Once we were concealed, he released my wrist and pointed again.
This time, I saw them—two shadowy figures detaching themselves from the darkness at the property line. They moved with purposeful stealth, staying low and using the sparse vegetation for cover as they approached the back door of the clubhouse.
Unlike the amateur we'd caught earlier, these guys knew what they were doing. They wore dark clothing that blended into the night, and they moved with the disciplined patience of professionals.
I pulled out my phone, careful to keep the screen angled away from the yard as I typed a quick text to Butch:Two intruders approaching back door. Armed. Professional. Watching from Gearhead's shop with Liam.
The message sent with a soft whoosh that sounded deafening in the silent yard. Liam shot me a warning look, finger still pressed to his lips.
The intruders had stopped about twenty yards from the door, crouching behind Bug's meager herb garden. One of them pulled something from a bag—binoculars or maybe night vision goggles—and began scanning the building methodically.
My phone vibrated silently in my hand. Butch's reply:Stay put. Bear and Gunner moving into position. Do NOT engage.
I showed the message to Liam, who nodded his understanding. His body remained coiled with tension, ready to move at a moment's notice.
The figures conferred briefly in hushed tones too quiet for me to make out. The larger one pointed toward the side of the building where Henry's makeshift medical room was located, while the smaller one shook his head and gestured toward the back door.
They seemed to be disagreeing about their entry point.
I felt Liam shift beside me, his attention razor-sharp as he tracked every movement. His ability to remain completely still while maintaining such intense focus was unnerving. In that moment, he seemed more lynx than human.
My phone vibrated again:30 seconds. Be ready to duck.
I nudged Liam and showed him the message. His eyes widened slightly, but he nodded again, pressing himself lower behind the tires.
The seconds ticked by with excruciating slowness as we watched the intruders finally come to an agreement. They began moving toward the back door again, one reaching into his jacket—presumably for a lockpicking tool or weapon.
Suddenly, the yard lit up like daylight as Gunner flipped on the powerful emergency floodlights we'd installed after the incident with Biggins. The intruders froze, momentarily blinded, as Bear and three other club members emerged from different points around the building, guns drawn and aimed.
"Down on the ground!" Bear's voice boomed across the yard. "Now!"
I watched as the careful planning of our would-be intruders fell apart in seconds. This wasn't their first day—they immediately assessed their options, realized they were outgunned, and dropped to their knees with hands raised.
Liam let out a breath beside me, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the immediate threat passed. But there was something in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold—not relief, but grim recognition.
He knew something about these men. And whatever it was, it scared him.
Chapter Four
~ Liam ~
I stayed perfectly still behind those tires, my fingers still wrapped around Rooster's thick wrist. The contact should have sent warning signals firing through every nerve in my body—touch meant danger, meant vulnerability—but instead, something inside me quieted.
My inner lynx, usually so alert and ready to flee, purred with contentment. The sensation was so foreign I almost pulled away from pure shock.
Rooster didn't try to break free of my grip. He stayed crouched beside me, his breathing steady despite the tension radiating from his massive frame. I could feel his pulse beneath my fingertips—strong and surprisingly calm considering the armed men in our yard.
Bear's voice boomed across the open space again. "I said on the ground! Face down, hands behind your heads!"
The intruders complied with practiced movements, too smooth to be their first time surrendering. Their composure unsettled me. These weren't desperate thieves or random troublemakers. They were professionals—the kind who only surrendered when it served their purpose.
I'd seen men like this before, back when I was younger and less careful about my hiding places. Men who worked for organizations that hunted shifters for sport or profit. Men who knew how to wait for the perfect moment to strike.
My suspicion was confirmed when the taller intruder's eyes flicked toward the gate. A signal.
"More coming," I whispered, the words scraping my throat from disuse.
Rooster's head snapped toward me, surprised by my voice, but he didn't question me. Instead, he immediately typedanother message on his phone, trusting my warning without hesitation.
