Sherra ignored Kane’s sneer. She had been doing that for two days now.

“We have other problems here,” Samuel Tyler spoke up, distracting brotherly and fatherly outrage.

“Let’s get our priorities straight and go from there. Four hours till the press shows, we have plenty of work to do.”


“Wayne Dubrow, reporting from Washington at the Senate hearings on DNA engineering and research. Callan Lyons, the alleged Breed, created by a group of scientists working in genetic reengineering appeared before the Senate committee this afternoon on genetic research. Accompanying him is his fiancé, Merinus Tyler, daughter of John Tyler of the National Forum. Also accompanying him are a dozen doctors, scientists and DNA specialists brought in weeks before to verify his claim. Mr. Lyons, and four other members of his family, also experiments in these horrific tests, gave their stirring testimony before members of the Senate and the press.”

The reporter stood stately, somberly before the Senate Building, his voice rough, emotionally charged as he detailed the testimonies given, especially those of the two young women. The world was held spellbound by the beauty of the quiet blonde, the shy, fearful frailty of the golden brunette. But it was the men, their faces perfection in male curves and angles that struck them with the truth of the story being told.

Callan Lyons, the head of the family, proud and striking, his amber eyes direct and straightforward as he informed the Senators and various lawmakers of the horrors he had endured. The deaths, the cruelties, the identities of mercenaries, soldiers, billionaire, political and public figures involved. Those political figures were noticeably absent from the hearings.

Scientists spoke, among them, Dr. Martin, the DNA specialist who had treated each member since birth and followed after their daring escape and the death of his own family. The Tyler’s weren’t unarmed themselves. Years of research and evidence had been gathered. No stone left unturned. The story was horrific, moving, garnering international sympathy and support for the proud members who had fought their lives for peace.

Deep in the African jungle, a satellite link pulling in the story, a couple sat silently watching. The male, an older version of Callan by several years, was quiet, tense. The woman, a small dark haired doctor wept silently. Their story was being told. This male, Callan Lyons, had been victorious where they had not. They clasped hands, and the male, Leo Vanderale, knew that they would be making their own journey soon, and with them would go the son they had borne thirty years before. Perhaps their son would finally be free of the past then, and the danger they had hidden from him for so long.

Deep in the mountains of Mexico a different scenario was taking place. Mexican and U.S. agents were swarming a hidden lab, fire erupted as scientists attempted to destroy evidence and lives as they were overtaken. Babies cried, their mewling sounds both human and animal, adult members of the experiments snatched their children in the commotion and ran for cover. Fighting their way through smoke and ash to avoid the agents attempting to round them up, the soldiers attempting to kill them. Hard gray eyes surveyed the scene as half a dozen men and women, and four children escaped the mass destruction. He followed them quickly, his Pack could hide for as long as needed. He would be damned if he would let them be rounded up like animals.


General Morris Goveny stood over the still form of his security officer. Agents covered him, guns trained on him, the hard eyes of Mexican and American officials condemning him. He was the pride of the Genetics Council, his lab supposedly the most secret, the wolf hybrids they had bred the most exceptional specimens yet. And it was all falling down around his ears. His security officer had been shot by the bastards storming the labs, his head doctor had deserted the labs at the first round of gunfire. The General considered himself much smarter. He raised his hands above his shoulders, staring back at the condemning expressions of those who had come for him.

“They’re animals. Tools and nothing more,” he muttered as the television droned behind him, the reporter listing the traits of what he called Human Genetic Hybrids. “They aren’t human. Not really.”

Not humans, animals, created to serve, to obey dictates of their masters. His eyes narrowed on the bank of monitors by the television as he glimpsed the jeeps racing from the compound. Of course, they had escaped. His creations, his pets. For the moment he was defeated, but he swore the day would come when they would pay.

“General Goveny, you are under arrest.” A tall American official stepped forward decisively. Goveny’s lips twisted as he sneered at the censure he glimpsed in the other man’s gaze.

“You will learn, they are not society’s pets,” he bit out. “They are animals. Savage, inhuman. They must be trained, confined…”

“You, Sir, will be the one confined.” Cuffs snapped over his wrists. “Due to your criminal disregard and insane orders, the Labs are destroyed, as well as everyone in them. Your breeds are dead, but I promise you, you’ll pay for the crime of their birth.”

He hid his smile. He hid his plans. They weren’t dead. But he promised himself that they would soon wish they were.

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