Page 1 of Callen's Captive
Chapter One
CALLEN
Callen crouched low in the bushes on the outskirts of town, watching the humans come and go to the seedy bar with the horrendous namePussy Will, Oh!The place was packed with bikers, drifters, and people from Boulder who didn’t want to be seen anywhere close to home. Of all places for her scent trail to lead. . .
He had no clothes with him, and even if he did, at night his eyes shown with too much yellow in human form. One way or another, Callen would draw attention to himself at a time when stealth and the ability to blend in were required.
Katy. Her name rolled right off his tongue, as if he’d said it a thousand times. Except he’d never met her or even laid eyes on her. Neither had Anna for that matter. Anna was a genetic engineer who’d gotten involved with The World Shifter Suppressor Organization through no fault of her own. At some point that was still unclear to Callen, Anna and Katy had banded together in their fight against the WSSO.
Anna had only communicated with Katy through email, encrypted email at that. Katy was cautious, maybe even paranoid, but that seemed justified given that she was on the run from the WSSO. The World Shifter Suppressor Organization wanted her dead, and Callen was determined to find out why.
Callen tried to ignore the offensive smell of unwashedhumanbodies nearby. A thread of nervousness traveled through him. He hadn’t asked for his alpha’s permission for this mission, and Callen really hated venturing in areas so heavily populated with humans. He, Frank, and Blade had been protecting Anna while she worked to counter the damage the WSSO had caused with the SEV, shifter eradication virus.
When Callen had found Katy’s note at the cabin saying she’d been on the run from WSSO mercenaries for a week, the urge to protect her had been strong, inexplicably so. He’d only caught her scent only one time before then.
Callen had ordered Frank and Blade to escort Anna back to the pack while he tracked Katy. He only hoped he found the woman before the WSSO. He didn’t know how long she could outsmart or outrun the mercenaries, but time wasn’t on her side, not with how she was running scared, without backup, and without a plan.
Callen would have to put his angst aside long enough to find Katy and retreat to the peace and simplicity of the woods. A little reconnaissance finally turned up a thrift store down the road. Perfect.
He broke a back window, slipped in, and quickly grabbed jeans, a shirt, and boots. Unfortunately, the only shirt in his size was a t-shirt with a smiley face smoking weed. Not exactly the image of an enforcer, but it would have to do.
Outside the bar, Callen hesitated long enough to prepare himself mentally for the onslaught of sounds, lights, and human odors he’d encounter. With one last deep breath of clean Colorado air, Callen entered.
The noise inside was deafening, but the smell of alcohol, sex, vomit, and piss made him cringe. He nearly stepped back outside, when suddenly that same tangy, intriguing scent that had caressed his soul in the woods caught his attention.
Katy was somewhere in this mass of unwashed bodies. Her scent, that heavenly mix of honey and orange, seemed to be coming from the crush of people on the dance floor.
He scrutinized the half-dozen women there. One woman was grinding her ass against a man’s crotch while another man was sucking on her breast through her skimpy tank top. Another woman in a skirt too short to cover anything had her legs wrapped around a biker who was quickly backing her against a wall as he reached for his fly.
Callen hated everything about the place, but especially the vermin that thrived there. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his first time and probably wouldn’t be his last time in a dive such as this.
His work took him into human towns more often than he liked, but someone had to track down the humans and shifters Damien deemed a threat to his pack. At least Damien was not a blood-thirsty alpha like Drake. Damien always had a plan in play and would do anything to protect his pack, as would Callen.
That resolve was how Callen got through his job some days. Interrogations, killing, torture. No one in his pack understood how isolated his job left him. His packmates pulled away from Callen as if he carried a plague and close contact would drag them under, or worse, make him focus his ‘talent’ on them.
Moonlight and a small pocket of fresh air spilled into the bar as the back door opened. With the change in the air current, Katy’s scent struck Callen full force. His eyes locked onto the red-head wearing a denim jacket in a booth on the other side of the dance floor. She was straddling a biker with studs in his brow and Nazi tatts decorating every inch of his arms and neck. The man was large enough to be a shifter, but everything about him reeked of human depravity.
The booth started rocking. Callen’s stomach reeled at the sight of the biker thrusting his hips against the woman, making no attempt to cover her or hide what they were doing. The woman smelled of sex, but not only from the one guy. This couldn’t be Katy, could it?
Callen pushed his shock, his disgust away. He knew nothing about Katy except she was in trouble. It wasn’t his place to judge her or her lifestyle.
“What the fuck are you looking at, asshole?” the biker asked as Callen approached.
“The denim jacket,” Callen said, no longer caring that the two were having sex as he spoke to them. The scent coming from the woman was unfamiliar, but the jacket held Katy’s scent. “Where did you get it?” he asked the woman.
The red-head glanced over her shoulder, then licked her lips as she ran her eyes over Callen. “I’ll answer your questions when it’s your turn, tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Keep your focus on me, doll,” the biker said as he thrust into her particularly hard. “You don’t need the likes of him.”
“Where did you get the jacket?” Callen asked again, forcing his hands to stay at his side. He had no time or desire to be drawn into any of their racist bullshit.
The biker whistled and in seconds two bikers, each covered in bulging muscles and tatts designed to intimidate, were standing behind him. Callen really wasn’t in the mood for this.
“I’m not here to cause trouble.” He never gave more than one warning, if that.
A biker behind him threw the first punch, but Callen had been expecting it. He ducked, then swung the man by his arm into the booth, knocking the red-head into her partner’s chest. With only one hand, Callen lifted the second biker behind him and sent him flying toward the dance floor, a message to anyone else who got the bright idea to interfere.
That’s when the man screwing the red-head shoved her to the side and reached behind him. Callen wrenched the biker’s arm up until he felt the familiar jolt of a man’s shoulder popping out of its socket.
