He trailed off as he glanced toward Blake. His eyes lingered on the flask tucked inside her jacket, and nervously he licked his lips at the temptation.
“Chaotic,” he said.
Gregor used the toe of his boot to close the flap of the jacket over her chest and disguise the bottle. “Try again.”
“Command, this is Alpha 4,” Boyd repeated. He stopped to cough. “Come in. Over.”
Nothing for a long moment, and then the radio crackled. The voice that came through was distorted and unidentifiable.
“What the … going on out there?” it demanded, broken by silence and static. “Half the Alpha squad … back empty-handed. The … radio silent. Do … the target in custody?”
Boyd looked at Gregor. Anger warred with self-preservation as he visibly weighed his options, his thumb stalled over the Call button. Gregor’s smile was sharp.
“Alpha four?” the static prodded.
Gregor leaned forward. “Say they drank all their medicine,” he instructed. “Lost their wits. Ask for the doctor.”
“That won’t work.”
“Then tell them what will.”
Boyd grimaced, hesitated for a moment, and then squashed the button roughly under his thumb.
“Target acquired,” he rasped out. He took a quick look at the dead soldier and then turned away from her. “But Blake lost her fucking head and shot him.”
Silence except for the crackle of the radio.
“Is he dead?” It was almost a whisper, the voice of someone who knew they were in trouble. There was something almost childish about it.
“She’s dead,” Boyd said. “Him, not yet. He’s bad. I don’t think he’s going to make it back to base. Get Doc Ewan. If I can stabilize him, I’ll hole up somewhere until you get someone out here to pick us up.”
“I don’t—”
“Command, get me a goddamn medic,” Boyd barked harshly. “I need to speak to him now! Or else, when this guy dies, it’s on you.”
That did it.
“Wait. Over,” the static muttered.
The line cut out. For a second it felt almost quiet, and the wind whined around them, a muffled roar that rolled down from the hills. Gregor reached for the Wild and folded it between his mental fingers, but instead of the familiar scent of heather and old stone, it stank of seaweed and cold salt. He cast it away with a scowl and wiped his hand on his leg, as though that was where the smell lingered.
“How badly is he hurt?” the radio spat out suddenly. It was hard to recognize the attenuated voice, but it was more thickly Scottish than the rest. “Do you know where you are? I can get there on one of the snowmobiles.”
Gregor plucked the radio out of Boyd’s grip. He held it for a second in front of his face, the plastic thick with the smell of a dozen sweaty hands, as he considered his options. It was just a hunt, he reminded himself as the choices available weighed on him, and if things didn’t work out, he could change his plans.
“The junkyard by the loch,” he said. “Come alone, no need to worry Rose over this if you want to see your grandson.”
The snort of laughter bounced down the connection. “When will I see him, then?” he asked. “When we both get to heaven after you kill us? I have put my faith in the judgment of wolves before. It never ends well.”
Gregor lifted the corner of his mouth in a quick snarl at the suggestion that he’d hurt Nick. He knew the prophets were evil, but that they were this stupid and still a danger offended him.
“Do you want an oath, prophet?” he asked. “After you swore you’d never hurt Nick, but you put out his eyes?”
“That was for his own good.”
It was the sort of lie that was only meant for the one who told it. The words slipped off Ewan’s tongue too quickly, practiced and ready. But Gregor’s laugh punctured the thin veil of the excuse.
“Liar.”
