Page 25

The intelligence briefing that started at dawn with coffee that tastes like motor oil and more news that made my stomach drop into my boots has dragged into mid-morning and shows no signs of ending.

My stomach drops even further when James enters Nic’s cluttered office, clutching papers, looking worried.

"We’ve got a confirmed sighting of Edward Wright in Millfield," James reports, spreading photographs across the conference table. "Arrived earlier this morning with a convoy of vehicles and enough firepower to level a city block."

Millfield. Thirty miles south, close enough for a coordinated strike but far enough to avoid immediate detection.

I study the grainy surveillance photos—a tall man with dark, graying hair and the kind of rigid posture and a confident smile, directing what looks like a small army of civilians with hunting rifles.

"How many?" Nic asks.

"Conservative estimate? Forty-three active participants. Could be more arriving hourly." James taps another photo showing a parking lot full of pickup trucks and SUVs. "The League for Humanity put out a call on social media three days ago. They're calling it a 'demonstration of human sovereignty’."

"Demonstration." I spit the word like it tastes bad. "That's what they're calling armed assault now?"

"Gets worse," James continues. "Local law enforcement is either bought off or too intimidated to intervene. The sheriff's department issued a statement calling it a 'peaceful assembly of citizens’."

Nic's jaw tightens. "Peaceful assemblies don't require semi-automatic weapons."

"They're not trying to be subtle anymore." I lean back in my chair, processing the implications. "Edward Wright's done playing games. This is about making a statement."

"About finding his daughter," Nic adds quietly, his eyes finding mine across the table.

The words cut me in half. We all know Fiona is Wright's target, but hearing it stated so plainly makes my wolf pace restlessly under my skin. Every protective instinct I have screams to find her and Maisie, to put myself between them and whatever Wright is planning.

"What’s our plan?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on actionable intelligence instead of spiraling into panic.

"Maximum alert. All vulnerable pack members confined to the main compound.

Patrol rotations doubled. Armed response teams on standby.

" Nic's voice carries the weight of command, but I catch the underlying tension.

"Thomas, I need you to coordinate protection for the kids and families specifically.

It was your call to keep them here. Make good on it. "

"Done." The assignment feels like both a blessing and a curse—it'll keep me close to Maisie, but it also means acknowledging she's in danger.

"There's more." James pulls out a final photograph, this one showing Wright standing beside a van equipped with what appears to be broadcasting equipment. "They're planning to livestream whatever they do. Turn it into a media event."

"Jesus Christ." The pieces click together in my mind, forming a picture I don't want to see. "He's not just coming for Fiona. He's going to make an example of her. Of all of us."

"That's our assessment," Nic confirms grimly. "Which means we need to be ready for anything."

The meeting breaks up with assignments distributed and contingency plans activated.

I head straight for the pack house, my wolf pushing against my control with every step.

The main building buzzes with controlled chaos as families adapt to the new security measures, but something feels off the moment I walk through the doors.

"Where's Maisie Wright?" I ask the teacher overseeing the makeshift classroom.

One of the teachers looks up from a cluster of children working on art projects. "Her mother picked her up early this morning. Said the little one wasn't feeling well."

Not feeling well. My wolf's restlessness spikes into full alarm. "What time?"

"It was right around drop-off, actually. Around nine-thirty. They’d just gotten here, but they went right home." She frowns slightly. "Fiona seemed quite upset about something. I offered to have Dr. Knowles take a look at Maisie, but she insisted on taking her home."

Upset. I scan the room quickly, confirming that every other vulnerable child is accounted for and under supervision. Twenty-three children, aged three to ten, were present and engaged in activities designed to distract them from the adult panic swirling around them.

All except Maisie.

"I'm going to check on them," I tell Mrs. Peterson, probably too sharply because she gives me a concerned look.

"Is everything alright?"

I smile tightly. “It’s just routine.”

It's not routine, and we both know it, but she nods anyway. I'm already moving toward the door, my stride eating up distance as I head for Fiona's cottage.

The first thing I notice is the silence. No sounds of daily life—no television, no conversation, no little girl's laughter filtering through the windows.

I knock anyway, hoping against hope that she's just being cautious. No answer. I try the door handle and find it unlocked, which sends ice through my veins. Fiona never leaves her door unlocked.

Inside, the cottage tells a story I don't want to read. Dresser drawers hang open, their contents scattered as if someone searched through them quickly. Maisie's room shows signs of hasty packing—favorite toys missing from their usual spots, the closet half-empty.

But it's the kitchen that confirms my worst fears. A mug sits on the counter, one still half-full and cold to the touch. Fiona didn’t clear away Maisie’s breakfast—it’s still beside the sink, half-eaten. She left in a hurry.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting my wolf senses take over.

Fiona's lingering scent carries notes of panic and determination, underlaid with the metallic tang of fear. Maisie's scent is less alarmed. She doesn't understand what's happening.

The trail leads out the back door and into the forest, heading east toward the territory boundary. I follow it at a jog, my wolf pushing to shift and track faster, but I force myself to maintain human form. If I find them, they'll need to see me as Thomas, not as a predator.

The scent trail winds through familiar terrain—game paths I've walked since childhood, clearings where I played as a boy.

Fiona knows these woods almost as well as I do, which is both a comfort and a concern.

She's smart enough to avoid the obvious routes, but that also means she's heading into more dangerous territory.

Half a mile from her cottage, the trail takes an unexpected turn toward Devil's Ridge, a narrow outcropping that overlooks the eastern valley. It's defensible terrain if you know what you're doing, but it's also a dead end. Why would she—

The answer hits me with sudden clarity. She's not just running. She's thinking about it. Devil's Ridge offers a clear view of the surrounding area, perfect for someone trying to decide whether to flee or return. She’s surveying the area, trying to make up her mind.

I pick up my pace, my wolf's urgency bleeding through despite my attempts to stay calm. Every minute Fiona and Maisie spend outside the compound's protection is another minute Wright's people could find them.

The trail grows fresher as I climb toward the ridge, scents sharpening until I can practically taste their emotions on the wind. Fear, exhaustion, and something else—resignation, maybe, or desperation.

I slow as I approach the final bend, moving carefully through the underbrush until I can see the ridge's rocky platform. They're there, just as I expected, but the sight still hits me like a physical blow.

Fiona sits on a fallen log with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs.

Two overstuffed backpacks rest beside her, along with a duffel bag I recognize from their original arrival in Silvercreek months ago.

Everything they own, packed and ready for another desperate flight.

Maisie kneels beside her mother, one small hand patting Fiona's back in a gesture that's heartbreaking in its maturity. She's trying to comfort an adult in distress, taking on responsibilities no five-year-old should carry.

"Mama, don't cry," I hear her whisper. "We can go back if you want. I don't mind staying."

"It's not about what we want, baby girl," Fiona replies, her voice thick with tears. "Sometimes we don't get to choose."

"But I like it here. I like my friends. I like Thomas."

The words hit me harder than they should. This child—this brave, bright little girl—has been forced to live her entire life on the run because of one man's obsession. She's never had the chance to form real attachments, never had the security of calling a place home.

And now she's going to lose Silvercreek, too, unless I can convince Fiona to trust me.

I step out of the treeline, making enough noise to announce my approach without startling them. Both heads turn toward me, and I see the exact moment Fiona's expression shifts from surprise to defiance.

"Don't," she says, scrambling to her feet and positioning herself between me and Maisie. "Don't try to stop us."

"I'm not here to stop you." I raise my hands, keeping my voice gentle despite the urgency, clawing at my chest. "I'm here to bring you home."

"This isn't our home."

"It could be. It should be."

"Thomas!" Maisie breaks away from her mother and runs toward me, her small arms wrapping around my waist in a hug that nearly breaks my composure. "I'm glad you found us. Mama's been crying, and I don't know how to make her feel better."

I kneel to her level, keeping one eye on Fiona's tense posture. "Your mama's scared, sweetheart. Sometimes grown-ups cry when they're scared."

"Are you scared too?"

The question is so direct and innocent that it catches me off guard.

"Yeah, kiddo. I'm scared, too."

"Of the bad people?"

"Of losing you both." The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more truth than I intended. "I’m scared of not seeing you both anymore, that’s all.”

Fiona makes a sound that's half sob, half laugh. "Thomas."

I stand slowly, my attention shifting to her drawn face. "Fiona."

She wipes her face, but the tears keep coming. "Don't do this, Thomas. Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Then don't run." I take a step closer, noting how her hands shake as she crosses her arms defensively. "Whatever has you so terrified, we can face it together."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand that Edward Wright is thirty miles away with enough firepower to level a small town. I understand that he's specifically hunting for you and Maisie. And I understand that your chances of survival drop to zero the moment you leave pack territory."

Her face goes white. "How do you know about—"

“The hunters we captured talked." I keep my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "We know what he's planning, Fiona. We know why he's here. And you know, too, I think."

"Then you know why I have to go." Her voice breaks on the words. "I won't let him hurt anyone else because of me."

"And I won't let him hurt you because of some misguided sense of nobility."

"It's not noble, it's necessary!" The words explode out of her, six years of suppressed fear and fury finally finding a voice. "Everyone who gets close to me ends up in his crosshairs. My mother, my—" She cuts herself off, glancing at Maisie.

"Your what?"

"My family. It doesn't matter. The point is, I'm poison, Thomas. Everyone I care about gets hurt."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? Look around you. Look at what's happening to Silvercreek because I'm here."

I want to tell her that Edward Wright's hatred runs deeper than her presence, that his violence would find targets with or without her. But she won’t believe me. This isn't about logic—it's about guilt and trauma and the lies her father taught her about her worth.

"Fiona," I say carefully, "you're not responsible for his choices."

"I'm responsible for bringing his attention here. For putting Maisie in danger. For—" She breaks off again, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

"For what?"

She stares at me for a long moment, her expression cycling through fear, longing, and something that looks almost like hope. "Thomas, there's something I need to tell you. About Maisie. About why I really left."

My heart starts hammering against my ribs. Whatever she's about to say, I can feel its importance in the charged air between us.

"I should have told you years ago, but I was scared, and then it seemed too late, and now—" She takes a shaky breath. "Thomas, Maisie is—"

The sound cuts through her words like a knife—the distant rumble of engines, growing closer. My wolf surges to attention, every sense sharpening as I process the threat.

"Get behind me," I order, my voice dropping to command tone as I scan the treeline below us.

"What is it?" Fiona asks, but she's already moving, pulling Maisie against her side.

"Vehicles. Multiple engines, heading this way."

The sound grows louder, closer, accompanied by voices and the crack of branches as something large moves through the underbrush. My wolf is clawing at my control, demanding I shift and defend what's mine.

"Thomas," Fiona whispers, her scent spiking with terror. "I can see them."

I follow her gaze to the valley below, where three mud-spattered ATVs are climbing the ridge trail. Armed figures in hunting gear move with the practiced efficiency of a military unit, their weapons at ready position.

They're too close. Too organized. This isn't a random patrol—they knew exactly where to look.

"Run," I tell Fiona, already feeling my control starting to slip. "Take Maisie and run. Now."

"I'm not leaving you—"

"Go!"

But even as I give the order, I know it's too late. The hunters are already within range, their vehicles blocking the escape routes. We're trapped on the ridge with nowhere to go but down.

My wolf makes the decision for me.