Ambush in the Desert

Michael woke up with a jolt, his head pounding and vision blurry. The acrid scent of burning metal filled the air as he pushed pieces of wreckage off his body, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the moonlit chaos surrounding him. The once-pristine cream-colored hummer limousine was a twisted, smoking heap, its metal frame crumpled and shattered against the unforgiving desert floor. The front half was nearly unrecognizable, crushed from the impact with the armored truck that had slammed into them. Shards of glass glittered like deadly diamonds on the sand, catching the dim light from the stars above.

He scanned the wreckage, trying to find any sign of life. Bailey and Debra, his wives, were nowhere to be seen. His heart sank, but he couldn't allow himself to think the worst, not yet. The crash had been brutal, and yet his body had already begun to heal. He touched his chest where a jagged piece of metal had impaled him during the collision; the wound was now just a thin scar, barely visible against his pale skin. Being a descendant of the ancient founder had its perks—his werewolf healing abilities were faster and stronger than most.

Lucky, he thought bitterly, pulling himself to his feet, the sand crunching under his boots as he stood. But the thought didn't comfort him for long.

His senses sharpened, and suddenly, the desert wasn't so quiet anymore. A dozen different scents invaded his nostrils, subtle at first but growing stronger with each passing second. Sweat, gun oil, and something far more sinister—bloodlust. Michael stiffened. He wasn't alone.

His golden eyes darted around, catching the movement of shadows blending into the jagged rocks surrounding the crash site. He tensed, ready to shift if necessary, but before he could make his move, a sharp whizzing sound pierced the air. His ears twitched at the familiar noise, but it came too fast—before he could react, something shot out from the darkness, wrapping tightly around his left arm. He growled in frustration, yanking against the grappling hook that had embedded itself in his skin. The silver-coated wire seared against his flesh, making his muscles lock painfully.

Another hook shot out from the right, catching his other arm. He roared in defiance, tugging against his restraints, but it was no use—he was pinned.

His senses heightened as he attuned to the figures emerging from the shadows. Eight men in tactical gear, their faces hidden beneath night-vision goggles, approached with deliberate, measured steps. He could smell the tension in the air, their determination to capture him—alive.

Not happening, he thought, baring his teeth as the men surrounded him, tightening the wires that immobilized his body. But before he could make another move, the ground shifted beneath his feet, and he was knocked to the ground by the sheer force of his own struggle.

***

Meanwhile, miles away, Laura came to her senses as she slowly pushed herself up from the pile of hay she had landed in. She groaned, feeling the rough straw against her skin, but was overwhelmingly relieved. The hay had broken her fall—if it hadn't, she wasn't sure she'd be walking away from this.

She dusted herself off, glancing around to make sure no one had seen or heard her less-than-graceful landing. The night was quiet, the air still, and no lights flickered on in the nearby buildings. She had to be cautious. Slipping back into the mansion unnoticed was the only option now.

Laura moved carefully through the dark garden, sticking to the shadows as she made her way toward the back entrance. Her heart was still pounding, adrenaline rushing through her veins from the narrow escape. She replayed the events of the night in her mind, the tension, the near-discovery by the woman training below her. Every step she took was measured and silent, her ears trained for the slightest sound of pursuit.

As she finally reached her room, Laura was about to quietly slip inside when a familiar voice called her name.

"Laura."

Her blood froze. She turned slowly, her heart sinking as she saw her mother standing a few feet away. Elaine Rivera was as regal as ever, even in the middle of the night. Her long white hair cascaded down her shoulders, and the sheer fabric of her nightgown flowed with an ethereal grace. Her sharp features, though undeniably beautiful, were framed with a coldness that made Laura's stomach knot with anxiety.

"Where have you been?" Elaine's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. She wasn't fooled. 

Laura swallowed hard, trying to mask her guilt. "I... I was just—" she began, but her mother's raised hand silenced her.

"Spare me the lie," Elaine said coolly. "Do you really think you can get away with this?"

Laura's heart sank even further as her mother's eyes narrowed. Elaine extended her hand, her perfectly manicured fingers outstretched. "The manuscript. Hand it over."

Defeated, Laura reached into her back pocket and pulled out the envelope. She placed it gently in her mother's hand, avoiding eye contact as she took a step back, her face burning with shame.

Elaine sighed, looking down at the envelope. "You think you're clever, don't you?" she mused, turning the envelope over in her hands. "You won't pull a stunt like this again. If you do, I'll send you to our other home near the town square—alone. Do you understand?"

Laura nodded meekly, her throat too tight to speak. Elaine's icy gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before she finally turned away. "Goodnight, Laura," she said, her voice distant as she walked back down the hall.

"Goodnight, Mother," Laura whispered, her voice barely audible as she slipped into her room and shut the door behind her.

Once inside, she leaned back against the door, her breath shaky. She waited until the house fell silent again, the weight of the night pressing down on her. She couldn't shake the feeling of how close she had come to being caught, but then, a small smile crept onto her lips.

Reaching into her pants, she pulled out a folded set of papers. The real manuscripts.

Earlier, while trapped in her mother's study, she had gotten an idea. She'd carefully removed the papers she needed, restapled the rest, and left the dummy envelope behind, just in case. She had never anticipated being caught by her mother herself, but the gamble had worked. 

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she thought about what drove her to this point. It wasn't just curiosity—no, it was something deeper. She had always felt like she was in Luna's shadow, always craving her mother's approval, desperate to prove her worth. If she could uncover something valuable, maybe, just maybe, she would finally be seen as more than the second daughter.

Laura held the pages in her hands triumphantly. She would read through them later. Right now, all she needed was some well-earned sleep.

***

Michael gritted his teeth, muscles taut as he scanned the eight men surrounding him. Their slow, deliberate steps kicked up clouds of dust, boots crunching over the shattered remains of his limousine. His heightened senses caught every breath, every twitch, every subtle shift in their movements. Rage boiled inside him—he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

With a furious growl, he yanked on his left arm, summoning every ounce of his inhuman strength. The silver-coated wire bit into his flesh, but it was no match for his raw power. The force sent one of the soldiers hurtling toward him, screaming as he flew through the air. Michael used the momentum, following up with a devastating elbow to the man's head as he collided into him. The soldier crumpled to the ground, motionless.

Michael whipped around, his golden eyes locking onto another soldier ahead of him. The man had his weapon trained on Michael's chest, finger tightening on the trigger. Time slowed. Michael leaped into the air, his body twisting with supernatural agility as the shot rang out. The bullet whizzed past, missing him by mere inches.

In midair, Michael's form began to shift. His muscles expanded, bones cracked and reformed as thick brown fur sprouted from his skin. By the time he landed, he had fully transformed into his werewolf form—an eight-foot-tall hulking beast of muscle and fur, his eyes glowing a fierce, molten red. A deafening roar echoed through the desert night.

He lunged forward, claws extended, his massive frame moving faster than the soldiers could track. He was on the man in front of him in a heartbeat, his powerful jaws snapping around the soldier's neck. With a sickening crunch, he ripped the man's throat out, tossing him aside like a rag doll.

One down, seven to go.

The remaining soldiers scrambled to reposition themselves, firing their weapons in a desperate attempt to take him down. But Michael was faster, stronger, more experienced. He tore through their ranks, dodging their silver-coated traps and bullets with ease. His claws slashed through armor and flesh alike, each strike precise and deadly.

One soldier tried to catch him in a net, but Michael sidestepped the trap, using his opponent's momentum against him. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground before slamming him into the dirt with bone-crushing force. Another soldier raised his rifle, but Michael disarmed him with a swift swipe, then buried his claws deep into the man's chest.

The brutal fight lasted only minutes, but to the soldiers, it must have felt like an eternity. By the end, all eight men lay dead in the sand, their blood pooling beneath their broken bodies. Michael stood victorious, his chest heaving as he panted, the adrenaline still coursing through him.

But something was wrong. His wounds—small cuts and bullet grazes—weren't healing as quickly as they should have been. He glanced down at his blood-streaked fur, realizing the truth: silver. The soldiers had been smarter than he thought, their weapons laced with the one thing that could slow his regenerative powers. He grimaced., recognizing the advanced tactics.

As the adrenaline began to fade, Michael's attention shifted to the wreckage. He scanned the twisted metal and scattered debris, hoping—praying—to find some sign of his wives. Surely they had survived, he thought. They had to. 

But before he could search for them, his keen senses picked up something else: the low rumble of approaching engines. He turned, his sharp eyes narrowing as multiple vehicles appeared in the distance, their headlights illuminating the night as they raced toward him. Dust clouds billowed in their wake, and Michael's mind raced.

Too many. I can't fight them all.

He made a snap decision. He had to retreat. Shifting once more, his body contorted into a dire wolf form—sleek, powerful, and built for speed. He bolted, paws pounding against the desert floor as he sprinted away from the wreckage. The vehicles closed in from all sides, their blinding lights making it nearly impossible for his sensitive eyes to adjust. But Michael pressed on, running faster, his body a blur in the night.

Then, suddenly, bright beams of light flared to life directly in front of him, causing him to skid to a halt. He growled in frustration, but before he could react, four massive speaker like contraptions rose from the ground around him. A high-pitched frequency blasted from the speakers, cutting through the air with a piercing screech that made Michael's ears ring. Pain exploded in his head, and he dropped to the ground, howling in agony as the soundwaves pulsed through his body.

His muscles tensed, locking up under the strain of the high-frequency noise. He tried to focus, to gather his strength, but the pain was too intense. His vision blurred, and all he could do was lie there, paralyzed by the sound.

Through the haze of agony, he saw a figure approaching. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short greying hair and wearing dark sunglasses that shielded his eyes from the glaring lights. The man stepped closer, his expression unreadable behind the shades.

"Well, well, look at what we've got here," the man said, his voice carrying a heavy southern drawl. "You must be wonderin' how we managed to bring you down. This right here? State-of-the-art werewolf huntin' tech. Not harmful to us humans but to you folk... Not even a descendant of the founder's line like you can outmaneuver this."

Michael growled, straining to lift his head, but his body refused to cooperate. How did this man know who he was?

"Name's General Ross," the man continued, stepping closer until he stood just inches away from Michael's prone form. "And I reckon you ain't gonna be a problem no more."

Before Michael could respond, two snipers stepped forward, rifles raised. In perfect synchrony, they fired, each shot embedding silver bullets deep into Michael's chest. He gasped, pain ripping through him as the silver burned in his veins. His body tried to heal, but the combined effects of the bullets and the high-frequency sound left him defenseless.

As his vision began to fade, Michael could hear the distant sound of howling. Two dark shapes charged toward him from the horizon, their powerful strides kicking up dust as they ran. His heart ached as he recognized them—Bailey and Debra, his wives. They were coming for him. But it was too late.

The pain became unbearable, and as his blood soaked into the sand, he let out one final, shuddering breath. He was thankful he had spent his last moments with them, even if they couldn't save him.

Meanwhile, General Ross watched as the two werewolves barreled into his men. Panic erupted among the soldiers, gunfire lighting up the desert as they tried to hold the line. Bailey, in her werewolf form, tore through the first wave of men, her claws flashing as she ripped through their ranks. Debra fought alongside her, but the numbers were against them.

Ross barked orders, commanding his men with military precision. "Take the left flank! Surround 'em!"

Debra roared as she charged a group of soldiers, but one of them fired a net launcher, entangling her mid-leap. She crashed to the ground, thrashing wildly as the Annoying strands of silver-coated wire bit into her flesh. The soldiers closed in, opening fire on her and within moments, they had her subdued. 

Bailey fought on, her movements fast and lethal, but even she couldn't hold out forever. A tranquilizer dart found its mark, hitting her square in the back. She staggered, her strength waning, before finally collapsing. Her body shifted back into human contact form, her short brown hair sticking to her sweat-covered face.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, raising his gun to end her, but Ross held up a hand. "No. Double the dosage of the tranquilizer. She's comin' with us as a prisoner. Or better yet, a specimen for Ashton."

The soldier nodded, following orders as Debra was dragged away.

Ross stepped aside and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and waited, the chaos of the scene behind him fading into the background.

A voice answered on the other end.

"It's done," Ross said coldly.