He’d been talking to their resident surgeon too much. Technically a vet, Sasha Soskoff acted more like a real doctor to Mitch and the guys. Since they were shape shifters, that worked out fine. Doc managed to get Mitch to admit he wished he’d done better in school. His damned dyslexia kept him out of a lot of things and Doc didn’t seem daunted; not like Mitch’s teachers. If anything, Doc seemed excited about having a new project. Add to it the idea that knowing how to run all their complicated techno-babble crap would be cool, and all of a sudden, TJ Butler put Mitch on the rotation for surveillance.

Stupid twink doctor talked him into it, but Mitch never should have listened. This was a job for eggheads like TJ, not him. Nobody mentioned how boring watching cameras could be, either. Misha, who was supposed to be working with Mitch, left an hour ago and still wasn’t back, his ‘lunch break’ longer because he had to run to the drug store for stuff. A young, hereditary tiger from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Misha tried to flex his muscles and acted like an idiot—like now—with this early and extra long break for lunch.

Probably went for lube and condoms. Fucking prick didn’t know how good he had it. When his guardian Anton found out, the shit would hit the fan. Little butt munch fucked anything that moved, regardless of whatever bullshit he told Anton. How he found so much pussy living and working at a gay bar, Mitch had no clue.

Mitch hated sitting around and twiddling his thumbs. Yeah, camera surveillance might be important, but it wasn’t the job for him. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair. Longer than when he’d served in the Corps, he still kept it shaved on the sides. He ran his fingertips over the buzzed strands and sighed. He must be pretty bored right now if he worried about his hair like a girl.

Neal Harrison, Mitch’s boss and former sergeant in the Marines, had kept the unit together when they got shipped back stateside after the accident. “Accident,” they called it, like it was a fucking car collision. Some jacked-up Russian tiger shifter munched on them and turned them into shifters, and all the Corps gave them was an Honorable Discharge. Neal owned the entire building; he bought it when he’d gotten out. The guy had money after his parents died or something. The restaurant took up most of the first floor, and the bondage club was in the basement. Mitch came up with what to call it, too—The Basement. He smirked. Might not be original, but it stopped everybody arguing over stupid-sounding “cool” names.

They’d named the restaurant The Factory since it was a heavy brick building that reminded them all of a light industrial building common to Chicago. It had a vacant healthcare place to the side Doc had converted into an emergency veterinary clinic. The neighbors didn’t know it was really for treating shifters and not their precious Pomeranians.

Huh. Mitch leaned forward, his attention caught by a long, gleaming white van on the monitors pulling up outside Doc’s clinic. He wished the damn things were in color; it would make it easier to see shit. He watched the driver get out and scan the street.

Every nerve lit up. The guy carried at least two pieces, one under his shirt and one in his left pants leg. Mitch yanked the mobile off the table and dialed Misha.

“Yo. Getcher ass back here.”

“What? What’s the problem?” Misha had no accent in English even though he spoke fluent Russian. His spoiled brat attitude came through just fine, too.

Mitch rolled his eyes and tried to keep his voice calm. Never let the kid know you give a shit. “There’s a van pulled up outside. I don’t recognize it.”

“So?”

“Just get back here, damn it!” He snapped the phone shut on Misha’s whining. Kid always bitched!

He got the radio and hit the button for the main bar. It spit static and a voice came on. “This is Frank.”

Mitch liked Frank. Always professional. “It’s Mitch. I need to check something out. I’ll be off the cameras for a little.”

“Sounds good. I’ll keep an eye on things. Be careful.”

Mitch smirked. “Always.”

He slipped out of the console room. It was only ten-thirty; nothing was going on anyway. TJ only consented to put him and Misha in charge because the damned Factory was closed on Mondays. In TJ-logic, that made sense.

And that’s why TJ was a butt monkey.

Mitch slipped upstairs and outside to the clinic entrance. He loitered in a shadow, watching.

The driver now stood by the back door of the van, helping the occupant with something. Another guy, dressed nicer in a suit jacket over a button-down shirt, slid in behind the wheel. Then the first guy straightened, and Mitch’s eyes widened. The one he helped was an injured kid, covered in blood and bruises.

Fucking hot, too, underneath the blood and shit. Delicate cheekbones sat above a graceful jawline. The two thugs disappeared with their charge into the clinic and the van took off the minute they stepped inside. Doc came out from behind the counter, his ‘serious’ face on.

As they headed into the back, Mitch slipped into the alley and came around to the rear door.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic. He crept down to the waiting room, but only the driver sat there playing with his phone. What the hell? Where’d the other guy go?

Mitch went across to the OR. He listened for a moment before stepping inside. The guy spoke in accented English, and Mitch narrowed his eyes. It didn’t seem like the Gatos, even though it sounded like Spanish; it seemed…odd.

The doc’s sable hair shined under the bright lights of the operating room. It fell nearly to his shoulders in loops and whorls that set off his pale, ivory skin. Fucking guy was way too gorgeous for anybody’s good, particularly Mitch’s.

Doc glanced over and saw him. “Mitch. What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Doc. What’s going on?”

“A mugging. Hand me the film tray, please.” He pointed.

Mitch rolled his eyes. He’d told the twink once—once!—he’d wanted to be a medic since forever, and never fucking lived it down. Mitch had the hots for the guy back in the beginning but, being one of the Doc’s projects was gonna get old—fast.

“This ain’t a people clinic.” Mitch looked down at the kid on the table and faltered.

‘Kid’ wasn’t right. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. He blinked up at Mitch, his eyes a heart-stopping agate-green hazel. His gaze seemed hazed with pain and what smelled like fear. But fear of Mitch? Or the OR.?

Or the men who brought him in?

“Mugging, huh?” Mitch moved back against the wall, eyeing the big guy with him. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah. Happened over on Touhy.”

Mitch’s instincts screamed at him, and he went over to step into the hallway. The first thug still sat out in the waiting area, and fucking Misha hadn’t shown up. Mitch hit the screamer circuit on the mobile and turned back to the room. He flipped the lock behind him, but their visitor didn’t react.

Doc, however, looked up at him. “Mitch?”

“Just keeping an eye on things.” Mitch shrugged. “Never can be too careful.”

He turned to the guy leaning against the opposite wall, way too close to Doc for Mitch’s comfort. “Mugging, you said? Where?”

“On Touhy. Near Ridge.” The guy eyed him, brown eyes flat and empty. Either he was a killer, or stone-cold stupid.

Mitch studied him. He knew that neighborhood. No way a mugging this bad happened without the cops getting involved. Blame urban renewal, call it Neighborhood Watch, it didn’t matter; the neighborhood had gotten better in the last decade and muggings didn’t just happen in broad daylight.

Doc leaned over their patient. “I need to sedate you. It will sting, but then you’re going to float away, okay? I need to set your jaw. Can you understand me?”

The kid whispered something and Doc frowned. He shot a glance over his shoulder at the thug on the wall and Mitch wanted to shout with frustration. Jesus, Doc! Why don’t you jump up and down and flap your arms like a chicken? It would be more subtle!

The thug straightened and Mitch sighed. Looked like he’d get to fight after all. “Hey.” He stepped forward. “Focus on me, vato. I’m the one you want.”

The man glared at him. “What?”

“You heard me. You deaf as well as impotent?”

He could smell the anger flare and wanted to grin. But it worked; the guy came off the wall and moved around the table toward him. Doc handed the kid a pen and paper as soon as the guy turned his back and wanted to grin. Finally, Doc used his head!

The thug advanced on him. “What did you say to me, babaca?”

Mitch didn’t recognize the word he used, and he knew a lot of Spanish swearwords. Not a Gato. Maybe it wasn’t Spanish? “You understand me just fine, goat-sucker.” Mitch smirked. “You do your little fuck toy? Or you hire him out?”

“Jaguars heal fast,” Doc interposed. “These wounds are fresh.”

“Jaguar.” The big man spat on the floor. He rumbled something in what sounded to Mitch like a cross between French and Italian.

Fucking hell. He wasn’t a Gato, this one, and he spoke Portuguese and not Spanish. Shit. A Brazilian jaguar. Misha better move his ass!

“Mitch.”

Something in Doc’s tone made him turn his head to the side so he could see but keep the big guy in sight. Doc held a stick figure drawing of a big man beating a cat.

A cat.

Oh, shit. The kid on the table wasn’t a jaguar… He kicked himself. A fucking ocelot shifter. There were rumors, of course, but you don’t always believe the twisted shit you hear. In other parts of the world, larger shifters species dominated smaller ones. Looked like Brazil was one of them.

“Motherfucker.” Mitch flexed his hands.

The thug faced Mitch, his eyes angry. “You have no idea who you are challenging. This one”—he waved a hand at the kid on the table—“belongs to Fernando Melo Tavares Junqueira.” He said the name like he expected Mitch to go running away.

Fat chance. “I never believed those crazy stories about ass-hungry jaguars and their little slave fucktoy ocelots. What happen, big guy? Lose a nut in the war and have to make do with house cats?”

The big man pulled a huge knife, more like a machete, and snarled something unintelligible.

“Fuck!” Doc cried.

“Let’s dance.” Mitch needed to draw the guy away from the civilians. Better chance it; Misha should be there soon anyway. Mitch flipped the lock to the door and backed into the hallway, drawing the jag with him. A commotion broke out in the front area, Misha finally showing his sorry ass.

Then the fight was on.

The knife whistled over Mitch’s head and sank half an inch into the door jam. He kicked the jag’s hip and then landed two heavy punches on the side of his face, and the guy careened into the wall.

What the hell, couldn’t he fight?

Mitch dove on him and beat every part of him he could reach. Fucking bullies! Beat the kid within an inch of his life and couldn’t even fucking fight! He lifted the bigger man against the wall, holding him by the throat, and struck until his knuckles split.

“Mitch! Mitch!” Misha shouted. He looped his arm through the crook of Mitch’s elbow and hauled back. Anton Kurakin, the teacher from the home tribe, stood on his other side and covered the jag with the heavy revolver he liked. The jaguar collapsed onto the floor, unable to hold himself up.

“Get the fuck off me, Misha!”

“You’re gonna kill him!”

“Good!”

“We need him alive to question, Anton says!”

“No way, man. You saw what he did to that kid! I don’t answer to Anton. He’s your babysitter, not mine.”

Misha hesitated and Mitch tore free. He dove and rolled, taking the jag with him toward the back door. They crashed into it and tumbled outside, Mitch on top. He growled, the feel of his tiger filling him, and roared.

“Shit!” Misha shouted. “Anton, I can’t hold him!”

TJ materialized out of the shadows between him and his prey. “Back down, Mitch.”

“Aww, Teej!” Mitch straightened. “Get outta my way, dammit!”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Teej!” He lunged but TJ blocked him. He stared at the bulkier man, panting. “You saw what he did!”

“Yeah. And we’ll take care of them. But not here.”

TJ’s anger mingled with his but Mitch held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Promise me. Promise me this time we get them, we don’t just back down because some fucking DC suit lost his nerve!”

“I promise.”

“Even if it’s Neal!”

TJ hesitated.

“Teej…” Mitch groaned. “Please! That coulda been Doc! Or Dillon!”

That did it. TJ’s eyes dilated and he nodded. “Yeah. Fine. I promise.”

Mitch nodded and stepped back.

The guy on the ground lay like his strings had been cut, blood from his nose and one ear trickling down his face and neck. He didn’t move when TJ nudged him with a toe and TJ sighed. “Help me get him inside.”

“He’s not one of the Gatos,” Mitch told him. “Probably one of the Brazilin pricks.”

TJ’s mouth thinned. “Yeah.”

“Where’s Doc?” Mitch demanded.

“In the OR,” TJ drawled.

“You left him in there alone?” Mitch whirled, striding down the hall.

“Mario’s with him,” Anton called.

Mitch slowed, panic easing, but slipped into the operating room anyway. Mario Rosetti towered over one side of the table, holding a suture kit, while Doc sewed up some cuts on the kid’s face. Mario had been attacked like the rest of Neal’s Marines, but survived it without becoming a tiger. His throat and chest bore fierce scars, and Mitch could see their shadow against Mario’s pristine, white T-shirt.

“Sit rep,” Mario murmured, eyes on the patient.

“I think he’s an ocelot,” TJ told him. “I’ve heard chatter about it, about a small group of jaguars from Brazil. There was some kind of a fight over a succession problem and they ended up here. The main group’s in Sao Paulo. But I’ll have to do some checking.”

“He said he was beaten,” Doc growled.

Mitch blinked, not understanding the statement. The kid lay there in pieces; of course, he was beaten!

“If he beat him, why bring him to me?”

“So you can patch him up and send him back out again.” Mitch frowned. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Doc straightened, a needle and thread in his hand. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? He’s been beaten, Doc, systematically. You can smell it on him.”

Doc paled, his pulse jumping in his throat. He looked down at his patient. “Shit.”

Mario glared at Mitch like he’d told the doc to fuck off or something, but said nothing. Mitch held his hands out, confused. He mouthed ‘what’ at Mario, but the big man just glared at him and looked away.

Doc, oblivious, bent over their patient and examined his jaw line. “I got the worst of it. Those wires will have to stay in for at least tonight. You’re sure he’s a shifter?”

“Yeah, why? You can’t tell?” Mitch frowned. “Aren’t you an animal empath?”

“I’m a surgeon first,” Doc snapped. “I’m not going to take chances before I start cutting or dosing him, and I can’t wait for the blood test. We need to get him stable and resting, but I don’t want to leave him here.”

“You’re not going to,” Mitch told him. “I’ll take him.”

The door opened and Misha stepped in. “There are more coming,” he reported. “We saw the van about four blocks out.”

Doc’s eyes widened and Mitch could smell his fear. He sighed. Did he have to do everything?

He turned to the table and registered green topaz eyes before the kid rolled away, shoving Doc back. He snatched a scalpel off a tray. “Get away!”

“Hey now,” Mario soothed, hands out.

The kid hissed, the sound garbled because his jaw wouldn’t open. “What did you do to me?”

“Your jaw is wired shut because it’s broken,” Doc told him. He took a step closer. “You have to stay calm.”

“Doc, don’t—” Mitch started, but the kid moved. Mitch leaped clear over the table and came down between them, the scalpel whizzing by inches from his arm. He faced Doc, his back to the kid. “Doc. Back up. You’ll scare him.”

“Mitch, look out!”

“He’s not gonna hurt me,” Mitch blustered, hoping to God he read the kid right.

The kid sank down the wall, panting. He made little noises like he’d started crying, too. Mitch craned around and sure enough, tears poured down his cheeks.

“Mitch, Jesus!” TJ growled from the doorway.

“I know what I’m doing!” Mitch snapped. He knelt in front of the kid, not touching, but close. “Hey. My name’s Mitch. Mitchell Brayden. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Jesus, but the kid had gorgeous fucking eyes, like green gems. They weren’t even his cat eyes; his human eyes looked that way. Mitch’s tiger made a noise, deep in his throat, and he swallowed against a sudden double-image. The tiger liked Lupe just fine, even though they weren’t the same kind of cat. Weird shifter crap again, but at least this time, it worked in his favor.

“You don’t smell like them.”

“That’s ’cause I’m a tiger, not a jaguar. My guys are tigers.”

The kid’s eyes flashed to Doc and back.

“He’s not a tiger, he’s the doctor. He’s an animal empath, too. He wants to help you.” He hesitated. “Give me the knife, okay?”

The kid’s eyes flashed to his, still leaking tears. He didn’t move for several long moments, then held out the scalpel, his hand shiny with sweat. Mitch took it and handed it behind him. Either TJ or Doc took it; he didn’t look to see.

“What’s your name?” Mitch asked.

The kid stared at him, shivering. “Guadalupe.” It sounded hard to pronounce with his jaw wired shut like that.

Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Guadalupe’s a long name.”

He hesitated. “Lupe. Call me Lupe.”

“Lupe. I like Lupe.” Mitch leaned back. “Can you stand? I want to get you out of here.”

“Five minutes,” TJ reported in a grim tone.

“Don’t crowd me!” Mitch snapped.

Lupe pushed himself up the wall and stumbled. Mitch caught him by reflex and Lupe threw his arms around his neck, crying and babbling in garbled Spanish. Both TJ and Mario moved forward.

“Easy.” Mitch said it more for their benefit than Lupe’s. “I’ve gotcha.”

“Back door,” TJ ordered. “We’re going to leave their men outside. Let them pick up their own garbage.”

Mitch grunted, but didn’t answer. He walked through the door to the alley, wishing he could stop and make sure the fucking jaguars wouldn’t ever do anything like this again. Lupe weighed very little, maybe one-thirty or one-forty, but clung to him with a grip like a Marine.

Fucking hell. Maybe he could sneak back down when he got Lupe settled. He’d be happy killing just one of them, even. He hiked the kid higher on his body and gripped him around his lower back.

He stomped up the stairs to the second floor and the apartment he shared with TJ—not like his ‘roommate’ was ever there, spending all his time in the security office.

Of course, that suited Mitch just fine.

He walked through to his bedroom and nudged the door open. He laid Lupe on the bed and went to pull a T-shirt and shorts out of the closet. He straightened the pile of dirty clothes to get the closet door to shut and turned back.

Lupe watched him with huge eyes.

“Here. You can borrow these.” Mitch held out the clothes. Lupe took them, and Mitch saw the bruises marching up his arm. “I’m going to get you some water and another blanket, okay? I’ll be right back.”

The kid’s head wobbled when he nodded, and Mitch slipped out.

When he came back, the bed was empty. What the hell? He checked the front door, but the lock hadn’t been opened. Confused, he went back to his room and then saw it.

The closet door stood ajar a few inches.

He walked over and pulled it open. Lupe lay in the well formed by his mound of laundry, curled up and fast asleep.

“Wouldn’t the bed be more comfortable?” Mitch murmured, then sat down on the foot of the mattress.

Lupe started snoring softly, oblivious.