Prisoner (Werewolf Marines) (24 page)

“DJ!” Echo vaulted over the top of the ridge
and landed beside him. Other than a tiny cut on her cheek, she
seemed unhurt. “Are you hit?”

“I think so. It was Guadalupe, right?”

Echo nodded. “I nailed her with the
tranquilizer gun. Let me see.”

DJ holstered the gun and tried to roll up his
sleeve. The wound or whatever it was throbbed fiercely when he
tried to push the cloth over it.

“I’ll get that.” Echo took the edge of his
sleeve and tore it all the way up to his shoulder, then ripped the
sleeve off entirely.

His upper arm was swollen and bruised, as if
someone had hit him with a baseball bat. DJ gingerly touched it,
then winced. “I think she tore out a chunk of muscle.”

“Ouch. Can you use your arm?”

DJ checked his range of motion. “Yeah. I’m
good to go.”

Echo nodded briskly, then picked up the radio
and gave a brief report. She clicked it off, then turned to DJ. “I
don’t think you should bear weight on it, though. I’m still taking
out Ty.”

“You got no argument there. Besides, I’ve
seen you climb now. Are you sure you’re not a gecko shifter?”

“I’m sure.” A beat later, Echo added, “But
maybe I’m a tree frog.”

She splayed out her fingers, frog-like, then
turned to climb back over the ridge.

DJ tapped her shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for
saving my life.”

She seemed taken aback. “Oh, I don’t think
she would’ve killed you. It looks like she was going for your
gun-hand.”

“I was already moving when I was hit. I think
she was aiming for center of mass.”

“Ugh.”

“My point exactly,” DJ said. “So thanks for
saving me from an incapacitating injury that would have needed
surgery, at the very least, and easily could have killed me. And
definitely would have been incredibly creepy and gross.”

Echo smiled. “You’re welcome.”

They collected Echo’s pack, then once again
set off toward the mesa where Ty was lurking.

DJ rotated his right shoulder every few
minutes, making sure he was still fit to throw a grenade. He was,
but it burned like a motherfucker. While they had tourniquets and
gauze soaked in quick-clotting chemicals, instant ice packs had
apparently been considered non-essential. So had painkillers. Next
time DJ would demand to carry both.

When they reached the fork, DJ expected Echo
to simply take off, as seemed to be her usual M.O. It was
frustrating, but he reminded himself that she was used to working
solo and she’d more than proven that he could count on her
anyway.

But she didn’t. Instead, she stopped and
examined him, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

“How’s your arm?” she asked at last.

“It hurts. But I can use it.” He made a mock
grenade throw, forcing himself not to wince. “Don’t worry, Echo. Ty
will never so much as glance in your direction. I’m on it.”

“I know.” A trickle of blood had dried along
her cheek, like the track of a tear. It looked black in the
moonlight. The color was leached from her eyes as well, leaving
them gray as fog. The exposed skin of her face and throat and
shoulders and arms glowed white.

DJ was beyond glad that he’d seen her climb
the rock formation, or he’d be panicking to think of her going up
against a man armed with a sniper rifle, wearing nothing but jeans
and a tank top. But she could climb like a gecko and leap like a
cat. She’d squared off with Guadalupe and walked away with nothing
but that tiny cut. He had to trust her preference for mobility over
protection.

She reached out to him, and for a surreal
second he thought she was going to touch his cheek. Then her hand
dropped low and she punched him lightly on the left shoulder.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said,
and took off. The last thing DJ saw as she vanished around the
corner was the pale glow of her tousled hair.

There was no way he could match both her
speed and stealth while he was weighed down with a pack and weapons
and body armor, so he opted for speed. If he wasn’t in place when
she signaled him to go with the flash-bangs, Echo just might decide
to start climbing without waiting for the diversion.

But apart from Ty, the only enemies left were
Amber and Match. DJ wasn’t too worried about either of them.
Amber’s power only worked within grappling range, and if she did
have a gun, he was running too fast to make an easy target. And
Match wasn’t dangerous to DJ at all: just an unusually intelligent
wolf.

DJ shuddered. Match wasn’t suffering, he
supposed. Dr. Semple had said he didn’t even remember being a man.
But what was it like for the other werewolves to be in the pack
sense with an animal? And what had it been like for Special Agent
O’Donnell to feel his humanity slipping away?

DJ forced his mind away from those thoughts.
They were distractions, like the pain in his arm. Non-essentials.
Dead weight. He focused on the thud of his feet against the ground
and the burn of air in his lungs and his senses spreading out like
a net of trip-wires, and lost himself in the eternal present of
combat.

He checked his location on the GPS, climbed
nearly to the top of the ridge, inserted the ballistic hearing
protection earplugs, and settled into a hollow to wait for his
signal. DJ crouched silent and still, breathing steadily, all
restlessness gone. He felt no pain, and his thoughts didn’t wander.
There was nothing on his mind but
wait.

The buzzer in his pocket vibrated. In a
single smooth movement, DJ activated the flash-bang, threw it as
far as he could over the ridge, and put his forearm over his eyes.
A second later, the crack sounded, shatteringly loud even with the
earplugs.

He kept throwing flash-bangs until the buzzer
went off again. Mission accomplished: Echo had taken out Ty. Echo
was alive.

Echo was alive.

DJ sat back down in the hollow and leaned his
forehead against the rough stone. All his senses came rushing back
into his consciousness. His ears rang, his back was coated with a
slippery film of sweat, and his arm throbbed with every beat of his
heart.

He removed and re-packed the earplugs, took
out the radio, and fumbled to call Echo. His right hand wasn’t
working too well, and between the pain and the aftermath of the
adrenaline rush, he felt a little shaky. He’d almost be glad to get
back to the lab. Dr. Semple could poke and prod him all she liked;
he’d be asleep the instant he got horizontal. An examination table
would do just fine.

“DJ here,” he said. “What’s your status?”

Echo’s voice crackled over the radio. “Ty’s
tranquilized. I can’t spot Amber or Match. Let’s meet up at the
fork and search for them.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be there.”

Before DJ could sign off, Echo asked, “How’s
your arm?”

“Still hurts,” DJ admitted. “And it’s blown
up like a fucking balloon. Guadalupe owes me big-time. DJ out.”

He clicked off the radio, packed his gear,
and hauled himself to his feet. This was the part that sucked, when
the adrenaline had worn off but the job wasn’t over yet. Once they
made contact with the enemy, the adrenaline would come back like an
old friend, and he’d be back in the zone. But until that moment,
he’d be worn out and unfocused and wishing it was over.

When you start fixating on how tired you
are, drink some water,
DJ remembered Roy telling him.
You’re
probably dehydrated.

DJ took out his canteen and drank. It did
make him feel marginally better. It also made him wish Roy was with
him. If Mr. Dowling had walked into Roy’s room and said, “You and
Torres are going on a mission, Farrell,” Roy undoubtedly would have
gotten off that fucking bed, put on his gear and SAW, and done his
job. And then maybe he’d have gone back to bed, but that still
would’ve been better than staring at the ceiling 24-7.

He drank again, wondering if he should
suggest that Mr. Dowling put Roy to work, if Mr. Dowling would
listen if he did, and whether that really would be an improvement
or whether that crew of fucking sadists would run with the idea in
a way that would make things even worse for Roy.

DJ felt a shove at the pack sense.

Match.

DJ’s shields had been up, but he’d recognized
that aggressive touch. His pain and weariness forgotten, DJ moved
to intercept the wolf.

He edged behind a boulder. DJ still couldn’t
see Match, but the wolf had to be picking his way through rocky
landscape.

Looking for me
, DJ thought.
Well,
not me specifically, just anyone to bite.

Match pushed at the pack sense again. Even
with his shields up, DJ got a suggestion of what the wolf
sought.

He
is
looking for me. Not me or
Echo. Just me.

DJ couldn’t help being curious. But if he
lowered his shields, he’d be overwhelmed, like he’d been in the
cafeteria. He remembered that agonizing grief, that hopeless rage
at a loss that could never be undone…

Could those feelings have come from Match? DJ
had assumed afterward, based on what Echo had told him, that they’d
belonged Emmett, who had lost his wife and daughter. Dr. Semple had
said that Match didn’t recall being human. But even if he didn’t
remember what he’d lost, maybe he remembered the loss itself.

There was only one way to find out.

DJ stepped out from behind the boulder. The
black wolf was silhouetted against a stark monolith of gray stone.
He didn’t run or attack, but watched DJ with eyes as yellow as the
moon.

Even your
nerves
don’t learn from
experience,
DJ thought.
I must be out of my mind.

He opened himself to the pack sense.

Grief and rage swept over him like a tsunami.
But this time DJ was prepared. He stood fast in the emotional tide,
letting it wash over him but not pull him under. He’d never
experienced anything like it before. The pack sense allowed wolves
to sense each other’s emotions; it didn’t transmit them like an
infectious disease. Even with an incompetent alpha, the pack sense
shouldn’t be that powerful…

“I’m a fucking idiot,” DJ said aloud.

Match’s ears flattened at the sound of his
voice. DJ shut up, but his thoughts raced. All the little mysteries
he hadn’t bothered to think about clicked into a unified whole.

Most werewolves only had their powers in
their human form, but Match had no human form. DJ had assumed that
meant he had no power. But he did. He could use the pack sense in
ways that not even an alpha could. He could contact wolves who
weren’t in his pack. And he could transmit his own emotions with
such force that wolves who
were
in his pack were driven out
of their minds.

That’s why the pack keeps going
berserk,
DJ thought.
It’s not that Emmett can’t control the
pack sense. It’s that he can’t control Match.

Emmett had to know what was going on. The
entire pack had to know. And they’d said nothing. Mr. Dowling
clearly had no idea, or he’d long since have killed Match…

…and that was undoubtedly why the pack had
kept it a secret.

DJ remembered Justin’s desperate grip on his
hand. Justin’s brown eyes, looking up at DJ with such trust that DJ
would save him. The electronic squeals of those fucking machines,
sending their useless alarms to alert everyone of what DJ already
knew.

Justin was dead because the pack of made
wolves had chosen to protect one of their own, at any cost.

DJ’s own anger and sadness threatened to
merge with the rage and grief in the pack sense. He pulled himself
back. That was undoubtedly how the other wolves had gotten sucked
into the whirlpool. But DJ wasn’t part of Match’s pack, and that
gave him distance.

He reached out to Match, trying to build a
wall between the wolf and his pain. An alpha could do that for any
wolf in their pack, but all adult wolves could shield the pack
pups. DJ gambled that being closer to a true wolf also meant being
closer to a very young pup. Neither could speak in words.

The emotional hurricane died down, but an
aching grief remained. It was true that Match didn’t remember that
he’d ever been human. But he knew that he’d lost everything he’d
ever cared about, everything that made him who he was, all the way
down to the knowledge of what it was that he’d lost.

From the memories Match was throwing at DJ,
it seemed like the pack had tried and tried to remind him. But
Match felt no connection to the images of the man whom DJ supposed
had been Special Agent Richard O’Donnell, only bafflement and
frustration at why the pack kept showing him irrelevant things
instead of giving him back what he’d lost. He was certain that he’d
know it if he saw it.

The joy of being a wolf was living completely
in the present moment. Match was the first wolf DJ had ever met who
didn’t live in the present, and so lacked that joy. He was forever
reaching back to a past and a self that he didn’t remember, without
even understanding what he was doing.

Along with the grief came a frustrated rage.
He needed his pack but hated them, too, for keeping him from what
he wanted most.

DJ sent him curiosity about what it was that
he wanted.

Match replied with a sense of an infinite
darkness, silent and peaceful and empty.

DJ pulled away from the pack sense. His head
hurt, his chest hurt, his arm really fucking hurt, and part of him
wished he hadn’t asked. If he didn’t know, then it wouldn’t be his
responsibility to do something about his knowledge.

If a member of the pack was wounded or sick
beyond hope of recovery, with nothing in their future but a painful
death, they had the right to ask their alpha for release. And the
alpha had the responsibility to end their suffering.

Admittedly, Match wasn’t dying. But he was
suffering as much and as hopelessly as if it was the olden days and
he’d been gored in the belly on a hunt.