Awakening the Alpha

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Blaze Canis, shotgun unloaded and broken over his right arm, walked with the relaxed ease of someone used to a hunter’s stealth and patience. He was early for his job at Markell’s Shooting Range. It was located in West Yellowstone, not far from Montana’s west entrance to the popular national park. Many washings had faded his Wranglers, and his black Roper boots had lost their shine. He wore his blue denim shirt tucked in with the sleeves rolled to mid forearm. The bandanna tied around his neck was black. His shirt was snug over biceps, shoulders, and forearms.

Montana had few gun restrictions, but you did need a permit to carry them concealed on your person. In Yellowstone National Park, you needed a permit to carry them open or hidden. Blaze’s handguns were prominently displayed, holstered from his belt in back and on one hip.

“‘Mornin’, Blaze.” Tony Smith, the range’s owner, greeted him. “Helluva gorgeous day, isn’t it? You have ten signed up for your class. More’n we’ve had in an age. Word gets around that you’re good, you know.”

His thoughts on his class, Blaze nodded to acknowledge the welcome and the compliment, but out of habit didn’t stop to chat. If you had secrets to keep—and he had many—it was best if people didn’t know too much about you or get too close.

Pleasure threaded through him as he anticipated teaching others about something he loved. When he entered the range complex’s classroom, he opened the windows as wide as they would go and spread out a large plastic bag on a table in front of the class, covering it with several sheets of newspaper. It was his exhibit table. He laid down the shotgun, the semiautomatic pistol from his hip holster, and the revolver from his back belt there before fanning out the contents of a gun cleaning kit. To these he added safety glasses, brass cleaning brushes, and a pair of blue nitrile gloves to protect his skin from the cleaning solvent. Blaze completed his preparation by stacking boxes of new kits next to them.

Next, he put plastic bags on the tables for the class members and covered them with pages of newspapers. He was ready when the first student walked through the door.

As the students entered, he greeted each one at the door and ticked his name off a list. The nine men and a teen of eighteen chose seats behind the long tables and placed their guns and the other items they’d been instructed to bring on top of the layers of newspaper. Blaze closed the door and easily slid his right hip onto a stool behind the exhibit table, placing that foot on one of the rungs and the left foot on the floor. He leaned in a bit toward his students.

“My name is Blaze Canis. I was born in the Lamar Valley and have hunted in Yellowstone since I was eight. That’s when my dad first taught me how to handle a gun and hit targets. Since then, I’ve been shooting both professionally and for sport.”

The new-adult teen looked bored, and Blaze wondered why he’d come. At least he’d brought a revolver. He hoped the kid would become engaged in what he had to offer, because it was time he learned how to use and care for his weapon. It was obvious the older men were eager to learn about their firearms.

Blaze had them introduce themselves by first names before he continued. The eighteen-year-old was Skeeter.

The first topic was a discussion of different types of handguns. Each person told what kind he had and why he’d selected it, then Blaze took over from there.

“Before we begin, let me point out that the bison in the park are not buffalo. The only buffalo in the world are the water buffalo in Asia and the African, or Cape, buffalo. So why do Americans, including Native Americans, refer to them as buffalo? Early Europeans valued our bison hides, and we think the common usage of the wrong term dates back to the times when “buffe” or “buffle” referred to any animal that provided a good hide for buff leather. Today it’s defined as meaning buffalo.”

He pointed to a large, framed lithograph hanging on the wall behind him. It depicted men charging on horseback as they fired into a herd of bison. It was titled The s*******r.

“As you see, the litho portrays bison herds that originally roamed Yellowstone and the Great Plains as being decimated in the 1800s by white men firing rifles filled with black powder. It’s the weapons that interest us here. The residue left from that kind of powder not only gummed up a gun’s barrel, it ate through the metal if you left it on. To stop the powder from corroding the barrels, men learned to clean them immediately after they’d finished shooting for the day.”

Blaze slid off the stool and stood behind his display. “Today’s powder isn’t corrosive, but it still leaves a residue known as fouling that can cause a gun to be unreliable.” He pointed to his semiautomatic pistol as it lay on the table. “Someone tell us how this gun works, please.”

The dark-haired man named Logan answered. He sat with his tanned arms folded across his chest, leaning slightly back in his chair. His voice was well modulated and pleasant. “When you pull the trigger on a pistol, the gun fires the bullet and ejects its brass casing. The gasses from the firing cause the gun to pull a fresh cartridge from the magazine into the gun.”

“Exactly. How might fouling affect this weapon?”

Logan uncrossed his arms and sat up straight. Blaze could almost see him thinking during the pause before he said, “It could slow the slide. Maybe not feed in a new cartridge?”

Blaze nodded. “Right. Even if it does feed in a new one, it may not have ejected the fired bullet’s casing. In that case—” he brought his fists together and mimicked an explosion by throwing his curled fingers up wide “—that’s not a scenario I’d want to be in the next time I wanted to take a shot. Would you?”

The idea of a gun blowing apart in their hand and face sent a low rumble of agreement passing through the students.

“Is it the same for my revolver?” Logan asked.

“Good question. What do you think? Anyone else?”

Crofts, a rough-hewn guy in a plaid woolen shirt, answered this one. “Revolvers depend on the cylinder turning to the next loaded chamber to fire again. A clogged cylinder might be slow in turning.”

Wilson, whose blond hair was neatly combed and parted on one side, took this one. “If the cylinder ain’t turnin’ fast enough, a double-action trigger will be hard to pull, slow you down.”

“And then you’re dead, dude,” Skeeter said.

Ah, the teen had engaged, satisfying Canis that he was getting through to the kid. “Right on, Skeeter. I hope I’ve convinced everyone how important it is to clean your gun each time you’ve come to the range or fired it. Even if you only shoot a round or two. If you’ve cleaned a gun, stored it away, and haven’t used it for a long time, I suggest you clean it again before firing it.”

“What about rifles…and that?” Wilson pointed to Blaze’s shotgun.

“Glad you asked. Shotguns and rifles are the topic for another series of lessons. I’ll be teaching those next month.” As he said this, he had quietly opened his revolver, giving them a visual demonstration of the answer to the next question. “What’s the first step in cleaning your weapon?”

Only Logan was quick enough to have picked up on what Blaze was doing, and he laughed lightly as he eyed Blaze’s quick fingers and hands. “Make sure your gun isn’t loaded. Just the way you’re doing right now.”

“So I am. No sense in being dumb enough to handle a gun I think is empty and accidentally shoot myself in the foot or, heaven help me, in the balls, or somewhere else even more critical.”

The men laughed. Skeeter joined in.

Blaze removed his bandanna and folded it into a long length. “Skeeter, would you tie this blindfold around my eyes, please?”

He could sense the anticipation in the class as they waited, puzzled as to why this was part of the instruction. “Tight enough that I can’t see.”

As Blaze handed the dark cloth square to Skeeter, he saw pride flit across the young man’s face because he’d been the one asked to help. It was the kind of response Blaze had felt when his dad had involved him in the learning process when he was eight. He hoped it felt as encouraging to Skeeter as it had to him.

“That’s good. Nice ‘n’ tight. Thanks.” He heard and sensed the students gathering around his table as he broke down his gun and reassembled it. He broke it down again and reassembled it. Then repeated the motion one final time.

“In Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, and on every other military mission across the world, I stayed alive for twenty years because I knew every piece of every weapon I owned. I kept them clean and functioning even under the direst of circumstances. And in the dark.”

Someone showed how impressed he was with a low whistle.

Pulling down the bandanna to leave it hanging around his neck, Blaze said, “That was your homework assignment—I want you to be able to assemble your weapon blindfolded and in the dark. You ought to know the parts of your guns as well as you know the body of your lover.”

Skeeter choked. Someone pounded him on the back, and he waved him away. Face flushed with embarrassment, he said, “Choked on my own spit.”

Oh, I think everyone knows why you choked…We were all your age once, and thoughts of getting a little s*x dominated every waking moment of every day. They still do. But if you only knew the kind of lovers I think about, you might’ve strangled on your spit instead of only choking.

Blaze kept the smile he felt inside from reaching his face.

As he picked up the stack of small boxes on his table and handed them out, he said, “I’m giving each of you a ten-dollar cleaning kit you could buy in any shop selling gun supplies. They’re an inexpensive brand found almost anywhere in the US. As you become familiar with your gun, you may decide on a different brand of kit or wish to add some items, but for our purposes, these will do. They have all the basics.”

Walking around the room, he watched each student demonstrate he knew how to be sure his weapon was unloaded. Blaze corrected or helped when needed. Then he instructed them to tear their gun down, reassemble it, and repeat the process. Some were clumsy and slow, but Logan Rider’s long, slender fingers were nimble and sure.

As Blaze approached Logan, he noticed for the first time how his dark hair gleamed. It was long, pulled straight back, and fastened at the nape of his neck with an ornamented leather strip. Logan looked up to ask a question, and his eyes were dark brown pools in a face alive with interest.

Shoshone? At least something Native, judging from his distinctive facial structure and skin tone, Blaze thought. He only guessed Shoshone because historically they were nomads whose presence was noted in at least seven states. Considering this was Yellowstone country, the man’s heritage could be from any of at least nine Original American tribes known to have used the land, but among them, the Shoshone had left the greatest imprint, and made the best guess for Logan Rider.

Irritation tugged at him as he thought of how the US government had pretty much ignored the prehistoric and continued presence of Indians here until 2001, when the entry fee for the National Parks was waived only for affiliated tribes. It wasn’t enough to be Native American, your particular tribe or nation had to be affiliated with that park.

Amazing how slow governments could be, Blaze thought. Despite the fact that the only known attack on humans by wolves had happened in the Arctic, they had been killed off in the park largely due to the fears and ignorance of white people. No one stopped to consider they controlled the elk population by feeding on them. Once the wolves were gone, an explosion of elk almost destroyed the ecosystem by stripping it of the young, tender grasses, bushes, and trees they ate. Nothing was left to grow.

Hunters were sent in to cull the elk herds. Finally, some smart government woman or man realized wolves would do that naturally and in balance.

It fascinated Blaze the powers that be had chosen Canadian gray wolves and released them in the Lamar Valley to restock the park. Their ignorance was the irony here; gray wolves had never been extinct there. Although there hadn’t been enough of them to solve the ecosystem problem, they’d existed in a different, shifter form and had been clever in remaining hidden.

Pulling his thoughts back to what was happening in class, he continued with his lecture. “You may open your kits now and decide how each item is used. I’m glad you remembered my instructions to bring safety goggles, blue nitrile gloves, and a brass brush matching the bore of your gun.”

There was some discussion over the kit contents, and Blaze corrected any misconceptions over their use. Once they knew what to do, he let them begin cleaning, and soon the pungent smell of solvents and lubricants filled the room, even though the windows were open. This led to a discussion of the different brands of each and why they were used.

Skeeter frowned. “Pee-you!”

Blaze laughed. “You don’t like those smells? I find them pleasant. Maybe it’s because I like cleaning and caring for my weapons, love the feel of them in my hands.”

He didn’t mention he sometimes cleaned his guns, not because it was necessary, but because he enjoyed the task. It calmed him and helped him think clearly. He’d done a lot of thinking, made important decisions while involved in this chore.

The rumble of male voices as they kibitzed and laughed at their task reminded Blaze how much he missed the camaraderie among his former counterterrorism teammates. That life was over now he’d retired, and while this was a good thing, it didn’t erase missing his friends. There were times he felt so lonely, he thought he couldn’t stand it. He and his teammates had shared and spoken of harrowing, painful experiences they couldn’t talk—not ever talk—about with anyone else, not even lovers or spouses. You didn’t want to burden anyone else with the horrors of war.

He walked from student to student to offer help, to redirect and answer questions. Although intent on his students, he was alert, always aware with his superior hearing and vision of what was happening beyond the windows. Whenever possible and without conscious thought, he kept his back to a wall.

There were some habits so ingrained you didn’t—couldn’t—forget.

When the class ended, everyone removed the newspapers in front of him and stuffed them in a plastic bag Blaze held open. As they replaced those with fresh papers from a stack just inside the door, he said, “Take your cleaning rags home and wash them either by hand or alone in the washing machine before you discard or reuse them. They’re flammable.”

As soon as the students had packed up, ready to head for the door, he held up one hand, and they paused to listen. “Always consider a gun loaded even if you’ve just unloaded it. Mistakes happen, so never point the muzzle at anything you don’t intend to kill or m**m. That includes your own feet, and, most especially, your damn d**k. Remove the magazine from a pistol. Leave the first chamber empty when you load a revolver. That way, if you accidentally pull the trigger, no one and nothing gets hurt.”

Blaze appreciated the congratulations and thanks he received. “My pleasure. If you need help with your grip, stance, and aim, sign up in the office. That class will be held on the outdoor firing range.”

Logan was the last to leave, and Blaze was holstering his weapons when Logan approached.

“I haven’t had or used a gun since I was a boy, and this was a good refresher.”

“I wondered if that’s what it was for you…a refresher. You were quick to catch on.”

“I understand you give private shooting lessons.”

Blaze nodded. “I do. Hand and hunting guns.” He looked directly into the dark eyes, and, for one still moment in which the world seemed to stop spinning on its axis, he believed he gazed on the sacred heart of this man. It was a weird, almost fanciful feeling, one he’d never had before. Spooked by it, he dropped his gaze. “I’d be glad to help you. I’m not sure of my schedule for the next two weeks, but they’ll have it in the main office where you can sign up.”

Logan extended his hand.

Because of what had happened when their gazes met, Blaze hesitated a split second before extending his to shake. As soon as the smooth skin of the new man’s hand gripped his, his inner wolf paced restlessly. Blaze ended the shake fast. The touch had created a pain in his crotch and the urgent need to press his naked body to and rub his swollen, oozing c**k across that of the man before him.

He watched Logan leave, unable to avoid noting wide shoulders that tapered to a narrower waist and hips in just the right proportions. He turned away before he could take in the man’s ass. Instinct told him that might bring trouble he didn’t need. Just keeping his wolf shut down in this new experience took enough energy.

For most of his twenty-one years in the navy and as a Special Forces warrior, he’d had it under control, fighting the need to change, hunt, and howl during the three days of the full moon. Usually, he handled such urges when off-duty stateside by taking long runs as a human or riding his top-model Yamaha motorcycle and driving his sports car at lightning speeds until the moon waned and he was exhausted.

Unbeknownst to his teammates, on a few occasions he’d used his wolf to scout for his unit, especially when they didn’t have a K9 warrior with them. His nose was as sensitive to the scent of explosives and enemies as the best of the K9s. His ears heard what the ears of any other wolf or dog would. Dogs, after all, had developed from wolves, inheriting their keen hearing and unique, extensive scent abilities.

Most of the time he’d been able to override the powerful urge to shift with the moon because he was on a mission—maybe moving with stealth to rescue a hostage, perhaps engaged in a firefight, or traveling to another black op.

There was a night while on a rescue mission in Germany when his mood was such and the call to go wild so strong, he’d stopped resisting and let the change take him. That particular winter in Deutschland, when the moon had silvered the night, he’d shifted after racing in secret to the nearby woods. The silvery air was gray with fog, and soft white snowflakes coated his fur. He issued one triumphant howl to express the joy of being free to run and run. With his paws pounding over the quickly whitening soft loam and his lungs sucking in the cold, clean air, he was running full out when his nose caught a dangerous scent filtering through that of the trees and snow.

Bear.

Their team briefing had indicated there were no bears in Germany. Still, he was almost certain he smelled bear. Bears were the enemy. Wolves knew bears couldn’t be trusted not to kill and eat their pups. To protect them, wolves selected dens with entries too small for the big animals, but sometimes a bear would dig into the dens to reach the pups anyway.

Blaze’s wolf pulled up short, lifted his muzzle, and inhaled a long breath through his wide, sensitive nostrils, confirming what he’d thought he’d smelled. In an instant, he’d whirled and stood, legs wide, tail up, prepared to attack if necessary as he peered through the fog at the large black shape moving thirty yards away.

Crouching, he’d slunk deeper into the woods and lay belly down on the snow to watch.

The bear lumbered past, no longer swift or acutely aware, no doubt seeking a den because it was late in hunkering down to its seasonal somnolence.

The wolf relaxed and resumed his run after the predator was out of range of scent and sight.

Later, Blaze was watching TV news with his teammates when he learned that a bear had wandered in from a neighboring country. His wolf had stumbled on the only bear in all of Germany.

Blaze’s entire body shook with laughter.

“What’s so funny about a bear in Germany?” Nate Hallahan asked.

“Noth…nothing.” Blaze wiped tears from his eyes and doubled over to laugh again.

“Jeez, Canis, I think you’ve gone over the edge,” Jimmy Johns, his sniper partner, said before he began to laugh too.

Soon the entire team had joined him, proving the old idea that laughter was contagious. Even if you didn’t know what was funny.

Now, on the edge of the mighty Yellowstone, loneliness rolled through him at the loss of closeness to those men. He wondered where they were now and what mission they were completing. As Blaze looked out the window at the dense woods stretching into the park, he wondered if it had been a mistake to return here. He was more human than wolf now, yet every full moon of the six since his arrival, the deep green of the forest had called to him like a siren luring a sailor to his death. He’d resisted each time, but for how long?

He felt he stood on the edge of making a major decision for his life. Maybe he should leave this place of his roots. Buy a place in a city near the ocean. Southern California, maybe. Some SEAL teams were based on Coronado Island, next to San Diego, and any woods were miles and miles from salt water. It was something to think about. He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and left after locking and testing the door to confirm the room was secure.