Cole’s Redemption (2 page)

“The thing is,
your
doubt is the only thing that matters. Don’t you see? When you have your confidence
back, when you’ve lost the anger and fear and you can join the mission knowing you’re
back to one hundred percent, then what anyone else believes won’t amount to shit.”

He swallowed hard. “But what if I’m never the same? What if I don’t heal?”

“Then you learn to compensate, like I did after my leg was mangled.”

“That’s different—” he began.

“No, it’s not. My leg physically healed, yes, but the strength and agility I used
to have in that limb are not equal to the good leg. And it won’t ever be the same.
But I’ve learned techniques to help me make up for it in a fight—techniques you and
the others helped me perfect, I’ll remind you.”

“I get it,” he muttered.

“Do you? Nobody wants anything but the best for you, Zan,” he said, warm sincerity
evident in his expression. “The guys are worried, and they may run off at the mouth
too much, but every one of them is in your corner. Believe that.”

Hey, guys?
Ryon pushed into their minds telepathically.
Nick’s giving you both the stink eye, so you might want to cut the lovefest short,
get your butts over here, and join the party.

Jax made a face and turned, starting off toward the group of Feds, who appeared decidedly
unhappy. With a sigh, Zan followed him, sort of glad for Ryon’s interruption. Save
for a mated couple, who could speak telepathically to each other, the Channeler/Telepath
was the only one who could push his thoughts directly into others’ heads. Zan relished
being able to hear someone’s voice clearly, even if just temporarily.

Those brief periods of contact might be all he had to look forward to.

As they reached the spot where Nick stood in front of his Pack, Zan noted that the
meeting between his commander and the Feds looked more like a standoff.

“So, are you guys military or not?” one of the agents asked with a frown, arms crossed
over his chest.

Nick had his back to Zan, but whatever the commander said did not go over well with
the suits. A second agent, short and stocky, pushed the issue.

“Your outfit doesn’t look like any Special Ops team I ever saw. More like mercenaries,
if you ask me.” This was said with a slight curl to his lips, as though he’d tasted
something bad.

Zan got close enough to maneuver around and catch Nick’s response.

“Nobody
did
ask you.” The commander’s stare was hard and flat. “And now that we’re here, you
all can pull back and let us do what the White House sent us here to do. Unless, of
course, you’d like for me to get the president on the phone so he can tell you personally.”

The agents froze, and several of the Pack members blinked at Nick in surprise.

“You’ve got President Warren on speed dial? You’re full of shit,” the stocky agent
sneered, recovering some.

“Try me. But fair warning—you’ll be out of a job before I end the call. Up to you
if losing your career is worth the attitude.”

Way to pull rank
, Zan thought with a smirk.
Nothing like the mention of the Oval Office to chap their asses.

Holy crap. Did Nick really have that kind of clout? The Feds eyed Nick’s stony expression
for a few tense moments, seemed to buy it, and reluctantly backed off. Once they’d
moved off to stand elsewhere and act official—
translation, be completely useless
—the commander turned to a tall, beefy rancher who’d been hovering on the perimeter
of the gathering, weathered face grim under the brim of his hat, broad shoulders drooping
with the weight of what had occurred on his property. Zan pegged him as either the
owner or the foreman.

Taking off his hat to scratch his head, the rancher also looked plenty baffled. “I
don’t understand why the government sent damned near two dozen people to investigate
poor Saul’s murder, unless you’re looking for a serial killer or something. Whatever
the reason, I’m glad you’re here.”

“We’re looking for a specific type of killer,” Nick informed him, before fudging the
truth. A lot. “There have been a rash of cult killings, and this murder fits the pattern.
We came as soon as we heard.”

“That was damned fast, but I’m grateful. Sure might take a military group to stop
a bunch of cult crazies.” The rancher eyed Nick, then the team in general. “I’m Tim
Edwards, by the way. What do you need me to do?”

“I need use of a couple of trucks, if you have any to spare. We want to look around
the area where the cattle and your hand were found.”

“Sure. I’ll send a couple of my men out to show you—”

Nick shook his head. “Just to tell us. We can find it. I’d rather not put more of
your men in unnecessary danger when the culprits are still at large.”

Zan tried to imagine what the rancher would do if he knew that the team could simply
sniff out the murder scenes with their canine noses when they got close enough. That
would probably finish off the poor guy.

Thankfully, the rancher seemed to agree with Nick’s plan. “That’s fine. I’ve got three
trucks that belong to the Bar K ya’ll can use if you promise to bring ’em back in
one piece.”

“Thank you. We’ll do our best.”

Zan fell into step with his Pack as they walked the rest of the way to the main house.
The mood was somber, rugged-looking men milling around not knowing what to do and
clearly uneasy with the recent events. He spotted more than one cowboy with reddened
eyes and knew their fellow hand’s murder must’ve hit them hard. Zan could empathize
with the horror of losing a close friend to violence.

None too soon, they’d gotten directions, borrowed the trucks, and were on their way
to investigate the sites where the bodies were found. He felt a little guilty for
his relief at leaving the heavy cloud of grief behind him and getting on with doing
what they did best.

The lead truck followed a well-worn dirt road for a mile or so before veering into
the pasture. After it had traveled about forty yards, it came to a halt and the vehicles
behind it did the same. Everyone got out and trailed Nick to a pair of bloated carcasses
on the ground a few feet away. Zan wrinkled his nose at the stench.

“Jesus.”

The bodies of the cattle were stiff, getting ripe. Each one’s throat was laid wide
open, the wound sort of messy, the meat chewed.

Micah pointed. “Not what I’d expect from a vampire bite. They don’t typically ravage
their victims like that when they feed.”

“But I can scent them all over the place,” Zan put in. His lupine sense of smell was
one of the traits that hadn’t deserted him yet. “Definitely a vampire kill.”

There were nods of agreement. Nick squatted, his blue eyes narrowed. “These rogues
are out of control. Not that we didn’t realize that—they’ve killed a human out in
the open—but this is beyond the ordinary. Even for rogues, this shows a lack of control
I haven’t seen before. A certain amount of . . .”

“Recklessness?” Zan supplied. “Balls?”

“Yes.” The commander stood. “There’s no thoughtful cunning here. No discretion.”

Jax shook his head. “There’s almost a sickness permeating the area.”

“We have to find out why,” Nick agreed. “Nothing else to see here, though. Let’s move
on to the ranch hand’s body.”

Just then, Zan noticed Micah wandering away from the group, sniffing the air. He walked
toward the back of the property, in the direction they’d been heading before they
stopped. Then he crouched and palmed a handful of dirt, inhaled, then dropped it and
brushed his hand on his jeans.

“There was a human here,” he told them. “This scent stands out because it was joined
by at least one vampire, and then both scents head that way.” He pointed toward a
copse of trees a ways off.

Zan peered into the distance and remarked, “That’s where they told us we can find
the body. Maybe he came out here alone to take another look at the dead cattle and
they snatched him. A kill of opportunity.”

At that grim prospect, they loaded into the vehicles and drove the rest of the way
to the murder scene. As they approached, Zan noted that there was a vehicle there
and two men in suits standing near what he assumed to be the body, which was covered
with a tarp. Made sense that they couldn’t leave the body unguarded, though Nick wouldn’t
like them hanging around.

They must’ve been informed in advance about visitors, because they stepped aside and
moved a fair distance away with a minimum of protest. Still watchful, they leaned
against a couple of trees while Zan and the others surrounded the tarp.

Nick pulled it back and Zan grimaced.
God, that poor bastard.

The victim’s head was turned to the side, eyes wide and staring across the field.
Like the cattle, the man’s neck was savaged, to the point Zan was surprised it was
still attached to his prone body. The Pack had seen some pretty disturbing things
in their line of work, but this? This guy had suffered before he died. He had blood
and tissue under his fingernails, scratches on his arms. He’d fought. Had been desperate
as he’d been dragged across the field to the tree line. He must’ve known he’d end
up like those cows.

What a fucking shitty way to die.

Nick motioned Jax close to the man’s body, and Zan knew what his best friend would
be asked to do. As the Pack’s RetroCog, Jax could touch a person or hold an object
in his hand and get a reading on past events. Sometimes that event was a movie clip
of the last moments of the person’s life, or some other significant happening tied
to the mystery they were trying to solve. Other times he got only snapshots of the
past that didn’t make sense until much later.

As Jax laid a hand on top of the man’s head, Zan stepped up close to his friend, ready
to catch him if necessary. These sessions usually left Jax drained.

Exhaling a long breath, Jax closed his eyes and grew still. Zan pictured how his friend
always described the process of reading a body—there were threads attached to every
person and object, and those threads led to the memories. Jax gathered those threads
and pulled them close to see where they led.

For several long moments Jax was still. Then his body began to shake, and a soft moan
of distress passed through his lips. Suddenly he fell backward with a cry, and Zan
caught him from behind, steadying him.

“I’ve got you.”

Before Jax could protest, Zan sent gentle waves of healing energy into his friend’s
system, cleansing the bad remnants of the memories and chasing away the exhaustion.
As he finished, a dull throbbing began at his temples and crept to encompass his skull,
and he knew it would get worse before it went away. But he’d do it again and again,
to take care of his brothers.

Jax pulled away and turned to glare at him. “You shouldn’t do that when you don’t
have to. Save your energy.”

“Save your breath,” he countered. “The day I can’t heal, you can put me in the ground.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Looking frustrated, Jax let the subject go for the moment. He hadn’t heard the last
of it, however. His friend was like a dog with a bone when it came to making sure
the people he cared for stayed safe.

“What did you learn?” Zan asked, changing the subject.

“I saw how he died. Lived it.” He shuddered. “It was horrendous, what he suffered.
They played with him, enjoyed causing him pain and . . . fuck, you don’t want to know
the details.”

“What about the vamps themselves? Did you see any of them?”

“Yeah. There were two who killed the victim, but there were more hiding deep in the
woods. Of the two, one was younger, blond, maybe early twenties when he was turned.
The other was a few years older, brown hair, tall and slim, sort of dirty. I didn’t
get names.”

Zan helped his friend to his feet. “You did good.”

“It’s not enough. I don’t have a sense of whether they’re still around.”

Nick made sure Zan was looking at him before he interjected. “They are. I don’t know
how many, but they’re here. Waiting.”

“For what?” Zan asked.

“Us, maybe? I don’t know. But I do know we have to go after them.”

That was creepy as hell. Especially since Nick frequently
knew
things about the future that he either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell them. He didn’t
believe in interfering with free will or tampering with the future. Rumor had it he’d
once tried to change a terrible outcome, with disastrous results.

None of that mattered at the moment. Any of them would follow Nick into hell on his
word alone. The Pack waited as he told the disgruntled Feds that he was taking charge
of the body and removing it. Unbeknownst to the suits, the dead man would wind up
at the Pack’s top-secret compound being studied from head to toe for any clues they
could glean about the rogues. Eventually, the body would be released to the man’s
relatives, if there were any.

They split up into twos and threes to search the woods, spreading out. Zan found himself
walking with Nix and Micah, which was fine by him. It was good to work alongside his
old buddies again. He’d missed them even more than he’d realized.

Keeping a sharp eye out, he studied his surroundings despite his growing headache.
It was strange not to hear the birds in the trees, the crunch of leaves underfoot.
No wind, no voices. Just the steady presence of his companions. He had his knife and
laser gun, not to mention his wolf’s teeth and claws. He could do this after all.
Be a contributing team member still.

It was that exact moment when things went to hell.

A rush of air and a scrape on his neck was his only warning as a body barreled into
him, knocking him to the ground. He had a split second to realize Nix was the one
who’d shoved him—saving him just in time from having his throat ripped out by the
razor-sharp claws of a rogue vampire.

And now Nix was fighting for his life.

Zander unsheathed his knife and threw himself at the rogue, just as more of them emerged
from the trees and flew at them like the hollow-faced horrors they were.