Chapter 10 - Ado

Hognose Creek once boasted a narrow, rickety jetty, stretching out over the coppery waters of the swamp toward the bank of the reed bed, beyond which the spill is clear as crystal. I’ve seen photos of it in our research. Aris has one that he showed me on his phone of Linnea as a young girl, standing on that very jetty, staring over the water. I sometimes forget that this is their hometown.

Whatever structures once existed over the creek, they are long since underwater. Or, at least, one less well-trained than us might think so.

Byron points out the hidden slipway to the covered dock to the others. He doesn’t have to point it out to me. We crouch in the mud on the far side of the inlet—me, Byron, Bigby, and Keira, who hovers a bit behind the rest of us, one hand on the stubby pistol at her hip, the other on the ground beneath her, as if she can hold herself together if she just keeps a grip on the physical world around her.

“They’re collaborators, not organizers,” Byron is saying to Bigby and Keira, though I can tell she’s only half listening. “So, there won’t be relevant goods or… well.” He coughs. “Nothing is coming to and from this warehouse that helps us directly, not that we know of. It isn’t on their route. But if we can take these guys in and find out what they know—if we offer them immunity, they’ll spill. It’s how goons like this always are. They can lead us to the ringleaders.”

“We expect a fight, though?” Bigby asks. He doesn’t need to. He wouldn’t be here if we didn’t expect a fight.

Byron fiddles with his phone. Probably firing off a text to Aris about the job. Probably exasperated that Keira and I aren’t speaking still.

“We’re just being well-prepared,” he tells us.

I’m not all that great with people, but even I know Byron well enough to know he’s lying.

Keira’s hand in the dirt tightens into a fist. Her face is almost white with nerves.

When she insisted on coming along, everyone tried to talk her out of it—everyone except me and Aris. I said nothing because I was sure I’d be sick if I spoke, and Aris simply looked her in the eye for a moment and then told her yes.

God knows what he was thinking. God knows why he thought this was a good idea.

Night will fall soon. The buzzing of insects fills the silence between our breaths, and the water laps gently against the reeds. I should be watching the river, but I can’t take my eyes off Keira. She must know I’m staring, but she says nothing and doesn’t look up. Her knuckles are white where she grips the handle of her pistol, and I see the pent-up energy coiling in her shoulders, a spring, ready to snap loose at any second.

“They’re coming,” Bigby murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he peers through the darkness toward the inlet. His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it. The kind that comes with years of experience. He knows just how quickly things can go south.

We turn toward the water, squinting through the shadows.

The sound of an engine reaches us first—low and rumbling, growing louder with each passing second. The speedboat slices through the swamp’s stillness, its silver trail through the water shimmering faintly under the moonlight.

“Positions,” Byron hisses, his voice clipped with focus.

We spread out, melting into the undergrowth. Bigby takes point, his rifle trained on the boat as it approaches. Byron slides closer to the slipway, ready to signal with the flashlight. I take a position a little farther back, keeping an eye on Keira, who moves mechanically to her assigned spot, her movements stiff with anxiety.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here. My wolf howls to claw free—I want to take her far away from this place. We should never have let her come.

The boat draws nearer, and I catch sight of the men on board. Three of them, hunched over in the cockpit, their faces shadowed. Collaborators, Byron called them. Not masterminds.

Byron raises the flashlight, and in the gloom, he taps out a series of flashes in quick succession. Morse code—an old signal we intercepted from their communications. It’s bait, meant to lure them to the far side of the inlet, away from the hidden dock where we’re waiting to ambush them.

They’re hardly bleeding hearts. But they’ll come, and we know it. Curiosity gets the better of even the most seasoned crooks.

The boat slows, the men aboard clearly taking in the signal. The engine judders into a low hum as they change course, veering toward the opposite bank. We wait, breath held, until they’re in position, sitting in the still water ten feet out from the shore, the side of the boat seeming to shine among the high reeds.

“Now,” Byron whispers, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the reeds.

Bigby moves first, slipping into the water like a shadow, his rifle still trained on the targets. Keira follows, hesitating for just a second before she takes the plunge. The cold swamp water swells up to her knees. I move last, keeping an eye on the boat as we silently close the distance.

But just as we reach the drop-off on the edge of the shallows, something goes wrong.

One of the men on the boat catches sight of us through the forest of reeds—a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, or maybe just a feeling. He shouts out, and everything erupts into chaos.

Gunfire cracks through the night. The first shot comes from the boat, a bright burst that whizzes past my ear and slams into the mud behind me. I see it before I hear it. I feel it before I see it.

Bigby returns fire, his rifle barking out kill-shots, which all miss in the chaos, and Byron ducks behind cover, shouting orders.

“Take them down! Move, move!”

Our targets attempt to turn their boat around in the water, but it stalls. The engine glugs fuel into the water below. One of Bigby’s shots burst it open.

Keira is frozen for half a second, her eyes wide as the gunfire explodes around us. I reach out, grabbing her arm, pulling her down into the reeds as another shot whistles an inch over her head. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.

“I’m fine,” she’s heaving, “I’m fine, I’m fine.” To herself more than to me.

I release her and swing my pistol up, aiming for the boat. My first shot clips the side of the hull, sending splinters of sun-bleached varnished wood flying through the air. The men aboard scatter, one pinwheeling back into the water with a huge splash as Bigby’s bullet finds its mark.

Keira finally moves, her training kicking in. She raises her pistol, and, with a steady hand, fires at one of the men as he tries to return fire. Her second shot is clean, hitting him square in the shoulder. He crumples to the deck with a cry.

But it’s not over yet. The remaining man ducks behind the console, fumbling for something—a weapon, a radio, something that could turn the tide.

Byron shouts from the bank, “Take him out before he calls for backup!”

Keira doesn’t hesitate this time. She pushes forward, cutting through the water, her eyes locked on the man. She keeps her center of gravity low, her pistol in perfect military position. She’s finally in her element.

I follow her, keeping close, covering her as we advance on the boat. The pounding of my heart matches the rhythm of our footsteps. It’s been years since I felt this kind of adrenaline on a job for the pack. It’s her fault. It’s all her fault.

The man behind the console jerks up, trying to raise his weapon. Keira reacts instantly, her pistol snapping into place, and she fires—but the shot goes wide, blowing open the face of the console inches from his head. It’s close enough to make him flinch, his grip faltering, and in that split second, I take the shot.

My bullet hits him in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. He lets out a harsh cry, dropping his gun as he clutches the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. For a heartbeat, he stumbles, dazed and weakened by the impact.

But instead of falling, he rights himself and makes a desperate dash for escape. He jumps from the boat into the water and crashes through the reeds. I see him hit the underbrush and break into a sprint, disappearing into the thick shadows of the swamp.

“Damn it!” Byron curses, already splashing through the water toward the bank. “We can’t let him get away!”

“We don’t have a choice,” I say, frustration broiling in me. I want to go after him, but the terrain is treacherous, and we’re not equipped for a chase in the dark. Besides, we have two men still on the boat who need securing.

Keira stands frozen, staring after the fleeing figure. Her breathing is ragged, and her hands are trembling slightly as she lowers her pistol.

“Keira,” I say quietly, stepping closer. She doesn’t respond. I place a hand on her arm, trying to ground her. “It’s over.”

She finally blinks, and her gaze shifts to me. There’s a flicker of something raw and unsettled in her eyes, but she nods, slowly lowering her pistol, though her fingers still curl tightly around it.

Byron wades over to the boat, his boots splashing in the water as he surveys the scene.

“Two for three,” he announces with expected nonchalance, though I see the nervousness in him. “We need them alive. Let’s get them back to the bank, secure them, and call for Maisie and Veronica. We can start questioning them once they’re stabilized.”

Bigby moves past me, wading through the water and scooping unconscious men up out of the swamp as he goes, as if this is a standard workday for him. It is. He clambers onto the boat and checks the men’s pulses. He’s methodical, calm.

“Unconscious but alive,” he reports. “We’ll need to patch them up before they bleed out.”

I give a short nod and turn back to Keira. She’s still staring at the man who escaped. On her face is a look I’ve never seen before.

“Keira,” I say again, more firmly this time. “We need to move.”

She blinks again, as if coming back to herself, and nods. “Right. I’m… I’m fine.” But her voice is distant.

We make our way back to the bank, dragging the two remaining men from the boat as carefully as we can manage. Byron is already on his phone. The swamp seems quieter now, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Keira stands apart from the rest of us, her back turned to the water. She hasn’t said much since the shootout, and I can tell she’s shaken, though she’s trying to hide it. I want to ask her what’s going on and what’s really bothering her, but I know better than to push. Not here, not now.

Byron glances up from his phone, his expression serious. “Help’s on the way. Let’s make sure these guys are secure. We can’t afford to lose them.”

Bigby nods, already binding the wrists of the unconscious men with thick zip ties. I help him with the last one, my mind still on Keira, who lingers at the edge of the group, lost in her own thoughts. Something about tonight has rattled her more than the mission itself.

But she won’t explain, and I won’t force her to. I hardly have the right.