Page 61 of Crimson Moon Falling

The politician stood behind her desk, looking helpless. “Alpha, my deepest condolences,” the older lady murmured as she gazed at the Alpha’s bent head. She slowly slid into her seat. “I’m so sorry for you and your Pack’s loss.”

Sawyer Castillo was grieving. His heartbreak and rage pulsed around him and slammed through the Senator’s office, setting everyone on edge. Conall’s wolf snarled at the perceived threat, but he reined it in and sat next to Sawyer. He knew exactly what Sawyer was going through.

“Malcolm pushed Cora out of the way and took the brunt. The stupid bastard,” Sawyer whispered.

The Scott’s face surfaced in Conall’s memory. The red hair, the shit-eating grin, and those green eyes that tracked Riley too closely. He’d tangled then flirted with Riley, but he’d also protected and sheltered her in Vegas.

Malcolm had just died a hero’s death in Riley’s arms. Fate was sometimes brutal. The bond tugged at him, a distant thread carrying Riley’s muted grief. Parker said she was functional, with the implant walling off the worst of it and turning her into something efficient and cold.

Ash stood behind Conall, his arms folded. “I’m sorry too, Alpha. Death is a natural part of our journey, but the violent, early death of a good shifter is not.”

Sawyer nodded and stood. “Senator. If you have any follow-up questions, please reach out. I need to go make arrangements.”

They walked out of the Senator’s office and into the corridor of the Russell building. The hallways were filling with staff, and several paused to take in the three formidable shifters who stalked through the corridor, one of them bleeding rage and powerful grief through the building.

When they made it back to The Willard, Conall turned to Sawyer. “Come to my suite. We need to talk in private, and Hudson dropped off an excellent twenty-year-old single malt whiskey last night.”

Sawyer nodded and followed them up. Both Conall and his wolf wanted to hunt down the Apex General and sink his teeth into the man’s throat. When they reached his suite, Sawyer collapsed into an oversized armchair.

Conall poured him a whiskey. “They’re building another Roswell under Yellowstone, guarded by Apex and equipped with Apollo Genetics’ cutting-edge technology. And tomorrow the Pack Council votes on whether to sanction allowing every shifter to line up to be cataloged and tested.”

Sawyer lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and hard. “The timing isn’t a fucking coincidence. Malcolm dies while uncovering evidence, less than a day before we’re supposed to debate whether to politely hand over our people for testing and cataloging so they can handpick which ones they want to modify.”

Conall started pacing. “Apollo Genetics has defense department contracts, and their board is full of retired generals.”

“The Senate Majority Leader’s close colleague runs Apex.” Sawyer drained half his whiskey in one go, even though it wasn’t lunchtime yet. “Malachi confirmed that Senator White and General Wilson are Normals who’ve openly stated that shifters are animals and Cogs are abominations.”

“Half the Council has been bought or threatened,” Conall muttered. “The Northeastern Pack is drafting a Compliance Statement, for fuck’s sake. And the Southeastern Alpha is waffling.” He stopped pacing and straightened. “Without evidence, we don’t have the numbers.”

Sawyer set his glass down with a hard thud. “Then we dissolve this sham of a Council.”

The words hung in the air between them. Dissolve the Council. It wasn’t an idea an Alpha threw around lightly. The Pack Council had stood for over two hundred years as the governing body and voice of most of the North American shifters. Dissolving it meant returning to territorial squabbling and Pack-isolation politics that had nearly caused two major wars.

Ash tilted his head. “I think it could work. Congress would have to negotiate with each separate Pack rather than with a single consolidated body. The paperwork alone would bury the vote for months.” Conall’s wolf violently approved.

“Christopherson won’t go for it,” Sawyer murmured. “Neither will Alpha Thompson from the Midwestern States. The Council gives them legitimacy.”

“We’re getting evidence of what the Feds are doing that can’t be fobbed off on a few mid-level scapegoats. Photos, video, equipment serial numbers, shipping manifests.”

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting we try to strong-arm the holdouts.”

“Fuck, yes. The registration proposal dies tomorrow, either because the Council votes it down or because the Council ceases to exist as a unified body. Those fuckers have killed or injured too many for us to lose this battle.”

Outside, a siren wailed in the distance over the constant hum of traffic. Malcolm was dead. Gunnar was in the hospital. Jamie had taken a bullet and lost sight in one eye. And Riley had a fucking implant embedded in her cervical spine, slowly freezing her from the inside out.

His wolf wanted blood, and Conall wanted justice. He reached for his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Sawyer asked, glancing up.

“Malachi Hagan. He may have more intel, and we need him in the loop if we’re planning a rebellion.”

Sawyer’s mouth twitched humorlessly. “Texans do love a good righteous rebellion.”

“Then he should be ecstatic.”

Malachi answered. “I’m in the middle of a passable breakfast, and I just saw you five hours ago. Where’s the barn fire?” The Alpha’s voice had that unhurried Texas drawl.

“We need to talk in person. Sawyer’s with me.”