"Stay here. Lock the door behind me. Do not open it for anyone but me."
"Mateo, wait?—"
I stepped out. I pulled the door shut. I listened for the click of the lock.
She didn't lock it. Of course she didn't. She was standing there, staring at the wood, calculating the liability.
I didn't run. Running attracted attention. I walked with purpose, heavy, rhythmic steps that let the anger build in my chest. Not hot anger, that was for amateurs. This was cold. This was fuel.
They had painted a target on her. They had sent this cheap, rental-cop thug to film her in her own home, to catalog her fear like it was inventory.
I hit the street. The air was damp, smelling of diesel and rain.
I didn't look at the van. I didn't look at the woman with the stroller. I looked straight at the man in the vest.
He saw me coming. He froze. He knew what I was. You don't get to be my size, with my scar, without signaling a specific kind of violence. An Alpha recognizes a predator.
He fumbled with the device in his hands, a DSLR camera with a heavy zoom lens. He tried to shove it into his bag. He tried to turn away, to play the innocent workman.
Too late.
I crossed the street. I didn't check for traffic. A cab honked; I ignored it.
"Hey!" the man shouted as I stepped onto the curb, trying to bluster his way through the fear. "Back off, mate. I'm working here. Official council busi?—"
I didn't speak. I reached out and grabbed the front of his vest.
I slammed him into the brick wall of the townhouses. The air left his lungs in a wetwhoosh. The camera dangled from his neck by its strap, banging against his chest.
"You're not council," I rumbled. My voice was low, a vibration that traveled through his sternum. "And you're not working anymore."
"Assault!" he choked out, scrabbling at my hand. "I've got rights! I'll call the?—"
I grabbed the camera. I ripped it off his neck. The strap snapped.
I held it up. A fancy camera, even I could see that. Good glass. Expensive.
"Nice kit," I said.
I opened my hand and let it drop.
It hit the pavement.Crunch.The sound of precision optics shattering was satisfyingly final. I brought my heel down on thebody, crushing the housing, grinding the electronics into plastic dust.
The scout stared at the wreckage, his eyes wide. "You crazy bastard. That’s property damage. That’s?—"
"The card," I demanded. I held out my hand.
"It's digital! It uploads to the cloud automatically, you dinosaur! You can't just?—"
I stepped in closer. I let my scent roll over him, cedar, wet asphalt, and the sharp, terrifying spike of pure dominance. I leaned down until my scar was inches from his sweating face.
"It doesn't upload automatically," I said softly. "The signal here is weak. You were waiting for a batch transfer. Where is the backup card?"
He trembled. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black SD card case.
I took it. I crushed it in my fist. The plastic splintered, digging into my palm. I didn't feel it.
"Go back to Vance," I said.
