A loud snarl came from behind her, and a glance nearly stopped her heart. One wolf had moved behind her, blocking her escape to the truck. She was completely surrounded. Her pulse beat a terrified tattoo in her throat as she gripped the butt of her gun, easing the weapon from the waist of her jeans.
Just then, the images of three of the wolves and the cat began to shimmer. Sort of like heat waves on hot pavement. Their bodies began to re-form, the fur retracting. Canine and feline limbs becoming arms and legs. What the shit? Staring, she told herself she was not seeing a group of sexy, naked men standing among the rest of the wolves and wearing a range of emotions on their faces, from amusement to grim resignation.
A dark-haired god of a man-wolf, whatever-strolled forward. "I'm Nick Westfall, commander of the Alpha Pack team. And you're in a shitload of trouble, Miss Chase."
How did he know her name? Rowan couldn't catch her breath to reply, even if she could've formed a response. Her vision blurred and the tough woman raised in an East L.A. barrio did something she'd never done in her life. Not even when she'd been informed of Micah's "death."
She fainted dead away.
Chapter Two
Rowan came awake with a start and blinked at her surroundings in confusion. Immediately her brain cataloged the soft, comfortable bed she was lying in, and the modestly furnished bedroom. For a few moments she struggled to make sense of where she was and why-and then the memory returned.
As she sat up, a slight pain lanced the back of her head and she winced, probing the area with her fingers. Under her hair at the back of her skull lurked a lump that throbbed when she pressed a little too hard, but it wasn't too bad. Anyhow, that seemed to be the least of her worries.
She'd come to this place-if she was indeed inside the compound-seeking answers about Micah and had seen... what, exactly? Then she'd fainted like a rookie observing her first autopsy. With her gun in hand.
Her gun that was now missing.
Looking to the nightstand, she reached out and opened the drawer. Empty, except for a sheet of paper typed with a list of what appeared to be phone extensions. Sliding the drawer shut, she took another survey of the room. Her purse rested on the top of the otherwise bare dresser. The black duffel bag she'd brought, stuffed with several changes of clothes and underwear, sat on the floor in front of it. She doubted very much that she'd find her weapon stashed in either one.
Pushing herself up from the bed, she wobbled over to investigate. The rest of her belongings seemed to be intact, but as expected, the gun was missing. That they'd taken it was no surprise, but being without protection was unsettling. Damn it, she felt naked without it.
Naked. Oh, God. She'd seen several wolves and a panther become hot men not wearing a stitch. Hadn't she? Or maybe everything she'd been through in the last few months had finally sent her over the edge. Bye-bye sanity, hello blissful insanity. Maybe she'd been institutionalized and this was her jail cell, disguised as a normal room. Any minute a nurse would be by with medication that would send her back to the land of happiness and light.
"Oh, good, you're awake!"
Turning, Rowan blinked at the attractive woman standing in the bedroom doorway wearing a white doctor's coat over a green blouse and black pants. "Shit, I did go crazy," she murmured.
"Excuse me?"
She waved a hand at the woman's attire. "Which are you, my nurse or my psychiatrist? Because I'm pretty sure I've suffered a break from reality and you're my keeper."
The brunette laughed good-naturedly, and pushed a lock of long, curly hair from her face, tucking it behind one ear. "I'm Dr. Mackenzie Grant, but no, I'm not your doctor, warden, or anything else. I'm just here to make sure you're all right. You took a nasty bump to your head when you passed out."
"Right. When I checked out because I saw... or thought I saw..." Frowning, she trailed off.
The doctor cleared her throat. "Yes, well. Nick will want to talk with you about that, I'm sure."
"Nick Westfall," she recalled. "Your commander."
"Not my commander, exactly, but yes. He's the head honcho around here. He leads the Alpha Pack team."
"Who are wolves and cats in disguise."
The other woman's gaze was sympathetic. "I'm sorry, I really can't talk about-"
Rowan gave a laugh that was half-hysterical, dripping with sarcasm. "Of course not."
"Nick will tell you everything he feels you need to know, but after that we can talk all you want."
The doc was loyal, at least. She could respect that. "When does he want to see me?"
"As soon as you're feeling up to it. I can take you to his office now if you'd like, Miss Chase."
"Call me Rowan. Wait, how did you know my name?" She cast a suspicious look at her purse. Had these people gone through her things?
"Nick told us."
That's right-Westfall had called her by name the moment they met. "And how did he know? Did someone alert him that I was on my way?" Rowan frowned. Dean wouldn't have betrayed her, she was certain. "Never mind. I'm sure that's another one of those things he'll have to tell me. And believe me, Dr. Grant, he'd better."
"Mackenzie or Mac is fine," the woman said amiably, ignoring Rowan's last remark. "Are you ready?"
"Sure, lead the way."
Glancing at her purse and bag again, she opted to leave them behind. She wasn't carrying much cash, and only a couple of credit cards. No, if these people had planned to keep her stuff they would've taken the rest along with her gun. She followed the doctor from the bedroom, through a furnished living room, to the door, and out into a carpeted hallway lined with more doors, all numbered. Quickening her pace, she fell into step beside the other woman.
"So, this area is what? Like a dorm?" she guessed.
Mackenzie nodded. "Yes, but unlike dorms, the residence wings are fully equipped apartments, and we aren't required to share quarters. Privacy is a highly valued commodity in a busy place where so many of us live and work, and it's usually in short supply."
"It's nicer than I expected," Rowan admitted, admiring the dark green carpet and cream-colored walls adorned with sconces that reminded her of the inside of a nice hotel. "On the drive here, I envisioned something much more stark and unfriendly. You know, what with it being a top secret compound and all that."
"Which begs the question of how you found out about us." The doc cut her a curious stare.
Rowan smirked. "I guess that's something your illustrious leader can tell you if he wants-after he and I have a little chat."
"Touche," Mackenzie said with a laugh.
As they walked, a glint of silver at the vee of the other woman's blouse caught Rowan's eye. A round disk about the size of a silver dollar hung there, suspended on a sturdy chain. It struck her as being a bit heavy, like a piece of jewelry more suited to a man. But what did she know? She was a cop, not a fashion critic.
"That's a gorgeous pendant," she said, waving a hand at the doc's chest.
Mackenzie started and glanced down at the item as though she'd forgotten it was there. "Thanks."
She peered closer. "Is that a... pentagram?"
"Yes, it is." But the doc didn't offer anything further.
Tough. Cops liked answers. "Cool. Are you Wiccan?"
"No." A hint of annoyance crept into the doc's tone, and her words became clipped as she tucked the disk under her blouse again. "The necklace was a gift."
Subject closed, at least for now. But Rowan sensed a story there and sooner or later she'd ferret out the mystery. Investigating, prying answers from people who didn't want to give them, was in her blood. For the time being, she let it go.
She had bigger fish to fry.
Mackenzie led her through a maze of corridors, and Rowan made sure to catalog every turn in her brain. The information would come in handy whether she stayed or had to get the fuck out of here fast.
Finally the doc halted in front of a closed door and nodded. "This is Nick's office. Don't be intimidated-he's not as mean as he looks."
"That's okay, because I'm meaner than I look." She wasn't kidding, but Mackenzie smiled anyway, giving Rowan's arm a squeeze.
"I'll check on you later."
"Thanks." Rowan watched the woman start back the way they'd come, then turned her attention to the door. Heaving a fortifying breath, she gave three sharp raps and waited until she heard the man's deep voice call out for her to come in before turning the knob and stepping inside.
The interior of Westfall's office was much the same as her room-comfortable but nothing too fancy. A big desk equipped with a laptop and a cordless phone fit the space nicely, leaving room for a couple of stuffed chairs across from it. But the man himself quickly captured her attention as he rose and offered her his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Miss Chase."
"Rowan, please."
"Nick." They shook hands and then he sat, gesturing for her to do the same.
"Who told you I was coming here?" she asked, careful not to sound defensive right off the bat. It wouldn't do to piss off the man who might have the answers she needed.
"No one." He held her gaze, his deep blue eyes seeming to look right into her soul.
She wondered what he saw there. "Then when I arrived, how did you know my name?"
The handsome dark-haired man appeared to consider his reply carefully before he finally spoke. "I'm a PreCog."
"Come again?"
"I'm a PreCog. I sometimes see events before they happen."
Rowan stared at him, wondering which one of them was nuts. Maybe Luis Garcia really had shot her and she was lying in some hospital in a coma, dreaming all of this.
She cleared her throat. "On top of being a wolf-man? Right. Sure you are. Listen, it doesn't make two shits to me who ratted me out or what delusions of grandeur you're suffering from. I just came here to-"
"Find out what happened to Micah," he interrupted softly.
That rattled her for a couple of seconds, but she shook it off. "Not impressed. I'm sure the person who told you I was coming also told you why." Leaning forward, she felt the slow boil of anger begin on hearing this stranger speak her brother's name in such a familiar way. Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair. "So let's just cut all the dancing around the subject. If Micah's alive, tell me where he is and why in God's name I was told he was dead. If he is dead, help me get his body home."
Those last words emerged from her lips as though she was being strangled, stopping short of uttering the inane phrase about needing closure. There would never be closure if Micah truly was gone, the bleeding hole in her heart never filled.
"It's not that simple."
Months of alternating between grief and frustration with getting the runaround had frazzled her temper, and it snapped. "What the hell do you mean? He's either dead or alive!" she shouted. "Which one is it?"
"I don't know!"
His thundering tone echoed in the enclosed space, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. She blinked at Nick's miserable expression, the slump of his big shoulders. "He's missing?"
"Off the record, yes."
"That Navy guy, General Jarrod Grant, said... The government lied to me," she whispered. "They said Micah was killed during training maneuvers and that his body couldn't be recovered. I buried an empty fucking box while that bastard Grant handed me an American flag and told me how sorry he was. And all the time I was grieving, my brother was out there somewhere, possibly alive, waiting to be rescued. Maybe still is."
The horrible reality blew her mind. The lack of her brother's body had disturbed her all along, and deep down she'd thought-prayed-that the report of his "death" had been a mistake. But to find out the whole thing was an outright lie? Rage churned, too big for her skin, threatening to tear her apart.