Series: Shifter Ops Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“You hitchhiked.” I shake my head. I’ll have to tell Teddy. He’ll shit a brick.
“We can steal some bikes and ride with you.” Canyon’s looking longingly at the cheetah’s crotch rockets. “We know how to hotwire–”
“No stealing. No bikes. We’re not riding. Come on, Deke is waiting in the van.”
The Terrible Threes stop as one. “The creeper van?” one asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I hide a smile.
“Awesome,” says Bern. Hutch and Canyon exchange high fives.
“Wait,” I say. “Are you excited to ride in the back of the creeper van?”
“Yeah!”
“Duh.”
“Stoked!”
I shake my head. Teenagers. No use trying to understand them. “Let’s go,” I order. Deke is parked in the same place. I could text him, but he can’t pull the van up much closer than he is now. To the right are a bunch of parked cars and more shifters on Harleys beyond that. To the left is the forest. “We have to pass the cheetah pack.”
“Coalition,” Hutch says. “A group of cheetahs is called a coalition.”
“Right. We’ll have to pass the coalition. Keep your eyes averted. Hide your fangs. No posing, no challenging.”
We’re almost to the bonfire when a giant steps out from a set of parked cars and blocks our path. Beefy dude with black shades. The giant stands between us and the cheetah bonfire. I can’t tell because of the flickering firelight, but the skin outside of his sunglasses looks scarred up. Weird. It takes a lot of effort to get a shifter to scar like that. The only way I know to scar a shifter is to use vampire blood.
Who is this guy? I take a big sniff and end up getting a noseful of clove cologne. The scent numbs my nose to the point my sense of smell is useless. Asshole.
Behind me, the triplets have gone still.
“Hey man,” I say. “Not to be rude, but you’re wearing sunglasses at night.”
The triplets titter behind me, but the clove-scented poser in front of me gives no answer.
“No? Okay, I respect your fashion choices.”
“They promised me a fight,” the man rumbles, pointing a finger at the werebears behind me.
“Hannibal?” I ask, guessing his name from the fighter listed as the Kilted Killers opponent. The giant nods. “They’re too young. And they’re not in your weight class.”
“I know,” Hannibal tilts his head and cracks his thick neck. “Was gonna fight three on one.”
I shrug. “Too bad. Wait a few years and these kids–” I toss a thumb over my shoulder, “–can do whatever they want. But tonight, it’s not happening.”
The party at the bonfire is heating up. More cat shifters have shown up on their crotch rockets. A few pass us, smelling of weed and grain alcohol. Two wereleopards–I can tell they’re leopards because who the fuck else would wear a leopard print leather jacket?–head over with jugs of gasoline. The cats pour the liquid on the flames, and yellow-blue plumes shoot up to the sky. Whoops and hollers echo around the parking lot. Sounds like there’s a werehyena or two in the mix.
I need to get these three kids across the parking lot, past the bonfire and the drunken revelers, safely into the van with Deke. But Hannibal isn’t having it. He stands, legs apart, feet planted, seven feet and three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle.
“Okay, man,” I roll my shoulders. “You want to fight? You got one.”
“You?” Hannibal barks.
“I know, I’m out of your weight class, but we’ll make it work.”
“Too easy,” he sneers. “I fight you and the three.”
“These three have somewhere to be,” I say. I’m backing up a little, putting space between me and the obstacle, hoping the triplets will get the hint. They do. The three move with me. “But I have a friend who will join us. What do you say? Two on one?”
“What friend?”
I point to my pocket. “Can I call him?” I don’t wait for permission. I fish the phone out of my pocket and hit Deke’s number. He answers with a grunt.
“Hostiles.” I stare Hannibal down as I speak. “Initiate the Berlin maneuver.”
“Ten-four.” Deke ends the call.
“What–” Hannibal starts, and I whip out my Glock and shoot out his knees.
“Run,” I shout, over Hannibal’s bellows. I chop a hand through the air to show the direction they should go. “To the van.”
The triplets take off. Bern in the lead, Hutch and Canyon at his heels.
Hannibal is on the pavement, propped on his arms. His sunglasses have fallen off, and when he looks up, his eye area is a mass of scars. Instead of shifter bright, his eyes are black.
I whirl and race to catch up with the triplets.
A bullet won’t stop a shifter for long. We just slowed him down.
Worse, the shot drew the attention of the cats. I careen into one, and the cat shifter hisses.
“‘Scuse me,” I mutter, but there’s a gun in my hand.