saying please. An ounce of polite goes a long way.”
Chapter Three
Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean…
Duke sat on the plane, his fingers digging into the beige-colored leather armrests of his seat. The plane was PSI property—one of their many toys . This one was made to accommodate a team of six to eight men. Since they weren’t exactly small men, that said something. The entire interior was decked out with high-end fixtures and furnishings. Swanky was how he’d refer to it. All he wanted was a parachute. He didn’t really give a shit about anything else. Private and expensive did not equal safe. At least not in his mind.
He was a wolf.
Wolves didn’t fly.
They ran fast and killed things. Sometimes they did it with a group of other wolves. Other times, they acted alone.
Flying wasn ’t part of the gig.
When he ’d first been recruited into the agency, planes weren’t a reality. Flying wasn’t expected of him. He’d been brought on because he could track just about anything through anywhere and he had a hell of an aim. Not to mention, he could shape-shift into a wolf and do damage that way. He’d not been brought on for his love of modern inventions. Much had changed in his two hundred and fifty plus years on this earth.
The other PSI-Ops on board had no issues with flying. Boomer was relaxing with his feet propped up as he watched a movie. The plane had reclining seats that folded out into beds, as well as a back area with sleeping quarters for each team member. Boomer had turned on a movie to watch on one of the many viewing screens and had not budged since take off. He’d been nodding off and snoring most of the flight. The fact he made any noise at all attested to how safe Boomer felt. None of the men were predisposed to snoring during normal sleep—they’d been trained to make no noise or risk alerting the enemy.
If it wasn ’t for James, Duke would have been clawing at the seat, pitching a fit about being forced to defy gravity. James was a brother-in-arms and you didn’t leave a man behind.
Period.
All the men had seen combat before becoming a PSI operative. War had been going on since the dawn of time and there was no shortage of battles or warriors to fight in them. Duke had been in many wars. The earliest being the American Revolution. He’d been just a boy, barely in his teens back then. Didn’t matter. He was fighting for what he believed in, plus it wasn’t as though he and his countrymen had a ton of choices. They had to stand against England. He’d felt it was his duty to protect the land he’d been born to. Much had changed over the centuries. For one, he no longer used a musket—thank the gods. What a tedious weapon that had been. Stop. Shoot. Reload. Reload some more. Hope it didn’t misfire. Repeat the steps. England was no longer an enemy but rather an ally, and the wars tended to happen on other countries’ soil. Well, that was what everyone kept telling him anyways.
Though, he, like many, could still vividly recall where he was the day the towers came down. That was an act of war on American soil. No one could tell him different.
Yes, there was much that had changed since he ’d been barely in his teens and taken up arms against Britain. He and his cousins had done so. Six Marlow boys went off to war. Three men returned.
Hiding what they were amongst the ca rnage was hard. Duke had been going through puberty and already had enough hormonal changes to deal with, but couple in the wolf he carried going through its own sets of changes and he was a temperamental nightmare. He and his cousins would sneak away from their regiment on some nights, shift forms and run as wolves. It was how they kept control of Duke—and kept him from eating other soldiers. Well, their side at least. They didn’t really give a shit if he ate the bad guys.
He liked to give Corbin a hard time because the man was British and in a position of authority. Plus, he drank a lot of tea
Chapter Three
Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean…
Duke sat on the plane, his fingers digging into the beige-colored leather armrests of his seat. The plane was PSI property—one of their many toys . This one was made to accommodate a team of six to eight men. Since they weren’t exactly small men, that said something. The entire interior was decked out with high-end fixtures and furnishings. Swanky was how he’d refer to it. All he wanted was a parachute. He didn’t really give a shit about anything else. Private and expensive did not equal safe. At least not in his mind.
He was a wolf.
Wolves didn’t fly.
They ran fast and killed things. Sometimes they did it with a group of other wolves. Other times, they acted alone.
Flying wasn ’t part of the gig.
When he ’d first been recruited into the agency, planes weren’t a reality. Flying wasn’t expected of him. He’d been brought on because he could track just about anything through anywhere and he had a hell of an aim. Not to mention, he could shape-shift into a wolf and do damage that way. He’d not been brought on for his love of modern inventions. Much had changed in his two hundred and fifty plus years on this earth.
The other PSI-Ops on board had no issues with flying. Boomer was relaxing with his feet propped up as he watched a movie. The plane had reclining seats that folded out into beds, as well as a back area with sleeping quarters for each team member. Boomer had turned on a movie to watch on one of the many viewing screens and had not budged since take off. He’d been nodding off and snoring most of the flight. The fact he made any noise at all attested to how safe Boomer felt. None of the men were predisposed to snoring during normal sleep—they’d been trained to make no noise or risk alerting the enemy.
If it wasn ’t for James, Duke would have been clawing at the seat, pitching a fit about being forced to defy gravity. James was a brother-in-arms and you didn’t leave a man behind.
Period.
All the men had seen combat before becoming a PSI operative. War had been going on since the dawn of time and there was no shortage of battles or warriors to fight in them. Duke had been in many wars. The earliest being the American Revolution. He’d been just a boy, barely in his teens back then. Didn’t matter. He was fighting for what he believed in, plus it wasn’t as though he and his countrymen had a ton of choices. They had to stand against England. He’d felt it was his duty to protect the land he’d been born to. Much had changed over the centuries. For one, he no longer used a musket—thank the gods. What a tedious weapon that had been. Stop. Shoot. Reload. Reload some more. Hope it didn’t misfire. Repeat the steps. England was no longer an enemy but rather an ally, and the wars tended to happen on other countries’ soil. Well, that was what everyone kept telling him anyways.
Though, he, like many, could still vividly recall where he was the day the towers came down. That was an act of war on American soil. No one could tell him different.
Yes, there was much that had changed since he ’d been barely in his teens and taken up arms against Britain. He and his cousins had done so. Six Marlow boys went off to war. Three men returned.
Hiding what they were amongst the ca rnage was hard. Duke had been going through puberty and already had enough hormonal changes to deal with, but couple in the wolf he carried going through its own sets of changes and he was a temperamental nightmare. He and his cousins would sneak away from their regiment on some nights, shift forms and run as wolves. It was how they kept control of Duke—and kept him from eating other soldiers. Well, their side at least. They didn’t really give a shit if he ate the bad guys.
He liked to give Corbin a hard time because the man was British and in a position of authority. Plus, he drank a lot of tea
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