A blinding light blazes across the screen, and all the feeds sputter with activity. Men in oil-stained overalls pull weapons from under workbenches and open fire, peppering the air with bullets.
I gasp and jerk back in my chair. Rickon squeezes my hand, and I cling to him as chaos breaks loose. Bursts of white and red light flash in rapid fire, and the feeds blur as the agents duck and run to subdue their attackers. Agent Leroy curls one hand into a fist, body tense as he watches.
A lump forms in my throat as one camera feed tilts and stops moving. This isn’t a movie filmed via careful special effects—the agents are real men, throwing themselves into danger to end crime.
I focus on my original camera choice, holding my breath as the agent checks the path around a scrap metal barrel, and then darts forward. He crashes into an attacker firing a rifle in another direction, knocking the camera and momentarily filling the view with blue cloth as they tussle. His fist descends, and the mechanic-turned-criminal goes limp.
Quick as a flash, our agent secures his opponent’s hands and feet with zip ties and surges forward, looking for the next threat. He ducks through a doorway into a short corridor, and when he glances over his shoulder, more agents follow on his tail, all grim-faced with weapons ready.
They surge into a storeroom stacked with car parts on tall shelves, and when they sweep the space, an agent points to a workbench angled away from the wall. Together they heave on it, and the whole bench and wall behind swings out, revealing stairs descending into darkness. The team switch on headlamps and swarm down the steps.
Beams of light pool on pallets stacked high with boxes and dozens of luggage bags in an assortment of sizes and styles. The agent sticks his hand in the top leather bag and pulls out a fistful of narrow glass cylinders, the oil within turning gold under his headlamp.
“Haze,” Callisto breathes out.
The hand in the image drops the capsules and spins as if interrupted. He runs until he reaches the other agents gathered in a second underground room. I gasp as their headlamps illuminate cages no bigger than dog crates with two naked men huddled inside.
Nausea burns up my throat as the captives snarl and throw themselves at the bars, frothing and scratching, wilder than Zack when I first met him. Scars riddle their emaciated frames, and chains dangle from their wrists, but most startling is the oily film glistening on their skin. Even at this distance, it feels familiar.
The light sweeps along the cages, revealing a third naked alpha at the far end. Instead of attacking the bars, the wildling shivers and thrusts slowly into a big body pillow. When he glances up, his glassy eyes can’t focus. He pants for breath and returns to his rut.
He slips in the oil and kneels up, revealing an IV line taped to his jaw and a long thin tube running over his shoulder and out past the bars.
I cover my mouth with my hands and moan, rocking in my chair.
I wasn’t the only one.
Chapter twenty-eight
Rickon
I pull my shivering omega onto my lap, and she buries her face in my shoulder. I don’t need an explanation to know she’s seeing herself in those poor, caged alphas. Callisto jumps to his feet and strides around the table, lodging himself at her back so we can sandwich her between us as we watch the sick nightmare playing out soundlessly at the head of the table.
Satisfied the captive alphas aren’t a threat for the moment, the agents on-screen sweep the room, revealing a laboratory complete with big refrigerators, science gear, and banks of computer towers.
Tears swim in my vision as they uncover a fourth alpha’s unconscious body hanging by the arms, his jaw and chest riddled with needle pricks. Callisto groans and swivels to stand between Red and the screens, in case she suddenly looks up.
My stomach lurches, and bile burns my throat. How can people be so cruel and selfish to treat other human beings like animals? The wars going on in the Isles, trafficking omegas,stripping alphas of their sanity. All of it. All disgusting. How does a person’s heart grow so stony? I dig my hands into Red protectively as my anger surges.
Callisto touches my hair lightly, and I flinch.
The room burns with a mix of dark scents, including my own. Guess I’m not the only pissed-off alpha in here. Red rubs her nose along my neck, and her tongue darts out, tasting my temper.
Leroy growls softly and slips his headset down onto his neck. “Well, that’s a factory for sure.” He points. “Well done, team.”
On the screen, an agent pries open a wooden crate, revealing five palm-sized clay balls just like the one that hit us on the courthouse steps. Another ball sits in two open halves on the workbench.
“If we’re lucky, that’s the first batch,” Leroy says, rubbing his chin.
Hopefully that’s the case and the answer to why the alpha bomb hasn’t been seen before . . . but that kind of “luck” does nothing for those poor men locked in tiny cages. My vision swims with tears and I stroke Red’s hair, trying to soothe both of us.
The head agent eyes my omega. “Will she be all right? Need a separate room or anything?”
I shake my head. “We’re fine for now.” How am I so sure? Because Red Jones is the most fucking resilient person I know. The faint bond between us quivers with her grief, but she hasn’t lost herself. No, I’m the one most likely to tip over the edge right now.
But as if he understands, Callisto slides the hand in my hair down to the back of my neck, holding me firmly.
“What happens now?” my best friend asks.
