Wolf Ranch Boxed Set - Books 4 - 6

Chapter 2

2

CLINT

Four months later

I sat on the edge of the motel bed to clean my gun and place the silver bullets in the chamber. There weren’t many Shifter Council enforcers, and we varied as much as the geography of the packs we were from. There were some enforcers who killed in shifter form. I preferred remaining in human form, the silver bullet from a gun my method of pack justice. I had no idea why—it just felt more civilized.

That didn’t mean I hadn’t killed with my bare hands. Or teeth.

I had.

But I hoped today I’d be able to use the bullet and keep justice as swift and painless as possible.

I holstered the gun under my arm and pulled a down jacket over my t-shirt to cover it. The moment I stepped outside the wind howled in my ears. Wyoming was f*****g windy in November. Hell, Wyoming was f*****g windy all the time, in my experience. November might still technically be fall, but it was cold as f**k and would stay that way until at least March.

This wasn’t my favorite place to be. I’d been tracking Jarod Jameson, the rogue shifter who was the infamous convenience store killer, across the state for twelve days now.

Unfortunately, I failed to stop him before he’d struck again last night in Gillette. Another convenience store worker had had his throat ripped out. The register had been emptied. The FBI were involved because the spree had crossed state lines, and I needed to put a lid on this thing ASAP.

The agency didn’t know s**t about shifters, and Jameson needed to be punished by shifter means. To be put down, so he wasn’t a threat to the shifter way. To humans.

Late last night, I’d slipped into the scene of the crime in wolf form to scent the place. I pushed past the bleach cleaner used on the floor and the fatty aroma of rotating hot dogs and picked up his scent. I knew it now and would know him when I found him. I didn’t need video surveillance or mug shots to identify the guy.

He was a wolf shifter, like me. Fucker. I hated when our species screwed things up in the shifter world. But it made him easier to find and execute. A wolf knew a wolf.

As an enforcer, I knew how to hunt a rogue one.

I’d seen no paw prints in the snow around the building, so I believed he traveled by car. I already knew from the security footage released to the public that he attacked in human form. He must partially shift to maul the workers. No human ripped out another’s throat.

Whatever the story, he had to be put down.

Today.

Before he hurt any more humans and exposed our kind to their law enforcement.

My theory was that he was into drugs. That’s why the wild, haphazard robberies and random killings, all at convenience stores. Whatever cocktail of narcotics he’d taken had made him crazed. Savage enough to kill innocent people trying hard to make a living.

Whatever his reasoning, it didn’t matter. The council had sent me to end him. We didn’t allow rogue shifters or human killing.

He might still be alive, but his life was forfeit.

I entered a diner and immediately caught the fucker’s scent. Luck was with me. Trouble was, he’d scent me, too. Know a shifter was close. After him. Getting away with a number of killings and staying off the radar of the FBI meant he wasn’t just rogue, he was smart.

I turned around and left. It was better to catch him outside and have the element of surprise on my hands. A bunch of diners as witnesses wouldn’t be good, either.

In the Wolf pack, only Rob knew I was an enforcer. Sure, the others knew of the role within the pack system, but our identities were secret. While everyone wanted to ensure pack safety and security, no one wanted to know they had an executioner in their pack.

Boyd and Colton had no idea. Neither did my brother, Rand, my parents or anyone else. To them, I worked the ranch. Handled the horses. Was our pack’s chosen delegate to the council. A simple cowboy living a simple rural life.

As f*****g if.

I walked through the dirt parking lot until I caught the faint scent again around an old Honda Civic. Great, now I had his car. I went back to my truck, parked facing the lot and diner but near the street and climbed in to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a guy moved toward the door, setting a toothpick between his teeth. Just because I’d scented him didn’t mean I didn’t have his photo. I did my job and did it well. Skipping something like being able to identify the rogue shifter by more than scent was plain stupid. My mind drifted back to that night months ago when I’d f****d the hot little number, Becky, in the storage room. I thought of that often, especially with my d**k in hand. I hadn’t been able to scent her then, and that had been a f*****g shame. I could only imagine what it would have been like if I’d had that sense at the time.

As the guy stopped in the middle of the parking lot to adjust his pants, I put a silencer on the pistol. The place was remote enough that if I could haul him around back, I could be done with this damn assignment.

I jogged toward the guy, his pasty face smudged with bacon grease.

“Jarod Jameson?” I asked, even as I got a whiff of him. I prodded him in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun through my coat pocket.

He started to snarl but then must’ve caught my shifter scent because he stiffened, and the metallic smell of fear issued from his body.

Be afraid, fucker.

I lifted my chin. “Walk around back.”

His movements were jerky as he obeyed, stepping around behind the diner. I prodded him to keep moving until we were all the way behind the dumpster. Glancing around, I confirmed we were alone.

“Jarod Jameson, you have violated shifter law, and the shifter council has deemed your life forfeited,” I recited.

Even though I held a gun to his back, he whirled and slashed me with a dagger, far faster than should have been possible, even for a shifter.

Holy f**k. I lurched back, but not before the tip skimmed across my ribs, cutting through my jacket, shirt and flesh. It shouldn’t have hurt all that much because it was a shallow graze across my ribs, but the gash immediately began to sizzle and pop, like the tip had been poisoned. Probably with silver.

Shit. It wasn’t going to kill me, but it was going to hurt like f**k. And slow me down. My body had to work hard to fight the poison, and that meant less healing properties and less focus.

I ignored the searing pain, trying to keep my vision clear.

This asshole had to die. And now. I swept my foot out and took him by surprise. Most shifters didn’t know martial arts—why would we need it when we can sprout fangs and rip someone’s throat out?

Jarod fell forward onto his hands, and I aimed carefully. One shot behind the left ear, and he dropped the rest of the way to the ground, dead.

I tucked the gun back in my pocket and walked around the far side of the diner—opposite of the way we’d arrived—to my truck.

It was for the safety of all shifters, I reminded myself, as I had every time I took a life. There were no shifter prisons. There was no other form of justice besides the council ruling and the enforcers meting out the appropriate punishment. Human justice was for just that: humans. If Jameson had been captured by the FBI, it wouldn’t have gone well. A shifter in prison? It wouldn’t hold him. He was a danger to the peacekeepers as much as the criminals. On top of that, it would result in our species being revealed.

I acted for all shifters only because someone had to. There were eight enforcers in all of North America. When there was a vacancy, it was filled. When I was nineteen, Rob had approached me, took me to the Shifter Council meeting and offered me the job.

Job. It was more of a role. Council enforcer. There were rules with the task. Secrecy. At the time, I’d been honored. My best friend had been alpha for three years and had authority. His brother had joined the Green Berets to fight for human lives. I’d been young and restless. Eager to prove my worth. I hadn’t even imagined the burden ending someone’s life would have. The secrecy of it. I did it because it had to be done. Jarod Jameson wouldn’t have stopped. And I’d rather it be me than some shifter with a taste for blood. Or someone like my younger brother, who couldn’t live with a tainted soul like mine.

I might come across as the quiet one. The peacemaker at the ranch. The calm cowboy.

Little did they f*****g know.

In the truck, I poured water over the wound, trying to wash away the silver dust or whatever the tip of the knife had been poisoned with.

The edges of the gash were already pulling away, angry and red, the opposite of how a shifter wound normally behaved.

Fuck.

It would heal, but it would take time. I’d have to hide it from my brother and the rest of the ranch hands. My parents. Even if I got gored by a f*****g bull like Boyd had, the wound would heal quickly. I couldn’t explain this one away.

Sighing, I started the truck and took off. My job was done. Five hours and I’d be back in Cooper Valley. I could report to Rob and glue the edges of the cut back together with superglue. Colton had said that was something humans did when in a situation where they couldn’t stitch a wound although I was sure no shifter had ever tried it. Or had need.

We had a doctor—Audrey—living right on the ranch, but I couldn’t even ask her for help. She might be able to stitch me up since the wound was behaving more like I was human than shifter, but she’d know something was up. Boyd’s wound from the bull goring had healed before her eyes. She’d seen a teenaged shifter get shot by that fucker Markle. She’d even helped a child at her own wedding reception to know shifters healed differently. She’d question this. Not even her mate knew my role with the council. Hell, I doubted she even knew there was something called an enforcer.

Thinking of the human doctor brought back thoughts of her friend, Becky, the lovely nurse I’d hooked up with at the bachelorette party.

As I drove north on the two-lane road, I imagined Becky’s nimble fingers sewing up my wound. Forget about the damn wound, I’d like to see those nimble fingers wrapped around my d**k again, tugging hard, asking for a hard f**k. But that wasn’t going to happen, and there were several good reasons why.

I sighed, wiping my face, then wincing as lifting my arm tugged on the oozing wound.

A male like me couldn’t mate. Not with the role of council enforcer. My job was my life, even if it was a secret. If anyone ever found out, I’d have assholes out for revenge climbing out of the woodwork. I’d heard enough about enforcers and how they were hated for serving justice so ruthlessly. And anonymously. My role was needed—and hated—among all species of shifters. Because of that, any mate of mine would never be safe.

Becky wasn’t mine. She never had been. My wolf didn’t recognize her as my mate. She was just a gorgeous human who’d gotten under my skin just as much as this poison in my side. It was taking a long time to heal from a quick encounter in a storage room.