We waited for a few breaths, a handful of heartbeats, and I tried to catch a scent of what was waiting for us inside. No gunfire responded, so Ben and I eased around the door frame.
Dr. Paul Flemming stood against the far wall, looking just like he did four years ago: thin, mousy, bureaucratic, with a well-worn jacket over nondescript shirt and trousers.
“You,” I hissed, and lunged.
Ben grabbed my arm, and I nearly wrenched it out of the socket trying to pull away. I didn’t care. Snarling, I charged again, flopping to try and break free from his grip. He used both hands and might have yelled at me to calm down, but I wasn’t listening. My vision, all my senses, had narrowed to a tunnel that focused on Flemming, and my mouth watered at the thought of putting my teeth around his throat. I had him, if my too-cautious mate would just let me go, I’d kill him—
“Look at that, she’s gone nonverbal. What the bloody hell did you do to her?” The British alpha stood at my other shoulder, and I growled at him, too.
Flemming had flattened himself against the steel wall and stared at me with white-rimmed eyes. Wasn’t so calculating now, was he? See how he did when I ran claws down his face—
Ben got in front of me and pressed. “Kitty, you’re not helping. Snap out of it before you lose it.” He put his face in front of mine, catching my gaze and projecting calm. I gave another halfhearted lurch to break out of his grip, but he was a wall. Settling slowly, I tried to unclench my hands. He moved aside, but kept his arm across me—just in case.
Finally, I looked at Flemming without losing my temper entirely.
“So,” I said, flatly as I could, to keep from yelling. “What’s your story this time? Got another silver-lined cell all set up? What were you going to do to him?”
His chin tipped up, an effort to stay calm. “I—I wasn’t going to hurt him.”
“Like you weren’t going to hurt me?”
“You weren’t hurt—”
I growled and lunged again—Ben caught me, like I knew he would. His voice in my ear was calm. “I’m going to call the police,” he said. “He’ll be extradited to the U.S. He’ll get what’s coming, okay?”
“Don’t,” Caleb said. “Don’t call them just yet. Not ’til we get what we need.” He had a curl to his lip.
Caleb and Cormac were in the room; Tyler was with Jill, who was helping him to his feet; Warrick stood guard behind us. We were three rooms in, and based on the size of the warehouse we had to be nearly at the other side. The next door should have been the last. It was open, just a crack.
Flemming eyed the cracked door, as if he thought he could make a run for it. He’d spent half his career studying werewolves; he had to know better than that. We fanned around him, wolves on the hunt. His breathing had become rapid.
“Where are the rest of the guards?” I asked.
“I—I don’t know. They’re supposed to be here—”
“Who’s really behind this, Flemming?” I said. “You didn’t get these resources on your own.”
The detritus here was different than in the other rooms. Instead of empty cardboard boxes, a couple of plastic crates were stacked in corners. A card table with several chairs around it showed the remains of an Indian takeout meal, wrapped in a plastic bag. I paced, to investigate. Flipping back the lid of one of the crates, I found coils of nylon cord, vials of clear liquid and tranquilizer darts, handcuffs that gleamed silver. Everything you’d need to catch and hold a werewolf. I shook my head at it all.
A black leather attaché case was shoved under the table. “Yours?” I said to him, kicking it. He’d taken on the aspect of a prisoner of war, his jaw clenched, silent.
I pulled it into the open and started digging.
Flemming actually had the nerve to reach. “You can’t—”
“We can make you disappear, if we like,” Caleb said cheerfully. Flemming slumped back to his place on the wall.
In the case’s outside pocket I found a bundle of standard-looking documents, forms with boxes to fill in with names, addresses, dates. Customs declarations, shipping manifests. Buried in the bottom of the pocket, I found a bundle of passports. I flipped through them quickly—three, including one for the U.S., were for Flemming alone. A British one had Tyler’s picture in it, but a different name. Probably to help smuggle him out of the country, and get him into another.
A name appeared over and over again on the paperwork—as a contact person, the owner of goods to be shipped, the authority by which money changed hands. I assumed it was Flemming’s alias. Except …
“Who is G. White?” I asked Flemming.
He swallowed hard, moving his lips as if preparing to speak. For all the good it would do him, surrounded by werewolves as he was. We could smell the lies.
Hand on chin, gaze thoughtful, Ben said, “Cormac … Amelia … check something for me: What’s the Latin word for white?”
“Albus,” Cormac said.