“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“There’s something strange, all right. I think they’re all—all like me. I’ve never run into anyone else with my problem.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Hemorrhoids,” he muttered, but Lupo knew better.
Sam’s son had passed the illness to Nick Lupo’s neighbor many years before, and Andy Corrazza had then passed it to Nick. The bond that arose between Sam and Lupo was an awkward combination of blame and responsibility, empathy and resignation. Sam executed his own son to stop the plague from spreading, but then had saved Lupo instead.
Sometimes things worked out opposite of the way one expected.
“If it’s true there are others, why would they be hunting down council members? Why not tourists or, even better, some of the more remote locals?”
“Sam, I don’t know. Some kind of revenge, maybe. Or maybe they’re your people, expressing displeasure with how the council rules. Have you voted on anything controversial?”
Sam frowned. “The casino has been controversial since day one. But why point the finger at my people? Don’t we have enough trouble with the poverty and the fishing and the racism?”
“Just theorizing,” Lupo said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Nothing meant by it. Anything else?”
“Nothing you’d think would incite violence.” Sam set aside his basket of food, an ashen look passing over his features like a curtain. “You think somebody has it in for us because of the casino?”
“You said yourself it’s controversial. People who just hate Indians wouldn’t go all the way to the top. They’d just beat up or shoot at your average folk.”
Stu came by to scoop up their wrecked baskets.
Then Lupo said, “I’ll suggest to Arnow that he provide the council with some police protection. Though I don’t think he has the manpower.”
“Tom doesn’t even have enough men to cover the white folks hereabouts.”
“Tribal police?”
“A joke still, right now. Proposal’s in for a big upgrade, but now you’re talking about a six-man force that mostly handles rowdies and D-and-Ds.”
“I heard there’s unprecedented cooperation with the sheriff on this. If they work together, maybe…”
“We’re not set up for serious violent crime, and the sher-iff’s jurisdiction is the land surrounding the rez, so it’s not a stretch to see collaboration. Frankly I’m surprised Mayor Malko agreed to share resources.”
“Tourism is king. Benefits everybody,” Lupo pointed out. “He’s just being practical.”
“Maybe. But decisions don’t usually come this easy to the area. A lot of old prejudices exist, Nick. You haven’t got a clue. Pardon an old man’s straight talk, but less than ten years ago, I probably wouldn’t have been welcome in this bar.”
Lupo waved money at Stu. “No need to apologize, Sam, but I do have a clue. This Malko sounds like an agreeable type. You’re lucky he’s willing to cut through red tape. Usually there’d be bickering, and nothing would get done.”
Stu gave up some change. “Come again, fellas.”
Outside, daylight’s hold was continuing to slip. They stopped at Lupo’s car. “I’m heading back to Arnow’s office. Can I drop you anywhere?”
“No thanks, I brought my wheels.” Sam pointed at a faded tan Land Rover, Cold War vintage, hugging the curb in front of the deserted sewing machine repair outfit.
“Suit yourself,” Lupo said. “Watch out for a stiff wind—it’ll tear that thing apart!”
“This thing’s been to four continents.”
“Left some parts behind in each of them.”
“Yeah, yeah, you only wish yours would last this long.”
“Maybe, Sam, maybe. Just watch your back, okay?”
They parted, and Lupo aimed for Arnow’s office.
He cruised Wall Street, the main drag, then turned onto Railroad. He thought he spotted a flash of brilliant blond hair on the sidewalk near the Pirates’ Cove Lounge.
Sure enough, it was Heather Wilson. He saw her leave one drinking establishment and step out onto the sidewalk. The traffic light changed and he stopped, anonymous behind tinted glass of his vehicle.
She walked right past him and he couldn’t help admiring her sleek lines. A true thoroughbred. Maybe a panther. He stumbled on the animal comparisons, settling for admitting she was a fi ne figure of a woman. Men on the street turned to stare, unless accompanied by their wives.
Not far behind her ambled a blond man, youngish, who seemed to hesitate, staring at her back.
Was he tailing her?
The light turned green and Lupo was forced to nose forward, but he turned right at the next corner and doubled back a block, making a right onto Wall again. He slowed to a crawl—to the consternation of the driver of a blue sedan behind him, who tapped his horn—and tried to spot either Heather or the blond man. But both had disappeared. The blue and red neon of a beer sign blinked onto the sidewalk. Had she entered?
Dammit, he thought. Did he follow her?
He reasoned people must recognize her all the time. Maybe it was just a lovelorn fan who wanted her autograph or to see her up close. She was worth it, that was certain. He’d glanced at those perfect TV features himself, though now Jessie was miffed.
A rusted Bronco of O.J. Simpson vintage left the curb ahead, and Lupo deftly swung the Maxima into the slot. He flipped the mirror until he could see both Buck’s Pub and Grub and the Northern Tap.
He waited, his patience seeping away.
The moon wasn’t ready to rise yet, but he felt her well enough. The itch drove him crazy. The occasional jolts of clarity through his human nostrils, the Creature picking up scents. He tapped his fingers on the wheel impatiently. His throat was scratchy, and the thirst was already on him. He had a liter bottle of water nestled on the passenger seat. As he drank, he kept an eye on the mirror.
Sure enough, Heather Wilson and the blond man left the tavern together. He moved the mirror to keep them in sight, swirling the water in his mouth.
The blond man’s hair reminded Lupo of a lion’s mane, long and swirling behind him.
They took a side street and disappeared from his view, so he slipped out of the car, fed the meter, and hustled to the corner. They were a block away, heading toward one of the main highway’s offshoots, where a row of motels and motor inns welcomed less-affluent winter and summer visitors.
He ducked into a dingy alley behind the shops on Wall Street, shucked his clothes, and forced a Change.
The Creature was near the surface, for the moon was out there and calling.
Lupo barely had time to prepare for the tingly feeling and then he was suddenly on four paws, his nose leading him.
The two humans had passed merely moments before. The female’s scent drove him crazy, for he could smell her sex and its readiness.
The male scent, however, was more complex. It was human and male, yes, but was it also…like his own?
Lupo’s mind took a minute to wrap itself around the possibility. Even though he thought he’d been prepared, it was shocking.
Like me. Maybe.
Then he’s a murderer.
What if he was wrong? What if the scent was someone else?
And was Heather Wilson in danger?
Lupo tracked them to a medium-sized motor court, on the off-street side. He padded down the row of doors, stopping in front of 108. Then he whirled and pounced back to the alley, unaware of the family who stopped short at the sight of a huge black wolf dashing across the parking lot.
“I told you there’s still a lot of wildlife here, honey,” whined the put-upon husband, who really wanted to find a hunting season rental for Thanksgiving.
His wife nodded dumbly, her mouth open. She held her kids tightly, not quite sure whether to let them go or not.
Across the lot, a rented Altima swung into an open slot.
Schwartz
“Shit.”
He sat in the Altima they’d
been driving openly as new county residents.
“Shit. Shit!” He banged his hands on the wheel. What was Tef doing? What was he thinking?
Schwartz had been following the younger member of the pack because he’d had a bad feeling, and Schwartzes had been having bad feelings that meant something for centuries.
Seeing Tef openly pursue that television newswoman made his hackles rise. No way to know what Tef’s game was, but this wasn’t the wilds of Iraq, where an AK-47 and contractor immunity pretty much shielded one from anything. Here was trouble, and now Schwartz would have to report to Alpha that their young friend was jeopardizing the operation. And their safety.
Schwartz and Tannhauser had engaged a Realtor, ostensibly seeking vacation and retirement homes. Tef was assigned the cover of job seeker and had applied for all bits of menial labor advertised in the local paper. Their cover was tenuous, but likely passed muster as far as the locals went, and anyway most residents overlooked strangers in a resort town. Mr. XYZ had been adamant that even this early in the season, no one would question their presence.
Until Tef went and possibly fucked it up. Which he seemed intent on doing.
Schwartz dialed his cell.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a problem, Alpha.”
Tannhauser sighed. He just didn’t like problems. His strategy was usually to kill and devour problems.
“What now?”
“Tef’s been following that TV reporter around town.”
Tannhauser was silent.
“They’ve walked into half a dozen bars. He’s hanging back a little, but she’s gonna trip over him sooner or later. What are your orders?”
The phone was silent so long, Schwartz thought it had gone dead.
“Nothing right now,” Tannhauser said finally. “We’ve been given our new targets.”
“Plural?”
“Yes, indeed. Tonight we feast!”
A pleasant sensation spread through Schwartz’s belly, which was already beginning to rumble in expectation of the moon’s call. It was hard to quell the endless hunger during a full moon.
“Oh, shit!”
“What’s wrong?” Tannhauser’s voice growled in his ear. “What’s going on?”
“Tef’s leaving the bar. He’s with the reporter,” Schwartz hissed. “Like he picked her up.”
“Dammit, I’ll have a word with the idiot later tonight. Stay on his ass and as soon as you can, relay the message. If she’s too curious, kill her.”
Schwartz clicked off and followed. They were walking, heat radiating off them in waves.
Sexual heat.
He could sense it this far away.
That damn kid and his dick was going to get them all in trouble.
Heather Wilson
After the fifth bar, she got tired of the attention. Of course, she knew she’d attract male attention. Usually she sought it and bathed in it, but she could take only so many sweaty blue-collar locals and over-cologned wannabe studs.
All she got for her trouble was nearly asphyxiated by the smoke, cologne, and testosterone. Locals resented the Indians anyway, so a death around the casino didn’t bother anyone. But she didn’t mind trolling. Often she justified her cruising by couching it in journalistic terms. Now she was just bored and on the make.
Reluctantly she accepted another shot of something clear, bought for her by a meaty tourist ready for a stroke or cardiac arrest. She raised the glass and smiled, wishing him one of each, and down-the-hatched it.
Her eyes roamed farther down the bar, ignoring all those who wanted to catch her glance. Until she reached him. He stood out in the small crowd. Late twenties, maybe. Longish blond hair, cherubic lips, strong nose, and the most striking eyes she’d seen since doing that story on elective eye enhancement for which all the movie stars were said to be lining up. He seemed loose, muscled body relaxed and confident. Powerful. He was her type.
And he looked familiar.
He smiled directly at her as if he’d read her mind. He gripped a beer mug he wasn’t drinking from and smirked at her so fast she almost missed it.
She slid money at the bartender and sent over a shot.
The blond stud turned to acknowledge her kindness and lapped at the golden liquid with an impossibly long tongue.
Lord, she was melting down below.
He smiled again, as if fully aware. Lapped again.
Heather worked her way toward him, but when she got there she was at a loss for words. He watched her all the way in.
“Hi.”
“Hello. Thank you for the drink. It’s very…strong.” His tongue slipped into the shot glass again and touched the surface of the liquid, swirling it around like honey, his eyes never leaving hers.
She swallowed. Hard. “Yukon Jack.”
“Ah, yes.” His eyes were kaleidoscopic, multicolored.
Has to be contact lenses, she thought. Or transplants. Can’t be his own.
Tingly. She felt tingly, and dripping. She wanted to caress him. He smelled…woodsy. A lumberjack type, yet pretty. Face unlined. Young, almost boyish. Yet somehow he seemed experienced beyond his biological years.
Her purpose completely forgotten, she ate him up with her eyes.
She touched his arm while making some comment about the weather. His skin was hot. She felt an electrical charge pass from his skin to hers. She tingled all over.
“I have a room,” she whispered hoarsely. She couldn’t remember anything else they had said. It was just words.
He nodded.
The rest was a blur. They walked arm in arm, almost ran. The heat enveloped her like a cloud. By the time she got him inside the door, she thought she’d burst. Her panties were soaked. She wondered about her jeans. No matter, they’d be coming off soon.
She kicked the door closed.
He stood before her, blond hair on fire in the dingy lamplight, boyish lips curled up in a smug little smile. Right now his eyes were bluer than any cold water lake she had ever seen, but she could have sworn they’d been dark brown before and green earlier.
She wanted him in her mouth. In her. She just wanted him. Moisture trickled down her inner thigh. Her skin hummed.
“What’s your name?” she whispered tentatively, as if she’d forgotten how to speak.
He hadn’t said much. Hadn’t needed to.
“Tef.”
“Hm, sounds foreign.” She licked her lips.
“Oh, it is. More than you can imagine.”
Was there a slight accent? It was sexy, mysterious.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed. When had she sat? “Where are you from?”
“I have been everywhere. I’m not from any one place anymore.”
Her breathing was ragged. “Where were you last?”
“Iraq.”
“Jesus,” she said, leaning toward him. He stood his ground. “It must have been…awful.”
“Sometimes. But most often it was…glorious.”
“I think I know what you mean.” She reached up and lay her hand on his chest. It was rock hard. She moved her hand down. Glorious. “You must be glad to be home.”
“I don’t have a home. I’m here.”
His voice was dreamy, almost hypnotic.
Her other hand slipped behind him, massaging his sculpted buttocks lightly. Her eyes stared up into his, falling deep within whatever was happening there, the ever-changing colors. Another gush of moisture down below. If she didn’t have him soon, she didn’t know what she would do. Hand slipping down, she found the bulge with her fingers and her breath caught in her throat. He didn’t fight her, enjoying her delighted surprise.
She caressed him—it—through his pants. He did want her.
“My name is Heather,” she whispered, slipping off the bed and onto her knees.
“I know.”
When she finally freed him, she almost gasped.
Glorious.
He was a huge, shapely, uncircumcised sculpture. She
brought him close and kissed him lightly. He smelled salty, sweet, and peppery, exotic. Woodsy. Had he said Iraq?
She took him between her lips and engulfed all of him as if she’d finally run out of time. He groaned, and she gave him her best. She had talent, she knew it, and she watched him enjoy.
She squeezed closer, working him in and out of her lips while staring up into those incredible eyes. Now they were hazel, then sparkling like diamonds. His stare plumbed the depths of her soul, and she swallowed his flesh as far down her throat as she could, willing herself to drink him in.
His erection grew impossibly large, and she could not truly engulf it, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop trying. Then he pulled back, and she knew it was time. She let him slip out, slick with her saliva. She stripped off her wet jeans and panties, panting with lust, while he merely stepped out of his pants. His magnificent chest still hidden, she could only stare at his stupendous penis.
“Please don’t wait,” she hissed.
She lay back on the messed bed and guided him greedily to her center. He entered her slowly, inexorably, filling her more than she could ever remember, even with Robbie. She gasped as he began his rhythm, lowering himself onto her but resting all his weight on his arms.
Heather forgot about the cameraman, what was his name? Forgot about the dark, sexy city cop; forgot about the last dozen lovers she’d drained. There was only this young, enigmatic foreigner.
Tef?
What sort of name was that?
She didn’t care. Her senses were now centered on his erection, her pleasure, his rapid pace. His increasing pace…
“Oh God, oh God, oh God—”
Suddenly, he pulled out of her, and she felt as if she’d been gutted.
“Goddamn it! What are you doing?”
He flipped her, roughly, and she let him. She needed more, wanted more. He took her from behind for a while, riding her—and she reveled in it. But then he slid out wetly and she felt the tip of his penis push firmly between her buttocks.
“Wait, no—”
Ignoring her, he prodded, and suddenly he was in, his whole length filling her in the forbidden place.
She gasped.
She never let anyone in there!
But he ignored her attempts to squirm away, holding her firmly with steel pincerlike hands. He lowered his head, panting, onto her shoulder, and drove her downward into the bed repeatedly despite her outraged but fading whimpers. The whimpers changed to moans.
Wolf's Gambit Page 14
