Series: Shifter Ops Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“No dogs allowed,” the cat shouts. “Stop him!”
A dozen heads turn, their green eyes like lasers seeking me out. Ahead of me, the triplets thread through bikers. They’re almost to the bonfire, and the crowd is thick.
Canyon slows and looks back.
“No,” I order him. “Keep going.” I point my Glock in the air and fire a warning shot. The cats around me snarl and hunch like they’re about to pounce.
Deke revs the van, and it leaps over a low concrete barrier and heads for the bonfire. Cats scatter. At the last second, Deke hauls the van right and crashes into the line of bikes.
The cats yowl.
“Go, go, go,” I scream to Canyon. His brothers reach the back of the van and dive between the open doors.
Deke shouts something. There are too many bikes and cars in the way for him to get the van closer to us. We have to cross the parking lot to him.
There’s a cheetah in my face. I duck and rush him, plowing like a linebacker into my opponent's middle. Claws rip at my leather jacket. I drop and toss the shifter into a group of his buddies. More snarls.
The cat shifters are closing in.
“Channing,” Canyon shouts. He throws something. Glass shatters and the scent of fire and grain alcohol flares around me. Flames cut into the night.
The cat next to me screeches, making my ears ring. It races past its brethren, its jacket alight.
Where did Canyon get the ingredients to make Molotov cocktails? I punch the closest cheetah and flip him over my shoulder, sending him crashing into his coalition.
Deke’s doing evasive maneuvers in the van. The vehicle has a lot more horsepower than you’d expect, but the cheetahs are swarming it.
“Go,” I holler, waving my arms.
Hutch sticks his head out of the window. “Canyon!”
Canyon’s got his back up against the fire, a second jug of grain alcohol in his hand. He’s caught in a circle of hissing cats.
Shit. This kid. I knew he would be trouble.
Light and shadow lick Canyon’s bare torso. A nearby cat lunges, and he steps back, his boot crunching on glass. His kilt is dangerously close to the flames. One more step back, and he’ll be in the fire.
Two were-leopards leap close. I raise my gun to warn them off.
“Coward,” one hisses. “You don’t bring a gun to a claw fight.”
You do if you’re street smart. That’s where Hannibal made a mistake. He thought I’d act like we were in a fight club match. Outside of the ring, rules don't apply.
They don’t apply in the ring, either, if you don’t care about losing. Or getting disqualified.
A group of shifters join the leopards. “You can’t shoot us all,” one says, and his buddies all cackle, raising a bottle of grain alcohol in mock toast. Werehyenas. “How many bullets do you have left?”
“Enough.” I shoot the bottle, then whirl and sprint away, chased by yowling leopards. I reach the line of fallen bikes and haul one up. Normally, I’d need time to hotwire it, but this is a cheetah bike. It’s already been hotwired. I tweak the proper wires, and it roars to life.
The wereleopards leap, too late. I hurtle away, heading towards the bonfire. Cats scream and fly out of my way. I throttle the thing until the front tire leaves the ground and zoom closer. Canyon’s on the opposite side, the firelight painting his bare back. I’ll have to fight through the flocks of shifters to get around the bonfire to him.
Or…
There’s a piece of plywood propped at an angle on this side of the fire. A ramp. That was the werecheetah’s plan for tonight. The dummies were going to jump the fire.
I rev the bike to breakneck speeds and zip up the ramp. The bike and I soar through the air. Heat hits my face–I’m over the fire.
I’m heavier than a werecheetah, and I didn’t get a proper head start. I might not make it. The flames reach up to grab my boots.
“Canyon,” I roar. And I rise, leaping off the bike–shifting into a wolf mid-air.
My body contorts, tightens, and rips out of my jeans and leather jacket. Shreds of my clothes rain onto the bonfire.
The bike crashes down, half in, half out of the fire. Right on top of where Canyon was standing–if he hadn’t moved.
I land on my paws and shoot forward, ducking my wolf head, so I slide between Canyon’s legs and bounce him onto my back. He shouts and falls forward, gripping my white fur. I let him ride me like a toddler riding a miniature pony all the way to the back of the parking lot, heading for my bike.
Behind us, there’s a blast as flames find the crashed bike’s fuel tank and explodes.
Two leopards and hyenas, their faces raw but already healing, leap out in front of me. Canyon throws the remaining Molotov cocktail at their feet, and I dash by.