Chapter 66
Elara's POV
I pulled the SUV off the main road. Gravel crunched under the tires as I steered behind an abandoned gas station. The building loomed dark against the night sky—windows shattered, roof half-collapsed.
Perfect.
I killed the engine. Silence rushed in.
My hands were steady as I reached for the tactical bag in the passenger seat. No tremor. No hesitation.
The treatment had worked. My lungs expanded fully with each breath. Clean. Easy. No wheeze threatening at the edges.
I unzipped the bag. Pulled out a small brown bottle from the side pocket.
The liquid inside was dark. Almost black in the dim light. I unscrewed the cap. The smell hit immediately—sharp cedar mixed with something pungent. Wild garlic. Mineral powder.
I'd used this before. In my past life. When I needed to move through enemy territory undetected.
I poured some into my palm. Rubbed it on my neck. My wrists. The collar of my shirt.
The scent was overpowering. It would mask my Omega pheromones completely. Make me unreadable to any wolf within range.
I screwed the cap back on. Set the bottle aside.
Next came the weapons check.
Silver knife—I pulled it from its sheath. Tested the edge with my thumb. Sharp. Balanced. I slid it into the holster at my waist.
Wolfsbane rounds—I checked the magazine. Full. Clicked it back into the Glock 19. Tucked the gun against the small of my back.
Flashbangs—three of them. I clipped them to my belt.
The tactical vest came last. I shrugged it on. Adjusted the straps. Everything sat exactly where I needed it.
I stripped off my jacket. Left it on the driver's seat. The black long-sleeve underneath would blend better with the shadows.
My boots were wrong. Too casual. I grabbed the tactical ones from the bag. Laced them tight.
Finally, I pulled my hair into a high ponytail. Got it out of my way.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The girl looking back at me wasn't the fragile Omega who'd woken up in the school infirmary. Wasn't the scared teenager who'd nearly died in a storage room.
This was someone else.
Someone I used to be.
I grabbed the bag. Slung it over my shoulder. Stepped out into the night.
---
The forest edge was a quarter-mile away. I moved quickly. Kept to the tree line.
My body felt different. Lighter. Stronger. The constant drag of weakness—gone.
But I wasn't stupid. I knew my limits.
No shifting. No enhanced healing beyond the basics. No supernatural strength.
Just training. Experience. And weapons that could level the playing field.
I reached the tree line. Paused. Let my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness.
The abandoned industrial zone spread out ahead. Three stories of concrete and broken windows. Two collapsed warehouses on either side. And beyond that—the glint of water. A small river running along the eastern edge.
I counted the guards.
Two at the front entrance. Standing too straight. Too alert. Military posture.
One at the side door. Smoking. But his eyes never stopped moving.
One on the roof. Silhouette barely visible against the sky.
At least four. Probably more inside.
Their patrol pattern was regular. Thirty-second intervals. Precise.
These weren't amateurs.
My jaw tightened.
Derrick had said this was about money. About land rights.
But professional kidnappers with military discipline? For a small-time businessman's daughter?
This was something else.
I circled wide. Kept low. Made my way toward the eastern side.
The river would give me cover. And the drainage pipe I'd spotted—that would get me to the roof.
---
The pipe was old. Rusted. But still bolted to the wall.
I tested my weight on the first section. It held.
I started climbing.
Hand over hand. Boots finding purchase on the brackets. My breathing stayed even. Controlled.
Lynette had scaled ice cliffs in the Northern territories. Climbed frozen waterfalls with nothing but claws and determination.
This was nothing.
I reached the roof. Pulled myself over the edge. Stayed flat.
The guard was twenty feet away. Facing the other direction.
I moved silently. Found the broken skylight I'd seen from below.
Peered down through the gap.
Second floor. A room with concrete walls and exposed pipes.
Vivian.
She was tied to a chair in the center. Duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes were open. Scared. But not panicked.
Good. She was still thinking.
I counted the people in the room.
Three guards by the windows. Watching the approaches.
One man at a laptop. Thin. Glasses. Civilian clothes. The tech guy.
And one more. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing with his back to me. He held a radio to his ear.
As I watched, he spoke.
The words were faint. But clear enough.
"девочка здесь, теперь ждем."
Russian. My blood went cold. It means The girl is here. Now we wait.
The Wild Hunt didn't send Fenrir himself. They sent otherhunting teams after my family.
And this one spoke Russian. Eastern European accent.
The man turned slightly. I caught a glimpse of his profile.
Scarred. Hard. The kind of face that came from decades of violence.
Their leader. Had to be. The way the others deferred to him. The way he carried himself.
This wasn't a simple kidnapping.
This was a Hunt operation. Using family as bait was a classic Hunt tactic, brutal and effective. They weren't after Vivian's father's money. They were after the whole family.
I pulled back from the skylight. Pressed my spine against the roof.
Think. Plan. Execute.
Five hostiles. Maybe more I hadn't seen.
The leader was the biggest threat. Take him out first, and the others might scatter.
The tech guy was the weakest. Probably not even a fighter.
Best entry point—the eastern window. Drop in from above. Use surprise.
Take out the roof guard first. Silent. Then breach through the skylight.
Extract Vivian. West stairwell for the exit. Use the river to mask our scent.
Simple. Clean.
Except.
I couldn't shift. Couldn't heal fast if I got injured. Couldn't match a wolf's strength in a prolonged fight.
This had to be fast.
In and out. No mistakes.
I started moving toward the roof guard's position.
Then I saw it.
Footprints.
Fresh. In the dirt and grime covering the roof.
I crouched. Examined them.
Large. Bigger than the guard's boots. Bigger than mine.
The spacing between steps—long. Someone tall. At least six-three.
The depth of the impressions—heavy. Probably over two hundred pounds.
But it was the stride pattern that caught my attention.
Fast. Confident. Moving with purpose.
And something else.
The angle of the prints. The way they approached the edge overlooking the eastern window. Then circled back.
Reconnaissance. Professional.
Someone had already scouted this position.
I straightened slowly. Scanned the roofline. The shadows beyond.
Nothing moved.
But whoever had been here—they were good. Good enough to stay hidden. Good enough to leave almost no trace.
My instincts prickled.
The note I'd left under Kael's door. Had he seen it? Had he come?
Or was this someone else entirely?