Bad Cat Baby Blues (Shifter Squad Six 3) Page 2

  The first day she’d met one of the Silk Slayers, a guy named Rollo, one of the only people involved in the crew who looked like a legitimate drug runner, Ari had gotten a vibe. They were too strict, too on edge. Too well-funded and careful to be random chumps trying to make it big next to the mega-cartels. It had taken a long time to become more than just a runner for them, smuggling drugs over the border in small amounts.

  When she was invited into the fold, it had taken another month before she’d been allowed to “graduate” out of a dingy apartment in Rio to this wonderful stretch of jungle to slave away as a packer. The fact that she could boast a history of having nimble fingers and a finely attuned sense of scale for baggies of cocaine helped a lot, but that was a longer tale.

  In any case, she was slowly gaining her spot in the organization, though she knew she was low on the totem pole. At least Soyo, the angry fuck running this particular operation, was willing to look her in the eye now and not treat her as some sort of a fancy wall-decoration.

  She was one of the few women in the compound, and the fact that none of the men had tried to make awkward advances was also a pretty large flashing sign that there was something weird going on.

  She just didn’t know what, yet.

  Soyo was in and out of the compound all the time, sometimes spending days away with an armored guard. When the convoy came back, they sometimes carried in sealed wooden crates loaded with something that obviously wasn’t more coke, and hid it away under tarps at the back of the warehouse until it would get moved again. She was never allowed to see what it was, and by now she was sure that it held the key to this fucked-up nonsense.

  You could call it quits, go back home. Sleep in a bed not covered by mosquito netting. Eat something that isn’t an unspecified type of gruel. Wouldn’t that be nice, Ari thought to herself, letting her gaze roll over the people in the warehouse with her.

  Roy, Shar, and Jola were packing like she was, and Tro was standing with his rifle in his hands, looking like he was as ready to fall on his face and sleep as he was to mow down any danger that came at him. Ari had no doubt that if she made the wrong move at one point, Tro or any of these other guys around her would be more than glad to put her out of her misery.

  She was wiping sweat from her forehead, cursing the impossible heat, when the first explosion shook the compound.

  “What the fuck!” Shar yelled, jumping up and going to the door as the rest of the bombs went off in quick succession.

  Ari could see the flames from the window, reaching high and casting shadows against the dark green backdrop of the jungle.

  “Shit, we’re getting hit,” Jola hissed through clenched teeth, getting out of his seat and starting to throw the packages into a big basket that had been sitting on the floor. “Cece, help me,” he said, snapping Ari into the moment.

  She got up and started assisting, her hands doing the job with a notable lack of enthusiasm. All the while, her brain was running way ahead of her, trying to figure out who the hell would care enough to come and attack them. Drug-related cartel wars were common, yes, but the Silk Slayers had been extremely careful about staying out of the limelight, constantly moving the base to stay off of anyone’s radar that might have taken offense to their mere existence. And they were too small, too, to warrant bombs and carnage like this.

  Most of all, though, Ari was trying to figure out how she could get her hands on a gun to avoid dying with the rest of these bastards.

  They cleared the long table fast enough, with Shar and Tro standing at the door, peeking out. Neither one was running outside, like Ari would have expected from men who only knew violence. Instead, they waited. Muscles rigid, eyes alert, she couldn’t see an ounce of fear in any of the four men in the room. It was like they’d been waiting for this. While not happy about their camp going up in flames, they were sort of… blasé about it all.

  Ari helped Jola carry the basket to the other end of the long warehouse and he yanked open a trap door built into the dirt floor. There was a big silo down in there, behind another safety door, with countless baskets of finely packed coke. Jola hauled the load in there and closed the hatches quickly, patting down the ground around the corners.

  “So they won’t get our shit,” he announced mildly, taking Ari by the arm and dragging her back to the entrance.

  Ari winced at his vise-like grip, but didn’t say a word. It was bad enough that she was stuck with these guys in the middle of a firefight, with no way to sneak out and disappear into the jungle until things calmed down. She didn’t want to piss them off while she was at it.

  Jola checked his gun, his face stony.

  “Soyo will be pissed when he gets back,” Shar noted mildly, watching the commotion outside with bored eyes.

  “Good thing he got out with the shipment, then,” Tro commented, receiving an immediate, silencing glare from Jola.

  “What shipment?” Ari asked, perking up a little.

  She was faintly aware that her hands were rolling into fists and then loosening again time after time, like she was ready to go ten rounds with whoever came at her. It was a familiar feeling, that readiness to fight, kill or be killed. First Afghanistan and then the seemingly endless missions back in New York had taught her to always be on her toes.

  It was hard enough existing in the life she’d chosen, but as a woman she had to be extra careful. Not that her gender would have any bearing on anything if she got caught. A bullet to the head was a bullet to the head, after all. So it was all the more surprising that she’d allow a slip like that.

  Must be the heat.

  “None of your business, Cece,” Jola gruffed, not bothering to look at her.

  Ari took a deep breath, grounding herself. She’d gotten into the Silk Slayers, but they clearly didn’t trust her yet. She couldn’t blame them. Stuff like that took time. Funny how she and a bunch of drug-running whackos understood this but her own employer, one of the most lauded private “security” companies in the world, didn’t.

  “Who do you think they are?” Shar asked, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Does it matter?”

  “If they’re coming at us with explosives, it sort of might,” Shar noted, smirking.

  He almost looked like the possibility appealed to him.

  “Doesn’t, really. You know the drill. Stay out of sight until Soyo shows up with the rest of the crew, then take care of them. At least we don’t have to worry about the…” he was going to say something, but stopped himself while flicking a look at Ari.

  Ari frowned, taking a step back and raising her hands.

  “Jola, come on. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not the person to worry about here. Not when you have a bunch of commando psychos running around outside, trying to tear down the camp, right? Shouldn’t we be helping?”

  The last question was legitimate enough, considering that right then, high-pitched screams hit Ari’s ears for a fraction of a second before they were muffled by gunfire. Ari doubted that the guy screaming was from the attacking side.

  “They knew what they got into,” Jola said with a shrug. “They live, they die. It’s their own problem.”

  Callous, Ari thought grimly.

  Not that it surprised her. None of these guys were outstandingly sentimental. With her height of five foot eight, she was by far the shortest person in the whole camp. All of these guys were big, strong, fit. She knew there were a few shifters around, but it seemed like only the upper echelons of their makeshift management seemed to be weres of any kind. The foot soldiers were all human, though still at the peak of their physical fitness.

  Yet she’d found herself in the warehouse with four out of the five shifters in the whole compound, with Soyo being the only one missing. Thinking about that now, it seemed like way too big of a coincidence.

  “Watch out,” Tro called, pulling Ari next to him and out of the line of sight as a stray bullet came barreling into the building, going straight through a wall a
nd not stopping.

  “Fuck!” Ari gasped. “Thanks, man.”

  “How about you focus on not getting yourself killed for a few minutes, Cece, huh? Is that something you could do?” Jola grumbled, tossing her a look that could have scorched the surface of the sun.

  “Sure thing,” she mumbled, tucking back her long, curly black locks of hair in an effort to keep her hands from doing anything other than strangling the life out of him.

  Prick. I hope I get to be the one to put a bullet through your head one of these days.

  It was only when they heard the telltale sound of a truck trundling through the underbrush that things got insane again. And Ari understood really fucking fast that this was no regular drug operation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dutch

  This is taking too long.

  The thought hammered in the back of Dutch’s head, making his body thrum with the first stings of anxiety. There was nothing worse than watching a carefully planned hit go to shit, but when it was going wrong and taking far too long? That’s when things got dangerous. Ammo could run out, reinforcements might arrive, someone could get hurt and there could be no way to extract them. The possibilities for failure began piling up as soon as time became an issue.

  “Cat Four. What’s going on?” Dutch asked, his voice a low growl.

  “Cat Five and Cat Two are pinned down. Targets have created a bunker in the warehouse. Getting rid of outer pockets of resistance. Cat Four, do you have a clear shot on anyone in the warehouse?”

  Connor’s voice came over the line strained, bubbling with irritation. It didn’t take much to realize that Dutch wasn’t the only one feeling the tension of the situation. He looked at the warehouse through the scope, seeing fleeting shadows on the walls inside, but not a single person that he could have gotten a shot on.

  They were all pressed against walls, far from windows and doors. Theoretically, he could try his luck and shoot through the wall, but there was no saying if he’d actually hit something.

  “Cat Four, negative. I will change nests.”

  His stomach lurched the moment the words left his mouth, but Dutch knew it had to be done. He dismantled the rifle quickly, packing it away in about ten seconds before lugging it up on his back. Sliding down the tree in complete silence, his boots hit the soft ground below and he took off in a soundless run. Being a shifter came with its benefits in their line of work, and stealth was certainly one of them.

  He could feel the heat of the fires blazing below all the way up on the bank he was on. Scrambling up a rocky ledge, he tossed the rifle there in front of him and then clambered up after it, getting a new angle on the warehouse and its inhabitants, one not obscured by fire.

  Dutch set up the rifle again with record speed, having time to note the fact that the sun was coming up already. When he tossed himself down on his stomach and settled into position, there was a new sound, one that he hadn’t yet heard that night. Car tires, crawling through the underbrush toward the camp.

  Shit. Exactly what we needed.

  “Cat Four. Possible reinforcements, vehicle spotted,” he noted into the comms, seeing motion on the far right, but too obscured by trees to tell who was in the car or how many.

  “Noted. Warehouse is the target, I repeat, warehouse is the target.”

  Dutch nodded to himself, scanning the windows one by one. The people in there were keeping quiet, mostly in one place, but the approach of the vehicle sent them moving. Dutch could see someone trying to peek out again, not happy with just one glance but going for another.

  “Got you,” he muttered under his breath, squeezing the trigger.

  A plume of red coated the outside wall of the warehouse and the man slumped over, half his body outside the building. Dutch saw him twitch once, his throat going dry as he took aim again. But that shot had done the trick. Whoever was in there didn’t feel safe anymore, and the car was getting close. Suddenly, four people burst out of the warehouse, running at full speed and trying to zigzag between the buildings.

  Dutch took another shot, but it pinged into the ground behind a guy’s heel, making him curse. He could count three men, and then the smaller, lither form of a woman. Instinctively, he took aim, the hair trigger aligning on the shoulder blades of the woman. But instead of going for it, his hand faltered. Something in him stopped him from taking the shot.

  When she glanced over her shoulder, her green eyes flashing—somehow he knew they were green, even from this distance—he sucked in a sudden breath. She was, in a word, beautiful. Long dark hair, tumbling over her shoulders, bouncing up and down even when slick with sweat. Eyes slightly almond-shaped, and high cheekbones. And her body? His jaguar was so close to breaking out of him by force and running down to tackle her it wasn’t even funny. Curvy, lush, but strong and capable at the same time.

  “The fuck’s wrong with you,” he hissed to himself, shaking his head.

  Sure, Dutch loved women as much as the next guy stuck in a goddamn sandpit for months at a time, but never had one messed with his head—or worse yet, his aim—like she had. Soldiers were soldiers, whether they were men or women, it made no difference to him. But her? The way her arms were taut as she sprinted along with the men, the way her plump lips pressed into a thin line as she looked behind herself, scanning... it was fucking mesmerizing.

  “Cat Four, targets on the move,” he hissed into the comm, trying desperately to regain his senses.

  It was at that moment that the Jeep burst into the compound, bullets raining around it. Dutch’s heart skipped a beat, seeing how it roared into the center of the area right in front of Grant, leaving him stuck between the vehicle and the four people running toward it, out of the sight of Thatch, who had been with him but was now on the other side of the car.

  Bullets rained down all over the campsite, the rest of Squad Six desperate to confuse the thugs enough to give Grant a fighting chance, but it seemed almost unavoidable that Squad Six would leave with one man less this time. Dutch’s hands were slick with sweat as he pressed his eye to the scope and found a shadowy figure in the car. He squeezed before he was certain if he had a clean shot or not, not caring. The way the Jeep lurched to the side and almost crashed into a building told him that he’d at least bought them another second.

  But that still left the four people, at least three of them armed, coming for Grant. He’d dropped to a knee, seeing he had nowhere to go, and was taking aim at the group. But a lucky shot to his right hand left Grant keeling over and screaming as blood gushed out of it. The comms were deathly silent, Connor trusting every man in his squad to make the right decisions when things looked the worst.

  But it wasn’t Squad Six that saved Grant that night. Dutch had one bullet left and he chose the guy closest to Grant. As soon as he’d pulled the trigger, he was reloading again, his eyes on the action. One of the tall, beefy men took aim and Dutch was sure he was going to witness his friend’s head crack open like a watermelon, but it never happened.

  Like she had transformed in front of his very eyes, the woman who’d run so stoically with the men tackled the guy with the gun. She was fast, ruthless. Kicking the barrel up, she whirled her elbow into the man’s gut and then yanked forward, pulling the man almost twice her size over her shoulder and onto the ground. She ripped the gun out of his hands and stomped the butt down on his neck, taking aim at the remaining guy.

  But he was fast too. She didn’t have a chance to shoot before the guy whacked her across the face with the stock, sending her tumbling to the ground. Dutch had never been so fucking enraged in his life. The bullets clicked into place when the car whipped around and the guy who’d taken down the girl scrambled in, dragging his half-conscious friend in as well.

  The Jeep turned, narrowly avoiding running over Grant and the girl, who were sprawled out on the dusty campsite ground. Bullets tinged against the Jeep as it drove off with at least three people alive inside. The scratch of metal and the high-pitched sounds of bullets going w
ide marked the fact that the vehicle was armor-plated. Dutch had to count himself lucky that he’d brought bigger toys than the enemy had been prepared for. If he hadn’t gotten that shot and taken out the driver, things could have been a lot worse.

  “All units, move in. Man down,” came Connor’s dry voice, not a hint of uncertainty now.

  Dutch threw together his gear, pulsing with rage. It had been a long time since a Squad Six mission had gone so fucking awry. He was used to seeing shit like this back in the military, but with Connor and the rest of the boys, this crap rarely ever happened. And there wasn’t even anyone to blame. Their recon had told them everything they needed to know, or they’d thought they’d need to know, and they’d underestimated the fuckers they’d gone against.

  It was a smack in the face.

  Dutch was running through the jungle, his breathing even and rage flashing in his eyes. There was no chatter on the comms, and he pulled out his handgun as he approached the perimeter that was still lit with blazing fires.

  She better be all right.

  The thought hit him like a freight train as he stepped onto the grounds, skulking past the houses. The rest of the team had cleared out most of them before the Jeep arrived, but one couldn’t be too sure. Last thing he needed was to get capped by some overzealous idiot now that things were almost over.

  He made it to the clearing in time to see Tex and Thatch haul Grant onto a field stretcher, Grant’s face contorted with pure anger and pain. Of course it had to be the medic who got half his hand blown off. Connor was kneeling next to the girl and every step closer to her Dutch took, he felt the air become more charged. Even when she was lying prone, her lips parted and her eyes closed, she had a hold on him that he couldn’t entirely explain.

  “Where’s Grim?” Dutch asked, crouching down next to Connor, his eyes tracking Tex and Thatch quickly carrying Grant off.

  Tex was bleeding from his shin and Thatch was holding his shoulder, but the Crawleys weren’t going to be slowed down by some flesh wounds. It was like Dutch was trying to avoid looking straight at the woman on the ground before him, like she was the damn sun and looking at her might blind him. Connor had a hand on her pulse and a tight and powerful flash of jealousy traveled through Dutch.