Feral Craving Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 D.C. Stone

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-268-5

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Marie Medina

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  I think the dedication in a novel is one of the hardest parts of an author’s career. There are so many people to thank, so many countless pieces to the puzzle that mark a finished story. I’m sure I’ll forget someone here, but I vow to never forget them where it’s important—in my heart.

  First and foremost, I want to give a huge acknowledgment to the team at Evernight and a sincere appreciation for all the hard work that goes into running not only a successful publishing team, but also one of the best in the industry (in my personal opinion). I’d also like to show expressed gratitude to the editor of this piece, Marie Medina. I’m grateful for your insight, and understanding into making this story be the very best it could be. Without you, it would have never happened.

  I’d like to dedicate this novel, and the love and commitment that stands behind it, to my father, Rodney. While he likes to constantly tease me with his romantic prose about food, the pride and love I see shining from the old man’s eyes never ceases to amaze me. Pops, you’ve taught me the true meaning of loyalty and hard-work, of honor and modesty, and of integrity and love … all these things which are life lessons for anyone, and things met with immeasurable appreciation. Thank you for teaching me about what it means to find your dreams, and more so to follow them among the stars.

  And as always, all my love to my husband—the better half of who I am.

  FERAL CRAVING

  D.C. Stone

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  Bari Daxter had always been a rebel. The one everyone looked to when something went wrong. The teacher’s car covered in whipped cream and toilet paper on a hot summer day? The local mart busted into and two six-packs missing? Anything like that, and the cops would drive out to speak with Bari. So when he jumped into the moving Humvee, he wondered when he had gone from one side of the law to the other.

  Nine years and running, he had been with the Special Forces in the United States Army. His current gig: tracking suspected members of Al Qaeda in Iraq, and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. He lived for it, the thrill of the chase, the feeling of justice cracking down on terrorists, of preventing harm at their hands from spreading. The need to fight against the evil, to protect those weaker than him, grew in his bones, pulsed in his blood, and he relished it.

  Sitting back in his seat, he narrowed his eyes at the vast amount of desert before him. Yeah, it was a fucking lovely day out. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, and the glorious acrid scent of burned powder filled the hundred plus degree air. Fucking lovely day indeed. And here he was, hunched in the Humvee as it wound its way through the back roads of this shit god-awful place somewhere near Baghdad. His team spoke in hushed tones, preparing for the upcoming mission. They had been looking for this break for weeks, needing to put a stop to the supply of weapons that kept making their way into their territory.

  Bari fiddled with his M-4 rifle, the butt of his gun resting on the ground between his feet. He pushed the metal back and forth between his hands as he watched small houses pass in a blur, women and children dart out of view, and skinny dogs scrounge for food. His senses sharpened as they neared the target. He jumped from the vehicle as it drew to a stop and eyed the area, his dark eyes scanning, latching on to movement. Their target sat in a truck, down in a deep ravine about a hundred yards out. Behind the vehicle sat a house—or what passed for a house. What the Iraqis called a house, he called a shack. It was a wonder these places kept a roof over civilian’s heads during the sand storms that rolled through the country like an apocalypse bearing down.

  Insurgents scrambled like mice while he lined up his shot. Bari fired through the glass of the truck, shattering the windshield, and watched as glass from the sides exploded. Bullets hailed on the property, splintering wood, resembling the arrival of a tornado. Bari watched as the operatives’ house fractured, remains flying through the air like an explosion of sleet identical to the shimmering spray of a wave crashing on the beach back home. He hit the sand like they had a million times before. You never knew when you might run into some action, come upon the adrenaline rush. It filled his veins more than any dare did back home—and gave him the out he needed when life became rushed and complicated.

  His boots pounded over the sand, and his pulse thundered through his ears. He ran in jagged lines, avoiding the spray of projectiles flying through the air. His team came up behind him with a sharp curse from Tony; they stacked up on the front door.

  “You want to wait for us next time, Cowboy?” Tony’s low voice in his ear carried a hint of a Southern accent.

  They needed a take-down. They had to get the people who had supplied Al Qaeda with a safe haven and enough ammunition and explosives to blow the moon out of orbit. Intel had determined that a basement bunker was filled with the stuff. A scary situation, but one Bari was more than ready to take care of—one his team had been trained to eliminate.

  They were miked into one another for swift communication. He knew without looking that all four members on his team waited on entry, and he sure as hell hoped the team at the back of the house would cover them from any opposing forces in the area. He held his weapon ready, up against his face and tucked into his shoulder. At his right, Tyler pointed his weapon to the right of his, effectively covering the length of the house. Behind Tyler, Mike trained his weapon on the windows above. Drawing up the rear came Tony, providing them support against an attack from behind.

  Bari’s team ranked among the greatest on the ground in Iraq. They were confident in one another’s abilities, would give their lives to see one of the others return home. In fact, Mike had family to return to, so the rest of them drew up the front and rear, protecting Mike.

  Lifting a hand, Bari held up his middle finger, his personal ‘go signal’, and readied the team for entry. The signal went down the line from Tyler, to Mike, and then to Tony. Moments later, he felt a return squeeze on his shoulder, the silent signal that indicated all remained clear and the team stood ready. Bari lifted his leg and kicked forward, busting the cheap lock. The door imploded, and they were in before the dust cleared. He scanned the surroundings, his Assault Rifle following along with his line of sight.

  A short hallway broke off to the right. He heard Mike enter after him, all of them breaking off in their 1-3, 2-4 alternate directions, moving without even a whisper of a sound. He heard no footsteps, not even his own breathing, yet he knew exactly where each of his team members was as they moved through the house.

  His stealth training taking over, he pushed through room-to-room, his mind honed and sharp with intent, body moving without a second’s thought. Trash lay heaped throughout the house, clothing abandoned without care, and candles sat in random spots across the floor. He took it all in, scanning and searching for the adversary. You couldn’t lower your guard, had to keep your hackles up and move as quickly as possible. You had to take in as much as possible to ensure not only your own safety, but your fellow team members’, too.

  Without warning, the room started to spin; a sudden, wi
cked wave of dizziness assaulted him. Bari lifted a hand, reaching for the wall, and grunted through the nausea. He wobbled on his legs, tried to reboot his mind. Christ, not this shit again! He needed his head. He had to get away, but in a desert half the size of the US of A, he didn’t have any fucking options.

  A sound—a whisper to his left. He snapped his head up. Nothing. Just air and trash. The whisper moved to his right, suddenly magnified. Like nails on a chalkboard. Bari whirled, lifting the pistol at his leg, his M-4 rifle now forgotten at his feet. The room spun without warning. He held the pistol in front of him, wavering, pointing at who the fuck knew and nothing all at once. He rocked back on his heels and blinked, and his vision immediately focused. His stomach still rebelled against the spinning sensation, and he breathed through the bile rising up his throat.

  Bari narrowed his eyes as a shape started to form before him. Fuzzy, gray and brown colors mixed and swirled. He blinked, trying to make his eyes and mind decipher what took shape. It was huge, as big as he, but what the fuck was it? Lines of blue intermingled beneath its brown and gray spots and, as it grew clearer, he saw what he pointed his muzzle at. Adrenaline rushed him. It couldn’t be. But the image was unmistakable. He stared at the figure that stared back at him. Then, it vanished—the shadow of what he swore was himself, disappeared.

  “What the hell?”

  A whisper caught his attention to his left. Suddenly, he remembered where he was, then turned and lifted his SIG Sauer handgun. Tony’s eyes widened, and his hands lifted in the air, one leather-covered hand around his rifle.

  “Fucking shit, Bari. It’s me.” Pushing Bari’s weapon away from him, Tony narrowed his own stormy gaze at Bari. “You tight, man?”

  Bari clamped his jaw shut, not really sure how to answer.

  Tony’s lips thinned, then he glanced over his shoulder and tossed his head back. “Let’s get moving.”

  Tony nodded down another dark hallway. Bari shook his head, clearing it of the fear bubbling inside of him. His stomach gurgled and he swallowed, forcing the still rising bile down. Something was off, something he couldn’t quite grasp. He felt as if he had walked into a dream—ventured into a dark tunnel. But he knew better, knew that the sun shined high and bright—hot as hell, outside.

  The house was filthy, filled with dilapidated couches and mounds of trash and bottles. It couldn’t have been occupied for long. Hell, the place didn’t even look livable for New York City rats. His task set on what lay ahead. Bari worked slow but efficiently cleared each room he passed. In his ear, he heard Mike and Tyler mark their rooms, bringing the four of them together once again as the halls connected. One room remained, its door closed.

  They stacked up, lined up as they had outside, their weapons trained on the door, then busted inside. Bari scanned the room as he led the way, expectant and ready.

  They were met with nothing. Not one damn person. Whoever had run into this house seemed to have just disappeared into thin air. Cursing, Bari dropped his guard, lowered his weapon, and paced the room. His mind scrambled over the reports they’d studied, trying to recall every detail and feeling as if he had forgotten something. All eyes of the team were on him, waiting for a decision.

  With a frustrated growl, he ripped open the front of his vest and breathed deep, letting air fill his tight chest. A bunker was supposed to be here, somewhere, but they had seen no evidence of it. It was like they’d been set up to clear an empty house. None of it made a damn lick of sense.

  “Shit, we should have found something here. Where in the fuck did they go?” His team answered with silence. Shaking his head, he pushed his helmet off and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

  Mike pulled a piece of gum from his pocket, unwrapped and shoved it in his mouth. The sound of his chewing snapped through the room. “Yeah, Bari, this looks like a dead-end. Doesn’t make any sense.”

  Grabbing his pack of smokes from his own pocket, Bari popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

  Needing to get some answers, Bari stepped around Tony. Adrenaline still rushed inside of him, his skin itchy with unused energy. He moved back down the hall and into the living area.

  He glanced up. And time froze.

  He would later tell himself he could have been faster, or ducked down. But Mike, a father with a six-year-old daughter back home, had followed behind him. So he didn’t move. Instead, he froze as the gunman stepped out from behind a door. Mike must have missed it. Fear stole up the back of his neck, the sensation reminiscent of a winding serpent. The gunman lifted his rifle. Low shouts rang out around Bari. Seconds ticked by like molasses dripping. Bari closed his eyes and braced for the pain, understanding he might not make it out alive. A shot rang out, the sound echoing through the walls. Pain exploded in his chest, his body. The cigarette he lit earlier dropped from his mouth, fell to the floor. He raised his eyes, meeting the gunman’s stare from across the room. Death sat in the man’s blank gaze, reflecting darkness, emptiness.

  Bari felt consciousness slipping away. Funny how some people claim your life flashes before your eyes when you face death. Because the only thing that flashed before Bari’s was the life he never had and the woman who would’ve been in it: Mackenzie Walters.

  Chapter Two

  A breeze wafted through the shop, bringing the scent of seawater and coffee together in an alluring combination. Mackenzie grinned as she wiped the tables, ignoring the beads of sweat rolling down her back. Life couldn’t get much better than this. Two of her favorite things in life included coffee and the beach, and she’d made sure her coffee house was right on the shore.

  She looked out the windows and across the sand where seagulls played catch with one another. Their white wings stretched in the air, and they dove, surged up again, almost as if they danced to an unheard song. The waves rumbled, one landing over the other, pounding into the beach as if they wanted to give a drum beat to the dance above. She leaned against a wooden post, her arms crossed as she gazed out across the blue expanse of forever.

  Mackenzie never expected to return to Nantucket. She’d left home at eighteen, gone off to Harvard for seven years, and then moved to Los Angeles after accepting what she thought would be her dream job. Instead, as it turned out, the job ended up bringing her worst nightmare.

  She shivered, remembering when everything changed, when that young, free girl learned true fear. Memories swarmed over one another—the attack, the blood, the numbing fear rolling through her veins. One never knew when something would happen. Most walked around without a care in the world. She even read about it happening to others, believed herself invisible and safe. The clues, the notes left, none of it made her question her safety. She had been too busy trying to work her way up the ladder in the law office. She had been naive, stupid, and reckless.

  Mackenzie pushed the thoughts away, gave one last squeeze on her arms and turned from the ocean, pushing that horrible night into the back of her mind as well. Her gaze roamed over the coffee house she owned now. Perfectly sized, it provided customers with both an open atmosphere and intimate space. Scattered round tables dotted the shop, and a raised platform stage in back provided performance space for bands and artists. Each night, a local band, a storyteller, or a singer entertained the crowds in Same Ole Grind, increasing Mackenzie’s business three times over her regular hours. It kept her busy and occupied—and kept her from shutting out the rest of the world when panic hit. Those attacks on her body, the wrap of terror around her mind still plagued her at times, but at least the episodes had decreased.

  She could go into crowds without feeling like the world would close in on her and suck her into a black, airless vortex. She no longer ended up on the floor in a fetal position, crying. At times, her heart still hammered so hard she feared it’d break out of her chest, but still, with time passing, things were getting better. Once, the attacks had been unpredictable, would hit at odd times and without warning, paralyzing her. Now, if Mackenzie breathed in slow, steady breaths, she found she
could mitigate them … for short periods of time, or at least until she was alone again.

  Her brother Alex still insisted on walking her to and from her car when it was dark. He assured her it wasn’t such a big deal, that it would take time to get over things, yet she saw the hidden regret in his eyes, the thoughts that he had somehow failed in protecting her despite being over three thousand miles away when she was attacked.

  Mackenzie stepped behind the dark wood bar as her doorbell announced another customer. She lifted her gaze and took in the man making his way toward her. Tall and lean, with dark hair and piercing eyes, a black suit fitting to his form as if it had been made for him, saying he was handsome didn’t quite capture his looks. Smiling, she took his order, engaged in small talk back and forth with him, and recognized the spark of interest in his eyes. His gaze drifted over her form, his eyes grew heated, and his smile spoke of a confidence she long ago left behind.

  But she felt nothing toward him. No spark, no interest, no chemistry. Finishing with his drink, she sat the cup on the counter a little too hard as deep disappointment slashed like a blade across her skin. Mackenzie sucked in a breath at the thought, picturing the silver glinting in her mind off of some far away light.

  No.

  Not here.

  Her heart slammed against her chest and then the beat began to gallop as if her body was the jockey on the back of a race horse. Mackenzie pulled in a deep breath through her nose, pushed the air slowly out through parted lips. Her skin grew clammy, sweat dotted along her spine, and her head spun.