Trigger

2

TRIGG

Trigger Volkov lifted the sledgehammer high into the air, sweat glistening over his rippling biceps and dripping onto the ground. He slammed it down for what must have been the millionth time since being held in the Supermax prison.

He focused all his strength on smashing the boulder into the tiniest pieces of dust. Trigg was not entirely present in the moment as his anger could take him somewhere else entirely.

He had developed this mental skill while working with the Russian mafia. He thought of it as his mind palace, somewhere only he could go, and no one could intrude upon.

In his mind at that moment, there was only one man: Koryavin Georgiy, a Russian mafia boss he had worked under for most of his life. Koryavin had f****d him over and landed him in this hell hole. Trigg kept himself fueled with his rage, plotting revenge each and every single day that the sun came up.

He imagined the boulder at his feet as the leader’s head, busting it into tiny pieces of bone.

He was outside in the relentless heat, the sun blasting down on his already warm body. Since the moment the chip had been placed in his neck to prevent him from shifting, he had been on edge ... on the edge of every emotion. He knew he was not himself and could potentially never be himself completely again.

He cursed and broke boulders daily, and it was the only thing that kept him remotely sane. It wasn’t luxurious, but he’d rather be outside than in the tiny cage of the prison.

“Volkov!” a prison guard bellowed his name.

Trigg had the sledgehammer in the air, eyes filled with vengeful thoughts, then let it drop to the ground with a light bang. He turned to the guard with his eyebrow raised, saying nothing.

“The general wants to see you,” the guard hollered.

Trigg pursued his lips, then picked up the sledgehammer again.

“Tell her I’m busy,” Trigg whispered.

The guard walked over to Trigg and took him by the arm. Trigg felt a surge of anger move through him, and he envisioned twisting the guard’s wrist to the point of breakage. He, however, managed to avoid the impulse and let himself be led inside.

Like everyone serving time in the shifter prison, Trigg did not think highly of the general. She had very little empathy for anything they had gone through and merely thought of them as animals to be caged.

Trigg believed that even animals were treated better.

The guard led Trigg by the upper arm to a large meeting room. He was pushed inside, then the door was locked abruptly. Trigg was still shirtless after having rolled down his jumpsuit to cut down boulders.

A woman in military green stood facing a large window. She had her back to him and was standing at attention.

“Give him back his clothes,” the woman announced.

A guard from the other side of the room walked up to Trigg and then handed him a black bag. Trigg opened it, recognizing the suit he had been wearing the day he was arrested.

He looked up at the woman with a c****d eyebrow.

“I’m a little sweaty for such a look,” he quipped.

“Clean yourself up,” the woman said, still facing the window. “Then we’ll talk.”

The guard motioned toward a door behind him. Trigg looked, then glanced back at the female silhouette. It was sleek and lean, and he assumed she was the general.

He showered and cleaned up. Then pulled his Brioni suit from the bag. His fingers slid along the incredibly rare fabric made of Argentinian vicuna, the rarest fiber in the world ... qivuit, and pashmina from the Himalayan goat it was named for. It had been so long since he felt such opulence. The dark blue suit had a subtle pattern and silk lining. After he buttoned the 2-button closure with double vents, he slipped on the pants, straight cut with no pleats.

Then from the bag, he pulled out his Omega Seamaster watch, the same as in the last James Bond movie. And last, but not least, he slid on his Tom Ford sunglasses. Now he felt like himself for the first time in a long time.

He stepped from the bathroom, tugging the sleeve of his Oxford shirt under the cuff of his suit coat, then closed the door behind him.

A table and two chairs had been placed in the middle of the room. The woman was sitting there and gave him an astonished look.

He squinted at her. It was the general, and that surge of anger returned.

The device in his skull quivered. He thought it sometimes did when the wolf inside him whispered, trying to get out.

He began walking toward her, his Crocket and Jones boots clicking against the floor. When he stood before the general, he watched her eyes move up and down his body.

“Wow,” she said faintly. “Trigg, you do clean up well.”

Trigg pulled out the chair and sat. He cupped his hands in the center of the table and looked her dead in the eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked with the utmost confidence.

She smiled. Seemingly satisfied.

“Straight to the point. I like that,” the general said.

“Well, I don’t think we have much appetite for foreplay,” Trigg replied.

The general continued grinning as she pulled aside a pile of papers. She glanced down at it, then looked back at Trigg.

His stare had yet to waver. He was doing everything he could to keep himself in check, at least, until she shared with him what was on those papers.

“A woman named Stormy Miller, an environmental activist, was kidnapped yesterday,” the general began. “She is the daughter of a very important senator.”

Trigg nodded, not saying a word. He was hoping his eyes burned into her.

“We believe she was targeted by the Russian mafia boss Koryavin Georgiy.”

Trigg’s head snapped back at the mention of that bastard’s name. Was the general serious? What game was she playing?