The sky above Baton Rouge hung pale and tired when Derek and Olivia pulled into Dr. Marsh's driveway. The old man's silver sedan sat exactly where it had been days before, beads of rain clinging to the hood. But the house itself was too still. No porch light. No movement behind the curtains. Not even the low hum of a television.

  Derek killed the engine and stepped out, scanning the property.

  "His car's here," he said, frowning. "But no lights, no answer. Maybe he's asleep."

  Olivia pressed the doorbell once. Twice. A third time. The sound echoed hollowly through the house, unanswered. Her hand hovered over the doorknob.

  "Let's see something," she murmured. She twisted gently.

  The latch clicked open.

  Both froze for a beat. Derek's pulse quickened. "He never leaves his door unlocked."

  They slipped inside, closing it quietly behind them.

  The air smelled faintly of coffee grounds and dust. A half-filled mug sat cold on the counter. A file cabinet drawer was left open. Papers lay scattered on the floor, as if someone had searched in a hurry.

  "Something's off," Olivia said.

  "Yeah," Derek replied, drawing his Glock. He chambered a round. "Let's clear it."

  Room by room, they moved in silence. The bedroom. The office. The narrow hallway is lined with framed photographs of Marsh in his younger days. Every step creaked like a warning. The last door led back into the living room, empty as before.

  Then Olivia saw it.

  On the table lay a single, folded letter, propped upright as though it had been deliberately placed to be found.

  Derek reached for it, unfolding the paper with gloved hands. The handwriting was elegant, almost feminine, each curve deliberate and confident.

  Hey, Derek.

  We just wanted to inform you that the doctor is with us now.

  We need him for a special mission to complete.

  This matter has nothing to do with you or your friend, so stay out of it.

  But if you cannot resist playing hero, the address is 2813 Sagan Road, Everdale, Louisiana 79012.

  Come if you like, but remember, tomorrow is a full moon.

  Come at your own risk.

  Monica Scales

  Silence filled the room, heavier than any sound. Olivia's jaw clenched. Derek read the letter again, his hands trembling.

  "They got him," he said finally. His voice cracked, low and raw. "They took Marsh."

  Olivia exhaled through her nose, pacing. "Everdale's only twenty minutes out. That's deliberate. They're taunting us."

  "They want us to come," Derek said. "They're daring us."

  He looked down at the note again, then up at Olivia. His eyes burned with something between fear and fury.

  "I don't know what they need him for, but we can't just let them keep him. I'm going after them, with or without you."

  Olivia met his gaze, steady. "I'm in. You're not doing this alone. However, please note that this is off the books. No backup, no comms, no trail."

  Derek nodded. "Then we plan now."

  "Agreed," she said. "We move smart, not loud. Silver rounds, low profile. If we hit Everdale, we hit it at first light."

  Outside, daylight was already fading, clouds gathering thick over the tree line. Derek folded the letter, slipping it into his jacket pocket as they exited the house. For a moment, he looked back at Marsh's silent home, the overturned chair, the cold coffee, the ghost of a man who tried to warn them.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Then he started the truck.

  The road back to Bayou Mounds stretched long and empty beneath the bruised sky. Neither spoke for miles, but both felt the same truth.

  They were not chasing answers anymore.

  They were heading straight into war.

  They drove through Bayou Mounds with the engine low and steady, the town's neon signs bleeding into wet glass. The sky lowered toward night, clouds thick as blankets, and every orange streetlamp felt like a watchful eye. Derek's jaw worked as he drove. Olivia sat beside him, map and list of routes folded in her lap, eyes flicking between the road and paper.

  The gun shop sat two blocks off Main, a narrow storefront with a hand-painted sign and a single bulb that hummed above the door. Inside, the smell of oil and metal hugged the room. Racks of rifles leaned like silent sentries. Boxes of brass and paper labels lined the back wall.

  The owner, a man named Roy with more years behind the counter than most people had lived, looked up and nodded as they stepped in.

  "Back for more?" Roy asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

  Derek set a cardboard box of cash on the counter and remained silent. Olivia moved slowly, scanning the glass cases as if the store itself might hide answers. Roy knew the town's gossip by heart. He also knew when a man's face had been altered by nights of sleep that were not truly restful.

  "Silver," Derek said. "More. And fast."

  Roy hesitated only a beat, reached under the counter, and produced a wooden tray of carefully wrapped cartridges. Bright, heavier-looking rounds tucked in leather.

  "Can make more," he said. "But these'll do."

  He set three small, black, square cylinders on the counter as well, stamped with a maker's mark.

  "Made you a batch like you wanted," Roy said. "Silver nitrate casing. Small burst smoke effect." He put a hand over them, as if naming them out loud might make them real. "Don't ask me how they work."

  Roy palmed the bills, then paused. "You two look tired," he said bluntly. "You know this won't be soft."

  "We know," Olivia answered. Her voice carried a weight that matched the room's ceiling. "We just don't have a choice."

  They left with the noise of the street anchoring them again. A dog barking. A late-night radio drifting. Indifferent.

  Derek loaded the new silver into a locked hard case and rolled the three black cylinders into a separate bag. The grenades felt heavier in his hands than he expected, small gravity for something that might decide a life.

  Back at the motel, the room smelled of stale air and bleach. They set the cases on the small aluminum table and went through the plan like soldiers rehearsing a drill.

  "Here's how we do it," Derek said, voice flat and precise. He spread a paper map between them, circling the Everdale property with a pen. "You drive the truck. I'll ride the passenger side with the M249. I'll be the suppressor. I'll also lob the Compound 47 canisters if I get the chance. Silver first, smoke second."

  Olivia folded her arms. "What if it fails?"

  He did not look away.

  "Then we may have to kill them," Olivia said, not cruel, just honest.

  Derek's hand curled around the pen. For a breath, he remembered his mother, the way she laughed at football games, the smell of her cooking, the small, soft hands that once pulled him up to his knees.

  "They're not my mother and cousin anymore," he said. "Not in there."

  Olivia's face softened for half a second. "And how will you tell them apart when they shift? They'll all be fur and teeth."

  Derek swallowed. "I don't know." The admission landed like a stone. "I hope it doesn't come down to that."

  Olivia's jaw set. "If it does, you do what you have to. But we try Compound 47 first. If Marsh is alive, we get him out and break the hive link. If that fails, then we reassess."

  They drew lines on the map, indicating two routes in, two escape vectors, safe houses, places to leave false trails, where to dump the truck, and where to go on foot. Derek marked entry points to the mansion, including potential basement access, back stairs, cellar doors, maintenance vents, and areas Marsh might have used.

  The man was stubborn. Practical.

  "He'd hide below," Derek said. "Basements are where men like him secure things. Labs, files, anything you want to keep dry and dark."

  Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose. "If they've got him tied down in a cellar, that means we get past them first. Compound 47, then extraction. No heroics."

  They ran a thorough PMCS on each weapon, checking magazines, engaging safeties, and adjusting slings. Derek pulled the M249 out of its bag and cradled it like a living thing, testing its balance, listening for small mechanical breaths.

  Olivia field stripped her sidearm, ran fingers over the slide, then slotted in the silver rounds with a small, almost reverent motion.

  They stowed the grenades in a soft pouch; the three canisters nestled like sleeping things. Neither of them wanted to talk about the smell of the suppressant. Only the possibility that it would work, that it would sever the hive's link long enough to pull Marsh out.

  When they finished, they packed everything into the truck with military efficiency. Their faces had gone gray with the same resignation that comes before a storm. The motel's fluorescent light hummed over them. The clock on the wall clicked forward.

  "We shower, we sleep," Derek said finally. "Two hours. We need to be clear-headed."

  Olivia nodded. "Two hours. We wake before dawn. We move at first light."

  They cleaned quickly, cold water on hot skin, soap sluicing down into the drain. In the mirror, Derek watched the man he was and the man he might become. Olivia towel-dried her hair, eyes sharpened by fatigue and resolve.

  They lay down like soldiers in a foxhole, back to back, two people sharing a thin mattress and an impossible plan. The room's window let in a narrow strip of moonlight. Beyond it, the world was waiting.

  Derek closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep. Instead, he rehearsed the order of things.

  Smoke. Silver. Run. Find. Grab. Go.

  In the hollow between breaths, he admitted a single, terrible truth to himself. If that smoke failed, nothing would be simple again.

  Outside, somewhere in the dark, the pack was assembling.

  In the morning, Everdale would wake to a different sort of dawn.