Guarded by the Alpha

Late-summer sun beat against the cracked clay ground, drying Zak Armsford’s mouth with every inhale as he crossed the parking lot. Several furtive glances were cast his way as he made his way past racks of potato skins and cases of beer. Zak knew by looking at the men he was the only shifter in the gas station who didn't have a machete concealed somewhere on his body. Then again, he was the only one who didn't need one.
Still, he eyed them, measuring risk as he inspected their faces. Anyone who made a life this far outside the borders of Fort Jericho wasn’t exactly a stand-up citizen of the shifter community. And because Zak’s spec-ops training had taught him where to look, he saw in a glance that almost all of them carried. Not exactly the most welcoming of places.
A pile of coins and a dark look at the squinty-eyed cashier yielded him a bottle of water.
“Anything else?” the cashier drawled.
Someone shuffled up behind him. Zak didn’t turn. It would only make them edgier.
“Nope.” He slugged back half the bottle then exited underneath the locals’ watchful glare.
An hour later, his GPS signal failed and he switched to a paper map, pulling off to study the route. He tried calling Kenneth, his friend and currently his boss at Shifters, Inc., but there was no signal. The farther away from civilization he got, the more the desert reminded him of his deployments overseas. It wasn’t a happy memory, either. Pissed he’d ever agreed to come here, he tossed the phone aside and muttered to himself about shitty technology.
His friend Kenneth’s offer was the last in a long line of freelance jobs he’d taken on since being discharged. Special forces, black ops…these weren’t the sort of job skills one could put on a white-collar resume. And he damn sure wasn’t going home. All that waited for him in Fort Jericho was more violence—the kind that lived outside the law—and shame.
Better to focus on the job and then get lost again. Kenneth had already made it clear that if he did well, there would be other opportunities. That’s all Zak wanted was a chance.
He’d been hired to rescue a team of archeologists that had become a target for some gang or another out here, but he had no idea who they were. Thanks to the spotty reception he’d had this entire trip, Orion International, the name of the organization that was funding the dig, was the only name he had.
He used his odometer to mark the distance on the directions. Two miles up a winding dirt trail, he spotted tents flapping in the wind. He pulled off and got out, leaving the keys inside his newly purchased armored Jeep for a fast getaway. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
Zak peered at the camp site around him and yanked his makeshift head covering—an extra t-shirt—lower over his eyes. The place was a dustbowl that swirled in every direction until it stuck inside every nook and cranny it could find. He was pretty sure when he showered later, he’d shake enough sand out of his pants and boots that he could lounge on it like a beach. For now, he wanted to locate his targets and get them out of here alive. Get paid. Then he’d find a nice hot shower and maybe a cold beer. This desert was bringing up too many memories better left buried.
The wind howled as he crept around the deserted camp. Empty tents, a cold fire pit … His file from Kenneth had said these guys were roughing it and that they’d already been attacked once. Maybe they’d seen him coming and were hiding out.
A noise sounded from beyond the last tent. Zak crept down the hill and found himself staring into a deep hole with ropes and ladders extending into the void. Damn. This was already more than he signed up for.
The noise came again—a scream—this time to his left. He darted that way, rounding the corner of a stack of boxes—a shipment of supplies from the looks of it—before stopping short.