"I don't know much about it, but if it were my brother, I'd be looking too. They gave us all this genetic test. It was just a swab on the inside of our cheek. We all had it done, but he was the only one they came back for," he had said, his voice low and quiet.
"What was the test for?"
Roberts shook his head. "I don't know. But I do know they were super excited when he agreed to help them. The men in the unit were all junior officers or senior enlisted, but something about that didn't seem right to me. I got the feeling we were talking to a bunch of majors and colonels."
"I really appreciate you telling me this. Do you have any idea where I should start looking?" She bit her lip, hoping he had some idea to get her started.
The man glanced out the window and pulled his ball cap lower. "You need to know that Madison would have done anything if he thought it would help this country. He's a good soldier."
She nodded. "I know. That's just how he is. Loyal to almost a fault. Do you have any ideas?"
He suddenly looked very nervous. "I gotta go." He glanced out the window again, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his face. Her shoulders sunk slightly as she opened the door to let him out. He paused for a moment and then turned, wrapping his arms around her as though he were giving her a hug, despite only knowing her a couple of minutes.
"The Lycan Project," he whispered in her ear, letting her go and stepping out into the parking lot as quickly as he could. She stared out after him, playing with the words in her head, but they didn't make any sense. She shook her head and went back to packing, trying to figure out the puzzle.
Four months later, sitting on her bed and looking at a picture of her brother, she still didn't know what "The Lycan Project" meant, but she knew it was important. Two days after meeting with her, she had heard that a young Sergeant Roberts had been hit by a car. The driver hadn't stopped and witnesses said it looked as though the driver had actually sped up to hit him. The whole thing made her feel sick to her stomach.
Chloe flipped the phone over in her hands, playing with the hard plastic for a moment before getting up and grabbing her laptop. As it booted she ordered a single cheese pizza with mushrooms and olives. She opened up an Internet browser as she completed her order with the pizza company and began looking up information on Fort Baskerville.
Chapter 3
Captain Jackson Wolfe sat gingerly down on the ancient office chair, afraid that it might collapse under his weight at any moment. It wasn't that he was particularly heavy. He was actually in the best physical shape of his life, but the chair was so ancient that it looked like it might disintegrate if the sun hit it too hard.
Luckily, the chair held. It was actually more comfortable than he had expected and it had lasted him the entire week without falling apart. He leaned back tentatively, listening for a squeak of hinges that would foretell his doom, but the chair held. He let out a slow sigh, glancing around at the small room.
The "office" in the Records Building of Fort Baskerville the Army was giving him to work out of wasn't much better than a glorified broom closet. There was the ancient chair with an equally old wooden desk, an Army cot that looked like it had been made in the 1970's, and piles of brown boxes full of paperwork for him to work on. There was only a tiny vent of a window letting in the last of the fading light from the sunset. It wasn't much, but at least he didn't have to share it. Being in close proximity to another human being was something that he wanted to avoid as much as possible at the moment.
Jackson rolled his shoulders, trying to straighten out the hunch in his back from leaning over old files for hours at a time. As a Psychological Operations Interrogator, files were a part of his job, and despite the fact that they were boring, for once he was actually glad to have them. He had requested to be sent somewhere stateside and out of the action while they evaluated his case.
His eyes glazed over as he thought of the reasons he was here. The fire had burned the bodies, but there were still questions. His superiors sent him to Fort Baskerville to go through files while they cleared him for duty. He hoped he could just stay with the files. They gave him a job without having to be around humans. Around people he could hurt.
The fading light shone across a single picture frame sitting on the edge of his desk. It was all he had unpacked since arriving, leaving the rest of his box of personal affects in a corner under as many boxes as he could pile on top of it. The one picture was enough. It was why he was here.
Wolf Squad. The men in his unit had been the only family he had since his own parents had died. Nine men that had trusted their lives to him. Two and a half tours in Afghanistan together. They had teased him that being "Wolf Six," captain of Wolf Squad, was simply fate for the handsome Captain Wolfe. Several of them had even gotten tattoos of a wolf's head onto their chests.
The men had loved him and trusted him with their lives. Captain Wolfe's intel was never wrong. They used to say that Jackson was a walking, talking polygraph machine, that he could smell a lie a mile away. His brain shied away from the memory like it was still made of fire. It was his uncanny ability to be able to detect the truth that had destroyed them all.
They were gone now. They were gone and he was here, having to face exactly what their loss had done to him. Had made him. Things were different now and he had no idea how he was going to survive.
Chapter 4
Jackson's head rested on his arm like a pillow, his face twitching as he fell into the nightmare that always seemed to come as soon as he closed his eyes. He had his hand fell to his side, sending the papers on the desk into a gentle shower to the floor.
***
A high pitched whine of empty sound hummed in Jackson's ear. He watched a bullet whiz by overhead, but all he heard was the ringing of his own head. Everything was made of smoke and sand, and it took him a moment to put himself together. He shook his head, dazed as he struggled from the ground. The sheikh’s house was gone. The Rocket Propelled Grenade had done its work. Sergeant Dearden twitched beside him, and sound came roaring back.
A bullet pinged against what was left of a wall and he felt a strange twinge in his shoulder. Jackson grabbed Dearden's flak-jacket, dragging him behind the thin safety of the wall. A man came screaming toward them, an old rifle in his hand. Wolfe barely had time to raise his rifle before Dearden shot him. The man crumpled to the ground.
"Getting slow, Wolfe," Dearden joked. Jackson's mouth twitched up. He had to get what was left of his squad out of here. "Uh, Cap'n... I think you're bleeding."
Jackson looked down to see blood seeping through the gray uniform on his shoulder like a red flower. Pain blossomed as he realized that had been shot. He turned to look back at Dearden just in time to see a bullet crash through the sergeant’s face.
Red streaks filled his vision. His breath came in small pants and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. Rage pumped through his veins, coursing like gasoline and burning through every inch of his being. His body slumped to the ground as the intensity of the pain stole his breath. He twisted and writhed in the sand, smearing blood with dirt and rock.
He started to howl.
***
With a roar, Jackson bolted upright and brought his fists down on the desk. His eyes glowed with a fire from the past and the ancient desk split in two. Splinters of wood littered his office. Panting, struggling to maintain his form and regain control, he sat back in the rickety chair, not even bothering to baby the thing. It stood up to the abuse, letting him slowly recover his senses.
Probably afraid it's going to end up like the desk, he thought, trying to put some humor into his dark mood. He was just glad that no one had been around. What if he had been sleeping next to someone? He could only imagine the disorder his little outburst would have caused if he had been sleeping in the barracks with other soldiers. He could have killed someone.
With a shaky hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow, rising to his feet to inspect the damage. He didn't need to turn on the light. His eyes were as good in the dark as they were in the light. To him, the room was as clear as if it were noon, though he knew he shouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face. Just one more thing that was taking some getting used to.
The desk was halved completely into two big pieces and a lot of little pieces. Papers scattered across the floor. He gingerly picked up the photograph that had set on the desk, glad to see it wasn't broken in the fall. The picture remained the same. Ten sets of eyes staring out at him, smiles on their trusting faces. He set the picture up on some boxes where it would be safe. The men watched over him from their perch as he bent to pick up the scattered papers and files.
It only took a minute to stack the files into one giant pile. He'd have to go through it tomorrow and duplicate some of the work, but at least it would give him something to do. He was incredibly grateful that the little room was far enough away from the main base that the noise of the cracking table hadn't alerted the guards to come investigate.
The desk was ruined. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to explain how it had split in two, but with its rickety age, he hoped they would believe that he had simply fallen on it. He couldn't see any indentations from his hands, so at least the story would seem plausible. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling the frustration at his condition welling up again. He wished there was someone he could talk to. Someone who could explain what was happening to him and teach him how to live a normal life without worrying about breaking tables in the middle of the night.
Jackson took a deep breath and unlocked the door to his office. He wanted some air. A walk outside along the perimeter of the base was just what he needed. The cold winter air was sure to clear his head. He didn't bother to pick up his jacket; since the transformations had begun, he had found that he didn't get cold.
A hot-blooded monster... He shook his head to clear the thought. That wasn't what he needed to focus on right now. He needed to let the monster inside of him settle from the nightmare and then he could either go back to work or risk sleep again. At least I can't make the desk worse...
Chapter 5
Jackson stepped out into the hallway, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim hallway light after the dark of his office. He looked left then right, trying to decide what direction to take. Toward the Records Room or toward the vending machine. The vending machine sounded like a better idea. He took a deep breath and took exactly one step in the vending machine's direction before freezing in his tracks.
A scent hung in the air that made something primal in the pit of his stomach tighten and ache with joy. The hair on the base of his skull tingled and his eyes lit up with a golden fire. He could barely detect it, even with his enhanced senses, but what he could smell was something that sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.
He gave a smooth about-face, sucking air into his nose to try and fill himself with the scent. It was flowers and sunshine with just a touch of something that made him start to ache with want. His feet carried him forward, his nose pulling in the scent like a rope as he worked down the hallway toward the Records Room.
The door to the room was ajar, letting out a thin sliver of yellow light onto the dark hallway floor. He whined softly with anticipation as the scent grew stronger the closer he came to the golden light. Moving softly, he crept up to the door, peeking through the thin slit to peer inside.