I didn’t ask how he’d known. Guys like my father always had a dozen places where they could lie low. If the empty beer bottles and food wrappers on the floor were any indication, this place was on more than one person’s list.
I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my eyes. “We’ve already told you everything about them. Twice.” The adrenaline had worn off ages ago. My nerves were frayed, my body ached, and I was hyperaware of the fact that each second we spent talking was a second Sinclair was probably hurting Kyle and Serena. “All we’re doing is wasting time.”
Eve shot me a warning look. We needed Hank—I knew that—but I was seriously starting to suspect that nothing we said or did would convince him to risk his neck or the pack.
Still, we had to try.
I steeled myself to describe the videos again, but Jason saved me. “Serena was hooked up to an IV in both clips. In the first, they broke her hand. In the second, they injected her with something. The way she reacted when she saw the needle”—he shook his head and a dark look passed through his eyes—“it wasn’t the first time. That’s it. They hurt her, then waited to see how long it took for her to lose control and shift.”
Hank twisted the silver ring on his right hand. “And she seemed more alert in the videos than when you saw her in the cell? More aware of her surroundings and what was going on?”
“Yes,” said Jason, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. Like me, his patience had worn thin, but he was doing a better job of keeping his emotions under the surface. It was like our normal roles had flipped. “Serena knew where she was and what was going on. In the cell, she was completely out of it. She recognized Mac—but only for a second.”
Hank turned his gaze on me. “Did she say anything to you?”
“This is such a waste of time,” I muttered, pushing my chair back and standing.
“Mackenzie . . .”
There was a small window across the room—a patch of bright blue against the dingy, decrepit kitchen. I walked to it and folded my arms over my chest. Eve had found me a clean shirt in the trunk of her car—a guy’s sweatshirt that was two sizes too big—but I was freezing. I stared at the abandoned trailer park without really seeing it. “She said something about how I wasn’t real. How we all kept coming for her, but none of us were ever real.” The words were a knife between my ribs. I pictured Serena waiting in that cell, praying we would come for her and eventually giving up hope.
“Nothing about Sinclair?” prodded Hank. “Nothing about what they were trying to do or if they had succeeded?”
“Nothing.” Tears blurred the scene outside the window, and I hastily brushed them away. Hank had always said crying was for the weak; I was certain he wouldn’t appreciate it now.
I turned and leaned against the windowsill. “What does it matter? We know Sinclair’s trying to cure wolves. Obviously, she hasn’t been successful.”
The blue in Hank’s eyes—normally so flat and empty—darkened and swirled. “What makes you so sure?”
Eve leaned forward with a frown. “What do you mean?”
Hank continued to stare at me. “I mean maybe their cure is working exactly as intended.”
I shook my head. “No. No way.” I flashed back on Serena’s face as Kyle hauled her away from Jason. It had been twisted and bloodthirsty. Almost unrecognizable. “She was more violent, not less.”
“Did she shift?”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. It was Jason who answered. “No.”
Hank gestured at Jason’s neck and I knew what was coming. After all, hadn’t I thought the same thing? “Why didn’t she break your neck? Whatever they did kept your friend from shifting or using her full strength.”
“Maybe part of her was still in enough control to hold back,” I countered, trying not to look at the bruises on Jason’s skin. “But even if they did find a way to keep her from shifting, it’s a complete failure as a cure. It made her crazy and violent, not better.”
“What makes you think this was ever about making wolves better?” asked Hank.
All three of us stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“It has to be about making wolves better,” said Eve. “What good is a cure, otherwise?”
“What would you rather deal with?” Hank asked her. “Three hundred people in straitjackets who could be contained or three hundred wolves who were each capable of tearing your throat out the second you let down your guard?”
I glanced at Jason as a horrible feeling of coldness spread through my chest. The idea that Serena could be considered a success—that what had happened to her might be the end goal rather than a horrible, unexpected side effect—wasn’t just immoral or sickening. It was evil.
“If the change was permanent,” continued Hank, “you wouldn’t need rehabilitation camps anymore. If wolves can’t shift, they can’t infect. You could put them in hospitals and mental wards with reg patients.”
Permanent. The room dimmed around the edges as Jason stood and came to my side. “But wolves can heal almost anything.” A high, panicked note entered my voice. “Once we get Serena away from that place—”
The screech of metal against linoleum cut me off as Eve pushed her chair back and surged to her feet. “Dex is in the sanatorium and there are dozens of Eumon in the camp.” She leaned forward and gripped the table. “Curtis, you have to do something. If you don’t . . .”
“Do you hear that?” muttered Jason, gently nudging me away from the window.
I edged over, barely registering his words. I was too focused on my father and Eve. A week ago she had worshipped him; now she stared at him as though desperately hoping he could be the man she once thought he was.
She swallowed. “Please, Curtis.”
“Mac . . .” Jason tugged on my sleeve.
Annoyed, I opened my mouth to ask what was so important, but then I heard it: engines. What sounded like an entire caravan. I spun to the window just in time to see the dust kick up as dozens of cars and motorcycles flooded the park.
“The pack?” I turned and stared at my father. Jason and I had driven to the trailer with Eve, but Hank had followed in his own truck. “You called them before we got here. You already made the decision to hit the camp.” My voice was soft, wondering. I was used to people surprising me, but the surprises were rarely good.
The slam of car doors filled the air as Hank met my gaze. “Sinclair brought the fight to me when she tried to kill you and frame my pack. Even if she hadn’t, what she’s doing at Thornhill is too dangerous to go unchecked.”
He stood and headed for the door.
“Thank you,” I said, throat tight, as he reached for the handle. “Thank you for helping us.”
Hank pushed open the door. “Not necessary. But there is no ‘us,’ Mackenzie. You’re staying here.”
In an old, cobweb-filled community center in the middle of the park, twenty werewolves—along with Jason and me—had gathered to plan a mass prison break. After four hours, three arguments, and one fistfight, we had come up with something that might work. If we were lucky.
I tried not to think about how seldom luck had been on my side.
Hank hadn’t wanted me at the meeting—as far as he was concerned, the less I was involved, the better—but I had seen parts of Thornhill Eve had never gotten near. Jason could have filled in those blanks, but Hank didn’t entirely trust him and the other wolves didn’t trust him at all.
Unfortunately—at least from their perspective—they needed him.
Jason had managed to memorize an incredible amount of information about Thornhill’s security systems and protocols during his short time behind the gates. Guard rotations, the number of staff who carried HFDs, even how and under what circumstances the camp would contact the LSRB for help—all details the wolves needed to strengthen their strategy.