Page 2 of Hollow Moon

He complied, wondering if Kyle was regretting smashing his phone. If he’d left it intact, they could have found out who Knox was.

A hand reached around him and opened the door to the little building. Another shoved him roughly inside, where he stumbled against the far wall as he heard a bolt slide home.

He was in darkness, broken by a little light shining in from cracks along the top of the wall.

Outside, his captors were talking like he couldn’t hear them. Or maybe they thought it didn’t matter.

“You sure there’s nothin’ in there he can use to get out?”

“Naw.”

“You think he figured out what we’re doin’ and came to steal our shit?”

“Could be.”

“He had a piece.”

“He could be a cop.”

“Don’t look like a cop. His hair’s too long.”

“Could be an undercover narc.”

“We gotta get rid of him.”

“I didn’t sign up for murder.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Maybe. You watch that program Homeland?”

“What about it?”

Before Knox could hear the answer, the voices drifted off, leaving him in the dark and wondering how he was going to get out before they pulled whatever trick they had in mind.

He walked a grid across the dirt floor, searching for anything useful. Nothing but scraps of wood and metal. Crumpled papers. An old orange half. A metal table that was bolted to the wall on his left. He climbed up on the horizontal surface, which was high enough for him to press his hands against the ceiling. It was solid. No chance of popping the roof off.

Down on the ground again, he turned in a circle, inspecting the interior of the building as best he could, knowing his options were limited. There was no chance of hiding behind the door and attacking the first guy who came in. The door opened outward.

Perhaps his best bet was digging a hole in the dirt floor at the edge of a wall.

A wolf might be able to use his sharp claws to do it. But he couldn’t chance guys with guns finding an animal inside instead of a man.

He slid his feet along the floor, exploring in the dark, this time evaluating the usefulness of everything he encountered. When he found an eighteen-inch-long piece of metal stripping, he picked it up and crossed to the table again, where he slipped underneath and used the strip to start scraping at the bottom edge of the wall. The metal bit into the packed surface, and soon he could see a chink of daylight showing from outside. Still, it was going to take a while to make a hole big enough for him to wiggle through.

On the other hand, he didn’t have anything better to do while he waited for his captors to spring whatever nasty surprise they were planning.

He worked steadily, seeing the exterior light fading, piling up dirt under the table, and listening for sounds from outside.

As he dug, he cursed the impulse that had gotten him into this mess. He was the new guy at Decorah. He’d only been there a few months—since his cousin Cole had come to him with a proposal to join the company. He’d accepted, then probably been too anxious to prove his worth. Some of the Decorah agents were former cops. Others had degrees in criminal justice. Knox hadn’t seen the point of a werewolf going to college. But he’d been drifting through a series of dead-end jobs when Cole had talked to him about Decorah. He’d liked the idea of an agency that valued his shape-shifter talents. Still, his on-the-job training had made him the junior guy on a bunch of two- and three-man teams. He’d wanted to prove he could handle a solo assignment, and what looked like an illegal drug operation out in the middle of nowhere had offered the perfect opportunity. Too bad he’d blown his chance for glory. Big time.

But thinking about Decorah brought up Jonah Ranger. Soon after Knox had joined the organization, Jonah had been involved in a spectacular rescue. His now wife, Alice, had called out to him telepathically when she’d been held by a psychotic killer a few months ago. Somehow Jonah had heard her and found his way to her prison.

Could that work for him? And how was he going to like admitting that he’d done something dumb?

The hell with dumb. Saving his butt was more important than saving his pride.

Trying not to hope too much, he began broadcasting a distress message as he scraped away at the escape hole.

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