Revenge to the Alpha Mate - Chapter 228

Chapter 228: Chapter 228
Jacob’s Perspective

On the afternoon of the third day, when I spotted the two familiar, mud-spattered SUVs coming down the highway from the edge of the woods, their headlights flashing three times as arranged, I damn near got choked up.

They’d actually come. All of them.

Xavier was the first out, his massive frame making the chassis bounce. He strode over and punched my shoulder with a grin. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Our little stray pup. Looks like you got into a scrap with a raccoon.” He was referring to the cuts and scrapes on my neck and hands.

Adrian was more reserved with a nod, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the surroundings. The twins, Jim and Joe, were already poking around our wrecked Chevy like a pair of curious hounds, whistling low. “Whoa, man. This thing got gutted. You two walked away from this?”

Finally, Lily stepped out. Dressed in practical cargo pants and boots, her hair in a tight ponytail, she looked me over first, ensuring I was in one piece. Then her gaze shifted to Celena behind me, offering a brief but genuine smile. She walked over to the mangled Chevy and nudged the flattened front tire with the toe of her boot, raising an eyebrow at me. “So, this is the result of your low-profile recon, huh?”

I held up my hands. “Alright, alright. I screwed up. Thanks for coming to clean up the mess.”

“We’re family,” Lily said, pulling me into a firm hug, her voice lower. “But don’t be an idiot and try to handle it alone next time.”

We piled into their SUVs and made a cautious loop around the nearby town, keeping our distance. Using our heightened senses, we ‘sniffed’ the area. Sure enough, new faces had appeared near the motel, outside the convenience store, even at the gas station. They wore plain clothes, posing as workers or loitering locals, but to us, the tells were obvious: their posture, the systematic sweep of their eyes, the faint residual scents on their hands—gun oil, primer, and that sharp, trained alertness.

“Three to five visible,” Adrian murmured, his observations the keenest. “Maybe more in the shadows. They’ve set up a net.”

Lily nodded, got out alone, and walked into the convenience store. She bought bottled water, energy bars, and a couple packs of cigarettes like any other traveler, even chatting casually with the cashier about the weather. When she returned, she confirmed quietly, “One inside too, pretending to read a magazine. Ears perked up like a rabbit’s.”

Our two vehicles pretended to pass through, leaving town slowly, but stopped at a hidden turnoff a few miles down the road, killing the engines to wait. Lily’s plan was simple: wait for the watchers to shift or make a move.

At dusk, our prey took the bait. Two familiar black pickups came from the direction of the town, likely heading to relieve the factory’s outer perimeter or on another assignment.

“Tree branch, Jim,” Lily said into her radio.

“Copy. Got a perfect view,” Jim’s voice crackled back. He’d somehow already scaled a tall tree by the road, a perfect lookout.

Xavier and Lily ghosted to the center of the road and quickly laid out spiked tire strips—rows of nasty-looking steel caltrops.

The pickups were moving at a good clip. The first one hit the strips with a simultaneous screech of deflating rubber and a violent swerve. Both trucks skidded to clumsy halts. Before the men inside could fully react, we were on them, erupting from the bushes.

Speed was everything. Before they could reach for their weapons, Xavier, Adrian, and I took the driver and passenger of the first truck. Lily and the twins hit the second. It was brutal and efficient: wrists twisted, jaws or stomachs slammed, weapons stripped. The resistance was fierce, but they were just humans. Against enraged werewolves, they were subdued in seconds, left groaning and curled on the ground.

Only four of them. A quick search of the vehicles and area confirmed no backup. We dragged them to the tree line and bound them to trunks.

The interrogation didn’t go well. These guys were tough. Even bruised and bloody, they cursed us, calling us “beasts” and “monsters,” their eyes filled with hate and disdain.

“That factory is your nest, isn’t it?” Xavier growled, grabbing one by the collar.

The man spat a bloody wad and smirked, clamping his mouth shut. The others did the same. The moment the slaughterhouse was mentioned, their lips sealed like welded steel.

Then Celena stepped forward. She’d been watching silently, her eyes cold. Ignoring the curses, she knelt, ripped open one captive’s sleeve, then tore his shirt front.

Revealed on his skin was a distinct tattoo: interwoven thorns encircling an abstract symbol that looked like a crossed spear and stake, edged with flame-like patterns.

Celena’s breath hitched. She looked up at us, her voice clear and certain. “They’re Hunters. I’ve seen these symbols. In my… in my old nightmares, in the fragments I remember.”

Lily crouched for a closer look, tracing the pattern in the air with a finger, her expression grim. “A variant of a Hunter syndicate mark. She’s right.” She glanced at me and the others. “You might not notice their fancy badges, but I’ve studied them. Hunters are proud. They wear these like medals.”

We believed them. The Hunter identity explained their training, their lethal tactics, and the factory’s strangeness—it wasn’t a slaughterhouse. It was likely a “processing station” or lab for supernatural beings.

“What do we do with them?” Adrian asked.

Lily stood, brushing dust from her hands. “Strip them, knock them out, tie them up good in the woods. Leave them some water; they won’t die. Killing them now is pointless and might bring worse retaliation. We use their vehicles and gear to get inside.”

Lily’s Perspective

The first half of the plan went surprisingly smooth. We changed into the jackets taken from the unconscious Hunters—they stank—pulled down their caps, and got into the pickups. I was with Jacob and Xavier in the lead truck; Adrian and the twins took the other. We just had to hope the gate guards wouldn’t look too close.

The last light of dusk vanished, and night became our best cover. We drove the pickups boldly toward the “slaughterhouse.” In the distance, the factory’s floodlights were already on, carving slices out of the thick darkness.

As we neared the gatehouse, my pulse ticked up a notch. I mimicked the cold, detached demeanor I’d seen in those Hunters, bringing the truck to a slow stop.

A burly guard in the same black uniform stepped out of the booth, a powerful flashlight in hand. He shone it on our license plate, then swept the beam across the cab. I grunted a low, non-committal sound in greeting.

The guard didn’t seem suspicious at first, just doing his job. He raised his radio. “Peripheral patrol returning, east gate.”

He was checking in. The radio crackled, a clipped, hard voice coming through. “Code phrase.”

Code phrase?!

My stomach dropped. The guys we’d left tied up hadn’t had time to give up any damn code phrase!

The guard paused, clearly thrown. He repeated into the radio, confused, “East gate, patrol returning.”

“Repeat: entry requires today’s code phrase.” The voice held zero warmth.

Damn it.

The guard’s face changed. He jerked the flashlight up, the beam locking onto my face this time. His other hand went to the gun at his hip.

“Go!” I mentally screamed, barking into our truck’s comm at the same instant. “We’re blown! Go hard!”

Jacob reacted lightning-fast, stomping the gas. The pickup’s engine roared as we lunged forward, aiming to ram the half-open heavy metal gate. Xavier leaned out the passenger window, firing his pistol toward the booth and any threats behind us for suppression.

Bang! Crash!

We smashed through the gate, but our momentum slowed. A piercing alarm instantly shredded the night air. The floodlights locked onto us like physical beams. More muzzle flashes erupted from the shadows of the buildings and hidden positions along the wall! Bullets pinged and thudded against the truck’s body, the rear window exploding again.

“Return fire! Cover the retreat!” I shouted into the comm, firing my own weapon at the flashing muzzle bursts. Adrian’s truck followed close behind, laying down covering fire.

A brief, fierce firefight erupted under the cloak of night. Bullets flew. Muzzle flashes strobed. We barely held our own against the hail of fire from multiple directions, relying on werewolf speed and reflexes. But they had numbers, discipline, and fortified positions.

“Fall back! Now!” Jacob roared, wrenching the wheel into a sharp turn to avoid a searing beam of light that looked like an armor-piercing round, aiming for the hole we’d made.

Both our trucks, battered and smoking, poured through the broken gate and fled down the road at breakneck speed. We didn’t stop until we’d put several miles between us and any pursuit, pulling over on a secluded side road. Only the faint echo of the alarm carried on the wind.

Silence filled the cab, broken only by our heavy breathing. The taste of failure was as strong as the smell of cordite.

Xavier inspected the truck’s body. “Took at least twenty hits. Nothing vital. Got lucky.”

“But now they definitely know what we’re after,” Adrian said grimly, wiping a trickle of blood from a glass cut on his cheek. “And they’ll be locked down tighter than a hornet’s nest.”

Jim leaned forward from the back, grimacing. “So, what’s the play now? A frontal assault? That’s suicide. A quiet entry? We didn’t even get past the door.”

I leaned back in my seat, rubbing my temples, weary. We’d stirred the hornets twice now. That place would be on the highest alert. The slaughterhouse was now more of an impenetrable fortress than ever.

A real dilemma.

How the hell do you slip into a fortified steel turtle shell right under the noses of a pack of fully armed, wide-awake Hunters who are probably holding your people inside?