The man's calloused fingers dug into the pressure point at the base of her spine, a brutal violation that sent a jolt of pure agony through the young werewolf. She gasped, her body convulsing, doubling over like a puppet with severed strings. "Do your damn job," he snarled, his breath hot and fetid against her ear. "That's the only reason they let you flea-ridden dogs out of your cages." His eyes, cold and devoid of empathy, raked over her.
A primal fury churned within the girl, a desperate urge to tear the smug satisfaction from his face. But the heavy manacles of silver biting into her wrists and ankles had leached away her strength. In the suffocating darkness of her mind, her wolf howled, a raw, untamed sound of torment.
Then came the kick, a brutal, bone-jarring impact to her abdomen that stole her breath and sent a searing wave of nausea through her. Tears, hot and involuntary, squeezed from her eyes. With a trembling hand, she pointed, her finger a traitorous extension of her broken will. She indicated a girl huddled at a bus stop a hundred meters away.
The man followed her gaze, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. He fumbled for his walkie-talkie. But before he could speak, a blur of movement at his feet caught his attention. The werewolf, fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline, had broken free. The three other men roared in frustration and gave chase.
The leader didn't move. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. Protocol be damned.
He unholstered his sidearm, the cold steel a familiar comfort in his hand. He thumbed the transmit button. "Found another one," he reported, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Then, the sharp crack of a gunshot tore through the oppressive silence.
The bullet slammed into the center of the fleeing werewolf's back. Her scream was a single, ragged syllable, cut off as the kinetic energy of the impact slung her forward. She collapsed in a grotesque, silver-shackled heap on the cracked asphalt. A dark, blooming stain immediately began to wick outward on the gray fabric of her shirt.
His companions, now returning, exchanged irritated glances. "They want them alive," one of them muttered.
The leader ignored him. He took two deliberate steps, stood over her, and drew back his boot, delivering a short, sharp kick to her limp ribs. The sound was a wet, sickening thud. Then, he spat, the gob of phlegm landing inches from her face. Stooping, he gripped a handful of her hair, ignoring the slick warmth of the blood now coating the strands, and yanked her head up. Her body was already dead weight. Her eyes, fixed and vacant, stared past him, the life utterly extinguished. He stared back for a beat, then released her. Her head slammed back onto the asphalt with a dull, final smack.
His gaze fixed on the empty bus stop. The other girl was gone. "Let's go," he grunted, a grim determination hardening his features. Alive or dead, he'd been tasked with bringing them in. The hunt was on, and he preferred it this way. Less mess to clean up later.