I nodded. It was strange. If Thunder thought the people behind us were the real danger, he’d have been growling already. But all his focus was on what lay ahead.
“What in God’s name does he smell up there?” I murmured.
No one answered. Mike only gripped the wheel tighter.
The vehicle behind us stayed right where it was, its headlights glowing through the storm like a predator’s eyes. Meanwhile the snow kept coming harder, and visibility dropped to almost nothing. The old wipers scraped across the windshield, smearing slush and ice.
At last, through the whiteout, a few dim lights appeared—the edge of town.
My old house stood at the far end, beyond the last few homes, with open field and woods behind it. “Here we are,” Mike said darkly, pulling up near the sagging gate.
The place looked abandoned. The windows were black. But parked right by the fence was a large black SUV with its plates caked in mud.
“Dennis is already inside,” I said.
“And not alone,” Mike added.
Just then a large man’s shadow moved behind one of the curtains. A second shadow joined it a moment later. At least two men inside, maybe armed.
“Still time to back out,” Mike said quietly.
I looked at Thunder. He was staring at the front door, silent and tense, every line of him saying the same thing: ready.
If the wolf was willing to go in, I wasn’t about to turn tail. “Kill the engine,” I said. “We’re going in.”
Mike let out a long breath and reached under his seat for an old double-barreled shotgun. He checked the shells and tucked the gun under his coat.
“If this goes bad,” he said, “I’ve got you covered.”
The truck rolled up beside the black SUV and died in the cold. Outside, all I could hear was the wind and the creak of frozen trees.
I opened the door and stepped into the stinging snow. Thunder jumped down after me and lowered his nose to the ground at once.
He began sniffing the trampled snow by the gate, tail stiff, ears pinned in concentration.
“What’ve you got?” I asked.
He ignored me and moved along the fence, reading tracks. Then he stopped and began scraping at the crusted snow with one paw.
Underneath were clear prints from heavy men’s boots. Someone had circled the property recently, checking the perimeter and looking for approaches.
“Mike, come look at this.”
He crouched beside the tracks and studied them like a man who’d seen too many bad setups in his life. His face darkened.
“Professionals,” he said. “See how they stayed tight to the fence line so they wouldn’t show in the windows? This wasn’t casual. They prepared for you.”
