“The wolf won’t injure Galahad if he doesn’t fight back.” Hell, what was going on now? Then a sickening notion swamped Ryan. If the wolf was Doc Mitchell, he’d left Carol unprotected.
Hating the wait and not knowing what was going on in the house, Carol clenched and unclenched her hands, watching the front door, the windows… the windows. She saw movement in one of them. A gray wolf. The smaller head indicated a female. She looked like she needed help and implored Carol to come to her. And then she disappeared beneath the window.
Was it a trick? Was Carol naïve to think the wolf needed her help?
She stayed put, waiting and observing the window. The wolf didn’t appear again, and Carol couldn’t stand the wait any longer. She wouldn’t go in the house, just peek through the window.
After a few minutes, she’d traversed the yard, reached the house, and peered in. A mother wolf nursed her pups, and another due to have hers any day now was sitting nearby. Sucking in her breath, Carol turned to look at the front door, still open. The door to the room was shut, and the she-wolves were confined. She was a nurse. She could aid them if they needed her help.
The she-wolves saw her, eyes widening. The one with the nursing pups remained relaxed on the floor. The other was panting hard. Was she going into labor?
She needed someone to be with her.
Carol walked carefully to the front door, not making a sound. Then she peered inside. Nothing—no voices, no footfalls, silent as a ghost house.
She stepped inside the house and listened again. One of the she-wolves whimpered. The mournful sound of her voice spurred Carol to action. She hurried to the room and gingerly opened the door. The she-wolf that was heavy with pups rushed toward her, and Carol had the sinking feeling she’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.
Ryan shoved the door to the cramped bedroom open as the man climbed out the window, and North jumped through the same opening in his wolf form. Ryan and Sam raced to the window as Tom ran beside them. A hundred yards from the house, Doc Mitchell had pinned Galahad to the ground. The man’s hands held onto the scruff of the wolf’s neck. Galahad’s eyes widened in terror as Doc pulled his lips back in a snarl and exposed his sharp teeth even more.
“Doc won’t hurt him, but this ends now. Drop the gun,” Ryan ordered Galahad’s brother.
As a wolf, Tom leapt through the open window, joining Ryan and eyeing North, who couldn’t seem able to decide what to do. The two reds found themselves facing a bigger gray wolf and Doc Mitchell, too, as he moved off Galahad and positioned himself to attack North. The other man finally seemed resigned and dropped his gun in the tall grass.
Something moved behind them, and Ryan whipped around to see Carol walking toward them, on the phone and with the very pregnant wolf and the nursing mother and her pups.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Lelandi, once we find the lab. Can your uncle take in some wayward reds? They have a couple of females, one with pups and another soon to have a litter. We need to have them transported to the vet clinic.”
Ryan shook his head at Carol. He didn’t think she’d ever mind him while he was trying to do his duty as her protector.
“What happened to sitting in the truck and waiting for us?”
“Two females needed my help. I never decline helping those who need it, you know. The female’s ready to have her pups. We need to get them to some place clean and safe.”
Galahad rose from the ground, and Doc Mitchell eyed him warily. Galahad turned to his brother with a look of regret.
“It’s over, Hank. It was a harebrained scheme to begin with.”
He spoke to Ryan. “The scientist’s name is Miller Redford, a red wolf who was turned a decade ago and joined our pack a year ago. He gives the impression he’s a mad scientist, but he’s very sane.”
Sam grunted.
“That’s debatable, considering what his meddling could cost our kind,” Ryan said. “Where is he?”
“In the basement,” Galahad replied, motioning to the house.
“Hell. Everyone stay put.”
Ryan headed for the open bedroom window, ready to end this now.
Ryan held his gun at the ready as he located a door off the kitchen that he’d assumed was a pantry. Without bothering with the light switch, he moved in the dark down the creaking stairs to the basement, where the walls smelled slightly moldy.
Light came from around the edges of a door, but when Ryan reached it, he found it locked. The blood thundering in his ears, he holstered his gun and used his lock picks. Once he heard the soft click, he put away his lock picks, pulled his gun out, steeled himself for trouble, and then twisted the door handle.
He expected to face a man armed with a syringe or a gun, but instead he saw a room exactly as Carol had described to him from the earlier vision. The wide-screen TV hanging on the wall was dark. Sconces hung on the walls and shot soft light upward toward the ceiling, showing off the gold walls. Leather chairs were companions to a leather sofa, and all were brand new, their leather fragrance permeating the air. Brown carpeting smelled new, too. No moldy odor down here, and the paint was fresh.
If he’d had any doubts about Carol’s psychic talents, this was proof she had them. The analytical part of his brain still fought with him, reminding him that she might have been here once before. But he shoved the notion aside. The chances she would ever have been here were miniscule at best. She truly was psychic.
A door off the living area was shut, and soft country western music played overhead. Ryan moved quickly across the carpeted floor. He twisted the handle. No resistance. Miller wasn’t expecting the troops. Or he was just plain crazy, despite what Hank had said.
Slowly, Ryan opened the door. Definitely a lab with tables and a couple of stools, a microscope, beakers, some jars filled with liquids, and others filled with powdery substances, as well as all-white, sterile-looking cabinets. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the air.
Something clinked in an adjoining room, and Ryan rushed through the open doorway. This room was smaller, set up like an office with books on shelves against one wall, a neat desk with all the papers stacked in a tray, and a toilet visible in another small room off this one. Next to a fridge, a coffeemaker, coffee mugs, and a microwave oven sat on a counter, and the aroma of cinnamon rolls permeated the air.
Miller hovered over the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. He wore a lab coat, black pants, and brown slippers. He was a husky man, a little over six feet tall and much taller than most reds.
Ryan had hoped he’d catch Miller off guard. And he had, but only for an instant. Miller whipped around, his bearded jaw dropping, his yellow eyes narrowed, and blond hair sweeping his shoulders. Miller threw the hot cup of coffee at Ryan, yanked off his lab coat to reveal his bare chest, and then kicked off his slippers and jerked off his pants.
Ignoring the burning-hot coffee soaking his shirt and chest, Ryan fired two rounds as Miller shifted and lunged at him. The bullets both struck the wolf’s chest, but because of his hefty size and the shot of adrenaline that had to be running through his system, the hits didn’t stop him for long.
Ryan holstered his gun and yanked off his clothes as quickly as he could, but Miller knocked him to the tile floor before he could shift. Miller growled, his teeth bared.
“You’re a dead man…” Ryan said with authority— although the wolf bearing down on his chest made his breathing labored—as he gripped Miller’s neck with every ounce of strength he possessed “…unless you give us the vaccine.”
Considering the fate they all faced, Ryan was sure Miller wouldn’t be allowed to live. He was too dangerous—and he knew it. Then again, Ryan was at a distinct disadvantage, and he imagined Miller must be laughing at his boastful threats.