“Good.” He rested his hand on the gearshift. “You still mad?”

“Livid.” But then she smiled at him. “But I’m thinking I can get over it if the meal’s good.”

“It’ll be the best,” he said, pulling out of his spot. “I promise.”

“There she is,” the kid next to him said, pointing at the truck pulling out of the parking lot. “She’s with—”

“Don’t care.” He patted the shoulder of the driver. “Keep close, but don’t spook ’em.” The van followed after the couple, and he walked back to be with the rest of his team. He’d only been doing this job for six months, but it paid better than what he used to do for twenty years. Mercenary work was unstable and ten times more dangerous. Yet once a man acknowledged that he was dealing with animals, not humans, the rest of this gig was easy.

He lit a cigarette and gripped one of the poles so he could keep standing.

“Are we ready?” he asked the tech who handled the tranquilizers.

“Yep.” He handed over the gun that was used to tranq elephants. That would be for the hybrid’s boyfriend. They had a second, smaller tranq rifle for the hybrid, but they’d be better off nailing her up close with the syringe instead, and grabbing her at the same time. Of all the hybrids they’d taken down, the wolfdogs were the hardest. None of them seemed to have the same internal systems. Put in too much medication and they could die on you. Put in too little . . .

He scratched the wounds on his neck.

But they’d been watching the energetic little wolfdog for months now. Their tranq tech positive she had the right dosage for someone of the freak’s size and weight.

Still, he knew better than to count on that. Once the team got her in the van, they’d chain her up and keep her that way until they made the trip up north to what everyone called the Fight Farm. So even if the tranq wasn’t enough for her, no problem. The wolfdogs, although tough to manage, were still dogs. Once he learned how to handle a female with actual claws, the rest was a walk in the park. Because unlike real dogs and cats, the humans knew what that gun to the head or knife to the throat actually meant.

Making his job so much easier.

They were in Brooklyn, sitting at a stoplight, when Bo realized that little Miss Short Attention Span was playing with her watch. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, her head down and her finger pushing at the different buttons.

Bo glanced back at the four-hundred-thirty page user’s guide that came with that particular series of Meirston watches. A version sized for the cubs. Besides wanting to help her manage her time, he wanted her to have a level of protection that even average shifters didn’t have. Bear protection.

Normally, Bo would hand over the directions at the same time he gave Blayne the watch, but he knew if he gave her the directions now, she’d figure out it was the real deal and had cost him a hell of a lot more than fifty bucks. But still . . . if she hit the wrong button, he’d be paying that hundred-grand tab that came from accidental alerts because he knew from Blayne’s tiny apartment she couldn’t handle that financial hit.

“Uh”—he scrambled—“you know what’s cool about this watch?”

“What?”

“There’s an emergency beacon.”

“An emergency beacon? In a knockoff?”

“It’s a really good knockoff.” Or whatever.

“What’s the beacon supposed to do?”

Bo stopped at another light and leaned over, grasping her wrist. “When you’re in trouble, you pop this open and pull this little piece out, and press this button. It will send out a beacon signal that can be traced by certain military types.”

“Certain military types?”

“Our military types.”

He internally sighed in relief when she pulled her hand away from the watch rather than continue playing with it. “What kind of trouble do I need to be in?”

Even better, she was asking questions about it. Good. Excellent. “Trapped in the Andes and forced to eat your friends because there’s no way out is a good example. Missing the downtown bus and needing to make a dentist appointment . . . bad example.”

She gave a little laugh as he moved ahead. “In other words, follow my dad’s rules on when to bother him and when not to. Skinned knee, suck it up and take it like a Thorpe. Skin hanging off your face after wiping out on your Harley, then definitely call but don’t expect sympathy.”

Bo nodded. “Kind of like my uncle’s rule. Unless body parts are actually detached, he doesn’t want to hear about it.”

Blayne smiled. “I guess your family must be proud of you, huh? You being a big hockey player and all.”

Bo shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to them in a while.”

“What’s a while?”

“Since I left.”

She turned a little in her seat so she could look at him with wide brown eyes. “Since you left? You mean ten years ago?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why haven’t you spoken to them in so long?”

He shrugged, not sure why she seemed so upset. “I don’t know. I was busy.”

Her mouth dropped open and she gawked at him.

“Okay, why are you looking at me like that?”

“How do you not stay in touch with your family?”