Page 52 of Hunted Mate
The cop leans on his desk. “You think they’ve got aliens at Area 51?”
Apparently the matter of the reckless driving is already forgotten about in favor of getting to ask a federal agent a few hard questions.
“They’ve got all sorts all over,” I say, letting my tone drop to a conspiratorial level. “I haven’t been inside the facility myself—it’s military, not federal, but there’s rumors.”
“You ever catch a serial killer?” the younger officer asks. I glance at his name badge as he turns to me. Johnson. Matches the older officer’s name too. Johnson and Johnson.
“Don’t get many serial killers these days. It’s gone out of fashion.”
“People don’t have the same work ethic they used to,” the older Johnson says.
The younger Johnson rolls his eyes.
“Was there any word from other jurisdictions bordering yours about the vehicle or driver? Have to assume she didn’t start being a model citizen after driving into the wilds.”
“Let us check,” Johnson says. “I can put a call through to nearby stations and see if anything’s come in.”
“Thank you, that’d be much appreciated.”
I sit in the waiting room and reflect on the fact that this is the opposite of what Orion and the pack wanted. They wanted the whole thing to go away, to stop drawing attention. Instead, she’s ending up on god knows how many internet videos, and is starting to attract a following.
She’s even got a hashtag: ‘#HeiressCrashout.’
I bring up one of the latest videos, hoping there’s some clue in it. Sifting through social media is tiresome, but occasionally there are cues.
“We love an heiress crash out. Calista Hart managed to hold things together after a super tragic childhood, but as she heads into her mid-twenties, she is freaking the fuck out. Very on brand given what her parents did,” a young man wearing a graphic t-shirt says.
“What’s that?”
“Crash out of the sky.” He grins like he said something funny. The young woman laughs politely, ensuring he makes more jokes like that in the future.
I close the app just as the younger Johnson leans over the counter.
“Car’s been abandoned in Moon Hollow, sir.”
“Where?”
“Middle of an intersection. Cameras caught her just getting out and letting the vehicle drift through it.”
“Is Moon Hollow a town?”
“Sure is. About two hundred forty miles from here. She must have driven like c— unwell to get there that quick.”
He’s trying not to be an asshole, and being even more of one in the process. That’s life in a nutshell. I don’t have time to police his language or his meaning. Maybe he’s trying, maybe he’s not. I’m more concerned that I’m not going to get to my mate before something bad happens.
I am starting to very much worry that Callie is going to shift in front of people and blow the whole shifters-are-real conspiracy wide open. It would be ironic as hell if all our efforts to contain her only ended up exposing us.
Sometimes, females don’t shift until they are mated. I have to hope that’s the case for Callie, but that would be almost too convenient—and nothing about this situation is convenient. She is leading law enforcement on a wild wolf chase across the state, and she doesn’t seem to be trying.
“Alright,” I say. “Thanks very much for your help.”
“You want an escort? Lights and sirens? Help you catch up with her?”
“That would be… very helpful, thank you.”
I am so glad I’m driving a big black SUV that fits perfectly with the federal agent cover.
CHAPTER 11
