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He launched himself at one of the traitorous Enforcement Agents, catching the other male’s throat under the sharp daggers of his enormous fangs. As the pair flew to the ground in a deadly embrace, Hunter jumped over the hood of the sedan and grabbed the last of the assailants, disabling the Agent as easily as he had Freyne.

He cast an apathetic eye on Lazaro Archer and the Breed male whose throat now gaped open, spurting blood from a vicious, lethal bite. Archer wasn’t finished, even though the Agent pinned beneath him was surely as good as dead. He was savage in his fury, lost to a pain on which Hunter—raised devoid of emotional attachments—could only speculate.

Hunter stood and glanced into the vehicle, where Lazaro’s son lay slumped and lifeless on the floor of the backseat, killed by the bullet Freyne had fired point blank into the side of his head.

Tegan’s dread inside the building hadn’t been misplaced. In fact, what awaited the group as they rushed outside with young Kellan Archer was even worse than they could have imagined.

Death was ripe in the street where the Enforcement Agency vehicles were parked. One of them—the one that had held Lazaro and Christophe Archer—was riddled with bullet holes and shattered windows. On closer look, Brock could see that the opposite side of the sedan was torn wide open, the entire backseat door ripped off its hinges.

There had been an ambush of the car’s occupants, a cowardly attack from outside the vehicle. No question who had perpetrated it … nor how it had ended. Freyne and the other two Agents lay broken and blood-soaked, lifeless on the pavement. Hunter stood over them, impassive, his keen golden eyes scanning the surrounding area for new trouble and ready to take on any threat single-handed.

And seated just inside the sedan, his head and torso bent over a lifeless form sprawled across his lap, was Lazaro Archer. Even at this distance, Brock could see blood and bits of tissue flecked on the Breed elder’s dark coat and caught in his hair. The huge Gen One was weeping quietly, grief-stricken over the loss of his son.

“Jesus,” Chase whispered from next to Brock. “Oh, Jesus Christ … no.”

“Freyne,” Brock snarled. “That bastard must have been working with Dragos.”

Chase shook his head, scrubbed a hand over the top of his scalp in obvious misery. When he spoke, his voice was airless, flat with shock. “I shouldn’t have left them with him. I heard the gunfire inside the building, and I thought … ah, fuck. It doesn’t matter what I thought. Goddamn it, I should have known Freyne was not to be trusted.”

Probably so, Brock thought, though neither he nor the rest of the group voiced any blame aloud. Chase’s anguish was written all over his face. He didn’t need anyone else to tear into him over the lapse in judgment that had cost Christophe Archer his life tonight. The typically cocky Harvard seemed to pale a bit, disappearing into himself as he wheeled away from the carnage and walked deeper into the shadows of the vacant construction lot.

As for Brock and the others, a grave silence had settled over the living in the face of so much bloodshed and death. Lazaro Archer’s grandson had been rescued from his captors, but the price had been steep. Lazaro’s son lay horribly slain in his arms just a few yards away.

While the group absorbed the weight of the night’s grim turn of events, young Kellan Archer suddenly roused from his own state of shock. He came around from behind Brock, apparently just then noticing Lazaro seated in the sedan up ahead.

“Grandfather!” he shouted, tears choking his youthful voice. He pulled out of Brock’s grasp. Then, limping, he started to break into a weak run. “Grandfather! Is Papa with you, too?”

“Hold the boy,” Hunter called out evenly. “Do not let him near.”

Brock caught Kellan by the arm and wheeled him around in the opposite direction, shielding him from the carnage with his body.

“I want to see my grandfather!” the boy cried. “I want to see my family!”

“Soon,” Brock said. “Just be strong right now, my man. You’re