“You did great,” I said.
She squeezed my hand. “I felt… safe.”
That was the whole point.
We stepped out into the cold, the smell of barbecue clinging to our hair and clothes, the echo of laughter still ringing in our ears. The stars were bright in the night sky; sharp and blue against the black.
I took her hand and led her to the truck, the engine already running warm.
Inside, with the doors closed, I let myself smile.
Maybe I was still scared. Maybe tomorrow would rip it all away. But tonight, we’d had something close to perfect.
And it was enough.
Three giant monitors glowed on the wall above the whiteboard, and every square inch of table was covered in laptops, maps, open manila folders, and enough caffeine delivery systems to keep a battalion awake. The war room had been readied for us to learn all we could for our trip.
Most nights, the pack house had the low-key, lived-in comfort of any family home: dog hair on the rugs, mismatched mugs in the sink, a faint smell of Pine-Sol and bacon that never fully left the air. But on mission nights, the place vibrated at a different frequency. There was a ritual to it. Shoes left at the entry, phones in the Faraday box, everyone moving with a shared sense of urgency.
Harper entered ahead of me, her hand tight in mine. The mood in the war room was already serious: Bronc at the head, chair tilted back, arms crossed like a general waiting for battle; Juliet beside him, now in jeans and a faded “Cowgirl Up” tee that somehow made the bump of her pregnancy look dangerous. Wrecker and Parker flanked the screens, each with a laptop open and a stack of files between them. Doc and Big Papa had staked the side wall. Aspen sat with Oscar at her feet, a grimoire and a spiral-bound notepad in front of her. Gunner sat, boots up, chewing on a toothpick, eyes on the door.
We dropped into the two open chairs at the foot of the table, me on the end, Harper to my right. I scanned the room: all eyes forward, all business. The table was littered with enough weaponry—disassembled, legal, and less-than-legal—to make an ATF agent twitch.
Wrecker kicked things off. “Alright, ladies and wolves. We fly out at 0400. King Rafe made it happen: Instead of taking the Iron Valor jet; we’re going in his private Gulfstream out of Amarillo. We’ll land at Le Bourget–Seine-Saint-Denis and have customs help from Rafe’s witch Gwen.” He clicked the remote, and a map snapped onto the central monitor, a red line tracing the flight plan. “From there, Rafe’s men pick us up, get us into the city.”
Parker slid folders down the table, one for each person. “These are the files on our contacts in France, plus any known hostiles. All up to date as of four hours ago. I’ve burned theimportant stuff onto flash drives, too.” She handed Harper a folder and a small drive. Harper took them, knuckles white.
“Our targets,” Wrecker said, “are Harper’s sister, Brie, and her mom, Nanette. We believe they’re living under assumed names. At one point they had been in Montmartre where Brie was showing paintings under a fake name, but that had changed. Best guess, they’re moving as often as they think they need to.”
He pulled up a dossier. “Steiner’s got a Paris team. Muscle, not brains. They’ll likely try to snatch-and-grab, not subtle.”
“Any indication Harper’s mom has taken another mate?” Bronc asked, his eyes narrowed to slits.
Wrecker shook his head. “No, but she’s not above hiding in plain sight. If she did, it’d be a power move: tying her wagon to a Paris pack, maybe one of the old bloodlines.” He glanced at Harper. “Sorry, but we have to consider it.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight.
“Brie?” I said. “Any boyfriend, girlfriend, mate?”
Wrecker raised an eyebrow. “No mate on record, but she’s been seen with a couple of Parisian wolves. We don’t know if it’s social or if she’s in bed with them, but they’re definitely not human.”
“Shit,” I muttered.
Harper’s voice was thin. “Is that… is it dangerous?”
Parker shrugged. “Depends. Could be they’re protecting her. Or could be they’re the honey trap, holding her until Steiner pays up.”
Big Papa’s baritone rolled out. “Either way, we go in assuming they’re compromised. Trust nobody who ain’t on our payroll or in the pack.”
“Copy that,” I said.
Parker switched screens. “The other thing to know: Paris PD is on the take, and most French wolf packs play both sides. If wego loud, it’ll get ugly fast. If we go quiet, we might have a shot at pulling them out before anyone knows we’re there.”
Wrecker smirked. “But if it does go loud, I brought toys.” He slid a sheet across to me, a detailed checklist of hardware stashed with Rafe’s men at the airstrip. I read it, lips twitching.
“Nice,” I said. “But I’ll still bring my own.”
Doc piped up, quiet but firm. “Extraction plan?”
