After the encounter on Kian's boat, the feeling has intensified. I feel eyes on me wherever I go, see shadows that move just beyond my peripheral vision. It's the kind of surveillance that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Today has been worse than ever.
I start my patrol route, following the main streets through Stormhaven. The harbor sits quiet, boats bobbing gently in their moorings. The shops are closed, their windows dark. Everywhere I look, I see a picturesque fishing village settling in for the night.
But the prickling awareness at the base of my skull tells a different story.
I deviate from my usual route, taking a side street that winds between older buildings toward the eastern edge of the village. The narrow passage forces me to proceed carefully, with stone walls pressing close on either side. My hand rests on my weapon, trained reflexes keeping me alert for threats.
Movement ahead catches my eye. I spot a figure, silhouetted against the lighter darkness where the alley opens onto another street. Tall, broad-shouldered, probably male based on the build. He moves with purpose but not panic, glances back, sees me, and picks up his pace.
Every instinct I've honed over years of police work screams that this isn't coincidence. I pursue, maintaining enough distance to avoid escalating the situation while keeping him in sight. He takes turns through the warren of back streets,confident as only someone who knows exactly where he's going can.
The alley he ducks into is darker than the others, hemmed in by warehouses on both sides. I hesitate at the entrance, tactical awareness warring with the need to identify potential threats. This feels wrong, too convenient, too much like a trap.
But backing down now means losing whatever lead this might provide.
I enter the alley, weapon drawn, senses hyperalert. The figure I was following is nowhere in sight. The space ahead yawns empty, illuminated only by weak light filtering from distant street lamps.
They hit me from behind before I can react.
The first attacker drives into me like a freight train, slamming me against the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth. My weapon goes flying, skittering across the pavement into darkness. I twist, bringing my elbow up into soft tissue, hearing a grunt of pain that tells me the strike connected.
My training takes over. I drop low, sweeping the legs of the second attacker who comes at me from the left. He goes down hard, but the third is already on me, hands reaching for my throat.
These aren't random thugs. They move like trained operatives, coordinated and efficient.
The first one yanks me upright by my hair, slamming me back against the wall. His accent is thick, Eastern European. "You're going to answer our questions, Chief."
I spit blood from where I bit my tongue. "Go to hell."
His fist connects with my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. Pain explodes through my side.
The second attacker moves in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Who've you talked to in Glasgow? What did you report about the harbor?"
They don't want me dead, at least not yet. They want information first.
The third one circles, pulling a knife from his belt. He tests the edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. "The Prague journalist thought she was clever too. Thought she could investigate, gather evidence, expose us." He smiles, cold and practiced. "She screamed for three hours before we dumped her in the Vltava."
Ice floods my veins. There was another investigator, someone who tried to do exactly what I'm doing, someone they tortured and killed.
"Where are your files?" The first one tightens his grip on my hair, forcing my head back. "What have you documented? Who else knows?"
I wrench free from the first attacker's grip and drive my palm into the third attacker's nose, feeling cartilage crunch beneath the strike. He staggers back, blood streaming down his face, but the first one has recovered, coming at me again with a blade. I dodge, barely, feeling the whisper of steel pass centimeters from my ribs.
The second attacker catches my arm, twisting it behind my back with brutal efficiency. Pain shoots through my shoulder joint. "Tell us what we want to know, and it will be quick. Make us work for it, and you'll beg us to end it like the journalist did."
I'm outnumbered, outpositioned, and rapidly running out of options. My back hits the wall. They're spreading out, controlling the space, moving with the practiced coordination of men who have done this before.
All of them are trained. The first one's military precise, the second favoring his left side. The third keeps forward weight, boxer stance. Professional killers who extract information before they dispose of witnesses.
I prepare to fight to my last breath.
Thunder crashes through the alley.
Silver mist explodes from nowhere, filling the narrow space. The fog glows opalescent, lit from within. The attackers freeze, their confidence fracturing into visible confusion.
The mist swirls, coalescing and then dissipating in a heartbeat. Where empty air existed a second ago, a massive shape now stands before me... a tiger.
The beast is enormous, easily the size of a small car, with muscles rippling beneath orange and black striped fur. Its eyes glow, focused on the men who were seconds away from torturing me for information. The beast's lips pull back, revealing fangs the length of my fingers.
