Power and confidence radiated from him.
He had a hard edge, as if he could cut with knifelike precision through every bad element that ever rode a New York subway. Yet he had the face of a gentle warrior. Siennas breath caught. She felt a stir of sexual chemistry.
He was as lonely and grief-stricken as she was. Her heart twisted. Who had hurt this man? She wanted to go to him, comfort him and ease his sorrow. Sienna smiled.
A crooked, charming smile touched his full mouth. Twin dimples appeared on those taut cheeks, making him appear younger and boyish. She felt all her own pain slowly evaporate. Gods, he was handsome. An odd connection flared between them. Sienna locked her gaze to his, desperately needing someone who understood.
Then her nostrils flared as she caught his scent. Hatred boiled to the surface. Not a man. Draicon.
The enemy.
Dear Reader,
In 1943, my uncle Ed was drafted to fight in World War II. Once, while his unit remained safely outside, Ed sat inside a burned-out building, working on a bomb that he held between his legs. He was just a kid, praying the entire time that he wouldnt blow himself up.
The courage of Edmond Fischer, and many other servicemen and women, inspired me to write The Covert Wolfthe first in a new series about a top-secret group of US Navy SEALS who are also paranormals.
Matthew Parker is a Draicon werewolf and a navy SEAL who is tormented by the death of his best friend in Afghanistan by pyrokinetic demons. Matt is determined to find a magick orb the demons want to use to destroy the world. He teams up with Sienna McClare, one of the few who can identify the missing Orb. Working together, Matt and Sienna discover the inner strength to accept their true natures, and the quiet courage it takes to do the right thingno matter how scared you are.
Happy reading!
Bonnie Vanak
About the Author
BONNIE VANAK fell in love with romance novels during childhood. After years of newspaper reporting, Bonnie became a writer for a major international charity, which has taken her to destitute countries to write about issues affecting the poor. When the emotional strain of her job demanded a diversion, she turned to writing romance novels. Bonnie lives in Florida with her husband and two dogs, and happily writes books amid an evergrowing population of dust bunnies. She loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.bonnievanak.com, or e-mail her at bonnievanak@aol.com.
The Covert
Wolf
Bonnie Vanak
www.millsandboon.co.uk
In memory of my father-in-law, Frank Senior. We love you, and miss you.
Prologue
Afghanistan, Helmand province
The clay desert was hard-packed, mirror-flat and easy to scan. But the foothills, ah, the damn rugged outcroppings of rock and earth that began the river valley, thats where they would hide.
Where I would hide, if I were targeting a kill, thought Lieutenant Matthew Dakota Parker as he scanned the dangerous terrain.
With its engine still running, their Hummer was parked on the isolated roadway as Matt and his partner checked out a suspicious trace of spectral magick he had glimpsed on a small berm. As a Draicon, his senses were sharper in wolf form, but damn, it was hard to drive, as Adam joked, when your paws didnt touch the pedals. They didnt train you for that in BUD/S, the intense twenty-six-week program that weeded out those not tough enough to become a U.S. Navy SEAL.
But a shape-shifting rat could see that spark of trace magick. It glowed black.
Demon-black, empty and soulless.
Or as his teammate Ryder Thompson always said, Empty as the bottom of my damn wallet after leave.
Matt smiled as he thought of Ryder, aka Renegade, a fellow Draicon wolf whose specialty was languages. Like Matt and Adam, Ryder was a member of SEAL Team 21s elite Phoenix Force. Eight men, all great guys. All SEALs, part of Naval Special Warfare. Like Delta Force, they were so secret the Department of Defense never admitted they existed.
Except their human counterparts had no idea what they truly were.
The Phoenix Force was a special counterterrorist ghost squad, but the terrorists they fought had fangs and claws. Every member was a paranorm. Only a few high-ranking officials knew their special abilities, including Keegan Byrne, a four-star admiral who was a Primary Mage. Byrne could wipe a persons memory clean with the snap of his lean fingers.
Standing on the berm, Matt kept his Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun trained on the jagged outcropping of rock, his gaze and his senses sharpened as he watched Adam. Chief Petty Officer Adam Wildcat Barstow was his best friend and swim buddy. The black jaguars sharp claws dug into the pebbled sand as he pressed his nose close to the ground.
Adam turned, shifted back into human form and used magick to clothe himself. The SEAL was dressed like Mattlightweight desert battle dress uniform, boots, gloves and vest weighted with survival gear, plus seven magazines and hand grenades. A cammie helmet covered his ash-brown hair. Adam frowned as he flexed his fingers.
Damn sand. Gets in my paws. All clear.
Matt scanned the sand, bothered by a niggling instinct. He knew what hed seen. Spectral traces of demon magick dont just vanish. Not even with this wind.
Theres nothing out here, Dakota. No lions, tigers or bears. Wed have seen them, Wildcat pointed out.
They were returning to camp after searching for a local warlord rumored to be hiding in the hills. The warlord had a fondness for roadside bombs targeting NATO troops. The marines accompanying them had already searched this area. Matt and Adam were a half mile behind the marines when Matt had spotted the black trace of dark magick.
He didnt like it. Something reeked about this op. And the commanding officer back at base had specifically requested their presence.
No paranorms out here, not even a desert jinn. The desert was empty of magick. Yet the niggling suspicion wouldnt quit. Matt rubbed the back of his sweating neck. He didnt like how vulnerable and exposed the gun turret made Adam.
Let me take the gun. Youve been on top long enough, he urged.
A distant look came into Adams eyes. For a moment, he saw an odd flash of grief. Then the jaguar gave the ghost of a smile. Not a chance, Dakota. You always wanna be on top.
Gets me no complaints from the ladies, he cracked.
The wind blew over the rocky sand, stirring the dust. His unease grew. Anything could be hiding in those hills. Insurgents, suicide bombers.
Or worse.
Gooseflesh erupted on his bare forearms. Matt glanced at Adam, newly mated to a beautiful black-haired jaguar shifter. They were trying to have a baby, he remembered.
Spooky out here. Wildcat, you drive, Matt urged.
Adam shot him an amused look. You need the big gun to hide behind, Dakota? Why? You scared? Wuss.
He laughed, glad to see the melancholy gone from his friends face. They climbed back into the Hummer. Adam stood in the gun turret, his upper body outside as he manned the .50-caliber machine gun, continuing his sweep of the sands. Matt disliked the armored-up Hummer. It added too much weight and the damn thing had a rep for the doors jamming during an attack, trapping whoever was inside.
They drove onward.
Hold on. Traffic ahead. Matts instincts sharpened as he spotted a man standing by a hill beside the road, waving to them. Check him out.
Huh. Not a hell-raiser, Adam said, using the squads code word for enemy paranorms. And doesnt carry the stench of Taliban. Just a human friendly.
The gray-bearded, elderly man pointed to his leg. Blood stained his tattered trousers. He was wounded. Needed medical assistance. His expression looked strained. Terrified.
Help me, he mouthed.
Matt stopped the Hummer. Im getting out. Cant catch his scent.
Stay there. Adams voice was sharp with concern. I got this.
The elderly man opened his jacket, showing rows and rows of dynamite. With a look of stark terror, he thumbed a switch.
Get down! Matt yelled to Wildcat.
The bomb exploded laterally, but the heavy armored vehicle held. Matt swore as he jimmied the door.
Jammed.
Yo, Dakota. Im a little stuck here.
From the force of the blast, metal compressed against Adam as he stood in the turret. His legs were pinned.
Hold on.
Matt tried pulling him down, but Wildcat was too tightly wedged. Using his werewolf strength, he managed to pry back a piece of damaged frame from Adams legs but, as he did, suspicion raced through him. No ordinary blast could cause such precise damage. It had to be
He looked out the window, saw a pulse of black spectral magick. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot, he yelled.
Ten insurgents carrying AK-47s appeared on the sand. Only these had pointed ears and pale skin, instead of leathery, tanned skin. Darksider Fae. They began spraying the vehicle with small-arms fire.
Theyd been set up.
Adam fired back, the machine gun rattling like thunder. The enemy dropped dead, then their bodies began to smoke. The Fae vanished in an explosion of dust.
Darksider Fae were hard to detect because they could impersonate anything, such as a certain arrogant C.O. back at base. They were rogue Fae, their leash held by a bigger master. But who? Matt whipped his head back and forth, searching the sands. The human grandfather was bait, forced to kill himself.
Adams voice crackled over his headpiece. Damn it, Dakota, Ive been hit.
How bad? His heart raced as he forced himself to calm.
A little bit. Bleeding like an SOB.
Jaguars didnt heal as quickly as Draicon werewolves. Matt cranked around, saw blood dampening Adams pants leg.
Have to shift, only way out.
Magick shimmered in the air as Adam shifted, and the energy from the change peeled back the metal, freeing him. The large, black jaguar leaped off the Hummer and landed on the sand.
Im coming, buddy, Matt signaled, and grabbed his Medipack.
His skin crawled as he saw the blood matting the jaguars midsection. Matt couldnt think, couldnt breathe. Gutshot. Fatal wound.
His training kicked in. The camp was only an hours drive away, but he had to save him by keeping the bleeding under control until Wildcat received medical attention.
The jaguar turned its head and, for a moment, sorrow filled its gaze.
Something hot and evil stirred the air.
Matt jimmied the door again. He tried shotgun side, but it was also stuck. The wind stirred the pebbled sand, spiraling it into miniature sandstorms. His heart leaped into his throat as the sandstorm blew closer. The big cat charged the sandstorm.
Damn it! The storm dissipated into four distinct, gray shapes.
Pyrokinetic demons.
Panic squeezed his throat. With a sickening twist of his stomach, Matt saw the pyros assume form. Two went for the jaguar. Two more spun toward the Hummer, flames pouring from their gray talons, from their opened mouths.
Wildcat was wounded and fur gave little protection against fire.
He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the back, kicked the passenger door with every ounce of werewolf strength. It swung open. He had just scrambled out the other side when he heard Adams scream.
Matt hit the sand, rounding the Hummer. With a deafening yell, he hit the extinguishers switch. The device emptied, spraying a demon, who squealed and died.
He lifted his H&K MP-5, firing away to shoot the other bastards when the flames hit his legs. The flame-retardant material began to slowly peel away beneath the five-hundred-degree heat. Matt ducked back, gasping. Felt like someone flicked a lighter inside his bones. The pain was acid-hot, but he had to get to Adam. His buddy was hurt.
Snarling, he pushed on, firing his weapon. The demons were retreating, falling back over the slope, their powers sapped. One turned and aimed a blast of dying flame straight at Matts chest. He screamed in agony, but kept firing until the demons faded into the wind.
Matt struggled to stay conscious as an excruciating pain fogged his mind. He had to save his buddy.
It was the last thing on his mind as he fell to the uncaring earth.
Chapter 1
Lieutenant Matthew Parker wanted to ram his fist into a wall when he thought about how demons, aided by Fae, had killed his best friend, Adam Wildcat Barstow. Instead, he rubbed the heel of his hand against the subways plastic seat.
Never had he felt so alone, trapped in this conveyance filled with humans who would never know about Wildcat. Never pay respect to Adam for serving his country with devotion.
Thered be no military parade, no funeral with a flag-draped coffin. No newscasters with solemn faces talking of Adams courage and skill. There wasnt even a body to bring home. Adam had been burned to ashes, his remains scattered. Matt wanted to scream at the passengers, shouting Adams name until his throat went hoarse. No one would mourn Wildcat other than his grieving family, who thought he had died in a car crash. All memories of Adams existence had been purged from any human or paranormal who knew him.
Matt felt his neck muscles grow tight as a blizzard of smells and sounds assaulted his senses. He tried shutting them out as hed been taught in training, but he was drained, his defenses lowered. The creaking of the subway car as it sped on the metal tracks toward Times Square, away from Brooklyn and Adams weeping mate, grated on his ears like spikes. Desperate for a connection, he looked around for someone to pay attention to him. Just one paranorm like himself, who would acknowledge his existence.
He rode a subway filled with human robots. No one looked up, even gave him a curious glance. He was invisible.
Someone, just look at me. I feel so alone. Doesnt anyone care?
And then a sweet fragrance caught his attention. A scent of meadows and mountains, cool, crisp air and forest. It refreshed his weary spirit. Matts nostrils flared. A very female fragrance. Draicon werewolf, just like him.
His pulse pounded with awareness and a sudden sharp bolt of desire. Then he caught a tendril of fear threaded through her scent. Protective instincts sharpened with knifelike awareness.