he turned and saw them right behind him. Since the alley was a dead end, they must have come through that door. He cursed silently, moving aside to get out of their way.
But instead of pushing past him, they stopped. Too late, he saw the anger in their faces. Hostility radiated from the jerky way they moved to their clenched fists.
“I mean no harm,” he began, about to offer them his wallet and his watch, whatever they wanted. But when one of them punched him, followed by the other, raining down blows so swiftly he barely saw them move, he realized this was not a mugging. No, this was a beating, and he’d be damn lucky to survive.
Though he could hold his own in a fair fight, not only was this two against one, but they were built like linebackers. So he curled himself into a defensive ball and tried not to make a sound, hoping eventually they’d leave him for dead and he wouldn’t be.
The next thing he knew, the redheaded woman was tripping over him. She let out a little scream as she fell, the sound letting him know he’d somehow survived. He must have lost consciousness, because the last thing he remembered before that was the two men whaling on him. They’d even gotten in a couple of kicks, catching him right in the ribs.
He wasn’t sure he could breathe, never mind stand, but somehow, he managed to push himself to his feet. This woman had been here before. He’d watched the alley for weeks, and she’d visited at least twice. Maybe three times. Since he could only watch the entrance to the alley, he assumed she’d gotten the door to open for her. Because she’d gone into the alley and hadn’t come out for hours.
He’d observed all kinds of people heading into that dead-end alley. From suit-wearing business types, to hipsters, to the grunge-slash-metal crowd. They never came out immediately. Whatever they were doing in there, behind that mysterious door, had to be interesting.
The wondering consumed him. Every single journalistic instinct he possessed kicked into overdrive. Whatever went on behind that door had to be a story. A big story. Not just mildly interesting.
Because one night when he’d been staked out watching the alley, he’d seen a man emerge, unsteady on his feet, clearly inebriated. The guy had walked to where the alley met the street, looked left and right and, right there on Jake’s cell phone video, began to shimmer. His form had wavered, too, changing from human to something definitely wolf-like, before going back to human once more. Then, the man shook his head, adjusted his clothing and walked away.
Not believing his own eyes, Jake had watched the video several times. He’d uploaded it to the cloud, knowing he couldn’t take a chance of losing it, though he kept the copy on his phone.
This, if he could prove it, would be the story of the century. Because based on what he’d witnessed, he just might be able to prove to the world that werewolves truly existed.
If he could manage to live through this investigation, that is.
A groan slipped from his lips as he attempted to take a step after standing. She came to him then, using her slender shoulder to brace him, uncaring of the fact that his blood would stain her pretty dress. As she helped him move toward the street, she muttered under her breath.
“Did you just say ‘Damn humans’?” he asked, careful to hide his excitement.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice cross. “If I can get you to the sidewalk, we can call for an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” he insisted.
“We need to get you to the hospital. How else do you propose we do so?”
“My car is parked over there,” he told her, pointing with an unsteady hand. “The keys are in my pocket.” Somehow, he managed to dig them out. “Here. You can drive.”
Though his pain level had been off the charts, Jake had known he’d have to ditch the redhead. Though he wasn’t sure why exactly, he knew the reason would reveal itself soon enough. He’d learned to always trust his gut instincts. Always.
She’d been kind. Interested, even. And beautiful, the kind of beauty that once would have sent men off to war. While her beauty lured him, he didn’t trust her. She knew things he didn’t. Since she’d done everything in her power to hustle him away from the dead-end alley, she had no intention of sharing any of her knowledge with him.
He’d seen her go in the door. That damn door. What had started out as idle curiosity had become a full-blown obsession. So much so that he’d put his own life in danger.
The salt-scented, humid breeze made the cuts on his face sting. He thought he could make it back to his car, but he’d begun to second guess the instinct that had made him flee the hospital. While the woman—Maddie Kinslow—had put on an outward show of compassion, she was part of whatever secret lay behind that door. Call him overly paranoid, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been sent to finish the job the two thugs had started. He wasn’t prepared to risk finding out.
Still, she’d been right about one thing. He needed medical attention. He suspected he had, at the very least, a couple of broken ribs. If not broken, then bruised.
An older black Lincoln pulled up alongside him. “Hey, man,” a familiar voice said. “You need a ride?”
Wayne. One of the guys he played basketball with every Saturday. Jake had never been so glad to see someone in his life. “I do,” he said, lifting his hand in greeting.
“Climb on in.”
Jake did. When Wayne got a good look at his face, he whistled, low and furious. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I got jumped over by Harborside.”
“By the cruise ship parking lots?” Wayne wanted to know.
“Yeah, sort of.”
“What were you doing over there?”
Since his friend knew exactly what Jake did for a living, he told the truth. “Following a lead. I got a little too close for someone’s comfort.”
“Let’s go to the hospital,” Wayne suggested.
Since Jake felt dizzy, like he might pass out again, he agreed.
This time, he made it inside the ER under his own power. Though Wayne had offered to stay, Jake told him no.
Three and a half hours later, Jake learned his ribs were bruised, not broken. By some miracle, his most serious—and painful—injury was a dislocated shoulder. They gave him some muscle relaxers and a shot of something, and the doctor manually worked it back into place. When he did, it hurt like hell. Perspiring, trying not to swear, Jake managed to stay conscious.
When they were finally done and the doctor came to discharge him with a prescription for more pain pills and some antibiotics, he asked Jake if he had someone to drive him home.
“No. But my car is only a couple blocks away,” Jake said, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
“You can’t drive,” the doc said firmly. “You need to call someone to come and pick you up. We gave you some strong narcotics. No driving for at least twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll find someone.” He dug out his phone.
