“A vehicle picks them up. Takes them to a placement facility.”
“Where?”
“South.”
“You ever been there? The facility?”
“No.”
Tate is quiet for a moment. Then: “There was a girl I knew growing up. Kira, from the Hartley pack, two counties over. Our families used to see them at the fall gatherings. She had magic—” He stops when he catches my expression. “Barely anything,” he adds quickly. “You’d never know unless someone told you. They relocated her when she was sixteen.” He pauses. “Her family tried to find out where she went. Couldn’t. We never saw her again.”
“Different pack,” I say. “Different operation.”
“Yeah. Probably.” Tate doesn’t sound convinced.
The family finishes packing in forty minutes. They drive their car up the ravine road to where we’re parked. I lead them to the county road—a fifteen-minute drive, the family’s sedanfollowing my truck, Tate in the passenger seat, the whole thing orderly and quiet and professional.
The handoff point is a pullout where the ranch road meets the county highway. A flat space, gravel, room for two vehicles. I’ve been here before. Done this before. Called the contact, waited for the truck, made the transfer.
I call the number. It rings twice.
“Forrester. What do you have?”
“Family of four. Two adults, clean. Two minors, magic-blood. Low-level.”
“Location?”
“Junction seven. County road pullout. Usual place.”
“Twenty minutes.” The call ends.
I stand by my truck and wait. The family sits in their car. The mother has both kids in the backseat. Through the rear window, I can see the boy pressed against the glass, looking at me.
He’s not crying. He’s not scared anymore. He’s looking at me with something that’s worse than fear. Comprehension. He understands what’s happening. He’s eight years old, and he understands that the man who told his family to pack up is now handing them to strangers, and nobody is going to explain where they’re going.
My wolf is fighting me. Not pushing gently. Fighting with a fury I’ve never felt from him, and the effort of keeping the shift contained makes my hands shake. My vision keeps going wolf-bright, the details of the kid’s face burning into my memory with a clarity that feels permanent.
I grip the truck’s tailgate. Breathe.
This is the protocol. This is what keeps our territory safe. This is what we do.
The contact’s truck arrives. Dark blue. No markings. Two men in the cab: one driving, one passenger. I don’t know their names.I’ve never asked. They’re part of the network. They handle placement. That’s all I need to know.
The driver gets out. Nods to me. “The family?”
“Behind me. Sedan.”
He walks to the car. Talks to the father through the window. I don’t listen to the conversation. I don’t need to hear the details of where they’re being taken, what the next step is, how the placement works. That’s not my operation.
The family gets out of their car. They leave the sedan; they always leave the vehicles. Someone will come back to collect it, and by morning, it will be gone. Just like always.
The father carries two bags. The mother carries the toddler. The boy walks between them, carrying a backpack that’s too big for him.
They walk to the dark blue truck. The mother climbs in the back with both kids. The father hesitates. Looks back at me.
I don’t know what he’s looking for. Permission. Reassurance. An answer to the question he asked in the ravine that I didn’t give him.
Have you checked?