But I did. They’d forced his Shift—possibly several times—to accelerate healing, so that when they let their tagged tom go, he had no pain to clue him in to the procedure.

I looked from Ethan to Parker and knew at a glance that they’d come to the same conclusion. The bastards behind this were well organized and smart. And efficient. They’d carried the whole thing off in only one stolen day of Feldman’s life.

Our host continued, having evidently missed our silent communication. “But at least I made it home. Some of them don’t come back at all. Maybe the procedure goes wrong. Maybe the victims wake up and remember what happened.” Feldman shrugged. “I don’t know. But there are too many toms missing for this to be a coincidence.”

“Yes, including Marc!” I couldn’t filter anger from my tone. “Marc didn’t take those toms. He’s one of them! Kevin Mitchell sent three strays to his house to take him, and that’s exactly what happened with the other toms. I think they were trying to tag him, but something went wrong, just like you said.”

Feldman shook his head, his jaws clenched in irritation. “Kevin Mitchell has nothing to do with the chips. He probably sent those toms to kill Marc. For his part in this.” He waved the chip again, like a patriot’s flag.

“No.” Parker shook his head, still sitting serenely on the couch, as if we were having a friendly chat with a trusted friend. “Pete Yarnell said Eckard accidentally killed Marc, and called him an idiot for it. They were supposed to take him.”

Feldman huffed in bitter amusement. “Kevin didn’t orchestrate this. Strays and wildcats have neither the funding necessary to get our paws on so many commercially unavailable devices, nor the organizational network needed to implant them. This is Pride work. No way around it.”

“Well, it wasn’t our Pride!” I snapped, glancing at the others for support. Then I froze as what I’d said truly sank in. Ours wasn’t the only Pride out there. Nor was it the only one Kevin had connections to.

“Please, Mr. Feldman. Help us find Kevin.” I leaned forward, shamelessly begging, because if we caught Kevin Mitchell and brought proof before the council, my father’s case could be infinitely strengthened by a show of our Pride’s competence. “I swear to you that he’s responsible for the microchips.”

Feldman raised both eyebrows. “Can you prove that?”

I sighed. “No.”

Feldman stood slowly, staring down at me until I felt obligated to stand also. “Ms. Sanders, I would think that as an enforcer, you would have some understanding of the concepts of loyalty, truth, and consequences. Kevin Mitchell has given me no reason not to trust him, and I will not hand him over to you without solid proof that he deserves it.”

My mind raced furiously, but I couldn’t think of any way to prove my claims. Yet. “Fine. I’ll get you proof. But in the meantime, may we borrow the microchip? I want to show it to my Alpha. He’s our best chance at ending this, and he needs to see what’s happening.”

“No.” Feldman wrapped his fist firmly around the chip and stuffed it into his pocket. “For all I know, you’ll stomp it to bits on my front porch, to destroy proof of your Pride’s involvement.”

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. “No! We wouldn’t do that. We’re trying to help you!”

The stray’s gaze hardened. “It sounds more like you want my help.” Feldman stomped toward the front door, and the floor shook with every step. “You should go now, before I lose my temper.” His voice was gravelly with a deep current of anger.

I walked slowly toward the front door, the guys at my heels, when what I really wanted to do was take the microchip I desperately needed as proof to the council that someone among their ranks was egregiously violating the civil rights of random strays in the free zone. And if that someone turned out to be Calvin Malone, his case against my father would die a blissfully violent death.

But I did none of that because something told me that though Ben Feldman didn’t yet trust me, I could trust him to do what he thought was right, once he had a clear view of the big picture. And that he would be a very dangerous enemy to have.

I stepped onto the porch and turned back to face Feldman as the guys brushed past me into the cold, disappointment and frustration obvious in their clenched jaws and fists. “I’m sorry. This didn’t turn out how I’d hoped. But thank you for talking to me. And I will get you that proof.”

Feldman looked surprised for an instant before his face went carefully blank. Then he shut the door in my face and slid the dead bolt home.

“Hi, Dad.” My cell pressed to my right ear, I sank onto the weight bench in the tiny third bedroom Marc had turned into a minigym. There was barely enough room to turn around between the bench press and the punching bag—which he’d obviously bought used— and I wondered how he could exercise without becoming claustrophobic.

“I was about to call you.” Leather creaked over the line, but there was no squeal of springs. He was in his armchair in the office. “Seven of our men made it into the woods along highway 563 about an hour ago, as soon as the fire crews cleared away the wreckage of Eckard’s car. You’ll have three more toms out there before midnight.”

“Thank you.” Those two words couldn’t possibly convey the depth of my gratitude, but at the moment I couldn’t think of how better to say it. “Thank you so much. We’ll be heading out with them in a few minutes.”