Free Bad Cat Baby Blues (Shifter Squad Six 3) by Anya Nowlan

to do him much good.
    He got off about forty minutes later, at a stop that was even shabbier than the one he’d gotten on at. Glancing both ways before starting his walk, he thrust his hands into his pockets again and slugged down the street, ominous in his aggravation. The streets all looked the same to him but he found the one he was looking for eventually, and the building wasn’t hard to pinpoint after that.
    It was a tall brick building, shabby and bleak. Most of the windows were broken and the kids playing ball out front could have benefited with a meal and a bath, but none of that really resonated with Dutch. He walked in, keeping his mind alert as he trudged up the stairs, looking for apartment 12B.
    It was on the third floor, the last apartment to the right. He passed the other doors, some of which had obviously been broken into, and in one apartment he could see a man destroying something from a brown paper bag, his face contorted with the weight of the world’s problems. Dutch knew how he felt, or he could guess at least.
    He knocked on the door once, twice, before banging his fist so hard on it that he thought the flimsy door would come off its hinges. No response, but when he pounded on it again, the door creaked open, opening into the apartment. He scowled, standing at the entrance for a second before stepping in.
    “Carter?” he called, craning his neck to look around in the small place. “It’s Uncle Dutch,” he said, the “uncle” part scathing to his ears.
    But Carter wasn’t there, and by the looks of things, he hadn’t been for a while now. Dutch saw empty pizza boxes as he closed the door behind him, and signs of life that hadn’t been stirred in a while. An open magazine lying on the end table by the bed, messy sheets, and clothes on the floor all spoke of Carter as he usually was—a bit reckless, a bit impulsive, and a whole lot messy. A lot like his father had been.
    Dutch’s lips thinned into a hard line as he methodically went through the apartment, small as it was. It only consisted of a bedroom-kitchen and a tiny bathroom with a crooked shower. It didn’t take much to realize that Carter hadn’t been home in a while.
    The hell have you gotten yourself into this time… Dutch wondered, taking a seat on the bed and flipping through the car magazine left on the stand.
    Carter Sawyer was only nineteen years old. He was the son of Lieutenant Camden Sawyer, one of Dutch’s closest friends through his second and third tours in Afghanistan. With smiling eyes and a mouth constantly chattering off horrifically cringey jokes, Camden Sawyer, or “Syke” as his friends and brothers in blood had known him, was one of the toughest bastards Dutch had had the pleasure of knowing.
    Syke, a weretiger, had probably saved every man on his team at least once. The ones that had shittier luck he pulled out of the line of fire more than once. As a veteran with more tours under his belt than most guys in his unit, he was the kind of man that the younger crowd looked up to and aspired to be. So when Syke died while dragging Dutch out of the field after he’d taken a bullet to the leg, right near that damn knee where he would later take another shot, it had been a blow to everyone.
    Dutch, well, he felt personally responsible. He’d said as much when Syke was in his arms, bleeding out from a chest wound that was clearly fatal even before they’d torn the vest and the uniform open over it to give the medic a chance to see if there was something to be done for him. And Syke had told him to shut the fuck up and keep his head up because that’s what needed to be done.
    Syke had asked for one thing from Dutch—that he look after his kid. And that was a promise Dutch had every intention of keeping, no matter how fucked up in the head he currently was. Dutch had left active duty as soon as he could after Syke’s death to be closer to Carter, though that wasn’t the only reason. Carter had been fourteen