“Dammit,” Glenn growled, “someone better have some fuckin’ answers as to why this was allowed to happen. Shit…I wanna knowhowit happened. You gave me your promise and told me not to worry!”
Shaking his head, the Hare said, “Look, I’m sorry. When I found out, believe me, I reamed some new assholes, not to mention going over my bosses’ heads to try and find out how it happened.” Stopping at a red light, he reached into the back seat and grabbed a file folder. “Here,” he said handing it to Glenn. “We’re almost at your plane so you can read it on the flight…not that there’ll be anything new, but it also contains contact info. All our agents where you’re headed have been assigned to you until the asset is recovered.”
Glenn took the file, tucking it into his duffle bag just as the car pulled up next to a private jet. Glancing up at it, he smiled grimly, knowing at least he’d have some time—and security—to work up a plan.
Chapter 8
Awakened by a shaft of early morning sunlight, Sawyer rolled over in his bed, the memory of his dream lingering in his mind. Grinning, he was sure it was a sign from the Fates, telling him it was time to leave on his long-planned trip, especially now that Quin wasn’t sleeping in the motorhome anymore. After his friendship with Theo had blossomed, his brother had moved to a bedroom in the pack house—something Sawyer never expected him to do.
But Sawyer knew his own itchiness was caused by more than merely wanting to leave. His other brothers were all busy—Mac had taken over as the pack’s doctor, Hunter was in France with his mate, Mason spent long hours on his computer running Beowulf Trust and Robin had left for the recording studio. So, Sawyer found himself at loose ends, without any purpose in his life other than spending hours playing video games.
His dream was a wake-up call for him and Sawyer intended to leave as soon as he could on his trip of a lifetime. Lying in bed, he began planning what he needed to do so he could leave in a few days and, at the top of the list, was getting permission to use the motorhome. Considering it was just sitting in the driveway, he figured getting Mason to cut it loose wouldn’t present much of a challenge. Picking up his phone, he sent a text to his brother, asking if he was free after breakfast for a short meeting. Knowing Mason, he’d have a ton of questions for Sawyer to make sure all contingencies were covered. Chuckling to himself, Sawyer googled a map of California—because where he was headed would be the first question—and answering with ‘wherever the wind takes me’ wouldn’t cut it.
Surfing!Sawyer had sussed out the best places for that even before they’d set out to visit the Blackwood Pack. Smiling at the map on his phone, he traced a route with his finger down to Southern California—his destination—known for having a thriving surfing community and big waves. He’d brought along the results of his research on the trip to his cousins; now it would take less than an hour to work up an itinerary detailed enough to ease all of Mason’s concerns.
Jumping out of bed, Sawyer tossed his phone onto his nightstand and then, picking up his backpack, pulled out a thick file folder. Opening it, he sorted out the various pieces of information and then unfolded the map he’d ordered, perusing the route he’d marked.Perfect! Just fucking perfect!Taking out his trip notebook, he began penciling in details that would reassure Mason he wasn’t going off on another wild goose chase.
~/~/~/~/~
Carson knew finding a space in front of the paranormal doctor’s building was a piece of luck, one he was grateful for. Snatching the spot, he neatly parked the SUV and then looked at Hunter in the rearview mirror. “How’s he doing?”
“Still unconscious,” Hunter replied, “but the bleeding has slowed.”
“Good. According to Dire Medical, the doctor is waiting for us,” Carson said. “Can you carry him or do you need help?”
“No, I got him,” Hunter said, opening his door and carefully sliding out to avoid jostling Henri. Then, leaning into the SUV, he gently gathered the injured shifter in his arms. “What floor is the doc on?”
“Third,” Carson said, joining them on the sidewalk after locking the car. Pulling open the heavy, wooden-framed, glass door, he stood back, letting the others go in before him. “There’s an elevator in the back,” he said, leading the way and pressing the button when they got there. It seemed like ages before the creaks and grinds ceased, but when the doors finally opened, Carson was relieved to see it was an ancient freight elevator with plenty of room for all of them. The ride up was slow and jerky, keeping Carson on edge about Henri’s head injury; Colton’s lessons were running through his mind on an endless loop.
When the elevator doors opened, Carson saw a man standing in the hallway with a stretcher next to him. “Are you Dr. Marceau?”
“Oui,” Dr. Marceau answered, motioning for Hunter to place his patient on the stretcher. After doing a quick check of Henri’s vitals, the doctor wheeled him down the hallway and through an open door.
Following behind, Carson sent a confirmation text to Dire Medical that they’d arrived. Once through the doorway, he found himself in a waiting room, empty except for Hunter and Fionn who were standing behind him—and a nurse sitting at a desk staring gravely at him. “Can we see our injured friend?” he asked, pointing to a set of double doors.
“Non, non, non. I am so sorry, but you must remain here. Dr. Marceau will be out when he is finished examining your friend. In the meantime,” she said, handing Carson a clipboard, “please fill out these forms.”
Carson took a seat next to Hunter and Fionn. Frowning as he read the forms, he murmured to Hunter, “The only ones I can answer are the date and first name.”
“Is there someone you should call?” asked Fionn quietly.
“Remy…Remy Marchant. He sent Henri so he’d know the rest of this stuff,” Carson muttered, taking his phone out of his pocket. Turning it on, he groaned. There were six missed calls—all of them from the same French number. “Huh, that’s strange,” he muttered. “Someone called me but didn’t leave any messages.”
“Who was it?” asked Hunter.
“I’m not sure but I think it was Remy,” Carson replied, searching his phone contact list. Finding Remy, he realized the calls weren’t from his number. “Correction…I don’t know who the calls were from.”
“Probably someone misdialing,” Fionn said, “it used to happen to me all the time.”
“Why don’tyoucall your contact?” Hunter asked.
“Doing it now,” Carson replied. Then putting the phone to his ear, he waited for Remy to answer.
“Gentlemen,” the nurse announced, forcing a thin smile, “you can go back now.”
Ending the call before anyone picked up, Carson rose and walked over to the doors, pausing while waiting for Hunter and Fionn to join him, before pushing one of them open. Using his nose, he followed Henri’s scent down a long hallway, until it ended at the door to a room in front of which stood Dr. Marceau. “How’s our friend?” asked Carson.
“I sent him for an MRI to determine the extent of damage to his skull and brain. Once I have those results, I’ll have a better idea of why he is remaining unconscious,” Dr. Marceau replied.
