Thornhill (Hemlock) (20 page)

“Getting him out.”

Eve recovered first. She stepped away so she could study Hank’s face. “You changed your mind? You’re going to break the Eumon out of Thornhill?”

I held my breath. Without Hank or the Eumon, the plan had been to approach one of the other packs. But even if they agreed to help, that would take time—time Kyle and Serena didn’t have.

I stared at Hank, waiting for him to give Eve a yes or no. Instead, he said, “That depends.”

“On?” asked Jason, the single syllable as sharp as a blade.

My father’s eyes—every bit as icy and blue as Sinclair’s—fell on each of us in turn. “On you.” He opened his fist and held up a flat metal circle, like an oversized coin. It bore the same symbol that was etched on the charms he had given Eve and me. The same symbol on his ring.

“The guards left one on the body of each Tracker. It’s the symbol of the Eumon,” Hank added, glancing at Jason and me. “If the Trackers had come looking for their men and found it here, they’d assume the pack had put out a hit. Probably as a message in retaliation for the raid.”

“Sinclair couldn’t just kill us in the camp,” I said slowly, “not without going against the Trackers and pissing them off. But they wouldn’t suspect her if we were killed on the road—not if she made it look like we were caught in the crossfire during an attack.”

I shivered. The sun was warm—unseasonably warm—but I was suddenly freezing.

Jason glanced back at the body of the Tracker. “I got those men killed.”

“Sinclair got those men killed. Not you.” I reached for his hand, but he brushed the touch aside. Unable to say or do anything to comfort him, I shifted my attention back to my father. “You said your help depended on us. Why?”

He flexed his hand around the piece of metal. “Because I want to know what was so valuable that the good warden would send a hit squad after my daughter and try to pin it on my pack.”

“T
AKE ME THROUGH THE VIDEOS AGAIN
.”
HANK STARED
at the three of us—Jason, Eve, and me—from across a scarred breakfast table.

We were in a single-wide trailer—one of thirty—in an abandoned trailer park about forty minutes from Thornhill. The avocado-green appliances and yellow cupboards screamed 1970s, but according to Hank, the place had only been vacant a few years.

I didn’t ask how he’d known. Guys like my father always had a dozen places where they could lie low. If the empty beer bottles and food wrappers on the floor were any indication, this place was on more than one person’s list.

I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my eyes. “We’ve already told you everything about them. Twice.” The adrenaline had worn off ages ago. My nerves were frayed, my body ached, and I was hyperaware of the fact that each second we spent talking was a second Sinclair was probably hurting Kyle and Serena. “All we’re doing is wasting time.”

Eve shot me a warning look. We needed Hank—I knew that—but I was seriously starting to suspect that nothing we said or did would convince him to risk his neck or the pack.

Still, we had to try.

I steeled myself to describe the videos again, but Jason saved me. “Serena was hooked up to an IV in both clips. In the first, they broke her hand. In the second, they injected her with something. The way she reacted when she saw the needle”—he shook his head and a dark look passed through his eyes—“it wasn’t the first time. That’s it. They hurt her, then waited to see how long it took for her to lose control and shift.”

Hank twisted the silver ring on his right hand. “And she seemed more alert in the videos than when you saw her in the cell? More aware of her surroundings and what was going on?”

“Yes,” said Jason, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. Like me, his patience had worn thin, but he was doing a better job of keeping his emotions under the surface. It was like our normal roles had flipped. “Serena knew where she was and what was going on. In the cell, she was completely out of it. She recognized Mac—but only for a second.”

Hank turned his gaze on me. “Did she say anything to you?”

“This is such a waste of time,” I muttered, pushing my chair back and standing.

“Mackenzie . . .”

There was a small window across the room—a patch of bright blue against the dingy, decrepit kitchen. I walked to it and folded my arms over my chest. Eve had found me a clean shirt in the trunk of her car—a guy’s sweatshirt that was two sizes too big—but I was freezing. I stared at the abandoned trailer park without really seeing it. “She said something about how I wasn’t real. How we all kept coming for her, but none of us were ever real.” The words were a knife between my ribs. I pictured Serena waiting in that cell, praying we would come for her and eventually giving up hope.

“Nothing about Sinclair?” prodded Hank. “Nothing about what they were trying to do or if they had succeeded?”

“Nothing.” Tears blurred the scene outside the window, and I hastily brushed them away. Hank had always said crying was for the weak; I was certain he wouldn’t appreciate it now.

I turned and leaned against the windowsill. “What does it matter? We know Sinclair’s trying to cure wolves. Obviously, she hasn’t been successful.”

The blue in Hank’s eyes—normally so flat and empty—darkened and swirled. “What makes you so sure?”

Eve leaned forward with a frown. “What do you mean?”

Hank continued to stare at me. “I mean maybe their cure is working exactly as intended.”

I shook my head. “No. No way.” I flashed back on Serena’s face as Kyle hauled her away from Jason. It had been twisted and bloodthirsty. Almost unrecognizable. “She was more violent, not less.”

“Did she shift?”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. It was Jason who answered. “No.”

Hank gestured at Jason’s neck and I knew what was coming. After all, hadn’t I thought the same thing? “Why didn’t she break your neck? Whatever they did kept your friend from shifting or using her full strength.”

“Maybe part of her was still in enough control to hold back,” I countered, trying not to look at the bruises on Jason’s skin. “But even if they did find a way to keep her from shifting, it’s a complete failure as a cure. It made her crazy and violent, not better.”

“What makes you think this was ever about making wolves better?” asked Hank.

All three of us stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“It has to be about making wolves better,” said Eve. “What good is a cure, otherwise?”

“What would you rather deal with?” Hank asked her. “Three hundred people in straitjackets who could be contained or three hundred wolves who were each capable of tearing your throat out the second you let down your guard?”

I glanced at Jason as a horrible feeling of coldness spread through my chest. The idea that Serena could be considered a success—that what had happened to her might be the end goal rather than a horrible, unexpected side effect—wasn’t just immoral or sickening. It was evil.

“If the change was permanent,” continued Hank, “you wouldn’t need rehabilitation camps anymore. If wolves can’t shift, they can’t infect. You could put them in hospitals and mental wards with reg patients.”

Permanent
. The room dimmed around the edges as Jason stood and came to my side. “But wolves can heal almost anything.” A high, panicked note entered my voice. “Once we get Serena away from that place—”

The screech of metal against linoleum cut me off as Eve pushed her chair back and surged to her feet. “Dex is in the sanatorium and there are dozens of Eumon in the camp.” She leaned forward and gripped the table. “Curtis, you have to do something. If you don’t . . .”

“Do you hear that?” muttered Jason, gently nudging me away from the window.

I edged over, barely registering his words. I was too focused on my father and Eve. A week ago she had worshipped him; now she stared at him as though desperately hoping he could be the man she once thought he was.

She swallowed. “Please, Curtis.”

“Mac . . .” Jason tugged on my sleeve.

Annoyed, I opened my mouth to ask what was so important, but then I heard it: engines. What sounded like an entire caravan. I spun to the window just in time to see the dust kick up as dozens of cars and motorcycles flooded the park.

“The pack?” I turned and stared at my father. Jason and I had driven to the trailer with Eve, but Hank had followed in his own truck. “You called them before we got here. You already made the decision to hit the camp.” My voice was soft, wondering. I was used to people surprising me, but the surprises were rarely good.

The slam of car doors filled the air as Hank met my gaze. “Sinclair brought the fight to me when she tried to kill you and frame my pack. Even if she hadn’t, what she’s doing at Thornhill is too dangerous to go unchecked.”

He stood and headed for the door.

“Thank you,” I said, throat tight, as he reached for the handle. “Thank you for helping us.”

Hank pushed open the door. “Not necessary. But there is no ‘us,’ Mackenzie. You’re staying here.”

In an old, cobweb-filled community center in the middle of the park, twenty werewolves—along with Jason and me—had gathered to plan a mass prison break. After four hours, three arguments, and one fistfight, we had come up with something that might work. If we were lucky.

I tried not to think about how seldom luck had been on my side.

Hank hadn’t wanted me at the meeting—as far as he was concerned, the less I was involved, the better—but I had seen parts of Thornhill Eve had never gotten near. Jason could have filled in those blanks, but Hank didn’t entirely trust him and the other wolves didn’t trust him at all.

Unfortunately—at least from their perspective—they needed him.

Jason had managed to memorize an incredible amount of information about Thornhill’s security systems and protocols during his short time behind the gates. Guard rotations, the number of staff who carried HFDs, even how and under what circumstances the camp would contact the LSRB for help—all details the wolves needed to strengthen their strategy.

If he applied that same focus to school, he would save his father tens of thousands of dollars in future Ivy League bribes—assuming he lived long enough for college to be an option.

Given that he had just pissed off a room full of werewolves, that might have been a big assumption to make.

“I didn’t say not to defend yourselves.” Jason pushed himself to his feet and stared down the length of the long table.

Actually, he had. Three minutes ago, when he had reminded one of the wolves that she could survive a Taser to the chest and warned her against “overreacting” and “retaliating” against the guards if she was hit.

“Shut up, Jason.” I hissed the words out of the corner of my mouth and tugged on his sleeve, trying to get him to sit back down as twenty wolves—including Eve—stared at him with open hostility.

He pulled free of my grip and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m just saying the fewer the casualties, the better. The counselors and the orderlies—hell, even most of the guards—don’t think they’re doing anything wrong. They’ve always been told the camps were a solution, not a problem. Most of them don’t know what Sinclair is really doing. They don’t deserve to get annihilated.”

“Do you have any idea how many people their ‘solution’ has hurt?” demanded a man sitting at Hank’s right hand. With a thick red beard and massive forearms, he looked like he’d be most at home swinging an ax at a redwood. “Do you know how many wolves are trapped in the camps?”

“Sixty-three thousand one hundred eighteen.” Jason didn’t even need time to think about the answer. “Officially, at least.”

The man crossed his arms and glanced at my father. “We’re wasting time here. We don’t need anything else from him. There’s no reason for him to stay.”

Hank didn’t reply. He just stared at Jason, waiting to see what else he’d say or do as though this was some sort of test.

Jason pulled in a deep breath and sat back down. He started to reach up and scratch his tattoo, but caught himself and put his hands flat on the table. “For the last twelve years, the LSRB and the Trackers have been doing everything they can to convince the rest of the world that werewolves are all time bombs waiting to go off.” He spoke slowly and distinctly, with way more care than I had ever heard from him. “If you swarm Thornhill and don’t do everything you can to limit the number of reg deaths, you’ll be doing them a favor. You’ll give them all of the ammunition they need to convince every last reg that locking up wolves is the only way to keep the public safe. They’ll call it the Thornhill Massacre. It’ll be on the news all day, every day, for months, and by the time it falls off the front page, the damage will be irrevocable.”

I stared at Jason in shock. I hadn’t thought beyond getting the wolves out. I had known the LSRB would try to find them—that was a given—but the idea that the agency could spin the breakout to gain more public support had never crossed my mind.

A quick glance at Eve’s face and open mouth showed that it hadn’t occurred to her, either. In fact, almost every wolf around the table was staring at Jason in stunned silence as they absorbed the full implications of his words. A few were even nodding in agreement.

The Trackers had recruited him, in part, in the hope that he would become a poster boy for the group. I suddenly understood why. When Jason wanted to, he was capable of exuding the sort of magnetism shared by really good politicians and cult leaders. In just a handful of sentences, he had taken a room of angry werewolves and thrust them so deep in thought that they heard his words without seeing the tattoo on his neck.

Only one person around the table remained completely unfazed.

Hank didn’t look at all surprised by Jason’s words. After a long moment, he pushed his chair back and stood. “We’ve got six hours. I suggest you each try to find a quiet space and rest up. Those of you on the recon team: meet me back here in four.”

“Curtis . . .” Eve tried to get his attention as he walked past, but Hank didn’t spare her so much as a glance as he strode across the room and out the door.

The gathering began to break up. A few wolves left while others lingered and talked in small groups of twos and threes. Jason was pulled into a debate about whether a guard could tase a wolf moving at full speed. It no longer looked like he was in immediate danger of being torn apart, and for the moment, he wasn’t paying attention to me.

No one was.

I slipped out of the community center and went looking for Hank.

He wasn’t hard to find.

I stepped into the trailer we had used earlier. Twilight was falling outside, but two Coleman lanterns lit the interior with a soft glow.

“Guess I didn’t teach you to knock.” Hank popped the cap off a bottle of beer and took a seat at the table.

I closed the door and leaned against it. “You never used to drink before a job.”

“I didn’t always have a werewolf metabolism.”

“Fair enough.” It was just one more thing that seemed to have changed. I pulled in a deep breath. “That stuff Jason said—about how the LSRB and the Trackers would use a breakout—it didn’t surprise you, did it? You already thought of it.”

The lines on Hank’s face deepened, leaving him looking tired and older. He toyed with his beer without taking a drink. “When you and Eve first asked me to break all of the wolves out of Thornhill, why do you think I said no?”

I thought back to the night at the fence and shrugged. “Potential payout minus probable cost.” It was the formula he used for everything.

Hank nodded. “But not for me. There are dozens of packs across the country. Did you honestly think you and Eve were the first to consider taking down a camp? Did you think you were the first to want to?”

Before I could say anything, he added, “Other packs have thought about it. No one’s tried because doing so is tantamount to declaring war on the LSRB.”

War?
I swallowed, throat suddenly dry at the enormity of the word. “It’s just one camp. Not even a regular-sized one.” Thornhill had a few hundred wolves. The larger rehabilitation camps had close to eight or ten thousand.