Falke’s Renegade
Puma Nights - 3
By
Anna Leigh Keaton and Madison Layle
Prologue
“Son of the bitch.”
Lev Durchenko glanced into the rearview mirror to see the black Jag less than fifty yards behind his own much slower rental sedan. No mistake; the driver meant him harm.
How had he gotten so close without Lev knowing?
Damn him for believing he’d lost Montero weeks ago. He should’ve known better. The bastard was more like a bloodhound than a cat.
“Fucking bastard.” Lev pressed the accelerator, hoping to get into the nearest town. Montero would never attack him in public. From there Lev could blend into the crowd...make an escape...somehow.
Live to fight another day, and on his own terms.
He should have killed the shifter years ago, should never have left that house without finishing them all.
Taking curves too fast, he worked the car into the hills somewhere in the godforsaken wilderness of Washington State. And then it happened. The engine sputtered as he accelerated up a straight slope.
“Nyet. Nyet! Not now.” His heartbeat surged, and a cold sweat popped out on his brow. He would have to make a run for it. Playing cat and mouse was much easier in cities. More places to hide.
He aimed the car toward a ditch, opened the door and jumped before it came to a complete stop.
Running into the cover of the forest, he tore at his clothes, desperately removing them in order to change into his feline form before Montero could catch him. Only as a snow leopard did he have a chance of losing the jaguar.
His shirt removed, his slacks unbuttoned, he shoved at the material and transformed just as he heard a crashing in the woods behind him.
Lev ran. Leaping over fallen logs and branches, ducking under others, practically slithering through spaces too small for the oversized black cat on his tail, he searched for a place to hide. Hiding, out-waiting Montero was his only hope. The jaguar was too big to fight fairly in a head-to-head confrontation.
Damn it. Because of too many flights, too many airport security gates, he had no weapon. He’d been in a hurry to reach Seattle and hadn’t taken the time to search one out. Impatience and foolishness might have just signed his death warrant.
A gunshot echoed through the forest. Close. Too close. Startled, he ran harder. Was Montero shooting at him? Unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe Montero had grown weary of their game after all this time and decided to end it the easiest way he could, even if that meant firing at an unarmed cat.
Not Montero’s style, but Lev decided to not put anything past the jaguar that he wouldn’t do himself, and if the tables were turned...
Or perhaps there were other hunters in the woods... Not a very comforting thought. But were they shooting at him? At Montero? Or something altogether different?
No other shots rang out, but Lev wasn’t about to pause and investigate the matter. Neither option boded well for him in his current form.
His lungs burned as he pushed himself to an even faster pace.
The land gave way in front of him, and he tumbled down a craggy slope, splashing into deep, icy water at the base. The river the highway had been following for some time, he realized. He popped his head above the surface and searched the top of the slope for a sign of Montero.
No sign of yellow eyes or a black face peering out of the dense pines. No dark figure searching for a safer way down to the river than the one Lev took.
Had he lost Montero?
He dared hope as he let the current carry him farther and farther away. Finally, he paddled his big paws toward the opposite side of the river and fought his way onto the gravelly bank. He shook water from his fur and, again, searched the distant bank for any sign of his pursuer.
Could his enemy have been shot? The irony was not lost on him, but he dare not stand around on the riverbank too long.
Sprinting in the woods, he headed in the direction of town. Luck was with him when he happened upon a small house. Still in his leopard body and prepared to run if spotted, he slunk to the back door of the cottage.
No dogs barked. No lights were on inside that he could see through the window in the door. He hoped a man lived there so he could find some clothing. He dare not return to the rental car for his luggage. If Montero had simply lost his trail—though he did not see how, since the jaguar was a master hunter—he would return to the vehicles and wait.
Montero was nothing if not patient, Lev had learned over the past two years. Waiting, stalking, hunting him. But always too sneaky for Lev to get the advantage. When he’d laid traps for Montero before, the jaguar had always seemed to sense the danger and would back off before Lev could gain the upper hand. What he would give to kill the bastard the way he had the other one. To gut him like a pig. All he needed was one little thing—that one element of surprise or moment of weakness—to gain an advantage and take the bastard out.
Lev transformed into his human body, a sneer curling his lip as he thought of the pleasure sticking a knife in Montero’s gut would bring him. He knocked on the windowpane. When no one came to the door, he hefted a piece of wood from a pile on the porch and was just about to break the glass when he decided to try the knob.
Country folk were all morons, he thought as he entered the house through the unlocked door.
Enough light came through the surrounding trees to let him see clearly. He stopped at the refrigerator in the kitchen and lifted the lid on a casserole dish, then grabbed the package of lunchmeat off the top shelf and tore into it as he walked through the house. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and he was hungry, especially after that run.
The bedroom produced a tiny closet crammed full of both men and women’s clothes. He settled on a flannel shirt—to blend in—and a pair of worn jeans. Once dressed, he searched for a gun safe but found none. Finally, he exited the front door and walked down the long driveway. Too bad the homeowner hadn’t left a set of keys or vehicle in the drive. Even a beat-up pickup would be better than trudging all the way to town. The rutted dirt road would eventually bring Lev back to the highway.
After less than a half hour, he reached pavement. No telling how far he was from where he’d ditched his car. And no idea where Montero might be. That made him nervous. He walked closer to the tree line than the asphalt just in case.
When a car approached—with an engine’s roar that sounded nothing like the purr of Montero’s high-powered Jag—he scrambled to the shoulder, turned and raised his thumb. The station wagon whizzed past without slowing. A blue Land Rover pulling an ATV on a trailer sped by the other way.
Glancing down at himself, he wondered if anyone would stop. Lev enjoyed the finer things in life.
He made a comfortable living fixing other people’s problems. If only he’d been in his Armani... But his suit was in shreds in the forest, thanks to Montero.
He pressed his lips together and kept walking.
Enough was enough. Once he reached Seattle, armed himself and secured a new identity, the hunt would reverse. Lev was tired of always looking over his shoulder. He had underestimated the jaguar’s need for vengeance.
His heel hurt where the too-large shoe rubbed.
It was time Montero was stopped.
Chapter One
“Isn’t that a pretty boy? Yes you are. You know you are.”
Heidi Falke laughed as she stepped into the doorway of the room where her sister-in-law was currently bathing what had to be the ugliest little mutt they’d ever had in the clinic. “How’s he doin’?”