Carolina Moon

Gathering the Guard: Tess

The peaceful cabin, the scent of the heart pine, the warmth of the pancakes — it all felt like a hallucination now. The moment K.C. mentioned the name Whitmore, the room didn’t just feel colder; it felt like the walls were closing in. I looked down at my hands. They were steady, but my skin felt like ice.

“The pack house,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “K.C., if Darian is at the pack house, everyone is in danger. Cynthia, Margot, children… He’s right in the middle of them.”

K.C. didn’t answer with words. He was already in the hallway, the heavy thud of the gun case echoing through the house. The domestic man who had just been talking about heirloom tomatoes was gone. In his place was the Alpha who would risk everything to save me.

K.C. stepped out onto the porch and gave a short, sharp whistle that cut through the late morning air. Within seconds, Finn, Gabe, Holden, and Grant materialized from the tree line. They didn’t look like they’d been lounging, not in the slightest. They looked like they’d been coiled up, waiting for the spring to snap.

They filed into the kitchen, their presence making the space feel cramped and dangerous. I pulled up the topographical map again and zoomed in.

“Change of plans,” K.C. announced, his voice a low, vibrating growl. “We’re not sitting still. We’re not waiting for Stroud to make the next move. I believe Darian Whitmore is the architect of this new grid, and that he’s using this mill as a resonator. He’s doing more than just trying to track me. He’s building a broadcast range that could paralyze every wolf in the region. If he’s successful here, he’s going to push it across the entire country.”

K.C. pointed to the sluice gates on the map. “Finn, Gabe, the mill sits on a granite shelf. That granite is acting as an amplifier. The sub-basement is likely where the servers will be. We’re going in through the old water channels. They’re narrow, and they’ll be freezing, but they’re the only blind spot in their thermal imaging. The two of you will stay close to Tess and help her with whatever she needs to shut those servers down.”

I watched as K.C. continued to coordinate the new plan. He looked at me for a long, silent minute then picked up a compact, black sidearm. He checked the chamber and the magazine with a with a practiced, lethal efficiency before handing it to me.

“Check your safety,” he said quietly. “Keep it in the small of your back. If we get separated, you don’t hesitate.”

I took the weapon. It was heavy and cold, a stark contrast to the coffee mug I’d been holding an hour ago. I tucked it away, the weight of it a grim reminder of who Darian was and what he was capable of.

“Grant, stay on the comms with Marcus,” K.C. ordered, grabbing his own tactical vest. “Tell him to start moving towards the perimeter. We meet at the sluice gates in two hours. Holden, you’re on point.”

We walked out of the cabin, leaving the half-finished pot of coffee and the dream of a garden behind. As I stepped off the porch, I looked at the golden light on the creek. I wondered if I’d ever see it again, or if we were just walking into another one of Darian’s carefully constructed cages.

“Tess,” K.C. paused by the truck. He caught my hand, his grip firm. “He thinks he’s smarter than us. He thinks he’s already won, but he forgot one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I’m not playing a game.”

I let my arms circle around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. It was quick, almost sad, but it was fierce. He got into the back of the cab with me. Holden and Grant were in the front, and Finn and Gabe hopped into the bed.

The drive to the textile mill was filled with a thick, grim silence. The truck’s suspension groaned as Grant navigated the uneven, unmapped backroads, keeping us shielded by the dense overhang of the loblolly pines. Inside the cab, the air was thick with the scent of gun oil, and the heavy, electric charge of four wolves shifting into a combat mindset.

K.C. didn’t let go of my hand. His grip was a constant, grounding pressure, even as his gaze remained fixed out the window. Every mile we put between us and the cabin felt like a chord being stretched to the point it would snap. I was being pulled further away from the woman who just wanted to run a boutique plant peppers.

The sky turned a flat, gloomy grey, matching the mood in the truck. We didn’t take the main road up to the mill. Instead, Grant killed the engine about a half-mile out, letting the truck coast into a thicket of overgrown sweetgum trees.

The moment the doors opened, the silence of the woods felt wrong. There were no birds here. No insects. We moved on foot, staying low in the tall, yellowed grass. The mill rose out of the landscape like a jagged tooth of brick and rusted iron. K.C. led us to the rear, where the old stone sluice gates were choked with debris and stagnant water.

Marcus and the others were already there, appearing like ghosts from the shadows. There was no greeting, only a sharp nod. The pack was reunited, but even I could feel that the energy was off. They could all feel the tether vibrating in their bones.

K.C. pulled back a rusted iron grate, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel slick with algae and smelling of wet stone. “This is it,” he whispered. “Finn, Gabe, stick with Tess no matter what. Holden, you move with me. We move fast. If the signal spikes, drop to your knees and focus on the bond. Don’t let the noise in.”

Stepping into the water was a shock. It was ice cold, reaching mid-calf, and the tunnel was so low, we were all hunched. The only light came from the dim, red-filtered glow of the enforcers’ tactical torches.

We were halfway through the tunnel when a low hum echoed off the walls. My phone, tucked into my pocket, vibrated in my pocket. A text from an unknown number flashed on the screen: I knew you couldn’t resist a puzzle, Tess. Welcome to the heart of the machine.

I showed the text to K.C. In the dim glow of the screen, his face looked like it was carved from the same granite as the mill. He didn’t growl though. He just gripped the hilt of his knife in one hand, and gestured to keep going with the other.

Eventually, the tunnel opened into a massive, cavernous sub-basement. Huge stone pillars held up the weight of the mill above, but the center of the room was filled with state of the art server racks, glowing with malevolent green lights. Standing in front of the main terminal, his back to us, was a man in a crisp white shirt, looking like he was conducting an orchestra.

K.C. stepped out into the open, his rifle raised. The man turned around slowly, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. It wasn’t Stroud. “You’re late, Kayvan,” Darian Whitmore said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly sane. “I’ve already finished the final audit. Would you like to see the results?”