The first report came in two days after Ronan locked down New Mexico.
A scout—one of his most reliable, a quiet wolf named Lyle—had been
tracking a trail along the California border. Routine work. Nothing
dangerous. Nothing unusual.
Then his messages stopped.
No check-ins.
No calls.
No return to camp.
At first, Ronan assumed Lyle was delayed. It happened sometimes in
unstable territory. But the longer the silence stretched, the heavier
the tension around the Dominion compound grew.
On the third day, one of Ronan's lieutenants found the last thing Lyle
had sent before going dark—a half-finished message fragment, picked up
by their network's satellite relay:
"—not alone… something moved—"
Then nothing.
Ronan read it twice. Then a third time.
Scouts didn't just disappear. Not his. Not in his land.
He ordered a border sweep. They found nothing except a faint trail,
the kind that suggested Lyle had crossed west—toward Beacon Hills.
Not leaving.
Not running.
**Chasing something.**
Ronan didn't wait for the Council. Didn't call for backup. Didn't
delegate it to his Second.
A missing pack member was his responsibility.
And whatever had taken Lyle—or whatever he'd gone after—was inside
California now.
Inside Beacon Hills.
Ronan strapped his knife to his thigh, shifted into his strongest
form, and headed for the border without another word.
If Lyle was alive, Ronan would bring him home.
If something had killed him—
Beacon Hills would answer for it.