Free Some Gave All by Nancy Holder

plan. For that reason, he wore shoe covers over his boots.
    He went into the warehouse first. The CSUs had stated their opinions that the perp had loitered there for some time, evidenced by a large quantity of fresh shoe prints—men’s size eight. A bit on the small side, which indicated that the owner of the shoes would probably be on the shorter side—five-eight, perhaps. Each time he acquired a new piece of data, Vincent focused and tried to move into tracking mode. So far, he was drawing a blank.
    A side door hung cockeyed like a drunk drooping from a lamppost. Since he could see in the dark, he had no need of a flashlight, and he slipped in with the studied silence of a Special Forces operative. He had been a good solider, strong and relentless, and now his body responded to his military bearing with seasoned reflexes. It felt easy and right, like stepping into a favorite old pair of shoes, or coming back home after a long time away.
    Rats were blobs of red thermal flare in his enhanced vision. He smelled dead animals and, sadly, evidence that human beings had lived there since the warehouse closure. Homeless people, seeking shelter from the elements, though none recently, thank goodness.
    He made his way toward the back of the warehouse, where the footprints had been individually flagged for photographs. Impressions had been taken, ostensibly of the best prints. He studied them and drew in deep breaths. An image clicked into sharp focus: shorter man, mid-forties, light brown hair with a military buzz cut. Steely gray eyes in a rectangular face. Wearing army fatigues and lace-up boots with soles that matched the impressions on the floor. A smoker who preferred cigars. He had been carrying an Uzi—an Israeli-style submachine gun.
    The man smelled like gun oil, diesel fuel, Kevlar, fiberglass, styrene, and rubber, and Vincent got the distinct impression that he’d been on a covert mission.
    This guy is still military
, Vincent realized.
If this is Private X, he stayed in. And he’s sure as hell not a private. Was he here with the beast creature? Deploying it against a female civilian?
    He heard his thoughts switching to military-speak. He hadn’t even been in that long, but his indoctrination had been deep and thorough. One could even argue that the army was in his DNA.
    After a minute or so with no additional input, he moved toward the stove-in back wall, where the docking bay was located. Ducking beneath a banner of caution tape, he proceeded onto the concrete apron of the dock. He saw the destroyed window in the building across the alley, a huge, ragged blast hole. Was it possible that the soldier had fired a rocket launcher at it? Surely that would have been apparent to Tess and her CSU team. She hadn’t mentioned anything like that, however.
    He took a few steps forward. And then a terror so intense, so all-encompassing hit him, and he gasped and contracted as if he’d been gut-punched. He was bolted to the concrete, shaking from head to toe. Hyperventilating. His mind beginning to shut down into catatonia, as Aliyah’s had. His rational mind retreating, leaving his reptilian brain to deal with the crisis.
    Correction: leaving his
beast
brain to deal with it.
    “No,” he whispered. This was bad, really bad. He had to get out of there. Now. Fast.
    Too late. The change was coming. A tsunami of hormones flooded his nervous system, his blood, his muscles, every cell of his body. The world shimmered and shifted. Danger, everywhere. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell:
imminent peril. Life-threatening.
    Must kill.
    Must destroy.
    A tiny part of him fought back:
I am Vincent Keller.
Reflexes and instincts braided together, tugging at him to attack the danger. What was the war zone mantra?
Kill anything that moves
.
    But nothing was moving on the loading deck.
    The search field must be expanded then. Fan out.
    That was not his beast brain, but the programming he had undergone; first as a recruit, and later, as Agent