By the time dawn touches the horizon, the warehouse looks like a war zone where Russian mob factions killed each other over territory disputes. Dimitri lies where he fell, surrounded by his own guards, victims of the violence he orchestrated for years before it finally consumed him.
We leave Catriona's documentation of the artifacts intact. What she gathered remains viable for her case against their trafficking network. But every trace of our involvement vanishes like we were never there.
Three selkies saved. Three more reasons the syndicate wants me dead.
The threat remains unspoken but clear. They know about her, know what she means to me even if I haven't admitted it to myself yet, know exactly how to force cooperation from a tiger shifter who's spent years fighting them from the inside.
My phone stays silent in my pocket as we finish cleanup. Dawn's coming. The syndicate's investigator is coming. And at a safe house on Skara's coast, the syndicate has turned Catriona into leverage they'll use against the brotherhood.
The message burns in my memory like a brand:We should talk about mutual interests.
CHAPTER 13
CATRIONA
Morning light spills through the east-facing windows in shades that feel too bright for what happened last night. I stand at the kitchen counter nursing cold tea while exhaustion drags at my bones and adrenaline crash leaves my hands shaking against ceramic.
I watched Kian kill six men, watched him transform into a tiger in silver mist and thunder, watched him tear through Russian mob enforcers like they were nothing more than prey. The brotherhood executed a rescue operation that saved three selkies while I documented everything with my police-issue camera.
Now I'm lying to protect them.
The safe house smells like old stone and sea air, situated on the northern coast where cliffs drop away into water that crashes against rock with rhythmic violence. Declan left hours ago after confirming the perimeter was secure. Jax remains somewhere in the house, silent and watchful, giving me space while staying close enough to intervene if the syndicate tries something.
My phone buzzes against the counter. The caller ID shows a mainland number. It's the chief superintendent calling to check on the "reports of gunfire" that came through dispatch last night.
I answer on the third ring, forcing my voice steady despite the exhaustion. "MacLeod."
"Catriona." Chief Superintendent Lansing's voice carries the weight of authority and concern. "Tell me about last night. We received multiple emergency calls about automatic weapons fire near the harbor district warehouse complex. Mainland operations routed them to me when they couldn't reach your station directly."
The lie comes easier than it should. I spent the hours before dawn crafting this narrative, building the story I need him to believe. "I responded immediately and conducted a thorough sweep of the warehouse district and surrounding areas."
"And?"
"Nothing. No bodies, no blood, no evidence of weapons discharge." The lie comes out smooth despite how wrong it feels. "We found scattered shell casings that might have been planted, but no corresponding damage to structures or vehicles. No witnesses beyond the initial calls."
Lansing stays quiet for several seconds. "You're saying someone called in automatic weapons fire as a prank?"
"Or to waste our resources investigating nothing while they conducted actual criminal activity elsewhere." The suggestion fits with patterns I've seen before, gives Lansing a reasonable explanation that doesn't require questioning my competence. "I've requested security footage from businesses in the area, but most of the warehouse district lacks proper surveillance."
"The harbor authority should have cameras."
"Already checked. Their system experienced technical difficulties last night. Convenient timing." I let frustration bleed into my tone, the exasperation of a cop chasing leads that evaporate before they solidify into evidence. "Someone knew exactly when and where to create this distraction."
Lansing sighs, the sound of a man who's dealt with too many dead ends and not enough budget to pursue them properly. "File the complete report by end of business today. Include witness statements and the search parameters. If this is connected to the trafficking investigation you've been pursuing, I want documentation."
"Understood."
"And Catriona?" His voice softens slightly. "Be careful. If you're getting close to something, they might escalate. Make sure you're not working alone."
The irony cuts deep. I'm not working alone anymore. I'm working with supernatural predators who kill efficiently and operate outside the law, who are the only ones actually fighting the syndicate. I've already crossed into bed with one of them, already let Kian claim parts of me I swore I'd keep separate from this investigation.
"I'll be careful," I promise, knowing the lie is becoming a habit.
The call ends. I set my phone on the counter and stare at the screen, waiting for the guilt to hit properly. Instead, I feel hollow and exhausted, aware that I just lied to the chief superintendent about a massacre because the truth would expose the only people capable of fighting the syndicate.
The screen lights up with a new message. Unknown number. A text message.
You did well last night, Chief MacLeod.
