Page 8 of A Gathering Storm
Time slows the way it does when violence becomes inevitable. I can smell MacRae's wolf rising, feel Grayson's bear awakening to threat. They could leave—this isn't their fight, their cargo, their mistake in trusting the wrong contact. But something in their stillness says they won't.
The tiger doesn't wait for conscious decision. He explodes from skin in a rush of fury that tears through my wetsuit, launches me at the nearest gunman before his finger can tighten on the trigger. My claws find the gap between Kevlar plates, opening his throat in a spray that paints the rocks crimson.
Automatic fire erupts, bullets sparking off stone where I was a heartbeat ago. But MacRae's already moving, his wolf form massive and grey-black in the twilight, jaws crushing the second gunman's shooting arm before he can track my movement.
Grayson doesn't shift—doesn't need to. He simply steps inside Santos's rifle arc and drives one massive fist through the man's sternum, the crack of breaking ribs lost under the cartel leader's truncated scream.
It's over in seconds. Three bodies cooling on clifftop stone, blood running in rivulets toward the sea. The pharmaceuticals case sits untouched, absurdly clean amid the carnage.
I shift back, naked now except for blood that's not mine, breathing hard as the killing fury slowly drains away. MacRae returns to human form with that fluid grace all wolves seem to have, surveying the scene with grim satisfaction. Grayson just wipes his hands on his jeans, looking vaguely annoyed at the mess.
"Santos had connections," I say, because someone has to acknowledge what just happened. "His crew won't let this go unanswered."
"Then they'll find more than they bargained for." MacRae's eyes find mine, something stirring in their storm-grey depths. Not quite approval, but maybe a reassessment. "You fought with us."
The observation hangs there, waiting for explanation. I could tell him it was pure instinct, that the tiger reacted to threat without consulting me. Could pretend it meant nothing, just survival reflex and coincidence.
Instead, I meet his gaze straight on. "Fine. I'm in."
His eyebrows rise slightly—he wasn't expecting capitulation.
"But don't mistake survival for loyalty, MacRae. I still don't trust any of you."
A ghost of something that might be amusement crosses his features. "Trust is earned, O'Donnell. On all sides."
Grayson grunts, already checking the bodies for identification, phones, anything that might tell us if this wasisolated or part of something larger. Professional to the end, even covered in arterial spray.
The case of pharmaceuticals sits between us like a question mark. Blood money, Grayson called it. He's not wrong. But it's also two months of dock fees, fuel for my boat, food that doesn't come from diving for shellfish when pickings are slim.
"The cargo?" I ask, not quite ready to give it up, not quite able to take it after what just happened.
"Dump it," MacRae says without hesitation. "Santos is dead. The deal's dead. Unless you want to explain to his buyers why their pickup crew is feeding the crabs."
He's right, and we both know it. The smart play is to make all of this disappear—bodies, drugs, every trace that tonight happened. But it grates, losing that much money, even if keeping it would paint a target on my back in cartel colors.
I pick up the case, walk to the cliff edge where waves crash against rocks below. One throw, and a fortune in pharmaceutical-grade heroin disappears into the black water. The tide will scatter it, break the packaging, dilute it to nothing. Another fortune lost to the deep, like all the other things I've had to let go since leaving Ireland.
"We need to move the bodies," Grayson says, practical as always. "The tide pools on the north side—they'll be gone by morning."
It's grim work, hauling corpses down treacherous paths in growing darkness. But we move with shared purpose now, three predators who've killed together, even if we haven't quite decided what that makes us.
Santos's body is heaviest, dead weight made worse by Grayson's fist-sized hole in his chest. I take his feet while MacRae handles the shoulders, navigating the cliff path by tiger-sight and wolf-sense. The irony isn't lost on me—the first time Iwork with Declan MacRae, we're disposing of bodies rather than making treaties.
"You knew they were coming," MacRae says as we reach the tide pools. Not an accusation—an observation.
"I knew something was off. Santos doesn't handle pickups." I help him roll the body into a deep pool where the morning tide will claim it. "Should have listened to instinct."
"But you came anyway."
"I needed the money."
He looks at me across Santos's floating corpse, something unreadable in those storm-grey eyes. "And now?"
It's a bigger question than it seems. What now, without my pharmaceutical sideline? What now, having killed cartel with the man trying to build some grand alliance? What now, when working alone just proved nearly fatal?
"Now I figure out which side of this war I'm on," I tell him, honest for once because lying to a man you've killed beside seems pointless.
"The cartels are everyone's enemy," Grayson says, dragging the second body to the pool's edge. "Human, shifter, doesn't matter. They're a plague."
