Page 65

“My pack is small,” he admitted. “We aren’t one of the big and powerful packs.

The last word we got was that my cousin had ventured over into Toronto-Ottawa territory to the north.

No way in hell my alpha would want to go up there and step on toes.

I’ve heard the T.O. alpha is pretty cool, but my pack doesn’t want to stir the pot. I need help.”

Something about the story tugged at the back of my mind, though I couldn’t quite place where.

Too much had happened in the last three days for me to think straight.

Plus, there was no way I’d be going back into the Toronto-Ottawa pack lands.

Not with Cameron there. Not until I had my head on straight.

I took another swig of beer, then shook my head. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

The guy hung his head in defeat, but instead of looking upset, he pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and held it out to me. I didn’t move to take it. Instead, I simply stared at the little rectangle of paper.

“The fuck is that?” I asked.

“My card,” he said. “In case you change your mind. I can pay. Name your price. My name’s Mitch Gagnon.”

I stared at the card for a few more seconds before taking it. I wasn’t going to take the job, but I might need a contact in the future. If the guy was serious about paying good money, he might be a source for work later on.

“I’ll hang on to this,” I said, tucking the card into my jeans pocket without looking at it. “But I’m probably not your guy.”

Mitch leaned back, holding his hands up in surrender. “I get it, but think about it, okay? I’d really like to find him safe. Again, I’ll pay well.”

Ignoring him, I waved at the bartender, making sure he saw the money I slapped on the table. He nodded, and I stood, draining the last of my beer.

“You take it easy, pal,” I said to Mitch as I headed for the door.

That was not nearly as relaxing as I’d hoped it would be.

Leaving the bar, I stepped out into the fresh air again.

The rain had slackened to a light drizzle.

Everything had a fresh, clean scent to it, the sky having washed the dirt and grime from every inch of the world.

Too bad it couldn’t wash away my thoughts and regrets.

Halfway back to my motel room, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, though it had a Toronto area code. I stared at it for a few seconds, debating whether to answer it. Maybe it was Ollie calling to let me know he’d gotten Cameron safely delivered to the pack.

“Hello, Nate speaking,” I said as I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Nate Zane?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

A chill went up my spine. Who the hell was this?

“That’s me. Who’s this?”

“My name is JC Watts, I’m alpha of Toronto and Ottawa,” the man said.

A bolt of surprise shot through me. Why the hell was he calling me? Had Ollie and Cameron already spoken to him? Already tried to get a good word in? No, that couldn’t be it. There was no way they could have gotten to him yet. This must be about something else.

“I know who you are,” I said. “Want to tell me why you’re calling me?”

“I need you to get your ass to the shifter clinic in Toronto. It’s about five kilometers outside the city limits?—”

“I know where it is,” I said, fear suddenly boiling up inside my stomach. “What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s Ollie,” JC said. “He’s been hurt. Head injury, probably broken ribs, too. He’s banged up pretty bad, but not the worst I’ve seen.”

My breath was coming in quick hisses, and my fingers ached as I clenched the phone. Not good. A car crash, maybe? The rain had been bad. It was possible he’d hydroplaned or something.

“Cameron?” I asked, terror seizing my heart. “What about her? Cameron Torres. Ollie was bringing her to you. Is she all right?”

There was a short pause, and in that span of seconds, I already knew I wouldn’t like the answer.

“She’s missing. I spoke to her for a few seconds right after the attack, but she was nowhere to be seen when we found Ollie. His truck looked like it had been through a war zone. Nate, Ollie says you’re the best goddamned tracker he’s ever known. We need you here to help us look for her.”

“Attack? What do you mean, attack? Tell me what the fuck’s going on.” I gripped the phone so hard, I thought the screen might crack.

Every thought I’d had about talking myself out of joining the pack vanished.

There were bigger things at stake here than my feelings or my future.

Cameron was in trouble. I had to save her.

I would save her. Another voice deep in my mind muttered to me that I needed to get my ass in gear and get to that clinic. I was pretty sure it came from my wolf.

“I’m on my way,” I said, running to my room, boots splashing in puddles as I went.

“How far out are you?” JC asked.

If I drove like a normal person, it would take me at least two hours. If I drove like a madman?

“I’ll be there in less than an hour,” I said, then ended the call.

Above me, the clouds parted, and the sun reappeared. By the time I rushed out of my room and shoved my belongings into the saddlebags, the puddles were steaming.

When I took off, the highway was well on its way to drying out. Good. I slammed the throttle of the bike and rocketed down the road, the speedometer cranking higher as I went. I watched it mark one hundred kilometers per hour, then one-fifty, and finally settling in at two hundred.

My bike flew down the road, passing cars like they were standing still.

The entire time, my mind was on Cameron.

As each mile clicked by, I cursed myself again and again for leaving her.

As angry and hurt as I’d been, I should have ensured she made it to the pack before running off like a pissed-off child.

When I arrived at the clinic an hour later, I’d worked myself into a full panic. The clinic looked nothing like it usually did. In the past, the nondescript building had appeared to be nothing but an office, and humans had no clue it was a hospital for shifters.

When I pulled into the parking lot, it was full of cars, trucks, bikes, and SUVs. People milled about, looking tense and worried. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

“Hang on, buddy,” a big shifter with tattoos winding around his arms and neck said as I slammed my kickstand down. “Clinic is closed.”

“I’m here to see JC,” I snarled, getting off my bike.

The guy put a hand on my chest and shook his head. “Nuh-uh, my man. No one gets in without the boss’s say so.”

My hand curled into a fist, and I was seconds away from slamming it into the prick’s face when a voice called out from behind.

“Let him through, Maurice.”

Me and the big guy turned to see a young man standing at the clinic’s open door. He was young, maybe early- to mid-twenties, with a strong, muscular physique. A thick, blond beard covered most of his face. In contrast, his head was shaved. He looked like a cross between a Viking and a marine.

I glanced back at the guy who’d blocked my way and slapped his hand away from my chest. “Yeah, Maurice . Let me through.”

Frowning, the guy backed away, and I hurried to the door.

“I’m JC,” the bearded guy said. “We spoke earlier.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I snapped. “Where’s Ollie? What do we know about Cameron?”

If JC was taken aback or insulted by my aggressive questioning, he didn’t show it.

All he did was nod and gesture for me to follow him.

He led me past the check-in area, which was as generic as anything you could possibly imagine—a single desk with a laminate counter.

Nothing about the room signaled that it was a medical facility.

Once we passed the foyer, however, it looked more and more like a hospital.

Exam rooms with privacy curtains, triage areas, even a few small rooms with private doors for overnight and extended-stay patients.

A door at the far end of the hall had the word “Emergency” written on it in bold red letters.

“Where the hell is Ollie?” I demanded.

“Through this room,” JC said, pointing at the emergency room door. “He only got here about fifteen minutes ago. We had to get our team out to find him, and even then, he wouldn’t go until he spent ten or fifteen minutes trying to track down Cameron. The guy’s a hard ass, for sure.”

JC led me to the back of the room and pulled a curtain aside. Ollie lay on the hospital bed, shirtless and grimacing in pain. A doctor bent low over him, securing a bandage around his ribs. A heavy bruise covered most of his side.

My friend glanced up at us and raised his hand in a weak wave. “Hey, buddy. Didn’t think I’d see you so soon— fuck , Doc, be careful,” Ollie hissed.

“Got it,” the doctor said as he finished attaching the tail end of the wrapping.

“Holy shit, that hurts,” Ollie grunted. “I’m sorry, Nate. I tried. I really did.”

I’d never seen him look so miserable.

“What the hell happened, Ollie?” I asked.

Ollie sighed and winced. “We were on our way out. Maybe half an hour from the campground. Came across a car blocking the outgoing lane. This rich prick jumped us, crashed straight through the driver-side window, and damn near tore my throat out. During the fight, he busted the shit out of my head and knocked me out. He almost had Cameron by the time I came around. We fought. He kicked me in the ribs and broke about three of them.”

“Jesus,” JC muttered under his breath. “And you’re sure it was Rick Masters?”

“One hundred percent,” Ollie said. “He took off into the woods. I chased after him. The guy must have doubled back, though. I couldn’t run as fast as I wanted to because of my ribs.”

“They’ll be pretty much totally healed by tomorrow at the latest,” the doc said. “The bandage is just to keep them secure until then. Mr. Vickers here also suffered a severe concussion, but his shifter healing will negate any long-term effects.”

“Ollie, I’m glad you’re safe,” I said. “But do we have any leads on Cameron?”