The warehouse sat in the middle of nowhere like a cancer on the landscape—rusted metal and boarded windows leaking light through the cracks. Jazz music drifted across the clearing, saxophone and piano that belonged in a Chicago speakeasy, not a supernatural criminal meeting.

Ivy left the Ford hidden in pine trees half a mile back, engine ticking as it cooled. Rain had stopped, but clouds overhead promised more weather. Perfect cover, assuming she lived long enough to need an escape route.

The approach took twenty minutes of careful movement through the underbrush that tried to grab her clothing. But her hunter training served her well—she'd learned to move through forest like a ghost, disturbing nothing, leaving no trace.

The warehouse was bigger up close, maybe an old logging operation gone bust. Someone had cleaned it up recently, cleared debris and set up a proper meeting space. Light spilled from oiled paper windows, casting yellow rectangles across muddy ground.

She could smell them before she saw them—werewolves had a distinctive scent her enhanced senses picked up like a bloodhound. A wet dog and something wilder that made her neck hair stand up. But there were human scents too: tobacco, bootleg whiskey, nervous sweat from carrying large amounts of cash into dangerous territory.

Perfect. If enough humans were inside, Kieran would have to maintain the facade of being just another crime boss. Werewolves couldn't afford to reveal their nature to bootleggers and gambling operators who kept money flowing.

She circled to the back, looking for an entry that wouldn't announce her arrival. The jazz was good stuff, probably from one of those new radio sets showing up in cities. Someone inside had expensive tastes.

Near the loading dock, she found a cracked window—just wide enough for someone her size to squeeze through. The drop inside would be about eight feet, manageable if she landed quiet.

Ivy pressed against the warehouse wall and listened, letting enhanced hearing sort through sounds. Jazz music, definitely. Voices in conversation, at least a dozen speakers. The clink of glasses and rustle of paper money. And underneath, the low rumble of something that might have been growling.

Business as usual for Kieran Nightshade's empire. Her timing was perfect.

She pulled herself up and peered through the gap. The warehouse had been converted into something between a speakeasy and boardroom—tables and chairs arranged around a central space where real business was conducted.

The humans were easy to spot, sitting in tight groups, nervous energy radiating like heat. Bootleggers mostly, judging by their clothes and the way they kept hands near weapons. Men who'd learned to be suspicious, who'd survived in a business where trust could get you killed.

But the werewolves made her breath catch. She'd expected maybe four or five pack members for security. Instead, she counted at least fifteen creatures scattered throughout, all positioned like they were expecting trouble.

Too many. Way too many for a simple tribute ceremony. This felt like preparation for war.

And then she saw him.

Kieran Nightshade stood at the room's center like he owned everything in it, which he probably did. Younger than expected, maybe thirty-five, with a presence that made everyone else seem smaller. Dark hair slicked back with pomade, an expensive suit that probably cost more than most people made yearly. But his eyes held cold intelligence that belonged to someone who'd killed without hesitation and would again.

He was talking to bootleggers, voice carrying easily despite the music. Something about territory boundaries and protection fees, delivered in a tone suggesting compliance wasn't optional.

"Gentlemen, I trust everyone understands the new arrangements. The federal boys have been sniffing around Canadian routes, which means we need more careful business practices."

One bootlegger, thick-set with a face that had stopped too many fists, shifted uncomfortably. "Mr. Nightshade, the new rates you're asking... they're gonna put some of us out of business. We can't afford to pay that much and still make profit."

Kieran's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Mr. Patterson, you're misunderstanding our relationship. You don't pay me for the privilege of making profit. You pay me for the privilege of staying alive."

The threat was delivered so casually it took a moment for words to sink in. When they did, the room's temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Bootleggers exchanged glances—looks that passed between men who suddenly realized they were in more danger than they'd bargained for.

"Now, let's discuss this month's tribute payments."

Ivy watched with growing unease. Something about the setup felt wrong, like a stage play where all actors knew their lines except her. The werewolves were too relaxed, too comfortable. And the humans... there weren't nearly enough. Maybe a dozen bootleggers when there should have been three times that many.

She checked her weapons. The pistol sat heavy against her ribs, loaded with six blessed silver bullets that would kill any werewolf they touched. Knives were positioned for quick access, backup derringer in her boot felt reassuring against her ankle.

Time to move.

The drop through the window was easier than expected, enhanced reflexes letting her land silent as a cat behind stacked wooden crates that smelled like sawdust and motor oil.

From her new position, she could see the entire room laid out like a target gallery. Kieran stood center, still conducting business. Pack members scattered around the perimeter, close enough to intervene but far enough to maintain the illusion this was just another criminal meeting.

Perfect positioning for what she'd planned. One shot, center mass, and Kieran Nightshade would be dead before he hit the floor. The pack would be thrown into chaos, and she could use confusion to fight her way out.

She drew the pistol, feeling familiar weight. The silver bullets were warm to the touch, blessed and ready. Her hand was steady despite adrenaline, generations of hunter training taking over when conscious thought would be too slow.

The music covered small sounds as she moved closer, using crates and equipment for concealment. Kieran was maybe thirty feet away, well within range for a killing shot. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, smell expensive cologne mixed with that distinctive werewolf scent.

"The Vancouver route is compromised, which means we'll be shifting operations to the eastern crossing. The Mounted Police have been asking too many questions about trucks that disappear in the night."

Some humans laughed—nervous laughter from men who'd heard stories about what happened to people who crossed the Nightshade pack. They knew their business partners weren't entirely human, even if they didn't understand exactly what that meant.

Ivy reached a position behind a support beam giving her clear line of sight. She raised the pistol, sighting down the barrel with focused precision from years of practice. Kieran's heart was right there, maybe twenty feet away, an easy shot for someone with her training.

Her finger found the trigger, applying pressure with steady control her father had drilled into her since she was old enough to hold a weapon. One smooth pull and it would be over. Justice for her family, vengeance for the massacre that had destroyed everything she'd ever loved.

But something made her hesitate. Some instinct that went deeper than training, deeper than conscious thought. The scene was too perfect, too convenient. Kieran standing in the open with no cover, pack members positioned just wrong enough to give her a clear shot.

It felt like a trap.

The realization hit her the same moment Kieran's voice cut through the warehouse like a blade.

"Miss Blackthorn," he said, not even turning to look at her hiding place. "You can come out now. We've been expecting you.”