Revenge to the Alpha Mate - Chapter 229

Chapter 229: Chapter 229
Jacob’s Perspective

The oppressive silence after our failure didn’t last long. Our group’s skills might be a mixed bag, but our ability to band together and focus in a desperate situation? That, we had mastered.

We gathered in the clearing between the two SUVs, using the headlights like a primitive campfire, brainstorming how to crack this hard nut.

“A frontal assault is out. We don’t have the numbers or the firepower,” Lily said, sketching a crude outline of the factory in the dirt with a stick. “And the backdoor approach just slammed in our faces and bolted itself shut.”

“So, we split up. Good old diversion,” Xavier summarized, arms crossed, his voice a low rumble.

A plan began to take shape. Lily, Xavier, Adrian, and the twins would “pay another visit” to the slaughterhouse at first light. This time, it wasn’t a probe. It was a full-blown distraction. Gunfire, maximum chaos, designed to pull the guards and most of the Hunters’ attention to the front gates and outer perimeter.

Meanwhile, Celena and I would use the chaos to infiltrate from the completely opposite side—maybe the flank or the rear. Our goal wasn’t a fight; it was to get in, find the factory’s hidden secrets, locate Brett or clues about the captured wolves, or at the very least, map the layout and discover its true purpose.

“It’s risky,” Adrian said, his gaze coolly analytical. “The diversion team will be under immense pressure. If the infiltration team is discovered, they’ll be sitting ducks.”

“Still better than all of us charging in and getting turned into Swiss cheese,” Jim muttered.

“We do it,” I decided. It was the most feasible idea we had.

The preparations began in earnest. Adrian, our expert in mechanics and “special acquisitions,” drove through the night to a larger town over a hundred miles away where we were unknown. He returned with useful gear: two sets of dark clothing for night movement, high-tensile fiber ropes, compact breaching tools, and—inflatable pads and camouflage netting.

“What’re these for?” Jim asked, poking one of the pads.

“Your stand-ins,” Adrian replied, a rare, sly grin touching his lips.

Meanwhile, Lily and the twins took a more direct approach—they “borrowed” some firepower from a nearby gun shop known for its “diverse inventory.” Their haul consisted mainly of various calibers of ammunition, several smoke grenades, and a few rifles with better range and accuracy to add weight to tomorrow’s “diversion.” As Lily put it, “The bigger the show, the safer Jacob and Celena will be.”

By the time everyone reconvened at our temporary hideout with their “acquisitions,” dawn was approaching. We snatched two or three hours of fitful sleep in the vehicles or against trees. Our werewolf constitution was a lifesaver.

At first light, the operation commenced. In the backseat of one of the diversion team’s SUVs, Adrian used the inflatable pads, netting, and a couple of caps to create two rough, silhouette-like shapes that might pass for people at a distance. Lily and the twins set up in chosen sniper or ambush positions, rigging some guns with ropes and simple triggers to fire intermittently, creating the illusion of multiple shooters.

Xavier drove Celena and me on the final leg. He took a long detour, dropping us at the edge of desolate woodland about ten miles southeast of the slaughterhouse.

“This is it. Any closer risks their patrols or cameras,” Xavier said, killing the engine. He pulled our backpacks from the trunk—they held Adrian’s tools and essentials. He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, then looked at Celena, his rugged face deadly serious. “Watch your backs. Both of you. If it feels wrong, you bail. Don’t be heroes. We’ll keep them busy.”

“You guys don’t get carried away either,” I said, thumping his chest in return.

“Don’t worry. When it comes to making an exit, we’re pros,” Xavier grinned, getting back in the driver’s seat. The engine growled as the SUV quickly vanished down the mist-shrouded dirt track.

Celena and I exchanged a look, checked our gear one last time, and then plunged into the dense undergrowth, moving swiftly and silently toward the factory.

The wait was excruciating. We lay motionless behind a thicket with a view of the high walls, adjusting our breathing, becoming part of the landscape. The sun rose higher, burning off the mist.

Then—

Rat-a-tat-tat… Boom! Crack!

From the northwest—the direction of the factory’s main gate and the road—a fierce firefight erupted! The deep boom of shotguns, the sharp stutter of semi-automatic rifles, the distinctive bark of large-caliber pistols, all mixed with the faint sounds of shattering glass and crunching metal. Damn, Lily and the others were putting on one hell of a show.

“Go!” I hissed.

We shot from our cover like arrows, taking advantage of every eye and ear being drawn to the northwestern spectacle, sprinting for a predetermined, relatively isolated section of the perimeter wall at the factory’s side and rear.

The wire fence gave way silently to the hydraulic cutters. We ducked through the gap, landed, and pressed ourselves against the shadow of the wall. Inside the compound, an eerie “emptiness” prevailed. The diversion was working; most guards had been pulled to the front.

Before us were rows of refrigerated trucks and machinery for processing livestock. The air held a complex odor—a faint mix of blood, disinfectant, and coolant. On the surface, it looked like a legitimate slaughterhouse.

But my nose told a different story. Underneath the normal scents of livestock, there was a trace, incredibly faint but enough to make the hair on my neck stand up: the scent of werewolves, laced with fear and pain, and… metal, chemicals, and another indescribable, cold scent of death.

“This way,” I signaled to Celena. Following instinct and that disturbing scent, we skirted the empty loading area and slipped through a half-open side door into a vast, frigid processing building.

Celena’s Perspective

This was all new to me. The immense space, the high ceiling hung with countless iron hooks, some bearing skinned and gutted sides of beef or mutton, dark red muscle and white fat exposed to the cold air. The blood scent was sharper, more… industrial than on a battlefield, turning my stomach.

It was so cold here. Colder than the dungeons of my childhood. A deep, bone-chilling cold that carried the essence of death.

Jacob seemed to move with an instinctual familiarity. He led me, deftly avoiding occasional drips of blood and puddles on the floor, weaving through the massive space with clear purpose. We finally stopped before a heavy door that looked like it led to a large cold storage unit.

He placed a finger to his lips, his eyes sharp, ears twitching slightly as he listened. Besides the muffled, layered sound of distant gunfire, only the low hum of refrigeration equipment filled the air.

Jacob pulled the door open. A wave of even colder, white vapor poured out. We slipped inside. Rows of metal racks, laden with frozen, rock-hard cuts of meat, stretched before us like a silent forest of death. He led me past several aisles. In the deepest, most inconspicuous corner of the freezer, there was another door—unmarked, nearly seamless with the wall, visible only on close inspection.

He pointed to it, mouthing the words: Here. Different smell.

I nodded, inhaling the icy air to settle my nerves and focus. The wolf spirit within me began a low growl. My muscles tensed subtly, my nails sharpening uncontrollably. I hovered at the edge of a half-shift, power flowing into my limbs, senses dialed to their peak.

Jacob threw the bolt and yanked the door inward!

Now!

With a suppressed snarl, I became a blur of motion, lunging inside! It was a small room, lit by harsh white lights. Two men in worker-like clothes were sitting on chairs, seemingly dozing or slacking off. The crash of the door and my snarl jolted them awake. Sheer terror washed over their faces.

I gave them no time. My fist, fueled by the enhanced strength of my partial shift, connected solidly with the jaw of the man nearest the door. A faint crack sounded. He didn’t even cry out, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor.

Almost simultaneously, my other hand, now tipped with claws, clamped like a steel vise around the second man’s throat, cutting off his gasp before it began. I pinned him to the wall, his feet dangling, face rapidly purpling, eyes bulging in terror.

Jacob followed me in, scanning the room swiftly, confirming no other exits or hidden threats. He shut the door, sealing us in.

“Talk. Who are you? What are you doing here?” Jacob growled, hauling the unconscious man up and pinching his philtrum to revive him, his voice a low, dangerous threat.

As they came to, the initial terror on the men’s faces was slowly replaced by a forced calm and a cunning glint. Their stories aligned perfectly, delivered in stammering tones: they were just ordinary slaughterhouse workers, hiding in this abandoned freezer room to nap, scared of the noise and danger outside. The gunfire had nothing to do with them.

Jacob pressed them about the factory’s secrets, about dungeons or places where special “animals” were kept. They just shook their heads, eyes shifty but mouths clamped shut. Frustration and doubt flickered across Jacob’s face. He might have started questioning our lead or thought we’d caught two irrelevant nobodies.

But I didn’t believe it.

That trained look—terrified yet refusing to give up crucial information—and the faint, hunter-specific scent on them, masked by blood and coolant, overlapped with the memory fragments of those who had hunted us.

“Let me,” I said coldly, stepping forward.

Under the confused gaze of Jacob and the two captives, I extended my half-transformed hand. My sharp nails easily sliced through the fabric of their shirts. Then, with slight pressure, I drew shallow, bleeding lines across their chests—not to injure, but to remove any possible disguise or expose more skin.

On the left man’s chest, near his heart, beneath the beads of blood, a familiar tattoo was revealed: interwoven thorns, a twisted spear and cross, edged with leaping flame patterns.

Identical to the ones on the men we captured yesterday.

“Hunters,” I spat the word, my voice as cold as the freezer air.

Jacob’s expression transformed instantly, from frustration to furious betrayal. “Son of a bitch!” he snarled, driving his fist into the tattooed man’s gut. The man doubled over, retching in agony. Jacob then grabbed the other, his eyes promising a world of pain.

“Now,” Jacob’s voice was a dangerous, patient hiss through clenched teeth. “Let’s start over. What exactly are you ‘processing’ in this slaughterhouse?”