That office was standard issue and looked like everyone else’s. Drew had been there often, especially before he was selected to head up the Alpha Force here at Ft. Lukman.
“I want to hear first about Grunge and what happened last night,” the general said. He was in his early sixties but his short hair was still coal-black, receding considerably at his temples. His features were solemn, his face long and wrinkled from scowling as much as from advancing age.
“Despite all standard precautions, considering the timing, someone apparently left the gate open, and he got out. Made it quite a distance. I saw him get shot, sir, and couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Not last night. Not with the full moon.”
“I understand.” The general leaned forward, clasping his work-hardened hands on the desk. “What about Captain Truro? Was he observing you, as ordered, while you were vulnerable?”
“Yes, sir. After the shot was fired, Jonas drew his own weapon and went after the source. Unfortunately, the shooter got away. In the meantime, I couldn’t let Grunge stay there. He was wounded. Bleeding. I was able to drag him to where he would receive assistance.”
“While in wolf form yourself?”
Drew nodded. “It was a full moon,” he said again, almost angrily—not at the general, but at himself. For being helpless. “None of the medications that allow shapeshifting at will work during a full moon, on me or on any of the others. Not yet. I’m still working on that, but I’ve had no success, and I’m damned frustrated about—”
“I’m aware of all of that, Drew. I was just about to comment on how difficult that must have been, dragging a being of approximately your own size and shape—how far was it?”
“Maybe a mile, sir.”
“Through the woods? And I take it you got him there fast, since you obviously saved his life.”
“Yes, sir. That’s when Jonas caught up with me and got me back here—after I’d watched to be sure that the new vet found Grunge. No one saw anything so far from base, damn it all. None of the others even knew what happened. And if it hadn’t been for me and this whole damned situation—”
“Grunge wouldn’t have gotten shot? We can’t know that for sure.”
“Sure we can,” Drew stormed. “Whoever did it was probably one of the crazies who’re returning to Mary Glen in droves, now that winter’s over and the snow is gone. He—or she, of course—undoubtedly wanted to bag a werewolf and shot at the first thing that looked like one.”
“Or someone may have wanted it to look that way,” the general contradicted. “Maybe an ordinary dog like Grunge was the intended target, and we were supposed to learn something from it.”
“Like what, sir?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out. That, and the other angle: the civilian who was allegedly mauled. Do any of our group know anything about that?”
“No, sir. But we’ll get the answers. Soon. You can count on it.”
“I do, Drew. Because if we don’t, our entire, extremely critical operation is screwed.”
But Drew was no closer to finding any answers a few hours later, when he headed his military-issue dark sedan to the vet’s office to pick up Grunge.
He had spent a lot of the time with Capt. Jonas Truro, who had been his ostensible nursemaid last night. Each special operative in Alpha was assigned both a canine—or other pertinent animal—as a partner, and an officer or enlisted man, depending on the operative’s rank, as an aide.
Which meant observer and, when needed, nursemaid and caretaker on nights with full moons.
By now, everyone on base was fully briefed on what had happened last night.
But despite what Drew had promised General Yarrow, no one had any answers, or any real clues that could lead to them. Not even Lt. Patrick Worley, who had grown up here. Whose father had been a veterinarian who had attempted to find some of the answers his unit now sought.
Who, like Drew, was a medical doctor and very much ensconced in the program.
Very ensconced. As in shapeshifter extraordinaire, too.
Drew put on his signal and made a sharp right turn.
Ft. Lukman had been aptly named for retired General Maxwell Lukman, a vocal advocate of the idea of using all resources to reach a goal—even the extraordinary and incredible. It was only about five miles by road from downtown Mary Glen but could have been a universe away. Most of those roads were two-lane and obscure, surrounded by the woodlands that made this area so ideal for the covert operations being performed at the facility. And the fact that werewolf rumors had abounded around here for years helped them maintain their cover.
Only, right now, those rumors were getting too much publicity. Too many nut cases were flocking here to check them out. Animals—and people—were getting hurt.
That had to stop.
Before leaving the base, Drew had called Melanie Harding to check on Grunge’s progress. His dog was ready to go home, the vet had said. He smiled ruefully at himself now. He’d kept asking her questions—out of concern for his pet, he’d told himself. Only he realized even then that he simply wanted to hear her talk. Her husky, soft voice had ignited his desire almost as if she were there, stroking him.
And now he was going to see her in person.
He accelerated more—as much as he could on this awful road.
Soon, he was on what passed for a highway in this area—straighter, better paved, four lanes, and peppered by traffic lights. Also surrounded by woods. Actually a very appealing part of the world, was Maryland’s Eastern Shore—especially for the likes of him. He had the radio on a station out of Baltimore that played mostly current rock music. Kept it on low. He had too much thinking to do to waste even this time.
His plans were already underway for investigating Grunge’s shooting. The tourist’s mauling, too, even though the army had no jurisdiction over a crime that didn’t occur on federal property.
But that mauling was surely related to Grunge’s injury. It was only logical that he would investigate them jointly. Not even the bright, and territorial, Chief Angus Ellenbogen could argue with that, as long as Drew cooperated with him—or at least appeared to—and didn’t step on his toes.
He finally reached the turnoff for Mary Glen, drove down the main street past the civic center—such as it was—and shopping district, and turned onto Choptank Lane, his heart starting to race as he got nearer to the vet who had so affected him earlier.
He slowed, and stopped suddenly. The street was lined with large vans with satellite dishes sticking out the top.
No big surprise. The media had learned about the lurid goings-on here last night.
Damn it.
He parked on the first block and strode angrily and purposefully toward the veterinary clinic.
The media vultures crowded around the front door. The farthest rows were filled with denimclad people with hefty cameras aimed at the door. The nearest to the building, better dressed, thrust microphones toward the entry.
Where Dr. Melanie Harding stood.
Had she called a press conference to talk about the Mary Glen werewolf stories, complete with her brave rescue of a poor dog and removal of a silver bullet from its shoulder?
Why the hell did he feel so deflated? Because he’d been attracted to the pretty vet? Imagined she was above snatching at her moment of fame? She wouldn’t know it was potentially at his expense. Hell, why would she care?
When he had sneaked inside that morning, it hadn’t been through the front door. He had found a more vulnerable entry in the back, through a window into a room where pet food and medical supplies were stored.
He