Page 38 of Conall (The Sunburst Pack #3)

T HE ABANDONED MINING FACILITY squatted against the New Mexico horizon like a concrete tumor, all harsh angles and rusted metal that spoke of industrial dreams long dead.

Nadine crouched behind a cluster of sagebrush, studying the structure through night-vision binoculars.

Three vehicles parked in a defensive perimeter. Guard positions that spoke of military training. And underneath it all, threading through the metallic tang of old machinery and cooling sand, the scent she’d been tracking for eighteen hours.

Gregory.

The familiar mixture of leather and gun oil, cigarettes and the particular brand of aftershave he’d worn since she was seven years old.

Alive. Real.

The man who’d raised her, trained her, shaped her into the weapon she’d become—and then used that weapon against innocent people through lies and manipulation.

Her father. Her protector.

Her greatest enemy.

Nadine lowered the binoculars, checking her gear one final time with the methodical precision Gregory himself had taught her.

Glock 19 loaded with silver rounds, spare magazines positioned for quick access, knife secured against her thigh. The tools of her trade, selected and maintained according to lessons learned at the knee of a man who’d apparently been playing a deeper game than she’d ever imagined.

Always have an exit strategy. Always know more about the battlefield than your enemy knows about you.

His voice echoed in her memory, patient and instructive, carrying the same tone he’d used to teach her everything from field medicine to advanced surveillance techniques.

Had he known, even then, that she might someday use those skills against him?

The mate bond tugged weakly at her consciousness—Conall’s desperate attempts to reach her through their connection despite the barriers she’d erected.

Each pulse of contact felt like touching a live wire, sending pain through her chest that had nothing to do with physical injury. She’d closed the bond to protect him, to keep him from tracking her into this trap, but the separation felt like losing a vital organ.

Personal complications later. Mission first .

Movement caught her attention—a figure emerging from the main building, checking the perimeter with casual efficiency.

Professional bearing, tactical gear, the kind of alertness that marked former military.

Gregory’s type of recruit. She counted at least four operatives visible, probably more inside the facility.

Terrible odds for a frontal assault. But she hadn’t come here to fight her way through Gregory’s security team.

She’d come because she knew him. Knew his patterns, his pride, his need to handle certain matters personally. And eliminating his daughter—cleaning up the loose end she represented—was exactly the kind of task he’d never delegate to subordinates.

All she had to do was let herself be caught.

Nadine circled the facility with patient stealth, mapping guard positions and escape routes out of habit rather than necessity. The eastern approach offered the best infiltration point—minimal cover but predictable patrol patterns. A competent operative could slip past the perimeter undetected.

She deliberately chose the western approach instead.

Her boots crunched against loose gravel as she moved toward the facility’s main entrance, making just enough noise to alert the sentries without seeming completely careless.

The trick was appearing sloppy rather than obvious—the kind of mistake an emotionally compromised daughter might make when confronting her traitorous father.

Movement, west side, a voice called softly through the darkness, professional tension underlying the calm report.

Nadine continued forward, letting herself be silhouetted against the horizon for just long enough to allow someone to confirm her identity. Then she dropped behind a concrete barrier, as if finally recognizing her error.

Too late, of course. Gregory’s people were already closing in, moving with the coordinated precision of a team that had worked together for years. She could hear their approach—boot steps on gravel, the subtle whisper of military gear, hand signals passed between positions.

When the tranquilizer dart hit her shoulder, she managed genuine surprise at the sharp sting of penetration. She’d expected capture but not chemical restraint. Gregory generally preferred psychological control to physical coercion, at least with family.

Apparently, she no longer qualified as family.

The drug worked quickly—specialized formulation designed for shifter physiology, probably based on Chimera’s research. Her vision blurred as consciousness slipped away, the last thing she saw being boots approaching her position with military precision.

This better work was her final coherent thought before darkness claimed her.

N ADINE’S SKULL THROBBED FROM whatever cocktail they’d used to keep her unconscious, but her mind felt sharp—dangerously so.

Either they’d miscalculated the dosage, or they wanted her alert for what came next.

She kept her eyes closed, testing her restraints without making any obvious movements. Zip ties around her wrists, secured to metal.

The acrid smell of machine oil and abandonment filled her nostrils, undercut by something clinical. Medical equipment hummed nearby, ventilation cycled overhead, and distant voices conducted business in other parts of the building.

And underneath it all, growing stronger as her awareness returned—Gregory’s scent.

I know you’re awake.

His voice carried the same patient tone from countless training sessions but stripped of warmth.

This was Vincent’s enforcer speaking, not the man who’d taught her to read animal tracks and treat silver poisoning.

She opened her eyes.

Gregory sat ten feet away, studying her with analytical interest. He was still imposing—broad shoulders, dark eyes that revealed nothing. He looked exactly like the father she remembered, making his deception somehow worse.

Hello, Dad. Her voice emerged steady despite the churning in her chest. You’re looking well for a corpse.

His smile could have cut glass. You found the storage unit. I wondered how long it would take.

Nadine’s throat tightened. Five days. Would’ve been faster if I hadn’t wasted time grieving. She forced herself to meet his gaze directly. How did you do it? The blood, the scene—I followed your scent trail for miles. I saw where you died.

Gregory’s smile was cold, clinical. You saw what I wanted you to see. What my inside source helped me create.

Inside source?

Gregory shook his head. All that training, all those years teaching you to see patterns, and you missed the most obvious one.

Of course I knew you were working with someone in the Sunburst Pack. Someone with access to—

To the twins’ personal belongings. Their clothing, their grooming items. Gregory stood and began pacing. Amazing what you can accomplish with a few hairs from a brush, fabric that’s absorbed someone’s natural scent over days of wear.

You planted their scents at the scene.

Planted and enhanced them, actually. Synthetic amplification of natural pheromones—not quite as sophisticated as our neural interface technology, but effective for creating false trails.

He gestured casually, as if discussing the weather.

A shirt rubbed against trees along the escape route.

Hair samples scattered at strategic points.

Blood mixed with their scent signatures to create the impression of a coordinated hunt.

That’s impossible. I would have detected artificial scents—

Would you? When you were grief-stricken, desperate for answers, already primed to suspect the new Sunburst leadership? Gregory’s voice carried that patient, instructional tone she remembered from training sessions. The mind sees what it expects to see, especially when emotions are running high.

Nadine’s hands clenched into fists, fury building at how completely she’d been manipulated. Who helped you? Which pack member sold out their own people?

Gregory’s smile widened as he stopped moving to stare at her, and she caught a glimpse of the man who’d shaped Vincent’s brutal regime. Think, daughter. Who had the access? Who could move freely through pack territory, gather personal items without suspicion, plant evidence without detection?

Her mind raced through possibilities—security personnel, household staff, anyone with intimate access to the twins’ daily routines. But Gregory’s confidence suggested someone closer, someone whose betrayal would cut deeper than mere convenience.

You haven’t figured it out yet? Genuine amusement colored his voice. I’m disappointed in you. And to think I once considered you worth training.

Her throat was dry, making her voice even huskier than usual. Silly me, believing you were capable of actual love.

Love was never the issue. Gregory’s tone carried a painfully casual dismissal. But neither was it strategically relevant. You became a liability. A threat to operational security.

The mate bond—closed but not severed, despite all her attempts—carried phantom echoes of Conall’s steady presence. His certainty that some connections transcended tactical considerations felt like a lifeline in this sterile nightmare.

Operational security for whom? she asked. Chimera? Or whatever organization bought your services? Or is it your organization, one you created?

Gregory’s expression shifted, surprise giving way to approval. You have been busy. The evidence you compiled was thorough. I taught you well.

You taught me to find truth. I doubt you expected me to apply those skills to you.

No, he admitted. I expected loyalty. Unquestioning trust in the man who saved you from foster care, who gave you purpose when you had nothing.

The guilt was expertly applied—exactly the psychological pressure Gregory had always used. But eighteen years of his manipulation had taught her to recognize it, even wrapped in parental disappointment.