Free Pack Dynamics by Julie Frost

the sniper said.
    “You’re outnumbered and we have more to lose than you,” she said, trying to be reasonable. “Take what you can get and go.”
    Her fingers found the panic button under the counter, which would summon the real police, and she noted to herself that Jeremy hadn’t actually put his gun out of his reach. She exchanged a glance with him and nodded her chin a bare fraction. Not that he needed her permission, but she was sure he’d like to know that she’d back any move he made.
    “That one’s hurt, and none of you are armed.” The woman cut the sniper’s bonds, freeing him to stand up, rubbing his wrists and looking smug. “I think we’ve got a pretty good hand here. So where’s Jarrett?”
    O O O
    No one had noticed that Ben had jammed himself against the counter where they’d put the sniper rifle. The threat “Your girlfriend’s next” kept looping through his frazzled memory.
    Over his dead body. He pushed Janni to the floor, and his hand closed with robotic precision over the stock of the rifle, bringing it around, steadying it with his other hand, his index finger finding and disengaging the safety and wrapping around the trigger, on complete autopilot. He couldn’t miss at this distance, they were less than eight feet away …
    “Don’t—” Center of mass. One shot, one man down. Shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Swearing, shouting, Megan and Jeremy diving out of the way. He shifted aim to the woman and hesitated a second, because he had a thing about not hurting women, hard-wired into him by insurgents who’d hurt a woman in front of him and laughed while they did it. But her 9mm spat fire, and Ben’s gun was bigger, his Ranger training even more ingrained.
    Something punched him in the chest as he pulled the trigger again. Two shots, two down. Third enemy retreating, backing away, hands up. Hands that had held a cattle prod, mouth that had threatened Janni begging him to stop, to not—
    Three shots, three down. Okay. Finished.
    Ben dropped the rifle. Dropped to his knees. Looked down at his chest, which kind of hurt, a lot. Was that blood? His blood? Wow, that was … a shitload of blood.
    “Ben?” Janni’s voice.
    He leaned against the cabinets, started sliding, caught himself on one elbow before hitting the floor, glasses skittering away. “Omigod, Ben, Benbenbenbenben …”
    Breathing. Breathing was an issue. Breathing was always an issue, but the mouthful of wet, sticky copper was new. Cool tiles on his hot forehead, Janni’s warm hand holding his cold one. She was still calling his name, but it was such a slender string holding him to her and he couldn’t …
    O O O
    Megan swore. “Jeremy, get Doc Allen down here, now; he’s in one of the guest rooms! And get Mike Reed out of bed if you have to!”
    What the hell had Ben been thinking? And she realized, even as she thought it, that the poor son of a bitch probably hadn’t been thinking at all, had probably been working on sheer instinct, the same fight or flight impulse she’d smelled him wrestling since they’d brought the sniper in, and flight hadn’t been an option. Which didn’t make the situation any better, but she and the wolf understood it.
    She grabbed the pair of dish towels hanging from the oven handle. Ben lay face down in a spreading puddle of red, the scent sending her wolf into overdrive.
    Janni blinked at Megan through tears and a spatter of Ben’s blood. This was too much for her; it was too much for all of them, but they had to deal with it or he’d die this time. No exit wound—Megan wasn’t sure if this was beneficial or not. She eased him onto his back and pressed the towels down on his chest, but they were quickly soaked.
    “Come on, Ben, stay with us,” Megan said, knowing he couldn’t hear her. His heart was still beating, anyway. She could both hear it and feel it under her hands.
    Doc Allen appeared at her side, gently pushing both her and Janni out of the way. He held