Page 102 of Bear Facts

Before the Feline could recover, Shane was on him. He punched the Feline in the face several times then flipped him around to bang his forehead into the wall. A smear of blood appeared on the pristine subway tiles, then the Feline slumped, unconscious to the floor.

“Sorry,” the human guard said softly. “There was only one tranq dart.”

“It’s fine. Felt good to finally shut that asshole up.”

Shane ducked out of the bathroom, gesturing for the guard to precede him to the radio room. The man had helped, but Shane didn’t trust him enough to let him bring up the rear.

The radio was on, lights blinking, static softly humming. Shane quietly closed the door to the hallway once they’d entered and sank down to the chair in front of the transceivers.

“Know how to work this thing?” he asked the guard. While he’d talked to Diego’s friends about operating ham radios, he’d never done it himself.

The guard immediately began turning dials. “What frequency do you need?”

“Something that will reach about a two-hundred-mile radius, I’d guess. Southern Oregon, northern California.”

Ham radio was pretty cool, Shane had always thought. You could talk to someone down the street or on the southern tip of South America with equal ease. Sometimes even the space station. You just needed a good antenna, Diego’s friends, mostly retired cops, had told him.

The guard pushed buttons and clicked the computer’s mouse. The radio whined a little, then static buzzed and resolved into voices. The guard clicked one more icon on the desktop—turning on the mike—and motioned for Shane to speak.

“Marlo?” Shane asked. “You out there?”

An irritated voice, not Marlo’s, answered. “Who the hell is this? What’s your call sign?”

“Don’t have one,” Shane told him. “Emergency here. Looking for Marlo. What airfields are around here?”

Another male voice joined in. “Marlo have a call sign?”

“No idea. What about Diego Escobar? Anyone know him?”

More clicking and static. “You looking for Diego? Who is this?”

“Can you get a message out?” Shane asked. “Tell Diego that Shane’s been compromised. Where are we?” Shane asked the last question of the guard.

“About forty miles northeast of Grants Pass across the Rogue River.” The guard leaned to the microphone and gave latitude and longitude coordinates.

The radio crackled again and a more familiar voice broke in. “Shane?”

It was Diego. Shane went slack with relief. “You get that?” he asked.

“Yes. What happened?”

“Sorry, dude. I’ll tell you later. Gotta go.”

“On it,” Diego said.

“Oh, hey. Remember after you mate-claimed Cassidy and were all pissed off at me?”

“What? I wasn’t?—”

“I get it now,” Shane said. “Bye, dude.”

He nodded at the guard, who shut everything down.

“That what you needed?” the man whispered.

“Yeah. I’ll get you out of here, okay?”

“Sure.” The guard didn’t exude confidence. “What about the Shifters we knocked out?”

---