Breaking camp was harder than setting camp. When he set camp, he made sure it looked like no one was there. When he broke camp, however, he made sure it looked like no one had ever been there. Which was a hell of a lot harder.

Sorren was a bit away from where he'd slept, scattering the dead embers and ashes of his fire so they blended in with the forest floor. Dawn had given way into morning, which meant he's overslept. A fifth of bourbon tended to do that. But Sorren didn't mind that much, as it wasn't like he drank his nights away all the time, and it wasn't like he was actively tracking anyone. Not now, anyway.

His last job had been a simple grab-and-return operation. A minor crime boss had gone to ground after trying to become a major crime boss, and Sorren had been hired to do what he did best. Sorren grinned as he turned back to his almost-broken camp, sharp teeth glinting in the sunrise. Little fish often thought they were tough, until they came face to face with a shark. Or in this case, the shotgun Sorren used to make his point when he'd finally unearthed the weaselly man. That, and a growl, and he'd collected an easy bit of silver from his employer, the minor boss having fainted dead away at the sight of Sorren's pointed teeth.

Once the last of the ashes were scattered, Sorren returned to what was left of his camp. Picking up the shotgun, he removed the shells from it, and tucked them in his rucksack. With one hand, he withdrew two different shells. These were slightly larger, and marked with a double-s on the casing. He'd taken to using silver shot after tangling with a particularly nasty Alpha male, who believed strongly that every lycan who strode through his territory belonged to him. Unfortunately for him, Sorren never belonged to a pack, and swore he never would. And when fangs and claws weren't enough, a blast from the shotgun made his point.

Holstering the gun at the small of his back, Sorren slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and scented the morning air. Wet earth, remnants of snow, the musty feathers of birds and the rich warmth of deer wrapped around him. But underneath all that was a teasing hint of unidentified spice, something that awoke the hunter in him. And given he wasn't tracking anyone in particular, he headed off in the direction of the spice, deciding the source was worth finding.

Sorren inhaled again, growling low in his throat. While the mud was buying him some much-needed time, he knew the enforcers were once again on the move. Towards him. Two were still approaching on his flank. The third was taking the long way around the clearing to block Sorren's escape. A logical tactic for normal prey. Which he wasn't.

Knowing he had only a few scant minutes left to prepare, Sorren stashed his rucksack behind a fallen log on the bank of the spring. The shotgun was on the ground nearby. Its stock was thicker than average, and the trigger guard was so large as to appear useless. He moved to stand over his weapon, and hunched over, both hands on his knees. He took deep, gulping breaths, squeezing his eyes shut as his bones began their agonizing rearrangement. Large dollops of clear viscous fluid landed on the polished stock of the shotgun. Snaps and cracks echoed off the trees, sending a just-returned flock of birds screeching for safer roosting. His hair flowed over his spine, transforming into yellow-gold fur, the red highlights coming to life in the midday sun.

Snarling, he shook himself dry, taking more deep chuffing breaths to steady his almost-rebalanced nervous system. He hated shifting. Absolutely hated it. But he needed the stronger senses of hearing and smell he could only get from his beast. And those senses told him he was nearly out of time, for the enforcers were cutting a path straight for him. His clawed hands caught the stock of the shotgun, leaving new furrows in the thick wood. One claw barely fit in the modified trigger guard, but fit it did. While he didn't have the dexterity as a beast to pop and reload, he did have two insurance shots of silver ready. Just in case.