Chapter One
TALLY
The scent of his desperation sits like thick fog on a winter night. I could follow it with my eyes closed. Not that I would—a trapped Alpha is a dangerous Alpha.
“Give it up.” I keep my voice steady and calm, talking to him like you would a child. But it’s fitting, considering the way he’s acting.
He’s trying to hide in the darkest part of the alley. Poorly, though. He’s too large to blend into the shadows, and tonight, the stench of his furious determination is acting like a spotlight on his position.
“Don’t do this the hard way. You know resisting arrest does you no favors.”
I hear the sharp intake of his breath, followed by a snarled, “Fuck you.” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but my senses are heightened by the chase.
He takes off.
I was already anticipating him doing just that. I mean, it’s no leap for someone who’s been busted to try their damndest to avoid capture. If anything, it’s kind of a prerequisite if you want to survive this game we’re both in. Not that we’re playing for shits and giggles; this is as real as it gets.
I race after him, managing to stay close behind him. For an Alpha, he’s lacking. I’d say he’s been relying on his position and the threat of his designation for way too long.
He spins mid stride, the barrel of his pistol swinging wildly. It’s all I’ve been waiting for.
I fall into position, legs spread wide, arms together, nice and steady. “Drop your weapon.”
His response is a roar. His fight instincts kick in, hard. He tries again to level his aim and has to stop running to do so.
I fire off a couple of rounds in quick succession, and he flies backwards. Of course, the dipshit lands one of his own shots. Not by skill but pure dumb luck. I stumble at the impact and breathe through the burst of pressure to my chest as I keep closing in on him.
“You’re done. Don’t get yourself killed,” I warn, approaching him cautiously, but now I’m pissed.
I know he’s injured. His scent carries the unmistakable addition of warm iron. It wafts across the space separating us. His hand shakes and he lifts his revolver.
“Drop your weapon. Don’t do this,” I yell louder. Slowly, though, so he can’t miss my words and the warning in them.
His eyes are glazed, fear and frustration rendering them a different shade to what they usually are. “You fucking bitch,” he snarls. His determination starts to fade with each beat of his heart.
“Drop your weapon,” I insist when he stares me down.
“Fuck off,” he roars. At the end, he starts coughing, choking on his injuries. “Shoulda killed ya the first time I saw ya.”
His head drops back to the pavement, the heavy thud echoing through the alley. He grunts, taking short gasps of air. I watch him closely. This is the most dangerous time, when the person is caged, facing their own mortality but also realizing what being caught means.
As I reach for my handcuffs, he finds a sudden burst of energy, and the distance between us means I can’t disarm or stop him.
He fires, and his revolver clatters across the paved alleyway.
There’s literally nothing I can do to save him. A bullet to the brain is irreparable. Frustration burns through my system. He could have chosen a different path, but now his wife and children will grow up without a partner and a father. His decision to end his life instead of facing the consequences of his actions is nothing new, but still, I blink back tears.
Squatting, I press my fingers against the skin on his neck, checking his pulse. Nothing. Leaving his balaclava in place, I swoop down, collecting the bag fallen next to him before I make it my mission to do a better job getting arrested than he did.
Racing out the mouth of the alley, I duck into the abandoned store, using the door I left open earlier. Retracing my steps through the dark is easy, because practice does make perfect. Prying loose floorboards, I have my badge, service revolver, and bulletproof vest stashed safely away within minutes, the small pill in my mouth ready and waiting.
Standing at the door, I take a few stolen moments to get my head in the right place before I slip back out of the shop, pulling the door closed behind me.
The sound of approaching sirens comes in fast, the flashing lights like a calling song, but instead of racing away when the patrol cars come into view, I put my hands on my head and walk into the middle of the road. Falling to my knees and bending forward so the bag hangs, making it obvious, I bite the fast-acting tablet I’ve been holding between my teeth. It should in theory mask my scent.
It’s bedlam. Brakes screeching, doors opening, people yelling, “Don’t fucking move!”
I lift my head slowly, not moving, despite that built-in urgency to race away. Locking eyes with the officer, ignoring his screaming but trying to connect with him on some level, nonetheless.
