Pride's Run (7 page)

He taps his fingers on his desk as we stare
at each other, a silent battle of wills. A long moment passes
before he asks, “Do we have an understanding, Pride?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I continue
to glare at him, chaos erupting inside me as the contents in my
stomach churn and rise in my gut.

Believing he still has the upper hand, my
master pulls a napkin off the table, shakes it out and lays it over
his lap. He might as well be waving a red flag in front of a bull.
My nostrils flare and I zero in on his throat.

Appearing unaffected by my outrage, the
master doesn’t waste any more time with me. With a nod he gestures
toward the door. “You leave at sunrise. Miss Kara will prepare
you.” And as simple as that, I’m dismissed.

Lawrence grabs my leash and yanks it, but I
don’t move. I can’t tear my gaze away from the master’s smug face,
can’t stop thinking about what he’s going to look like when I’m
through with him.

“Let’s move.” Lawrence’s voice cuts through
the riot pounding inside my head, and while I’m unable to settle my
scattered thoughts Clover’s last word keeps rushing to the
forefront.

Run!

But how can I possibly run when he’s holding
all the cards?

How can I not?

I think of the puppies and the lifetime of
abuse they’re about to endure at the hands of the master. I think
of the sacrifice the elders are willing to make, a sacrifice for me
and a sacrifice for the greater good. In that instant I make a
commitment to myself and vow their sacrifice will not go
unavenged.

I’m going to crush him.

August 25
^th
Four days until full moon

T
he night is dark.
The rain heavy.

From the back of the car I sink into the
plush leather seat and listen to the mesmerizing drone of the
wipers. They swish back and forth in a sleepy pattern as the driver
negotiates the near deserted highway with practiced ease. The
handler in the passenger seat leans forward and blasts the cool air
to keep the windows from fogging and a bitter chill moves through
me. Although I’m sure the chill has more to do with the deadly
adventure I’m about to embark on and less to do with the frigid air
nipping at my flesh.

On either side of me sit two body-guards,
ones I’ve worked with before and know better than to cross. They’re
both big, brawny men with steroid-induced rage who wouldn’t think
twice of snapping my neck if I dared to even look at them the wrong
way.

Following protocol, I keep my head down and
stare at my hands, which are neatly folded and resting on my lap. I
bide my time and try not to fidget under the uncomfortable
tightness of my form-fitting jeans. While I’d like to adjust the
waistband or at least open the button so I can breathe during this
long car ride, I know better than to make any questionable
movements. The results could be deadly.

I never travel with my collar on—how would
that look if someone spotted it in passing, or if we were ever
pulled over—so I currently have two cocked guns aimed my way with
two trigger-happy men wielding them. They’re cruel men, like my
master, who love to torture and torment and I can tell they’re just
waiting for me to make one wrong move.

As I think about the risks I plan on taking a
burst of anxiousness zings through my blood. I can’t mess this up.
I just can’t. Too many people are counting on me and I refuse to
let them down. Tonight is the night I have to escape.

Tonight is the night I
will
escape.

Then there will be no leashing my wolf,
because no matter what it takes, or how long it takes, I’m going to
put a stop to my master’s cruelties once and for all.

I take a deep calming breath and pray the
opportunity to get out from under the guards’ watchful eyes
presents itself. Otherwise… I quickly squash that thought. There
cannot be an otherwise, because failure is not an option. I have to
do this. For the elders, the puppies.

For my parents.

My chest squeezes as I angle my head and turn
my attention back to the road. Earlier this morning, at the
beginning of our long journey I’d paid extra attention to each
twist and turn of the highway—I want to make sure I know my way
back—but we’ve been driving for close to twelve hours and I’ve long
ago lost track.

Once again I think of the elders and my
stomach cramps. I’ll never forget that look on Clover’s face, the
one that reeked of resignation and utter loss. It’s permanently
etched in my memories and will always remind me of my mission.

Then I think of Stone, and what he wants from
me. I can only guess the chaotic sequence of numbers running though
his broken mind was some sort of countdown to our mating. As
anxiousness mingles with rage, I use it, absorb it, and let it fuel
the determination coursing through my veins.

A bump in the road and the flash of a highway
sign have my thoughts careening back to the present. I’m able to
read,
Olympic National Park, Port Angeles, Washington
through the blurry, rain soaked window before the plush SUV I’m
traveling in speeds past.

I steal a glance around and try to gather my
bearings. I’ve never been taken so far away from home before and I
can’t help but think how close we are to the Canadian border, to
where those packs of wolves are rumored to run free. Wolves who
hunt together and take care of each other. Wolves who haven’t been
confined and don’t live by the same rules as we do—each wolf for
himself.

Could such a place really exist? Do I dare
hope?

Needing to occupy my thoughts to keep my
emotions from getting the better of me, I consider the clothes Miss
Kara dressed me in as I work to desensitize. My too tight-jeans
feel like a second skin and could undoubtedly be considered
provocative to some. The soft pink spaghetti-strap tank top clings
to my body and douses my pale cheeks with a hint of color. Miss
Kara fitted me with a lacy push up bra to give me a hint of
cleavage, and while I don’t think it suits me that well, it does
make me feel feminine and maybe even a little pretty.

My long blonde curls are left loose and
pinned in the front to better frame my face. My makeup is light and
summer-time fresh, and the sticky gloss tinting my lips tastes like
sweet watermelon. I can’t seem to stop licking it. But I think the
action has more to do with my nervousness and less to do with the
sweet, fruity flavor.

My look is a youthful one, which leads me to
believe the mark is close to my age. Of course, I won’t be given
his picture until moments before my hunt. I’m never told any more
than I need to know, but
my
cover story, however, is usually
the same. I’m new in town, a junior in high school, and I’m out
looking to make a few friends before I begin classes.

We drive in strained silence, no music, no
talking, only the hum of the wheels on the wet pavement and the
drone of the wipers to cut through my thoughts. I should probably
use this time to catch up on sleep, I barely captured a wink over
the last two nights, but the closer we get to our destination, the
more restless my wolf grows.

She can almost taste the freedom.

Not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention
to my apprehensive state, I press shaky hands over my stomach and
calm her. She settles slightly and hunches low, waiting.

Twenty minutes later we pull into a busy
parking lot. The big SUV looks completely out of place as the
driver squeezes it between two smaller vehicles. My muscles tense
and I sit up straighter, scanning the area and taking in as much as
I can.

From what I can tell we’re sitting outside a
motel in Port Angeles. At the far end, attached by a breezeway
there is a restaurant or pub of some sort. Music pours from the
open windows and above the long, aging building a neon sign
advertising ‘vacancy’ is flashing in an erratic pattern.

Moments before the driver turns the car off,
the handler to my right cracks his window. I instantly notice the
dip in temperature. Wherever we are we must be at a higher
elevation. At home in the valley the air is warm and sultry, even
this late at night. Here in this mountain town, with the huge,
snow-capped peaks providing a gorgeous backdrop to the motel, there
is a bite in the air, one I’ve never quite felt before. My wolf
bristles, anxious to climb those hills and feel that cool wind
whipping across her face.

The driver shifts in his seat and hands me a
file. Since he knows how well I can see in the dark he doesn’t
bother to flick a light on. I lay the file on my lap and carefully
peel it open. The first thing I notice is the swatch of material
provided, the second thing is the mark. My wolf gives a little
yelp, but I try not to show any sort of emotion as I stare at the
photo. It becomes painfully apparent why they needed a young,
fresh-faced girl for this job—or at least a wolf who can pass
herself off as one. My mark is just a boy, merely a couple years
older than me.

My heart sinks a little and my stomach turns
inside out as I commit his features to memory. He doesn’t look like
any drug lord I’ve ever tracked before. I take a good long sniff of
the swatch and place it back in the file before I close it. Taking
extra care to harden my features, I hand it back.

The truth is, it makes me sick to my stomach
to think the master is hunting someone so young. I can’t imagine
what he might want with him, or worse, what he might do to him. But
I do console myself with the knowledge that the boy will have a
fighting chance to flee, because this time, I have no intention of
following the master’s orders.

Just thinking about running has a fresh wave
of anxiety rushing over me. My fingers instinctively go to my neck,
and I feel the microchip planted below my skin.

Despite the cool temperature outside, sweat
beads on my forehead and I inconspicuously wipe my brow. I know I
have to maintain protocol and keep suspicion off me until I can
break free, so I take a moment to go over the instructions that
were carefully drilled into me this morning. Using feminine
appeal—not that I think I have a whole lot of that—I’m to flirt
with the mark and lure him to the car, where I’m to then hand him
off to the bodyguards. I’m only to call on my wolf if he gets
suspicious and tries to run.

Then the rules change.

I’m an excellent tracker, and it won’t take
my wolf long to find him. Once captured, I’m to lead him back. If
he resists, I attack. Not to kill him, just enough to scare him and
draw him out of the woods. Once my wolf gets the taste of blood,
however, it can be hard to marshal her, especially when she’s
hungry. I guess that’s why the master fed me so well this
morning.

I wipe my palms on my jeans before the
bodyguard opens the door to let me out. I cringe against the
overhead light as he glances around to make sure the coast is
clear. Once he’s satisfied, he climbs out and gestures for me to
follow. I slide across the leather and inhale the night air as I
firmly plant my feet on the wet pavement. Hard rain slaps my cool
skin and a big fat drop lands on my tongue as I glance skyward.

I’m grateful that it’s raining because it’s
always harder for the handlers to track us wolves in wet weather.
If the rain slows them down enough perhaps I can lose them by
running long and hard and putting a great deal of distance between
us. Or perhaps the heavy rain will cause static and interfere with
the microchip’s radio frequency. Hope fills me, but I keep it from
my face.

From the front seat, the handler shoves a
raincoat into my hands. “Keep yourself presentable,” he says.

I shuffle into the coat and pull the hood up
to keep my hair dry and my makeup from spilling down my face. A
quick nod to my bodyguard lets him know I’m ready.

I step ahead, shift into character by
pretending to be an innocent seventeen-year-old girl, and make my
way to the front entrance. The bodyguard remains a few feet back
and we pretend we don’t know each other.

As I approach the wooden door, my glance
keeps wandering to the distant mountains scattered through the
Olympic National Park. My wolf stirs, wanting that kind of freedom.
In search of an escape, I scent the air and can almost smell the
earthy ground and fresh pine trees. My ears perk and catch the
sound of the water rushing down the rocky embankments. As the wild
calls out to me, my wolf grows increasingly restless, itching to
run up that cliff, and lose herself in the night.

Shhh,
I whisper under my breath in an
attempt to settle her.

When my hand closes around the door knob, I
tune the world out and focus on one thing and one thing only.
Escape. I blink the water from my eyes as I step inside and pull
down my damp hood.

A quick casual glance around lets me know the
place is busy. I suppose that’s to be expected on a Saturday night,
but it does make zeroing in on my mark a bit more difficult. Not
that I’m going to hunt him, but I can’t deny that my curiosity is
piqued. That, and I have to let my handlers believe I’m doing my
job. Anything out of the ordinary will simply raise suspicion.

I think more about my mark. From his picture
alone I can tell he’s no drug lord. So who exactly is he and why is
he so meaningful to my master?

I shrug out of my jacket, step farther into
the establishment, and catalogue my surroundings. Using caution, I
look for possible threats and deadly enemies, as well as my best
escape route.

Beneath a row of small windows a string of
padded booths are neatly aligned along the wall. I spot a few
couples talking quietly over drinks, their hands touching shyly,
and the normalcy of it all makes my gut clench.

Squared wooden tables, scratched and dented
from years of misuse, are haphazardly scattered throughout the
floor and seem to be occupied by those who haven’t hooked up yet. I
take note of my exits. Other than the door I came in I can see
another door toward the back. A service entrance. Perfect.