Zane growled, his eyes flashing gold as he half rose from his seat. Brooks reached out and grabbed his shoulder, urging him back down. Zane’s entire body was tense, the anger pouring off him. Oliver had just come in, and Zane was already on the verge of losing it.
Not that Brooks blamed him. Zane had been unconscious during the attack at the medical center, something that ate at him as much as the injury to his arm. Not that he’d had any say in the matter. After getting hit with one of the hunter’s poison bullets, Dr. Saunders—the only human who knew enough about werewolves to treat them—had put Zane into a hypothermic coma, dropping his body temperature down to dangerous levels in an attempt to slow his heart rate and limit the effects of the synthetic wolfsbane. It was the only reason Zane was still alive. Even so, he hated the fact that he hadn’t been there to fight alongside the Pack during the raid.
On the other side of the table, Oliver regarded Brooks thoughtfully. “We figured you were the top dog of the group. Alpha, I’m guessing. You’re the biggest, so it makes sense.”
“We?” Brooks asked.
Oliver ignored the question. “We’re still trying to figure out how the hell a big pack of you mutts can live and work this close together. All the previous werewolves we ran across were either high-strung, violent loners or small ones living in tiny packs. Then we found out there’s a whole SWAT team filled with you freaks. When I saw you crashing through those doors in that clinic, throwing my guys around like they were toys, I knew right away you were the boss. You’re the only one big enough to keep these other mutts in line.”
Brooks could tell from how steady Oliver’s heartbeat and respiration were that the man believed every word he said. The hunters genuinely knew nothing about werewolves. Those high-strung, violent loners Oliver described were almost certainly omegas, big strong werewolves who’d never experienced pack life and therefore tended to possess little control over their behavior and abilities. The smaller werewolves were betas. They weren’t as physically strong as the alphas and omegas, but they were completely dialed-in and committed to their packs.
Brooks knew he’d never be able to explain a pack bond or the way that bond could keep even a group of big alphas like the Dallas SWAT team together. Oliver and the assholes he rolled with would never get that Brooks and his packmates were closer than family.
Not that Brooks would tell the hunter any of that. The less they knew about werewolves the better. Because the truth was, those werewolves he’d talked about running into were probably dead now. Knowing how many innocent werewolves this guy had killed made Brooks want to reach across the table and twist his head off.
“What’s this meeting about, Oliver?” Brooks demanded.
Oliver leaned forward, his shackles clinking against the table. “You know exactly what it’s about. It’s the same reason you agreed to come. We both want something the other has—information. And we both think we can get it without betraying our own.”
“Then let’s get to the point,” Zane said, eyes flaring gold again. “Who do you work for?”
Oliver eyed Zane like he was something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Not the way it works, mutt. Think of this as the scene inSilence of the Lambs.I’m Hannibal Lecter, you’re Clarice, and we’re going to play a game of quid pro quo. You tell me something. I tell you something.”
“We already told you Senior Corporal Brooks is the alpha of our pack,” Zane pointed out. “That makes it your turn to tell us something.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change. “We both know I figured that one out on my own. So it’s not my turn. But nice try…for a mutt.”
Brooks extended his fangs and bared them at Oliver. He wasn’t in the mood for this crap. “What do you want to know?”
“No reason to get hostile, big dog. My first question is simple. All I want to know is how the fuck this mutt is still alive?” Oliver gestured at Zane with his chin. “That wolfsbane bullet I put in his arm should have killed him in less than two hours, yet here he is, alive and kicking.”
Brooks’s claws came out to go along with the fangs. It was a struggle not to leap over the table and rip out Oliver’s throat. Beside him, Zane looked like he had the same problem. As for Oliver, the asshole sat there smugly, like he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him.
As much as Brooks hated to admit it, Oliver was right about that. They needed information on the hunters, and this prick—as irritating as he might be—had it. But that didn’t mean Brooks was going to give a piece of intel this valuable away for nothing.
“And what exactly are you going to tell us in exchange for something this important?” he asked.
Oliver grinned. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.”
Brooks might be willing to play Oliver’s stupid game, but he wasn’t going to let the man dictate all the rules. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, then headed for the door. Zane followed.
“Hunters are sent out in teams of three to five guys,” Oliver said, his voice urgent, like he didn’t want them to leave. “Most of the teams—like the one I was with—are pretty much hired guns. We’re well-paid killers, though we like to call ourselves independent contractors instead.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Brooks stopped and turned back to see Oliver looking at him expectantly. He’d give almost anything to know who the hell hired these independent contractors, but he knew there was no chance Oliver was going to tell him something like that right off the bat.
“How many of these teams are there?” he asked instead.
Oliver relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t really give you a concrete answer. The teams get a text or email with the location of a possible werewolf and a dollar figure. If we find the mutt and exterminate it, we get paid. But I’ve crossed paths with half a dozen other teams over the years. I’m guessing there are probably more.” He gestured to the seats across from him. “Quid pro quo, remember? How did the mutt survive that bullet?”
Brooks glanced over at Zane before moving back to the table. His packmate joined him, his eyes still flashing in anger, but apparently willing to see where this went.
Brooks had no intention of telling the hunter that Dr. Saunders and members of their extended pack had come up with an antidote to the wolfsbane poison. Or that they’d used that antidote to create a vaccine to make werewolves immune to that poison. But considering how little Oliver seemed to know about werewolves, he hoped he wouldn’t have to.
“Alphas can cure members of their pack from nearly any affliction, if they’re strong enough,” Brooks said.
“How?” Oliver demanded.
“I bite them.” He let his fangs slide out. “If they survive being turned again, whatever wounds or sickness they had before that point is healed.”
