The RCMP Versus the Polar Bears
Leif sped home, driving with fast competence along the graded roads.
Someone had shot at Fiona.
He’d go back later and check for tracks and the scent trail, but right now they should get Fiona to safety and check on Runt’s wound.
Someone fired at Fiona.
Disbelief rattled through his mind, bringing every protective bear instinct roaring to life.
His blood pumped through his veins faster than normal, and his bear grumbled in alarm and anger. Someone had threatened their mate. His baby brother.
No one fired shots around the town. It was illegal, and he intended to file a report. “Kirk, do you have your phone? Ring the RCMP and report the shooting.”
“But the humans—”
“The shooter fired at Fiona. She is a human. At the very least, the shooting will be on record, even if they refuse to do anything to find the idiot who shot at Fiona and Runt,” Leif snapped.
By the time Kirk made the call, they’d arrived at their warehouse. Leif jumped from the vehicle and used his bear instincts to scan for danger. Nothing struck him as out of place.
“Let’s move,” he ordered.
“The officers are on their way to interview us,” Kirk said, ending his call. “Two of them are coming, and they made a point of telling me they expected cooperation and calm.”
“Idiots,” Fiona snapped. “Help Stig inside. I’ll get my camera. We’ll photograph his coat and injury.”
A siren sounded in the distance, rapidly speeding closer.
“That was quick,” Josef said. “I’ll wait for them.”
“Call me if they need reassurance,” Fiona commanded, punctuating this with a hard stare. “We need to work together and alleviate their suspicions.”
“That will not stop me from checking the scent trail,” Leif replied, his bear chuffing with approval of their mate’s calm head.
“I’d expect nothing less from my men,” Fiona said with a decisive nod. “Right, Stig. Upstairs. Let’s see the damage.”
As promised, Fiona photographed the rip in Runt’s jacket plus the angry red furrow on his biceps. Thanks to his bear genes, the bleeding had stopped.
The siren ceased outside their warehouse as the RCMP Ford parked. Leif heard Josef’s low murmur.
“Up here, officers,” Fiona called. “We’re checking and photographing Stig’s injury.”
The two humans climbed the stairs, eyes darting left and right, assessing the situation for danger. One—Corporal Jager and head of the detachment—was big and grizzled in his blue uniform jacket, his face lined from years spent outdoors in the elements. A muskrat fur hat covered his head. The other—Officer Robinson—was tall and thin and twitchy enough to make his Gore-Tex patrol jacket rustle. His fingers flexed often as if he wanted to reach for his weapon.
Leif sent his brothers a warning glance, and they each took a step back. They didn’t need a trigger-happy officer to add to the excitement.
“Thank you from coming so quickly,” Fiona said. “This is what the bullet did. The shooter might have killed us.”
“Which direction did the shot come from?” the corporal asked.
“We came out of Gypsy’s,” Stig answered. “We’d parked our vehicle right outside. The shot came from our right. At least I think it did. The report echoed. I saw no one.”
“I didn’t either,” Fiona said. “It happened so fast.”
“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Swenson?”
Arve grunted and Leif didn’t blame him.
