Caroline's voice comes through the radio at 3 AM, steady and precise.
"They're moving. Three teams, twelve operatives each, converging on the compound from the south, southeast, and southwest corridors. Exactly the approach vectors I predicted from their operational doctrine."
I'm already in the communications hub, watching the tactical display where Caroline's intelligence has been plotting assault paths for seventy-two hours.
The Montgomery clan's final operation—their last strike before resources run dry.
"How long until they reach the perimeter?" Lysander asks from beside me, his wolf pressing close enough to flash gold in his eyes.
"Forty minutes at their current pace. The southern team is moving fastest, the other two are coordinating for simultaneous contact."
Caroline's voice carries the clinical detachment of a woman dismantling her own family's military capability.
"Positions," I command into the radio. "All units to predetermined intercept points. No engagement until my signal. Let them walk into the kill zone before we close the net."
"Copy, Luna," Garrett's voice—the man who doubted Caroline's intelligence three weeks ago, now executing a defensive plan built entirely on her analysis.
"Southern intercept ready," Marcus confirms.
"Southeast holding at position delta."
"Southwest in the trees. We have visuals on their advance scouts."
The waiting is the hardest part. Forty minutes of watching red dots crawl toward positions where my wolves are already hidden and prepared.
"You planned this perfectly," I tell Caroline, who stands at the intelligence station with her headset on and her father's operational files spread across the desk. "Every approach vector and timing estimate—"
"I know how my father’s people think. He made sure I would, even if he never intended me to use it this way."
She adjusts her headset. "The southern team just passed checkpoint alpha. They're committed to the corridor now—no easy retreat."
"How are you feeling about this?"
"Like I'm burying my father a second time." Her voice doesn't waver, but her hands grip the desk edge until her knuckles whiten.
"Some of those operatives probably attended his funeral. And I'm the one who mapped their deaths."
"You mapped their defeat. Whether they survive depends on how quickly they surrender once they realize they're surrounded."
"Montgomery operatives don't surrender. It's against doctrine."
"We'll teach them new doctrine tonight."
The minutes crawl past. Caroline tracks radio chatter, translating hunter communications in real time, feeding me updates on positioning and morale.
The southern team is confident—they've been told Silvermoon is distracted by internal conflicts, that the vampire intelligence has pulled our attention north, that the southern approach is undermanned and vulnerable.
Every word of their briefing is wrong, and Caroline knew it would be wrong because she understands how the Montgomery intelligence machine processes data and where its blind spots live.
"All three teams are in the kill zone," she announces. "Southern team at the tree line. Southeast entering the ravine. Southwest passing the creek bed. They're expecting resistance at the perimeter wall. They have no idea there are wolves behind them."
"All units," I key the radio. "Execute."
The radio carries what happens next.
Wolves emerging from concealment on three sides, cutting off retreat. Weapons discharged in panic.
Shouts of confusion as operatives discover they've been herded into a trap designed by the daughter of the man who wrote their playbook.
"Southern team is contained," Garrett reports. "Eight operatives disarmed, four still fighting. We've taken three weapons caches they staged along the approach."
"The Southeast team is scattering," Marcus adds. "The ravine channeled them perfectly—they can't climb the walls and the exit is blocked. Most have dropped weapons."
"Southwest is surrendering," the surprise in the reporting wolf's voice is audible. "Their team leader just laid down his rifle and told his people to stand down. He says they've been compromised and continued engagement is suicide."
"Smart man," Lysander murmurs.
Within twenty minutes, it's over. Thirty-six operatives deployed—twelve neutralized, eighteen surrendered, six escaped into the forest where pursuing wolves will ensure they keep running.
No Silvermoon casualties.
"Casualty report," I request through the radio.
"Three minor injuries on our side," Garrett's voice carries something I've never heard from him before—admiration. "Luna, the intelligence was flawless. They walked into every position exactly where you said. It was like watching a chess game where we could see the board and they couldn't."
"Relay my thanks to every wolf on intercept duty. Secure the prisoners and bring the surrendered team leader to the compound. I want to know what the Montgomerys planned after this operation."
The surrendered team leader—a weathered man named Hargrove—sits in the debrief room and confirms what Caroline's analysis already predicted:
"This was the last operation. Command burned through reserves keeping the campaign alive after our intelligence network collapsed."
His voice is flat with the exhaustion of a soldier who knows the war is over. "Without inside intelligence, we were operating blind. Half our assault plans were based on information your people fed us through the compromised network."
"Disinformation," Caroline says from the corner. "We've been feeding false intelligence through captured communication channels for two weeks."
"We figured that out about four minutes into tonight's operation." He looks at Caroline with an expression that balances respect and grief. "You're Robert's daughter. The one who turned."
"I chose a different side than my father. That's not the same thing as turning."
"The clan disagrees. You've been designated hostile—permanent kill order, no negotiation, no reconciliation."
"I'm aware of my status."
"Then you should know that the operational leadership is pulling back to regroup. They can't sustain the campaign without reliable intelligence, and they've accepted that Silvermoon is no longer a viable target through direct assault."
He pauses.
"They'll be back. Not soon, but Montgomerys don't forget."
"Neither do wolves," I tell him.
The prisoners are processed, the wounded treated, the surrendered operatives held for exchange negotiations Kieran will manage.
By dawn, the compound settles into the particular quiet that follows the end of active hostilities—not peace, exactly, but the absence of immediate threat.
Lysander finds me on the compound's eastern wall, watching the sunrise paint the forest in shades of amber and gold.
"The hunter war is over," he says, leaning on the railing beside me. "At least for now."
"Contained. Hargrove was clear—they'll regroup and rebuild. But without Robert's network and inside intelligence, they're years from being a serious threat again."
"Years is practically a vacation by our recent standards," he glances sideways at me. "Caroline saved lives tonight. Every wolf who came home intact owes that to the woman half the pack wanted to exile."
"I'll make sure they know it."
"They already know. Garrett told his entire team during the debrief."
I let that settle. The woman the pack distrusted, the hunter's daughter, the impossible mate—proven through the only language war respects: results.
"We won the battle we could see," I say quietly. "Now we prepare for the one we can't."
The northern tree line stretches dark and patient beyond the sunrise. Somewhere in those shadows, ancient eyes watched a pack eliminate one threat and turn to face another.
They're recalculating, and whatever number they arrive at determines what comes next.
Silvermoon can breathe again, but every breath tastes like borrowed time.