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“Growing up, I was taught that a man has to defend his family. When the wolf is trying to get in, you gotta stand in the doorway.” — B. B. King

Axel

Trying not to attract attention, I let the huge former SEALs check in first. When they finish, Bear and I walk to the front desk.

“Sorry, no dogs allowed.” As the kid posing as a manager points to the sign behind him, I cross my arms, giving him my best don’t-fuck-with-me-face.

He at least has the brains to cringe at my scowl. “I’m a vet, and he’s my service dog. I called ahead. The person on the phone approved, provided I leave a deposit. If there’s a problem, I could ask Dr. Lewis at the camp next door to vouch for me.”

The teen pales. “N-no need. Sorry. It says here you’re having a bachelor party?”

“No, it’s a dad-chelor party.” I hand the kid two crisp twenty-dollar bills. “Our friend, Mr. Slate, is expecting his first child any day now. We’ll be up quite late but will try to keep down the noise. You’ll let me know if anyone complains?”

“Ah, yeah, sure. I put you all at the end of the building.” After the young man hands me my key, I whistle for Bear.

Ears perked, my dog follows me to room 218, then sits while I knock.

“It’s open.” At Slate’s familiar voice, I push the door, drop my bag next to the others, then squeeze between a double bed and a dresser to join the rest.

In the kitchenette, a twenty-seven-inch monitor rests on a round table. With the three chairs taken, I drop into the fourth while Slate points to an aerial image. “Our ladies are in this building, attending some kind of orientation meeting.”

Suds leans in, eyes widened. “Holy fuck, you hacked their surveillance drones?”

“No, it’s mine. Jack’s out there controlling it.” He sends a message from his keyboard, and the ghostly green night vision shifts to thermal sensing.

The walls of the structure glow yellow from the heat leaking out of the non-insulated interior. Through the roof, bodies sitting in a row radiate shades of orange. Some heads nod, and others tilt as they watch the speaker in the front of the room.

Occasionally, the presenter moves, leaving a streak of heat where he once stood. A couple of warmer blobs linger at the edges of the property, shifting their weight.

“Are the guards armed?” Pulse spiking, I count over a dozen splotches circling the compound.

“Yes, AR-15s.” Slate says this as if mentioning the time of day, allowing the data to sink in.

Meanwhile, Lucky whistles through his teeth. “Automatic rifles? Who’re they looking to kill? Wayward hair stylists?”

When Suds mutters something about danger magnets under his breath, I jump in. “It’s not Sam’s fault. None of us had a clue.”

The dad-to-be growls. “Enough. We can play the blame game later. What’s the fastest way to extract them?”

I’m a Fed. Why complicate things? “ How about I flash my FBI badge, and we walk them out?”

The Aussie bodyguard disagrees with a shake of his head. “They might hold our women as hostages, or worse, this could escalate into another Waco.”

A siege and standoff? I suppose it’s possible. While I stare at the monitor, the meeting ends. Soon after, our ladies’ heat signatures make their way up to their residence.

I count ten orange blotches in the first group, while ours has seven. By the time our spouses enter their weekend home, we all let out our collective breaths.

Wheels rubs his leg, then stands. “Fuck this. I want my wife out of there.”

Sud scratches the stubble on his chin and nods in agreement. “Y’all ready to go?”

Sensing the tension, Bear turns his head to me. The only one with a badge, the ultimate decision is mine. As I’m about to suggest we go bang on the front gate, our blobs leave the relative safety of their building. All the men groan as they bounce back down the hill toward the armed guards.

God help me. What are they up to now?