Total pages in book: 202
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
“I’m not bringing my wife in there until I know what this is. I’m lead on this,” I remind Mitch who was given the gist before I arrived, but I want to be sure he knows.
“I’m only here to film everything and help where I can,” Mitch says. “Not because I don’t trust you, but because with everything that happened last night and the night before that, I have a lot of reporting to do and I want as much physical evidence as possible. This bugger has a lot to answer for. I’m just an observer. You’re in charge, Greyson. This is your mate’s pack, and you call the shots.”
I don’t give a shit that everything is about to be filmed. “Let’s do this.”
I also don’t give two fucks about The SCC right now.
I had planned to go in with her and Luke so we’d put people at ease, but Luke will have to be enough for the ‘at ease’ part. No way am I walking Stacy in there until I’ve assessed it with my own eyes. And I was leaning in that direction on the drive here before I set eyes on it. But now? Setting eyes and picking up the filthy stench of this place? No fucking way does she go in until I assess.
The gates start on either side of the old, dingy, painted blue brick one-story building, fencing in everything behind it. Blinds are all down on the windows.
Some sections of the gates are constructed by chain link fence panels. Some of it, scrap metal. There’s a painted metal sign that reads Silver Hills Auto Wreckers and Salvage stenciled with the phone number underneath. A padlock holds the front gates closed with a black, white, and orange Sorry, We’re Closed sign hanging.
Wrecked cars behind the fences are stacked higher than the fences on either side of the building.
We’re all primed and ready to shift, to do battle, but it’s quiet. Eerily so, which has me even more on guard.
My eyes pan the ground, scanning for trip wires or other hazards since this fucker likes explosives. I’m flanked by Luke, Linc on his left, Jared beside Linc. Jase is on my right, Brody beside him. Mitch Blakely walks behind us, filming with his phone.
If this weren’t so open or if it weren’t daytime, we’d probably be in wolf form.
After doing two rotations of the place, spotting a couple trip wires, me, Jase, and Linc have a quick chat and decide to go in at a section in the very back where we’re smelling the least amount of scents. It also happens to be the location with the biggest lock.
Jared wears a toolbelt and passes over clippers when we get to the biggest padlock, a rust-coated one, holding two tarp-wrapped iron gates together.
Luke says we’re just beyond the storage area, which is close to the beta training area, that he describes as having a barracks building and obstacle courses as well as storage buildings.
This checks out against the drawing Stacy drew that’s in my pocket. Two of the nearby locks were extra small, looking like the easiest pickings, but we clocked trip wires by them, which is another illustration of the way Meadows thinks.
When we go in, Jase and Brody will hang back, just outside the gates in case we get into a jam.
Jase isn’t happy about it though, wants to see with his own eyes if his sister is on the premises as soon as possible, but to his credit, he agrees, knowing I want him out there with our link because I need Linc’s extra-strong nose with me.
After triple-checking for additional hazards, I snip the lock and the gate swings in.
Taking in what’s on the other side, my teeth clench. A few paces in, my gut roils.
The stench climbing higher into my senses have my eyes watering. Linc doubles over, heaving hard, nothing coming up. He already emptied his guts.
I turn when I hear Mitch gag. He spits on the ground, holding his gut for a second. Our gazes connect and his lip curls.
Yeah, this is a mishmash of rancid aromas. Rotting meat. Sickness. Feces and urine. Melted plastic. Hot metal. Smoke. Wet wood.
A slope-shouldered, shorter, flabby guy with greasy hair in probably his mid-to-late forties pokes his head out of a single-story concrete block building the size of a double garage and alarm registers on the guy’s face before he slams the door.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Larry,” Luke says. “He cooks for the pack lately. That’s a food storage building.”
I step over the edge of a tire obstacle course near a two-storey climbing wall and pull on the door. It’s locked. I pound my fist on it.
“Open up!”
Nothing.
“Counting to three, then I’m bustin’ this door!” I warn.
The door creaks open slowly and I can taste the rancid fear scent coming off this guy.