Chapter 26: MIDNIGHT WOLVES — PART 1
Job's voice crackles at 11:47 PM. "Movement on three vectors. East, west, north. Multiple vehicles. Estimate eight to ten per group."
I'm positioned on a rooftop overlooking Main Street. North approach visible. My Criminal Instinct has been screaming for ten minutes—danger coming, close, getting closer.
"Copy," I radio. "North team visible. Eight counted. I'm engaging."
Lucas: "Roger. West team approaching Brock's position. East team nearing Siobhan. All teams, weapons free."
My heart rate doesn't spike. Stays steady. The wolf doesn't panic.
Below, three vehicles stop at the old mill. Doors open. Men exit. Eight total. Armed. Moving with tactical coordination. Professionals.
They're sweeping buildings. Searching. One leads—bigger than the others, confident. Olek? Maybe. Doesn't matter.
I descend from the roof. Quiet. They haven't seen me yet.
Violence Mastery activates automatically. Reading patterns. Positions. Threat assessment. The big man is the most dangerous. Two flankers are experienced. The rest are standard operators.
I hit the fire alarm on the mill building. The sound shatters the night. Loud. Disorienting.
The hunters react—turn toward the sound, lose focus on their perimeter for three seconds.
I use two.
My first shot takes the rear guard. Center mass. He drops.
The team scatters. Professional. Seeking cover. Returning fire.
Muzzle flashes in the dark. Bullets spark off metal, punch through wood. None find me. I'm already moving.
Second shot. Flanker on the left. Headshot. Down.
Violence Mastery tracks all eight—now six. It's not like the training warehouse. These are real threats. Real weapons. Real intent to kill.
It's easier than training.
I see their movements before they complete them. See the left man raising his weapon—shift, fire, he's down before he pulls the trigger. See the right man repositioning—I'm there first, knife instead of gun, throat cut, silent.
Four left.
The big man is shouting. Russian. Commands. Trying to organize a defense.
I let him see me. Just a glimpse. Then disappear into shadows.
They fire blind. Wasting ammunition. Panic creeping in.
Third shot. Fourth shot. Two more down.
Two remaining. The big man and one other.
They run. Smart. Regroup. Call for backup.
I pursue. Not letting them report effectively.
The other man turns. Fires. Three rounds.
Pain explodes in my right shoulder. The vest stops two. The third punches through.
I stumble. Fall. The wound screams.
And Pain Conversion ignites.
The agony translates. Burns through my nervous system. Converts to something else. Something pure. Energy. Speed. Clarity.
I'm up before they can capitalize. Moving faster than I should. The wound bleeds but I don't care.
The shooter sees me rise. His eyes widen. "What—"
My shot ends the question.
The big man is running. Fast. Heading for his vehicle.
I'm faster. Cut him off. He tries to fight—hand to hand, professional training.
It doesn't matter.
Violence Mastery reads him perfectly. Every strike, every block, every intention. I counter before he attacks. Break his arm. His leg. Put him down hard.
He's still alive. Gasping. I should finish him.
Instead: "Where's Olek?"
He spits blood. Says nothing.
I press my boot on his broken arm. "Where?"
"East. With—" He screams. "With the main force. Eastern team."
"How many?"
"Twelve. The rest are—" His eyes go unfocused. Shock setting in.
I leave him. Let him bleed. Radio: "North clear. Eight engaged, six eliminated, two fled. I'm hit but mobile."
Lucas's voice is tight. "How bad?"
"Bad enough to be useful."
Silence. He understands. "Brock reports contact. Siobhan is engaging. Multiple targets."
"On my way to support."
I check my shoulder. The wound is through-and-through. Clean. Bleeding freely. My regeneration will handle it—eventually. Right now, the pain is feeding me power.
I can feel it. Pain Conversion at maximum. My movements are sharper. Faster. The world is clear, hyperreal. Every sense enhanced.
This is what I trained for. What I prepared for.
I'm not afraid. Not tired. Not limited.
I'm the wolf.
And the night is full of prey.
Gunfire erupts from the west. Brock's position. Heavy. Sustained.
I run. The shoulder screams with every step. My legs don't slow.
Around me, Banshee sleeps. A few lights come on—residents waking to the sound of combat. Confused. Scared.
Stay inside, I think. Lock your doors. Pray we're enough.
The pain doesn't fade. It burns. Constant fuel for the power growing inside me.
I'm running faster than human. I know it. Don't care.
The west checkpoint appears. Brock's patrol car is riddled with bullets. Shell casings everywhere. Blood on the pavement.
Bodies. Three of them. Hunters. Dead.
But no Brock.
"Brock!" I call. "Report!"
Movement behind a shot-up cruiser. "Here."
I find him. Leg wound. Tourniquet applied. Pale but alive.
"Got three," he says. Breathing hard. "Five pushed through. Couldn't stop them all."
"You did good." I check the tourniquet. It'll hold. "Can you walk?"
"Can I fight?"
"Not like this. You need medical."
"After." He grabs his radio. "They're heading for town center. Same direction as the east team."
Sugar's. They're converging.
Siobhan's voice crackles: "East team engaged. I've got four down but they're pushing past. Heading toward Sugar's. I can't hold them alone."
I do the math. Five from west. Eight from east (minus Siobhan's four). Maybe fifteen total converging on Sugar's.
"Siobhan, fall back to Sugar's. We concentrate our forces."
"Copy. Coming in."
I look at Brock. "Can you hold this position?"
"What position? They already passed." He coughs. "I can call for backup. Ambulance. State police."
"Not yet. Too many questions. Too much exposure." I hand him my spare radio. "Monitor the frequency. If we fail—if Lucas goes quiet—then you call everyone. Understand?"
He nods. "Don't fail."
"Trying not to."
I stand. My shoulder is still bleeding. Still screaming. Still powering me.
"Webb." Brock's voice stops me. "Whatever you are—thanks for being on our side."
It's not a question. It's acceptance.
I nod. No time for more.
I run for Sugar's bar. The streets are dark. My Criminal Instinct pulls me forward—toward danger, toward violence, toward the fight.
My shoulder wound has stopped hurting.
Which means it's feeding me too much power. Flooding my system. I'll crash later. Hard.
Right now, I'm running at inhuman speed toward the sound of war.
The wolf is feeding.
And the prey is gathering exactly where I need them.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1