The road across the desert was narrow, a reddish-black ribbon unfolding through brush and dust. The vegetation was thicker here than in Texas and New Mexico, but spikier, as though the ground allowed only the hardiest plants to break through.

Carly straddled the yellow line on the empty road, going too fast to worry about the rules. Behind her came four DPS officers, weaving in and out and around the black SUV. Connor had sunk lower into the truck bed, holding on as Carly careened down the road.

More worrying to Carly was Tiger. Sweat dampened his hair and growls issued from his throat.

She recognized the signs—he wanted to shift to let the tiger in him take over. But a giant Bengal filling the cab of the small truck right now would be a disaster.

“Hang on,” Carly said to him.

Tiger didn’t answer. Carly couldn’t reach over and reassure him with a touch, because she didn’t dare let go of the wheel.

A sign told her she was heading toward Chiricahua National Monument. That meant a gatehouse at the end of the road—probably—where a park ranger would be there to provide helpful information.

If Carly stopped, the cops would be all over them, and the cops were armed. If Tiger jumped out and ran, the police would have no hesitation about shooting.

Tiger had the tendency to shake off bullets though—Carly had witnessed this. On the other hand, enough bullets would bring even Tiger down. Out in the middle of nowhere, with no hospital or Shifter healer in sight, Tiger would die.

Carly didn’t slow. Unlike Hill Country in Texas, there were no side roads here, nothing but an empty plain covered with rocks and scrub, and mountains that looked more craggy the closer she drew to them.

Trees began to dot the desert, small, low-crowned mesquite at first. As the land rose, the trees became hardwoods and pines, dried grasses beneath them.

The road started to wind, the pavement narrowing, but Carly didn’t slow.

She saw the gatehouse ahead. Her heart pounded and her throat closed up. The road became a single lane with signs telling her to proceed at a crawl.

The truck left the pavement as Carly swerved around the gatehouse. She understood then why Dylan drove a slim, maneuverable pickup. Instead of bottoming out or skidding on the soft dirt, the truck gripped the earth and flew past the gatehouse.

The guard inside stepped out then hurriedly pulled himself back in as they zoomed past. Carly lifted one hand in apology.

She raced along the empty, winding road, sparing an occasional glance into the rearview mirror. The wide SUV and DPS cars had to slow at the narrow entrance and sort themselves out, giving Carly a few seconds’ advantage.

Connor pulled himself up and looked back. Carly couldn’t hear what he yelled, but he pounded the air in triumph. So much for not taunting their pursuers.

The road climbed, the curves becoming sinuous. Carly desperately cranked the wheel to keep from going over the edge of the precipitous road while they went up and up.

“Stop!” Tiger’s shout tore through the wind and roar of the engine.

Carly jammed her feet onto the brake pedal, sending the truck sliding toward the cliff’s edge, spinning the steering wheel to bring them to safer ground.

Tiger leapt out, his door slamming before Carly came to a complete halt. Without looking back, Tiger sprinted into the thick woods, his clothes falling into shreds as he shifted.

Carly watched him disappear under the trees, and then she was surrounded by flashing lights, cars, and men in uniform drawing weapons. The men in black fatigues piled out of the SUV and rushed after Tiger.

“Hands on the wheel, ma’am,” one of the DPS officers told her.

His pistol pointed right at Carly’s head. She clung to the steering wheel, not moving an inch.

She was going to be arrested and hauled off for running from the cops and for helping Shifters break all kinds of laws. And she didn’t care. What happened to her didn’t matter, as long as Tiger got away.

Another officer reached into the truck’s bed and pulled aside the blankets.

He shouted and backpedalled as a lion, his black mane not fully grown, leapt from the bed at him, his jaws open, all his teeth bared.

* * *

Tiger, now a tiger, paused and look back as he crested the hill.

The pickup was surrounded by police, cops training their pistols on Carly. She sat still, her fear coming through the mate bond to him. He felt her determination as well, yelling at him to go on. I’ll be fine.

He saw Connor leap from the truck’s bed, his sparking Collar trying to stop him. The cops leapt back in stunned surprise, but they recovered quickly and brought their weapons to bear.

Connor bounded over the heads of the cops and charged off into the woods. Distracting them from Carly, the logical part of Tiger’s brain told him. Protecting her.

Even so, Tiger headed down toward the truck again. As much danger as the one awaiting rescue was in, his mate and Connor needed his immediate help.

He moved through the trees in a silent streak, with the incredible stealth of his Bengal. He’d take out the remaining police, get Carly to safety, and then continue his mission.

The men from the SUV who’d started up the hill drew near, and Tiger halted, crouching under the striped shadows of a stand of trees. They passed him without noticing, flowing on up the hill.

The men weren’t looking for him, Tiger realized after a moment. They weren’t searching—they were making for a specific destination. Tiger knew without doubt they were heading for the one he was here to rescue.

Pain lashed at him. Tiger stifled his huff of breath, remaining utterly still. Instead of fading, the pain blossomed and surged, wrapping around his brain and stifling any rational thought.

Tiger had to protect his mate. She was the most important thing in his world. If he lost Carly, he would die of the grief.

But he’d never felt the need to find someone as sharply as he did now. The numbers behind his eyelids sped into a blur, and agony laced his every nerve.

Help me, came the faint cry.

Not in words. The call was visceral, enveloping Tiger in a grip he could not shake.

He saw Carly talking through the window to the police, her hands on the steering wheel. She was shaking her head at them, her eyes wide as she emphasized her words.

Carly could talk. And flash that beautiful smile. And have everyone in the world eating out of her hand.

The cops wouldn’t hurt her—at least, they weren’t supposed to. She was human, not threatening them. Connor was the threat, and he currently was running faster than fast up the slopes of the mountain, two officers and a park ranger chasing him, struggling to catch him.

Tiger couldn’t see Connor at the moment, but he sensed him as he sensed everything in these mountains—the nervous animals wondering at the new predators in their midst, the adrenaline rush and fear of the men chasing Connor, as well as hikers about ten miles away, unaware of any drama.

Another whiplash of torment had Tiger on his feet. He sent a surge of love to Carly and turned to run up the hill.

These mountains were a vast network of little valleys and streams. Hills covered with trees and scrub wound around vertical columns of rocks that appeared to be a series of boulders balanced on top of each other. Hoodoos—the vast store of knowledge in Tiger’s brain dredged up the word.

Tiger noted the landscape in passing while he kept running, following both his instincts and the men in black. He moved around a thicket of the standing rocks and plunged into shadows between them.

He came out the other side and halted in surprise.

In front of him was a small frame house on a flat piece of land, in a clearing surrounded by thick junipers and the twisted forms of pinyon pine. The air was much cooler at this elevation, exactly thirty-five degrees cooler, Tiger knew, in Fahrenheit. Nineteen point four degrees cooler in centigrade.

The distress signal came from the house.

Tiger crouched under a particularly gnarled pine, its scent sharp.

He heard nothing. No screams for help, not even the whimpering of a child or the despondent thoughts of an adult fearing they’d never be found.

No scent either, except the plants and trees that grew in profusion around the clearing. Strange. There should be something. Tiger had a better sense of smell than any Shifter he knew. How was it that he scented nothing from the house?

As he watched, the men from the SUV came into the clearing from another trail. They were panting, weapons shouldered, tired from the climb.

There were four of them, human men with hair from blond to the deep black of the black-skinned man. Though the climb had winded them, they glanced around with alertness, trained soldiers wary of their surroundings.

They weren’t Shifter Bureau. While they wore black fatigues similar to the ones of the men attached to Shifter Bureau, they weren’t quite the same, and the uniforms had no insignia.

Freelance, Tiger reasoned. Mercenaries. But working for whom?

These thoughts went through the back of Tiger’s mind as anguish blotted out all else. I don’t know what to do. It hurts. Help me!

One of the men—dark brown hair, dark skin, brown eyes, lined face—gave the signal to approach the house. They never noticed Tiger lying in the shadows, didn’t even look for him.

The leader walked to the house, swiped a key card into a lock, and disappeared inside. The other three, with another glance around the clearing, followed.

In the brief space the door was open, Tiger at last caught scent. He smelled stark fear, confusion, rage, confinement, frustration. And most of all—Shifter. A very specific Shifter. Son of a bitch.

As the door swung shut, Tiger ran on noiseless feet to the house, but he wasn’t in time to catch the door.

The keycard reader, a faceless metal slot on a rather ordinary door, seemed to mock him. Tiger put a paw on the slot, but there was nothing but smooth metal under his claws. No convenient keypad so he could crack the code, no lock to pick.

He snarled. Inside was a Shifter in peril, and those determined men were now inside with it.

Tiger rose on his hind legs, shifting to the beast that was halfway between a tiger and man. This shape was powerful though exhausting, but in it he could use his human hands with the strength of his tiger.

He dug his fingers into the doorframe, and ripped the door and frame from the wall.

Tiger tossed the pieces aside, his hands streaming blood, and ducked through the opening. He remained his half beast and kept to the shadows, knowing the noise he’d made had announced his presence.

Tiger snarled, letting the low, guttural sound of the Bengal fill up the empty spaces, and he strode forward to see what fate awaited him.