From Ashes to Alpha

The following evening finds us back in the same converted factory, but the atmosphere has shifted dramatically. Where yesterday's meeting carried an undercurrent of evaluation—primarily of me—tonight's gathering pulses with barely contained aggression.

The scent of anger, ambition, and fear creates a potent cocktail that has my wolf instincts on high alert.

Morgan sits at the head of the table again, his expression grave as he surveys the assembled inner circle.

Several new faces have joined us—tactical specialists and street captains who weren't present for the initial strategy discussion.

The round table is now covered with detailed maps, surveillance photos, and intelligence reports on Gray Pack's operations.

A projector displays profiles of their key members, complete with strengths, weaknesses, and known associates.

"Our reconnaissance confirms James's intel," Daniel begins, standing beside a detailed map of the Camden area. "Gray Pack has indeed left their river crossing vulnerable. However, they've increased presence in their central territory."

Victoria taps her perfectly manicured nails against the polished wood. "Which suggests they're consolidating power for something significant."

"All the more reason to strike first," interjects a muscular man I haven't met before. His neck bears a tattoo of interlocking chains—the mark of a former enforcer turned independent. "Hit them before they're fully mobilized."

I remain silent, studying the materials spread before us.

While everyone else focuses on the tactical maps, I notice patterns in the surveillance logs—rhythms and routines that tell a different story than the one being discussed.

Riggs slams his palm on the table, causing several glasses to rattle. "Direct assault on their headquarters!" he roars, his scarred face flushed with emotion. "Let them understand the price of crossing us!"

A younger member—barely out of his twenties, eager to prove himself—nods vigorously. "We have more than enough firepower. One coordinated raid would settle this matter permanently."

Morgan frowns, his ringed fingers drumming slowly on the table. "Gray Pack has political protection. All-out warfare would bring police attention none of us can afford."

"So we just let them pick us off one by one?" Riggs challenges, his voice dripping with disdain. "Three strongholds attacked, five good men dead. Where does it end if we don't answer decisively?"

The room erupts into competing voices—some supporting Riggs's aggressive stance, others advocating for more measured approaches.

Throughout the chaos, I continue examining the intelligence reports, piecing together a different perspective on our adversaries.

After several minutes of increasingly heated debate, I clear my throat. "I have a different perspective to offer."

The room falls suddenly silent, all eyes turning toward me. Some expressions show curiosity, others skepticism, and Riggs's face displays open contempt.

"The runt wants to teach us how to hunt?" he sneers, leaning back in his chair. "This should be entertaining."

Morgan raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "The floor is yours, Davis."

I stand slowly, deliberately, and move toward the wall where the most comprehensive map is displayed.

I'm acutely aware of the scrutiny—these are predators evaluating whether I'm a potential asset or merely prey playing at being a wolf.

"Gray Pack's strength isn't their fighting force," I begin, tracing my finger along key streets highlighted on the map. "It's their supply network. They control pharmaceutical distribution through these three neighborhoods."

I tap specific intersections, drawing attention to areas that have been overlooked in previous discussions.

"We don't need direct confrontation," I continue, my voice growing more confident. "We simply need to sever these critical supply lines, and they'll tear themselves apart."

Victoria leans forward, her eyes narrowing. "Elaborate."

I point to surveillance photos showing regular deliveries to seemingly innocent locations. "Gray Pack has expanded too quickly. Their new recruits aren't loyal to the cause—they're loyal to the profit. Cut off the revenue stream, and those recruits become liabilities rather than assets."

Riggs scoffs. "Money isn't everything in our world, boy."

"No," I agree, meeting his gaze directly. "But it's everything in theirs." I flip through several intelligence reports.

"According to your own data, over sixty percent of their new members come from human criminal organizations, not werewolf bloodlines. They don't operate on pack loyalty; they operate on business principles."

I return to the map, circling three key locations with a marker.

"These distribution centers are their lifeline. They're also their most vulnerable points—minimally guarded because they rely on appearing legitimate to human authorities."

The room has grown quieter, even skeptical members leaning forward with interest.

"Instead of attacking their stronghold, where they're strongest," I continue, "we surgically remove these three points simultaneously. No bloodshed necessary—just strategic application of leverage."

Morgan studies me with newfound intensity. "What kind of leverage?"

"Their suppliers are primarily overseas cartels, correct?" I verify, receiving a nod from Daniel. 

"Those cartels care about one thing: reliability. If shipments start disappearing, or worse, getting seized by authorities..."

"The cartels would cut them off," Victoria finishes, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Elegant."

"It's cowardice," Riggs growls, but with less conviction. "They killed our people. They deserve blood, not business games."

I turn to face him directly. "And they'll get it—from their own ranks. When profits dry up and their human recruits realize they've backed the wrong horse, internal purges will begin. Gray Pack will implode within weeks."

Daniel nods approvingly. "Minimum risk, maximum damage."

"More importantly," I add, "it happens quietly. No police involvement, no political backlash, and no trail leading back to us."

Morgan leans back, studying me with calculating eyes. "You're suggesting we fight like humans, not wolves."

"I'm suggesting we win," I correct respectfully. "Does it matter which teeth we use if the threat is eliminated?"

A brief silence follows before Morgan chuckles—a sound that startles several members. "Indeed." He stands, commanding the room's attention. "James's strategy merits consideration. Daniel, assemble a team to evaluate the feasibility of targeting these distribution points."

Riggs isn't ready to concede. "And what of our fallen? Do we just forget their blood, spilled by Gray Pack's claws?"

I turn to him, understanding that his opposition isn't just about me—it's about honor and vengeance, concepts deeply ingrained in werewolf psychology.

"The fifth stage of revenge is watching your enemy destroy himself," I say quietly. "We don't just take their lives—we take their legacy, their future, their pack identity. They won't die in battle, remembered as warriors. They'll die in disgrace, forgotten as failures."

Riggs stares at me, his scarred face unreadable. For a tense moment, I think he might challenge me physically. Then, surprisingly, he offers a curt nod—not acceptance, but acknowledgment of the cruelty inherent in my approach.

"I want to lead one of the teams," he states, addressing Morgan rather than me.

"Arranged," Morgan agrees before turning to the room at large. "We have our direction. Three teams, three targets, simultaneous execution. Daniel will coordinate details." He fixes me with an appraising look. "James will oversee the overall strategy."

Murmurs ripple through the room—some approving, others questioning—but no one openly challenges Morgan's decision.

As the meeting disbands into smaller tactical discussions, Morgan beckons me to follow him to a private corner.

"Impressive," he comments when we're out of earshot. "You showed them a wolf who thinks before he bites."

"Just practical assessment," I reply modestly.

"Don't downplay it," Morgan advises, his voice hardening slightly. "You just outmaneuvered a room full of predators who've survived decades in this business. Own your victory."

I nod, accepting the counsel. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"Did you open the case?" he asks abruptly, changing subjects.

The question catches me off-guard. "Not yet," I admit.

Morgan's expression flickers with something I can't quite identify—disappointment, perhaps, or concern. "Time is becoming a factor, James. You should make that a priority."

Before I can ask what he means, Daniel approaches with Victoria and two other members, ready to discuss tactical details.

The strategy session continues late into the night, with teams formed and responsibilities assigned.

Throughout it all, I catch Riggs watching me with an expression that has shifted from open hostility to something more complex—a mixture of reluctant respect and lingering suspicion.

As we finally prepare to leave, the tattooed enforcer approaches me directly.

"Davis," he says gruffly, extending a massive hand. "Marcus Reed. I'll be leading the second team."

I shake his hand, noting the strength in his grip. "Good to meet you, Marcus."

"Your plan is cold," he observes, his expression neutral. "Calculated."

"Is that a problem?" I ask cautiously.

A smile slowly spreads across his face. "On the contrary. Cold and calculated keeps my people alive." He leans closer. "But watch your back with Riggs. He lost more than his son to the Jones family."

"What do you mean?"

Marcus glances around to ensure we're not overheard. "His daughter Eliza was promised to one of the Jones heirs. When the union was rejected, she took her own life rather than face the shame."

The revelation hits me like a physical blow. "I didn't know."

"Few do," Marcus shrugs. "It happened nearly twenty years ago. But for Riggs, it might as well have been yesterday." He steps back. "Just something to keep in mind when he looks at you with those eyes."

With a final nod, Marcus departs, leaving me with yet another piece in this increasingly complex puzzle.

"One thing at a time," I mutter to myself, heading toward my apartment. "Tonight, I find out what's in that case."