Max was impressed. She’d only ever seen her sister handle a gun that well. Charlie was still better, but that was because no one matched her skill level.
“We need to get out of here,” the cat told her, and Max saw from her spot under the table that more men were running toward the hangar from outside, automatic weapons already drawn.
She looked around while the cat continued to fire, stopping only to reload. She saw a door that led to offices in the back of the hangar. If she could get the cat back there, they could wait it out until her backup arrived. Because—as she’d learned from her sister a long time ago—she always had backup.
As Max started to pull herself out from under the table, she saw that one of the shooters was smarter than the others. Instead of trying to hit the cat with a spray of bullets, he aimed above the table and hit the chains that held one of the long fluorescent lights above their heads. The cat turned, ready to shoot the mercenary, but the light crashed down, ramming him in the back of the head, knocking him down and out.
The mercenary ran forward and re-aimed, about to shoot the cat at point-blank range. Max, now out from under the table—but without her knife—charged forward and launched herself at the shooter. Slamming into him, she dug her claws into his shoulders and took him to the floor with one hit. She unleashed her fangs and bit into the side of his neck, ripping out his artery in one move.
When she got to her feet, she spit the blood and flesh into the face of the closest mercenary, shocking him long enough for her to snatch his military-grade knife from its holster. She cut that one’s throat and dashed to the next closest. That one opened fire and Max dropped to her knees so that she slid across the smooth floor and into his legs. She shoved the blade into one of his thighs, opening the artery buried there.
When he dropped, she grabbed his body and used it as a shield against the fresh round of gunfire sprayed exactly where she was kneeling.
But a stray bullet grazed her leg and, at that point, Max got a little angry. Because if she got shot, she’d have to explain to Charlie how that happened. She could dismiss lacerations and bruises, but not bullet wounds. Those she couldn’t explain away, which meant that now she’d have to get very nasty . . .
* * *
The agony in his head blinded him, made him sick. Zé couldn’t believe how painful it was. He felt weak, confused. He just wanted to go to sleep. But he knew he had to help . . . somebody. For some reason. It was all a bit sketchy, but he didn’t have the time or ability to figure out why he was doing what he felt he needed to do; he just knew he had to do it. Now. Something.
Yeah, he was confused, but . . . oh well.
Zé turned over and began to drag himself out from under the debris. He lifted his head, blinked hard once . . . twice . . . Then he watched as a pretty Asian woman launched herself into several armed men who had been firing directly at her. And, as she moved through the air, she changed from a woman into a . . . rat? Was that a giant rat? Like the capybara? No. He didn’t think so. He’d grown up in the South Bronx. He knew a rat when he saw one, and that was definitely not a rat. But it wasn’t a woman either. Whatever it was, though, it was pissed, tearing into those men with claws and fangs and absolutely zero pity.
Still holding his . . . um . . . uh . . . what were these called again? Oh. Yeah! His gun! Still holding his gun, Zé raised the weapon to shoot the other men who, after a moment of stunned screaming, launched themselves at the . . . thing? Yeah. The thing that was attacking their teammates.
But Zé didn’t get to pull the trigger before more of those giant not-rat things showed up. They joined the attack, dragging the men to the ground, ripping them apart. Body parts and blood flew. Men, begging for their lives, screaming in panic and fear, were dragged across the floor in front of Zé.
At that point he didn’t know whether to shoot, ask questions, or just go back to sleep. He was thinking sleep when a Latina woman he didn’t recognize stepped in front of him. She was armed with a very expensive automatic weapon. She gazed down at him with cold, dark eyes before raising the gun and aiming it at his head.
It didn’t occur to Zé that she was about to blow his brains out because he wasn’t sure about anything at the moment. But by the time he realized what was about to happen, a voice said, “No, Streep! Not him!”
The Asian woman reappeared, only now she was naked and covered in blood. She stood next to the Latina, smiled down at him. “That’s my kitty cat. You can’t shoot my kitty cat.”
“Wait . . . is this that Denmark Syndrome thing?”
“It’s Stockholm syndrome, Einstein, and no. He’s not with these guys. He tried to protect me.”
The Latina sneered down at him. “Good job.”
The Asian woman crouched in front of him, gently took his gun away, then stroked her hand over his head. “Don’t worry, kitty cat, we’ll take care of you. You just get some sleep.”
He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t take him from the scene. That, for some reason, he needed to stay . . .
But he was just so sleepy and his head hurt so bad and he was sure if he didn’t go to sleep, he’d vomit instead and he really didn’t want to do that so . . . yeah . . . sleep.
* * *
The cat’s head dropped and he was out cold. Max felt his forehead. He was already slipping into what shifters called “the fever.” It helped seriously injured shifters heal if they weren’t killed outright. At least that’s what she’d heard. Max had never had the fever and, according to Charlie, none of the three MacKilligan siblings could get the fever, no matter how badly they’d been hurt and, of course, that anomaly was their father’s fault. Their father and his fucked-up genes.
The rest of Max’s teammates now stood around her: Streep, Tock, Mads, and Nelle. The most loyal bunch of outstanding ladies Max had ever known. They’d played basketball together since junior high. But their relationship had always been more than mere teammates. All five were honey badgers in a land of wolves, bears, and cats; most of them had family issues beyond “Daddy works too much and Mom is always in a yoga class”; just in general, they simply didn’t fit in with anyone. Not with other badgers. Not with other shifters. Not with other people. But they fit each other for some strange reason and that made all the difference.
Max had realized, even as a young teen, that if these girls were going to be part of her life, they would need to know how to protect themselves. How to fight, how to hurt, how to destroy. As honey badgers, they had a natural instinct for all that but Max had always agreed with Charlie: just being shifters wasn’t always enough. Especially when it came to protecting their baby sister. So Max and Charlie had learned how to protect themselves when human, too. They learned how to use guns and knives as well as hand-to-hand combat. And what Max had learned, she’d taught to her teammates. She simply didn’t tell Charlie about it.
In fact, when it came to her teammates, Max didn’t tell Charlie about a lot of things. Not only because she knew her sister would freak out, but because her teammates begged her not to say anything. They were terrified of her sister. They’d never understood how dangerous Stevie was, but despite Charlie’s inability to shift and her calm demeanor when it came to outsiders, Streep, Tock, Mads, and Nelle all managed to agree on this one thing: