Jamie led the group, standing at the front. They had been walking for at least ten minutes. It was quiet-just the way he wanted it-but no matter how far he moved or how much distance he covered, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He motioned to Talo with a sign. "We're going to take a break. Something's not right." The rain was starting to pick up, and the wind began to blow fiercely.
Jamie spoke to the rest of the group. "We're going to rest in that bar over there." The building had neon signs and very decorative wooden doors, but all that was really recognizable now was the brick frame. Everything else had weathered away.
Everyone entered the building quietly, with Jamie being the last to step in, right behind Talo. Once inside, Jamie instructed everyone, "Keep your voices to a whisper and try to stay as quiet as possible."
Talo considered shutting the door, but Jamie stopped him. "Trust me, keep it open. It's more convincing if it's left open, plus I want to see what's out there."
Talo simply replied, "Yes, sir." He then quietly knocked over a wooden table, took cover behind it, and aimed his rifle at the door.
Jamie then said, "Trust me, I would send someone before you. Get some rest."
Talo replied, "We haven't been traveling for that long. Come on, you and I are trained to march for days without sleep."
Jamie argued, "The civilians aren't, and the weather is picking up more than I thought. I really can't have anyone getting sick. Besides, I think we're far enough away from where we were."
Talo shot Jamie an angry look and said, "You know everything you're doing is going against protocol. Besides, I know what I'm doing. I don't need a babysitter. "
Jamie responded, "Well, when I can tear your head off and shove it up your ass in five seconds flat, I get to babysit you."
Talo simply responded, "Yes, sir," though there was a hint of fear in his eyes. Jamie glanced down to see a very unconventional rifle in Talo's hands. Although the rifle looked somewhat familiar, it was far more futuristic than anything Jamie had ever seen.
"Where the hell did you get that thing?" Jamie asked.
Talo replied, "Well, on the escape ship, the Ambassador had it in a suitcase. Apparently, it's a very expensive rifle she bought just for such an occasion. It does far more damage than anything I've ever picked up before. There are only a few thousand of these, and it's very experimental." Talo looked at the rifle like it was a very beautiful woman and added, "Want to know the best part? There's hardly any kick to it."
Jamie's face registered genuine surprise. "Well, shit, can't wait to be replaced," he mumbled to himself. Then, turning back to Talo, he asked, "Before you tell me any more about this new tech that might put my military career in jeopardy, do you mind explaining how you got out? I don't remember seeing a parachute when you fell out."
Talo scratched the back of his head. "Well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. When the cargo section of the ship blew up, there was a falling crate. All kinds of debris were falling, and one of them was a crate full of parachutes. I managed to skydive to it, blow open the lid, and grab one."
Jamie looked at him with eyes filled with suspicion, but he didn't have the time or the energy to contest the story. "There's something you're not telling me, and we'll find that out later," Jamie said. "But there's something else I need to know about you."
Jamie's eyes flickered with anger. "You were a complete asshole to me, just like everyone else. You blamed me for the crime of existing. That's fine-I've grown up. I don't have the luxury to care about those things anymore. But there's something in your eyes that I don't like."
Talo's face showed momentary confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"In your eyes, there's respect-for once, you look at me like you actually respect me. And I wonder why. Is it because I can rip your head off? Or do you finally see me as a person?" Jamie's voice rose with anger. "Which is it?!"
Talo, fearfully, replied, "Because you're a hero."
For a moment, Jamie's face remained neutral, and then he burst into laughter harder than he had in a long time. Talo and the others were surprised that a wolf's face could show such expression.
Jamie then questioned him, "How do you know I'm not just following orders? Did it ever occur to you that I might just be doing my job?"
Talo looked at him seriously. "You could've left us to die, but you chose to save that woman. You chose to save all of us. Even before, when I worked with you, you were one of the bravest men I ever met. You never left anyone behind. Never let anyone die. You could've walked away years ago, but you stayed. You know why? Because seven times out of ten, your job saves people."
Jamie's face stayed neutral, and the room fell into a heavy silence. Talo continued, "Don't lie to yourself, Jamie. You're a good man-just accept that."
A look of guilt crossed Jamie's face. "I don't know if heroes exist, and if they do exist, I'm certainly not one of them," he answered, sighing deeply. "But we've got to get moving. You and I both know our position is compromised."
Jamie chastised himself internally. I shouldn't have been so loud. That was stupid of me. Talo, noticing his tension, tried to reassure him. "How fast can they move? If they were really here, they would've found us by now."
Jamie shook his head, unwilling to take comfort in Talo's words. "We need to get moving. We can't stay in one place."
Talo countered, "Jamie, we have wounded here, and most of them are civilians. They're in no condition to be running several miles through deadly Skinwalker territory."
Jamie paused and took a good look around, his gaze settling on three people he hadn't really noticed before.
One of them was a mechanic, a Black man in his thirties, who was fiddling with a battered old radio. His hands were steady, though his expression was tight with concentration. The man had the look of someone who'd spent a lifetime solving problems with whatever tools were at hand. His fingers, calloused and scarred from years of labor, deftly adjusted the radio's dials, searching for a signal through the static-filled ether. The mechanic's clothes were grimy, stained with oil and dirt, remnants of his last job before all hell broke loose.
Next to him was a young medic, a woman in her twenties with short, messy hair sticking out from under a bandana. She was focused on treating the wounds of the French girl who sat silently beside her, her eyes wide with fear. The medic's hands moved with practiced efficiency as she cleaned and bandaged the girl's injuries, her expression a mask of calm despite the recent chaos around them. The French girl winced occasionally, but the medic offered a few soothing words in a low voice, her tone gentle yet authoritative. It was clear that the medic had seen her share of wounds, both physical and psychological.
The third person was a man Jamie couldn't quite place. He wasn't sure of the role this man had in their group, but his behavior was unsettling. The man sat in the corner, rocking slightly as he mumbled to himself. His eyes were unfocused, darting around the room as if seeing things that weren't there. His clothes were torn and dirty, his hair unkempt, and there was a wildness about him, as though he teetered on the edge of sanity. The ramblings were incoherent, filled with snippets of phrases that made no sense, but the fear in his voice was palpable.
Jamie finally turned his attention to the bar they were holed up in. The place had seen better days-about fifty years ago. Now, it was a shell of what it once was, the years of abandonment and neglect apparent in every corner. The walls, once covered in vibrant, cheerful paint, were now faded and peeling, exposing the bare wood beneath. Dust and grime coated every surface, and the air was thick with the smell of mildew and decay.
The bar counter, once the centerpiece of a bustling establishment, was now a sagging, warped structure. The wood was cracked and splintered, with large chunks missing where termites had made their home. Empty bottles and broken glasses littered the floor, remnants of a time when this place was alive with laughter and conversation. Now, only the occasional creak of the building settling, and the soft patter of rain against the broken windows broke the silence.
What was once a row of stools lined up neatly at the bar had mostly collapsed or been overturned, leaving a haphazard mess of broken legs and torn leather seats. The decorative wooden doors, which might have once welcomed patrons with a warm, inviting glow, were now barely recognizable-rotted and hanging crookedly on rusted hinges
Jamie's gaze swept over the room, taking in the disarray and the desperate faces of the people around him. They couldn't stay here much longer. The bar was a decaying ruin, offering little in the way of shelter or security. But moving the wounded and the civilians through Skinwalker territory would be a gamble he wasn't sure they could afford to make.
The sudden clacking against the stone roads caught Jamie's attention. It took him a second to realize what it was: the sound of hooves galloping toward the door. The bar fell into a heavy silence, and all heads turned toward the entrance. Talo aimed his rifle, while Jamie prepared to pounce. However, the deep wounds on his body quickly reminded him that he wasn't at full strength. It felt like a lash across his back, the pain sharp and relentless.
A jet-black horse slowly appeared in the doorway, its head visible to everyone. It didn't make a sound. I just stood there, looking around with an eerie calm. The silence in the room was suffocating, heavier than any weight Jamie had ever felt. Talo whispered, "Jamie, do you want me to shoot it, or are you going to kill it?"
Jamie, his eyes never leaving the horse, replied, "Just wait a minute."
Another tense moment passed until the blonde soldier from earlier reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. With a quick motion, he tossed it out of a nearby window. The horse clambered out of the bar, following the direction of the chocolate bar.
"They want your candy bar," the soldier said in a thick Scandinavian accent. "Whatever the hell they put in these new bars, the animals are attracted to it like catnip. As a matter of fact, I believe the army is trying to phase them out as soon as possible."
A thought crept into Jamie's mind: Just what the hell was I eating before?
Another thought crept into Jamie's mind. You still have a candy bar on you. It's in your pocket. That would explain why the horses were... it doesn't matter now. Still, there's no reason to let your guard down.
"Hey, kid," Jamie called out. He never liked that he had started calling people "kid." He wasn't even 30 yet, but some of his much younger peers had teasingly started calling him "old man."
"What's your name?" Jamie asked.
The soldier responded, "Well, my name is Sverre Bjørnsson. My name is hard for Americans to pronounce, so I just go by Sam."
Jamie looked at him and noticed the rank insignia on his uniform. "Corporal," he thought, recognizing the rank. He also saw that the soldiers were just wearing American outfits at this point, with the Norwegian flag being the only thing that remained consistent on their old uniforms. Jamie then thought, "Yeah, they would have run out of uniforms,or Uncle Sam's taking 100% control of another nation's military again."
Sam then saluted Jamie. "I'm presuming that your rank is far higher than mine. Even if it isn't, thank you for saving us."
Jamie awkwardly returned the salute, then said, "At ease." It wasn't something he was used to doing in this form. He added, "It's probably not a smart idea to salute something like me. Your superiors might not like that. But officially, yes, I probably do outrank everyone in this room. However, let me give you a bit of advice: when shit hits the fan, kid, experience outranks everything."
Sam simply responded, "Yes, sir."
"Another thing-don't tell your superiors that you saluted me," Jamie continued. Sam's face briefly showed confusion, but before he could speak, Jamie cut him off. "It doesn't matter what I did. To them, I'm just a weapon. I'll never be a hero or a person-I'm just a tool. And tools don't get ranks or medals. As a matter of fact, you'll probably be ordered to forget you even saw me."
There was a look of disbelief on Sam's face. Jamie tried to sound sincere, but his voice and frame made it difficult. Despite being a werewolf, he managed to get his feelings across. He then added, "Thank you for saving her-or at least for carrying her to safety. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to save her, or anyone, for that matter."
Sam simply responded, "It's my job, sir. Nothing more, nothing less."
Jamie looked over at the woman. Sam then said, "Her name is Scarlett, by the way."
Jamie repeated, "Scarlett..." then added with a hint of resignation, "Another pretty woman I'll never be able to have."
Scarlett was fast asleep, her face peaceful despite the chaos surrounding them. The doctor had given her a strong dose of morphine, allowing her some respite in a place where death could loom at any moment. Jamie glanced over at her and muttered, "Look at that, a real Sleeping Beauty."
Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the gaps in the bar's walls. The old wooden door creaked and slammed against its frame, swaying with each gust. Rain lashed against the broken windows, droplets splattering onto the dusty floor. The once-steady downpour had turned into a torrential storm, the wind whipping the rain in fierce, relentless sheets. Each gust sounded like it was trying to tear the building apart, creating a rhythmic, almost ominous knocking against the remaining glass panes.
Sam hesitated, the wind seemingly stirring his curiosity further. Though he felt he shouldn't, the question escaped his lips before he could stop himself. "You're part of a unit, aren't you?"
Jamie shook his head. "No, we're not part of any unit. We work alone. It's just me and my uncle."
Just then, a burst of laughter cut through the tense atmosphere. Ambassador Kelly, swaying slightly, had found an old bottle of wine and was drinking straight from it, her cheeks flushed with drunkenness. "A secret unit? Please," she slurred, her words dripping with a mix of amusement and intoxication. "They're part of some secret tribe... Blackwood, I think. Used as a special Black Ops unit, sneaking behind enemy lines and tearing the enemy apart as soon as the sun goes down."
She wobbled slightly as she turned her gaze directly to Jamie, her eyes glassy. "Honey, I've spent decades denying your existence to the world, and here you are, right in front of me." She let out a hiccup, then added, "You, in particular, Jamie, have caused more enemy casualties than anyone else I know. They call you the 'Bastard of Cheyenne.'
She giggled, hiccuping again. "Please, honey, there are no secrets here that I don't already know. No sense in hiding them."
Jamie walked over to Kelly, his large frame forcing him to crouch under the shrunken entryway. The old, decrepit building strained under his size, the low ceiling barely accommodating his presence. He reached for a wine bottle, its surface crusted with age, likely as old as his 200-year-old uncle. Without hesitation, Jamie bit the cork off, spat it out, and downed a hearty gulp of the wine.
"I need you to tell me something," Jamie said, his voice low and serious.
Ambassador Kelly, twirling her wine glass between her fingers, took a slow sip before lazily replying, "Shoot."
Jamie eyed her, his tone sharpening. "I have the feeling I should just kill you. You know what I am, and I don't think you'll keep quiet about it."
Kelly giggled, a playful sound despite the tension in the air. "Oh yes, you're a half-blood," she teased. "But hate to break it to you, sweetheart-most government officials around the world already know about your kind. And if I were a betting woman, which I am-a nasty gambling addiction-I'd wager they already know you're a half-blood. The only reason they haven't put you on a dissecting table is because you're far more valuable to them in the field than in some lab."
Jamie's grip tightened around the bottle as he took a deep breath. "Kelly, why should I believe you? If you go and tell the rest of the world what I am, you'll be putting everyone here in danger." His claws, now extended, dug into the wooden floorboards beneath him, leaving deep gashes, marks far larger than any Kruger claw could leave.
Kelly took another sip of wine, utterly unphased. "Hun, I've been in this situation hundreds of times. If you were going to kill me, you would've done it already. I'm not sure how smart you are, but I think you're smart enough to know that killing an ambassador isn't a great move. They're useful people to have on your side. And if you're really worried about what could happen to you, killing your only potential friend in a world that hates you? Now, that would be remarkably stupid."
Jamie leaned in closer, his massive hand reaching up to cup her cheek. "I could rip your face off right now, and there's nothing you could do about it," he growled. His voice dropped to a menacing whisper as his piercing eyes locked onto hers. "So tell me, Kelly, why should I trust you?"
Kelly, still unmoved by Jamie's threat, simply replied, "Because I believe you're someone who doesn't want to live with the guilt of killing an innocent person. You might look like a monster, Jamie, but we both know you're not."
Jamie let her go, the tension breaking as he laughed. "I like you, Kelly. Most people would've pissed their pants by now. God, I wish more women were like you. It'd make my dating life a hell of a lot easier."