“Get out of my way,” Graham said.
The gang leader touched the end of the pistol to Graham’s nose. “No.”
“I warned him, right?” Graham said to Dougal. “You saw me warning him? When Eric gives me crap about this later, tell him I warned him.”
“You’re funny, Shifter,” the gang leader said, even as Dougal gave Graham a serious nod.
“Yeah, I’m a tub of laughs.”
Graham ripped the gun out of the gang leader’s hands and smacked him hard in the face with it. The gang leader went back with a surprised grunt, hands going to his bloody mouth. As the other men started forward, Graham called the strength of his wolf and twisted the pistol in half. Pieces of metal and bullets rained to the ground.
The gang leader lifted his head, his nose and mouth dripping scarlet blood. “That was stupid.”
“But fun.” Graham grabbed the man by his shirt, hoisting him high. Then he stopped being civilized and went for it.
He threw the leader into the knot of his men. They scrambled either to grab him or get out of the way, and Graham was on them. He punched, elbowed, jabbed, swept his boot across ankles to send the men to the ground.
Dougal joined the fray, laughing. Dougal had a lot of anger in him, and he loved the chance to work it off. These dumb-ass humans were the perfect targets. Let the kid take it out on them.
He heard Misty yelling from inside the shack, and thumping as she kicked the wall. Not in terror—she was pissed off, probably bound and trying to get loose. You go, baby.
Graham punched and kicked, spun and jabbed. He didn’t bother becoming wolf or his in-between beast—it was a pleasure to kick ass without even shifting. His Collar sparked, driving pain into his neck, but he didn’t care. He’d care later, but not now. Pain didn’t slow Graham down; it galvanized him.
He heard the boom of a pistol, and then blood was running hot down Graham’s side, soaking his shirt. Damn.
The man who’d shot him looked up in terror as Graham bore down on him, half shifting as he went. Graham tasted blood as he tore into the guy, and the pistol became a pile of broken metal.
Howls filled the air behind Graham, but not howls of pain. Dougal had shifted, his wolf furious that someone dared wound the only parent he’d ever known. Fur flashed by Graham as Dougal, now a huge black wolf, charged the remaining humans standing.
They never had a chance to shoot. Dougal fought like a whirlwind, his Collar throwing sparks into the bright morning light. Graham slowed, his side hurting like hell, and watched as Dougal clawed and bit until the tough inner-city gang boys were pools of whimpering terror.
The leader managed to limp to the pickup parked behind the shack. Graham went after him, but the pain of the shot slowed him. The leader got into the truck and had it started up while Graham was still a few yards away.
“You’re screwed, Shifter,” the man said. Then the truck leapt forward, spun a little on the dirt, and rocketed down the track toward the road, leaving his yelling gang boys behind.
What an ass**le. He’d just run out on his own men.
The humans left didn’t waste time standing around being mad. They ran for the motorcycles, Dougal’s and Graham’s included.
Graham spun and tried to intercept them, but one guy punched Graham in the side, right where the bullet was. Pain blossomed in Graham’s body, his Collar biting deeper agony into him. Graham grunted as he fell to his knees, and the guy managed to twist away and keep running.
Dougal’s jeans lay forlorn on the ground near the bikes—easy for one of the men to lean down and scoop up Dougal’s keys. Graham leveraged himself to his feet, but the two men had reached Dougal’s bike, starting it up. As Graham staggered toward his own bike, the second man on Dougal’s motorcycle aimed his pistol at Graham’s Harley and shot it again and again.
Graham had to watch his motorcycle, the Harley Softail he lovingly worked on every day of his life, become as wounded as he was. The gas tank punctured, fuel poured onto the ground, and more bullets lodged in the engine.
The man driving Dougal’s bike moved it out, following the others, leaving them stranded.
Graham folded his arms over his stomach, trying and failing to draw deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain, and their way out of the desert plus all the water was racing toward the highway, a thin spiral of dust rising in its wake.
• • •
Misty kept tugging at the handcuff that held her to the one beam in the shack that looked stable. She’d been pulling and yanking to no avail, her wrist raw. She’d feared to pull too hard in case the whole shed came down on top of her.
She heard the vehicles roar away, and then the drawn-out howl of a wolf. “Graham!” she shouted.
Another howl came, holding a mournful note, and one of fear. Shifter wolves were supposed to be strong and terrifying, but this one sounded lost and alone.
“Graham!”
“I’m right here, baby.”
Graham yanked open the door to the shack. His eyes held deep pain, the skin around his Collar was black, and blood oozed from behind the hand he pressed to his side.
Misty tugged at the cuff again. “Oh my God, you’ve been shot!”
Graham’s voice was as strong as ever. “Stop screeching. You’re hurting my ears. And you—” He turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Quit with the howling. I’m not dying. Not yet.”
“I’ll stop screeching when you call nine-one-one,” Misty told him.