Page 131 of Tracking Snow

A man near the van lifts his gun. The barrel points at Red.

"Do not fire," another man barks. "They need her alive."

The guy with the gun doesn’t lower it. His arms shake. His eyes are huge above the black mask.

Red’s white wolf fades around her, dissolving like a shower of shattered stars.

I scream the same time the gun barks.

One vanishes. He appears in front of Red with a wet, ugly sound as his body jerks. Blood blooms dark across his side.

"Never, ever hurt them," he says to the men, even as he stumbles.

Red’s mouth opens.

A second van screams around the corner, tires skidding over wet pavement. Its side door is already open before it stops.

Two more men jump out.

Brexley turns toward them, jaws bloody, eyes blazing blue-white.

A dart hits his shoulder.

Then another.

He rips one out with his teeth and takes a stumbling step toward Red.

A third syringe sinks into the thick muscle of his neck.

His front legs buckle.

"No!" Red finally screams.

I slam my heel into the instep of the man behind me and twist free, but something punches into my upper arm.

A syringe.

Cold spreads under my skin.

I grab the barrel before the plunger sinks all the way down. The man tries to shove it in deeper.

I headbutt him.

His grip slips.

I rip the needle from my arm and drive it into the meat of his bicep.

"Have some," I hiss, and slam the plunger down.

His eyes widen. Then his knees fold.

The street tilts.

Shit.

My arm drops first, dead weight swinging from my shoulder. My tongue fattens against my teeth. Wet sand pours down through my legs and packs into my bones.

I stagger, still upright, still moving, still trying to get to Red.