’m a rocket already launched, burning up and running out of fuel. I can’t care where I land or who I have to blast.
I will break free.
Wild instinct drives me onward.
Have to find my alphas.
Only Meadows Pack can stop the painful cramps biting harder every second I’m not in their arms and nest.
I’m drenched in sweat by the time the elevator stops. It opens to a familiar garage where SAS agents swarm rows of vehicles, gearing up for battle.
Their numbers should be worrying.
But it’s really hard to worry about anything when I’m steaming open like a clam.
Besides.
There are tanks.
Try to stop me from running away in one of those.
But someone, somewhere must’ve kept half an eye on the security feeds. Before I can sneak between the rows, a squad races for me with gas masks, riot shields, and tranq guns aimed.
“Masks on! Masks on! Rogue gamma on the floor!”
Their shouts and scents scream threat, and I’m fresh out of fuse.
There’s no more rope.
No more pretending.
I’m not going to be caged.
I’m not going to be fucking used.
My scent boils through the garage and their gas masks. I’d blow through their ranks and flip off the security cams, but I’m not a running weapon. The best I can do is a slow, limping walk, clutching my stomach against the claw-blade spike of heat.
I’d be an easy target if the alphas took a shot.
But once they hit my scent, their strings cut. I breathe through my mouth to avoid their nasty pheromones.
Not my alphas.
Step-by-shaking-step, I take them down.
I’ve still got it.
I’m almost to the cars when another team appears, wearing full-on biohazard suits with built-in breathing systems.
Even then, I recognize the shapes of Bridget’s mates.
Brandon leads the pack, ready with a tranq gun and a fresh set of manacles.
