Page 23 of Anders (The Sunburst Pack #2)

T HE COMMAND CENTER HUMMED with the quiet pulse of technology—monitors displaying surveillance feeds, the soft whirr of cooling fans, the occasional ping of perimeter sensors reporting all-clear.

Anders had spent the past hour methodically scanning each screen, searching for anomalies, evidence of unwanted observers.

His heightened senses registered the subtle shift in air pressure seconds before the door opened. Malcolm. The scent of his alpha reached him first—desert wind, sage, pine, authority.

You look like hell, Malcolm said, leaning against the doorframe.

Anders didn’t look up from the monitors. I appreciate the assessment.

When did you last sleep?

Sleep is overrated when there are hostiles in our territory. Anders tapped a key, switching feeds to the eastern perimeter. His eyes narrowed as he spotted movement—too deliberate to be an animal, too precise to be a casual hiker.

Malcolm moved closer, studying the screen. Setting up now?

I suspect they never left. Anders zoomed in, capturing the image of a figure in what appeared to be standard hiking gear—except for the military-grade tactical boots and the subtle earpiece nearly hidden by the man’s hair.

This is the third one I’ve spotted today.

They’re establishing a surveillance perimeter.

Around the entire territory?

Anders nodded grimly. And getting bolder. This one’s inside our boundary line.

Malcolm’s jaw tightened. We should organize a patrol, show them—

No. Anders swiveled in his chair to face the alpha directly. That’s exactly what they want—to gauge our response protocols, our numbers, our patterns.

So we do nothing? Malcolm’s frustration colored his usual scent.

We observe. We document. We prepare. Anders turned back to the screens. I’ve mapped eight observation posts so far. They’re systematic, professional. Military or paramilitary.

Malcolm was silent for a moment, absorbing the implications. The council needs to know about this.

I’ve prepared a report. Anders indicated a file on the desk. But there’s more.

Malcolm picked up on the sudden soaring of his pulse immediately.

This is about Etta, the alpha said, not a question.

Anders nodded once, his eyes still fixed on the screen. The mark on her neck is more sophisticated than we initially thought. It’s not only a tracking device or neural interface. It’s a control mechanism—designed specifically for shifters.

Based on what evidence?

Anders clicked open a file on another monitor. A three-dimensional model of Etta’s neck appeared, with the mark highlighted in red, tendrils of color extending down her spine and up into her brain stem.

I captured this using the medical imaging equipment in the clinic.

What the hell is that? It looks…alien.

I’m no doctor—and of course, Victor fired Dr. Torres when he took over the pack, but here’s what I think I’m seeing.

The device has nanoscale filaments embedded throughout her central nervous system, probably concentrated around the areas that control shifting.

Anders struggled to keep his voice clinical, detached.

Whoever created this has intimate knowledge of shifter physiology.

Malcolm leaned closer, his expression darkening as he studied the image. Can it be removed?

Not without potentially catastrophic damage to her nervous system.

At least, not until we understand it better.

Anders closed the file, unable to look at the evidence of Etta’s violation any longer.

There’s more. The surveillance we’ve found—it’s not focused only on general pack dynamics.

They’re specifically monitoring Etta…and me. As her mate.

Malcolm simply nodded. You think they know about the mate bond?

Anders’s hands clenched involuntarily. I know they do. We found files indicating her placement here was deliberate. They knew we were potentially compatible.

Malcolm straightened, his presence filling the small room. This goes beyond simple intelligence gathering. This is a coordinated operation targeting specific pack members.

Targeting all of us, Anders corrected. But using Etta—and by extension, me—as the entry point.

The admission cost him. As head guardian, his primary duty was to protect the pack from threats. Instead, he’d become the vulnerability that put them all at risk.

Stop it, Anders. Malcolm’s voice cut through his spiral of self-recrimination. This isn’t your fault.

It is my responsibility, Anders said. I let her in. I let my instincts override my training.

You responded to a mate bond. That’s not a failure, it’s—

A sharp knock interrupted them. The door opened to reveal Conall, his usually cheerful expression replaced by tight-lipped concern.

Sorry to interrupt, the twin said, but we’ve got a situation at the north ridge. Some of the younger wolves on patrol spotted strangers setting up equipment near one of the old hunting cabins.

Anders was already pulling up the feeds for that sector. What kind of equipment?

Looked like monitoring gear to Quinton.

Anders’s fingers flew across the keyboard, adjusting camera angles.

The feeds showed three individuals in civilian clothing setting up what appeared to be standard wildlife monitoring equipment.

But Anders immediately recognized the distinctive housing of government-level signal tapping devices disguised as ordinary field equipment.

They’re not just watching, he muttered. They’re listening.

To what? Conall asked, moving closer to see the screens.

Everything. Pack communications, movements, possibly even attempting to intercept our security feeds. Anders’s mind raced through implications, countermeasures. We need to—

The shrill beep of a proximity alert cut him off. Anders’s gaze snapped to another monitor, his body tensing as he recognized the location—Etta’s rental house.

The feed showed two unmarked black SUVs parked nearby.

That’s government too, he said sharply, zooming in on the vehicles’ license plates—standard-issue. Undercover. They’re moving on Etta.

Malcolm’s head snapped up. Is she there?

Of course not. Anders wasn’t an idiot. I left her napping at a safe house.

On the screen, four men in plain clothes exited the vehicles. They moved as if they had military training despite their civilian appearance. They approached the house, positioning themselves at entrance points.

Then something else caught his attention—a flicker of movement at the back of the house. Etta, slipping out through the kitchen door, staying low and out of sight of the approaching men.

Anders let out a low curse. What was she doing at the rental?

She’s spotted them, he said, relief coloring his voice. She’s—

The words died in his throat as a fifth figure emerged from behind a shed, directly in Etta’s path. She froze, trapped between the newcomer and the house.

On the screen, the man raised something that looked like a standard phone. Etta’s body suddenly convulsed, her hands flying to the back of her neck. Even without audio, Anders could see her mouth open in a scream of pain.

Hot fury surged through him, his wolf responding to his mate’s distress. A growl built in his chest, rumbling outward as his fingernails lengthened into claws, digging into the metal desk.

Anders. Malcolm’s voice came from far away.

But all he could see was Etta dropping to her knees, her body contorting in what could only be excruciating pain as the man approached, still holding the device.

They’re activating the mark, Anders snarled, the words barely human. They’re hurting her.

Without conscious thought, he was moving toward the door, his body already beginning the shift as rage and instinct overrode any rational thought. Malcolm stepped into his path, hands raised.

Don’t. The alpha’s voice carried a command. You run in blind, you’ll make it worse.

Get out of my way. Anders could feel his canines lengthening, his vision sharpening as his wolf pushed forward. She needs me.

And you need a plan. Malcolm didn’t budge. You’re the head guardian. Act like it.

The words hit like ice water, shocking Anders back to clarity.

He forced his wolf down, fingers shifting back to human, though his claws remained sharper than usual as he moved back toward the computer system. I need eyes on Mesa View Road.

Conall was already on his radio, coordinating with his twin. We can be there in minutes.

No direct engagement, Anders ordered, his tactical training finally reasserting itself. Observation only. These aren’t ordinary humans—they’re trained operators with unknown capabilities against shifters.

He turned back to the monitors, watching as the men hauled Etta to her feet. She was conscious but clearly in agony, her movements jerky and uncoordinated as they dragged her toward one of the vehicles.

Despite her pain, she fought them.

That would buy Anders time.

I have to go, Anders said, his voice leaving no room for argument. But I’ll be smart about it.

Malcolm studied him for a long moment, then nodded. Take Conall. I’ll coordinate from here with Quinton. He gestured to the monitors. Take an earpiece. Keep your comms open.

Anders grabbed his tactical vest from a hook near the door, checking the specialized equipment he kept for emergencies. Nonlethal weapons, tracking devices, communications equipment, medical supplies—all designed with shifters in mind.

If they get her into those vehicles, we lose her, he said, strapping the vest into place. Government black ops don’t leave trails.

How do you know they’re government? Conall asked as they hurried down the corridor.

The equipment, the tactics, the resources—this isn’t some rogue scientific group. This has federal backing. Anders pushed through the back door, breaking into a run the moment they hit open ground. Military precision, intelligence training.

Like yours, Conall observed, keeping pace easily.