Fox Dish (Madison Wolves #6) by Robin Roseau

I left the engine running and took only my rifle with me. I climbed the tree, leaned out on my branch, and then waited, staring through the scope.
    It took them ten minutes to find my first spot. There wasn't a chance of hiding it, of course, if they were at all determined to find it. The smell of gunpowder and fox would be overwhelming to a wolf nose. I watched as first one wolf, then two more prowled around my firing position; none of them was Brody Mortens or Johnny Mack. One of them was one of my three other kidnappers. I centered the crosshairs on his head, waited for him to pause, took a breath, and squeezed.
    I didn't wait to see what happened. I beat my time from yesterday, driving away carefully.
    * * * *
    I drove south for an hour, watching for a tail. I never saw one. I didn't want to remain in Iowa; I was sure the motels wouldn't be safe. I wasn't sure how much longer I was safe in Wisconsin, but I felt perhaps if Elisabeth caught me, at least she wouldn't execute me.
    I turned east and drove into Illinois, then worked my way back into Wisconsin, well east of the border to Iowa. I drove to Madison, found a place to pull over, and turned on my phone.
    It was full of messages. I ignored all of them. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, ninety minutes after the deadline Elisabeth had given me. I called Angel.
    "Michaela!" she said when she answered.
    "Hello, Angel," I said quietly. "Are you allowed to talk to me?"
    "No," she said.
    "All right. I don't want you to get into trouble."
    "I'm not allowed to talk to you, but no one said I couldn't listen to you," she replied.
    "Angel," I said slowly. "You've learned too many games from me."
    "I have one message for you. If you called, I am to tell you to call Greg Freund."
    "I can't afford him," I said.
    "Lara told me to tell you to call him," she said. "Please, call him."
    "All right," I said. "I'll call him."
    "Will you tell me where you are?" she asked.
    "I'm not in Iowa right now. I think perhaps I'm not currently very welcome."
    "You got them already?" she asked. "Oh god, Michaela. Please come home!"
    "I can't, Angel. I'm not done. And I'm too late."
    "No! You come home, Michaela."
    Instead of answering her, I told her a story from my childhood. A happy story. It was perhaps the only happy story from my childhood I had ever told her. When I got done, I told her, "I have to go. I'm pretty sure Elisabeth is trying to track me."
    "Please call Greg Freund," she said.
    "I will. Now, go report this phone call to Elisabeth so you don't get into trouble. You know they'll have your phone bugged, and mine too. So they know, but you go report it anyway."
    "Please come home."
    "Goodbye, Angel."
    "Wait!" she yelled. "Don't stop calling. Please, Michaela. I need to know you're all right."
    "Not for a few days," I said. "I'm going to find somewhere safe and hide for a while, maybe a week. I can't use my phone, or else I'll have to move again. Bye."
    I hung up and immediately began driving, heading east. I drove for twenty minutes before calling Greg Freund.
    "Hello, Michaela," he said.
    "Are you allowed to talk to me, Greg?"
    "The Madison alpha has indicated to me that one of her pack members has gone rogue. However, she also informs me that the Madison pack has no current ties or interests extending outside of Wisconsin, and if I were to take any contracts for the surrounding areas, she would not mind."
    "I can't afford you, Greg."
    "I was given to believe you perhaps had some funds available."
    "Some, yes. But not the million you need."
    "Perhaps you could use better intelligence gathering than you have at your disposal, Michaela."
    "What would a hundred thousand dollars buy me, Greg?"
    "I can monitor all their communications. I can also tell you if they move."
    "Have you been monitoring them?"
    "As soon as Lara called me yesterday morning. You stirred them up good."
    "I wouldn't suppose it was Johnny Mack or Brody Mortens in the upstairs window."
    "I'm sorry, no," he said. "Or if