Page 10 of Crimson Moon Falling

“Area Director Langston,” Agent Foster replied. “This is a matter of national security regarding the Roswell facility.”

My stomach bottomed out before the implant quelled my emotions and ran an analysis. Three vehicles, no warrant, multiple agents. High risk of complications and injury. I tucked my father’s journal deeper into my jacket pocket and lifted my chin.

“I’m in the middle of an active investigation. Contact my supervisor at the ISB to schedule an interview.”

Agent Mercer stared at me. “This takes precedence, Ms. Blackthorne. And we’re not asking.”

Bennion stepped in front of me. “She’s the Alpha Mate of the Northwestern Mountain States Pack. You have no jurisdiction over us.”

“The Federal Central Government has jurisdiction over everyone. Her relationship status doesn’t exempt her,” Foster countered, “especially given her involvement with a restricted facility.”

Freda scoffed. “Her involvement with a restricted facility? You mean when she was kidnapped, taken to a Federal government site, and tortured? Is that the facility you’re referring to?”

The back door of the middle SUV opened, and a figure emerged. The man wore an expensive charcoal suit and had thick, iron-gray hair and jowls that hung like melted wax off his stern face.

“Agent Blackthorne,” he greeted me, his voice pleasant and cultured. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Area Director George Langston.”

What the hell was the Director doing here? Langston walked toward us, smoothing his tie, his energy humming with ruthless anticipation. The unnatural coldness inside me throbbed as I sensed Langston’s deep resentment and excitement.

Sawyer had found Langston’s contact information on one of the ApGen executives’ cellphones. He and Conall suspected the Director was connected to the Pack children’s kidnappings, but the contact alone didn’t prove it. Those kids had been tortured and experimented on, and this bastard was somehow involved. The urge to send a bolt of electricity at his head hit me, but I clenched my fists.

“We need to bring you in for analysis and evaluation,” he stated, as if ordering coffee. “The incident at the Roswell facility raised questions, and I have direct authorization from General Wilson.”

Gunnar hawked up a good chunk of phlegm and spat near the Director’s polished leather shoes. “Ya know what I haven’t seen? A warrant.”

Both agents shifted uncomfortably as Langston’s face went blotchy.

Freda folded her arms. “This is really about intimidating her and trying to keep her quiet. She’s not going. If you want an interview with our Alpha’s Mate, you need to go through the proper channels and contact Alpha Segerson.”

Langston’s thin lips curved. “He’s one of my agents, and Federal law supersedes Pack law when it comes to matters of national security. Both the FBCI and Apex Mentis have authorization to take her.”

“She belongs to the Pack,” Bennion snarled, his eyes flashing amber as his wolf rose closer to the surface. The Beta didn’t particularly care about me, but like most wolves, he was possessive and territorial.

Langston slowly smiled. “If you interfere, I can authorize lethal force.”

He raised his hand, and four more agents stepped out of the SUVs. These agents weren’t Normals. They moved like trained supernaturals, and the two at the back were ogres, well over seven feet tall. Their blue-tinged skin reminded me of a feral, uglier version of Otis, our bar cook and Parker’s Marine buddy. One had long, dark hair braided down his back, and the other sported a buzz cut. Aside from that, they looked almost identical.

Otis told me that most of the stories and folklore about ogres were propaganda from wars fought over four centuries ago. But he admitted some of the older ogres did eat Homo sapiens, and thought burying or cremating good human flesh was a waste of natural resources.

The two agents in front appeared to be feline shifters. The woman on the right had old scars running diagonally down the right side of her face, and they both carried semi-automatic weapons.

“You’ve brought quite the arsenal.” I jerked my chin toward the guns. “Is this standard protocol for a routine debriefing?”

“For someone who escaped Roswell? Yes.” Langston studied me as if trying to solve an annoying puzzle. “Nothing about you stands out, Agent Blackthorne. Why are you suddenly in the middle of two major investigations?”

The FBCI agents had spread out in a containment pattern as Gunnar’s huge frame shifted behind me. Tension radiated from him as Freda and Bennion positioned themselves to form a protective triangle, but we were outnumbered and outgunned.

“Let’s not make this messy,” Langston continued. “Your companions will stand down, and you’ll come with us voluntarily. Or they’ll be neutralized, and you’ll come anyway.”

The frozen void inside me expanded, numbing my fear and sharpening my thoughts. Through the mate bond, I felt a surprising tug. Conall sensed my distress, but he was hundreds of miles away.

“I’m a federal agent conducting an active investigation into a missing person, and you don’t have a warrant to detain me. You’re making a mistake.”

“And I’m the Area Director for the FBCI, with jurisdiction over all Cognizant matters in this Region.” He checked his watch, as if bored by the whole exchange. “You have thirty seconds to comply before my agents take action.”

Freda’s jaw clenched tight, and Bennion stood stiff with fury next to me. Behind me, Gunnar’s breathing had slowed.

The ogre with the braids grinned. “Please resist,” he murmured just loud enough for us to hear. “It’s been fucking boring lately.”