“Rita, patch calls through to my cell,” he instructed. He plucked his Kevlar vest from its hook and shrugged into it.
“Knock knock,” came from the door. “Heading somewhere?”
Arnow looked at his watch.
“Hello, Mayor.” Infinite patience in his voice. “Do for you?”
“You look like a man on a mission, Sheriff. I like that. I’d like to go along. I’m good with a scattergun, if I say so myself.”
Great, Arnow thought. Just what I need—a cowboy for a boss.
Heather Wilson
Curled up in a ball on her bed in a dark hotel room.
That was where she was.
Her crew called and knocked, her cell had vibrated itself off the nightstand, and she had ignored the hotel phone bleating at her like a lamb to the slaughter.
She was in a dark place within a dark place, and she thought she’d climb out when she felt like it.
Unfortunately, Heather Wilson the television anchorwoman and reporter couldn’t disappear for long. Somebody would come looking. She worried Tef would be back. He’d been interrupted once, but soon his focus might return to her.
She breathed heavily, quickly, almost panting.
Fear made her heart flutter.
Who could she rely on?
The sheriff was a cute enough guy, but as a cop he didn’t have a clue. And now she needed a cop. Or somebody who’d act like one.
That left her with the enigmatic Nick Lupo. He seemed both taken with her and totally uninterested, which made him interesting. She pictured him, dark hair settling on the collar of his black leather jacket, light stubble giving him a roguish look, boyish face just now beginning to show his age but gracefully. She pictured him with a gun in his hand.
He was what she needed. He was the only one she could count on in a struggle with that Tef kid and his weird eyes. And—whatever else.
She uncurled, freshened up, and snuck out into the hall. It was time to find the man who could help her. She wasn’t sure why Nick Lupo was the one, but she sensed his ability.
Heather Wilson was finally past her self-pity. Now she was back on the path of ownership, looking to buy back something she’d lost.
Tannhauser
Driving his men to the edge was routine. He’d done it in Iraq and on a dozen other “security” assignments, many only borderline legal. Schwartz was a good man, a great wolf.
He was old school.
Tannhauser liked that phrase.
Old school.
They were both old school, like their grandfathers who wore the Fatherland’s uniform when in humanskin. In wolfskin, they had been throwbacks too, to something even older school.
Tannhauser led his pack to where Mr. XYZ had instructed.
It was a neat Cape Cod, at odds with most of the log-built and clapboard homes on and near the reservation. Here two survivors of the elders’ council were holed up.
And they would both be food soon enough. At this point, there was no telling yes votes from no votes—they were all meat for the taking.
They circled the house, and Alpha howled his orders. One-eyed Schwartz still smarted from the damage done by the silver buckshot. Had the humans gotten together and coordinated their defense? He didn’t think so. His one long howl signaled he was in position. The others responded.
Tannhauser reserved the best part for himself. He stood on a crooked concrete slab in front of the glass patio door along the rear of the house. Tef and Schwartz were on front door and driveway watch.
Their howling would shake loose the humans’ fear.
But then the nearby undergrowth parted and another wolf lunged at him. Before Tannhauser could sidestep, the heavily muscled black wolf was upon him. Powerful jaws closed on Tannhauser’s shoulder and tore flesh and fur in a bloody cloud.
Tannhauser yelped.
Enraged by the attack and his own weak response, he whirled, his jaws ready to tear into his assailant.
But the black wolf was already disappearing into the spaces between the pines on the other side of the tiny backyard.
Alpha howled for his pack to follow his lead.
They could run down mere humans with their eyes closed, no hurry there, but an enemy wolf must be terminated with extreme prejudice.
This verdammte wolf had already caused them enough trouble!
He heard his pack howling behind him and led the chase, the chill night tasting like heaven in the back of his throat, bloodlust filling his nostrils.
Prey: Eagle Feather and Davison
Inside the house, the loyal Rick Davison stood locked in his study with the elder, Eagle Feather. Ea gleson. Both cradled shotguns.
Eagleson held his shotgun loosely, defending the door.
Davison had heard the legends, the rumors, but he hadn’t believed.
Until now.
Sweat poured from his forehead. No matter how much he wiped it, there was more. The shotgun stock was clammy.
The howling outside had begun to recede. Whatever they were, perhaps they’d been called off.
“Are they gone?”
The tribe’s unofficial historian stared at the elder, who stood arrogantly surveying the room.
“Sounds like it. There, you hear it? The howling’s moving away. But they’ll be back.”
“How do you know?” Davison looked at his hands. They shook as if he had Parkinson’s.
“We’re in the way. I think my old friend Sam Waters was right.”
“I thought you and he were no longer friends.”
“Don’t be a fool, Davison. Tribal blood outlasts mere friendship. I half believed him. Gave Daniel Bear our sacred dagger.”
“Fat lot of good it did him.”
“Do you have something to say to me, Davison? Do you even remember your given name?”
“Your stubbornness led us to this mess. Your lack of real leadership, your interest only in enriching yourself and your investors. You made a pact with the devil, old man, and he’s here to collect!”
“What the hell are you babbling, idiot? I’m the only one here with vision enough to bring our tribe the riches it deserves. The destiny it must meet.”
Davison hefted the shotgun, his anger and fear colliding. “You call this destiny? At the point of a gun? Defending ourselves against—what, monsters? You’re pathetic. No one on the council should have listened to you, no one!”
Hysteria was taking hold, but Davison no longer cared. “Our friends and colleagues are gone, butchered to fulfill some bullshit destiny you convinced yourself you could bring about. You have no sense of history, old man. No sense of decency.” He broke down. “Our friends. All gone. Thanks to you and your precious project.”
“Davison, you’re pathetic. You’re losing your marbles. We’re fine here, protected. The others were fools. The new council will be bolder, more efficient—”
“Get out of my house.” He trained the shotgun on the old man’s chest.
“What?”
“You heard me. Get the fuck out of my house. And don’t come back.”
“What about the wolves?” Eagleson whined. His eyes swiveled from side to side. Stared at the gun barrel in his face.
Davison grinned without humor, gesturing with the shotgun. “Take your chances, you bastard. You always liked gambling.
“But leave the gun,” he added.
Arnow
Malko’s cell phone had trilled at just the right time. Arnow took the opportunity to sidle toward the door, collecting several riot guns and straightening his Kevlar. The mayor’s voice rose as he spoke into his phone, the sheriff and his mission apparently forgotten.
But before he could leave the building, Malko caught up to him. “Sheriff, Tom, wait for me. I’m going on a ride-along. You seem to be heading for trouble. I’m not afraid of a little trouble.”
“Thanks, Mayor, I appreciate it, but I’ll have my deputies waiting for me when I get there.”
There was no way Arnow would tell the m
ayor he was about to raid a vacation property. Fuckin’ headlines!
At the door, Arnow stiffened. Somebody with a long gun approached out of the shadows.
“Uh, who is that?” His hand went for his pistol.
“Sheriff, it’s Rick Davison, from the reservation. We met last year.” He was panting.
Arnow turned to Malko, shrugging. The mayor seemed curious. “Yeah,” Arnow said. “I remember, but—”
“There’s something terrible happening, Sheriff. Eagleson and I were just attacked in my house. Attacked by wolves!”
Malko laughed loudly. “Surely, Mr. Davison, you’re mistaken.”
“No, Mayor, we both heard them.” His intensity floored them.
“Where’s Eagleson now?” Arnow asked.
Davison hesitated. “I kicked him out.”
“Into the woods? By himself?”
“Yes. He’s an evil man whose ego dragged our tribe into some kind of hell. I blame him for all this killing.”
“Not personally?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I think he called up some kind of demon. He thought so too. Gave a sacred dagger to Daniel Bear. Poor Daniel, butchered like a—”
Arnow stopped him from blubbering. “Give me the shotgun. I’ll have some deputies meet us at your house. We’ll look for Eagleson.”
Shit, now he’d have to postpone raiding the Hemlock house.
Malko nodded. “Sounds logical, Sheriff. I’ll stick here and direct your deputies in your absence.”
Arnow started to object. But then the idea of Malko staying behind suddenly appealed and he agreed.
“Let’s go, Davison.”
Arnow planned to switch the elder’s shells. Why not?
Lupo
They were close on his trail, confident they could track and run him to ground.
They’ve done this a thousand times before, he thought inside the Creature’s head. Trained military style. Small comfort—they could probably outrun, outflank, outfight, and outgun his Creature.
The chill air froze his breath as it puffed from his snout, and he felt ice chips in his whiskers. The ground grew harder beneath his paws. The North Woods liked to remind they weren’t ready to grant spring quite yet.
The aches of fatigue began clamoring for his attention. Legs and paws burning, shoulders straining, neck shooting painful jabs throughout his body. His nose tasted the air again, and he suddenly realized the Creature was slowly leading the pack toward Sam’s safe house.
Jesus, no!
Once again, he had to wrestle the Creature for control.
Confusion rippled through his brain, the usual tug of war between the wolf and human sides.
Finally, with the three seemingly only yards behind him, he veered away from the familiar track and started leading them in a circle.
One of them, the wounded wolf, guessed Lupo’s intended direction. Suddenly he came straight at Lupo, somehow cutting a secant path straight through the thick stand of jack and white pines. Heading him off and leading him into the others’ jaws in a classic flanking action.
The darker swath to Lupo’s right was the narrow channel between two lakes. In one quick motion the Creature lunged through the trees and into the frigid water, submerging completely and being swept away by the mild current.
Ears aching with the cold, his head reaching for the night sky, he broke the surface. The wounded wolf teetered on the shore, hesitating.
Bastard’ll probably catch hell from the others, Lupo thought. He swam toward the opposite shoreline. The Creature growled. He hated swimming.
Tannhauser
“We had him!” he raged at his friend Schwartz. “You fool, you forced him into the water. Now we’re back at square one.”
The pack had doubled back to the Cape Cod, but the house was empty, and scents indicated the occupants had split up. They had tracked one, but lost the spoor in a confusion of trails left by others, including the enemy wolf.
He led them back to the Hemlock house to regroup.
His stitched-up wound throbbed.
Aching from the missed opportunity, they had a snack from the freezer, tearing into the still soft flesh there.
Tannhauser roared at them until the phone interrupted his tirade.
Tef
He heard Alpha take the call and grinned. More action was definitely better than less. Their employer was ordering them out again.
Tef glared at Schwartz, who lay in his bunk moaning.
Bastard was weak. To think he’d once thought the old fuck had his back. But now he was like half a man. Less than half a wolf.
The way Schwartz had let the enemy wolf slip through his fingers was unforgivable. Tannhauser had about busted a gut. But Schwartz didn’t seem to care, wrapped up in his own pain, the pack be damned.
It was almost time to challenge Alpha’s authority. But no Schwartz to watch his back.
There was much unfinished business here tonight.
And when it was over and done, Tef would be holding the reins. Tannhauser would either submit, or he would be dead. Only then would Tef be free to recruit his own pack.
Dreams floated above him as he awaited his orders.
“Some real-estate records seem to have given up the location of a certain safe house,” Alpha announced. “Saddle up.”
“Rock and roll,” Tef whispered.
Schwartz just groaned.
Tef suddenly wished he had the Wilson woman here. She was unfinished business. He wondered where she was. But there would be time for her later.
“Rock and roll!” he shrieked. About bloody time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jessie
The silver-loaded shotgun was in the Maxima’s trunk, where she hoped it wouldn’t bother Nick too much. But she had wished she could hold it in her hands when she felt the presence nearby.
They’d agreed to meet at his place on Circle Moon Drive, so she’d parked in his driveway. Her place was at the far end of the long drive, a circuitous route away.
She watched the tree line anxiously, hoping he would arrive soon. They would decide how to arrange the ambush he suggested. She agreed now, but reluctantly. It went against her principles.
One second it was dark and lonely on the gravel drive, and the next she heard rustling. Her breath hitched—was it him? She caught the blur of his wolf form leaving the woods, and then he was beside the car, leaning in to kiss her behind the ear.
She shivered slightly, from relief and—something else, too. She wasn’t afraid of him, but afraid for him. She wondered if this latest crime wave would take him away from her. Maybe it already had.
“How’re things?” he asked. His muscles stood out in the twilight, glistening with beaded water. His dark eyes sought hers. Then his lips found her mouth.
“Mmmm, better now,” she muttered, kissing back with heat.
Once in the car, dressed again in the clothes she had brought, he described his run-in with the wolves at the Davison house.
“We’d better head out there and see if they’re all right,” he suggested. “Then Sam.”
“I have a silver shotgun in the trunk.”
“I know,” he said, grimacing.
She looked pained. “Thought you could handle it that far away.”
“I can.” He added, “Maybe give the elders some shells.”
“Sure.” She hated admitting she and Sam had stockpiled so much silver ammo.
“You drive,” he said. “I’ll call Sam.”
Sam didn’t answer his phone.
Sam Waters
He was on patrol around his cottage—checking the perimeter, Lupo would have said—when Eagleson showed up.
After almost shooting him, Sam invited him in.
“What were you doing out there? You know our enemies are on the path…”
“There’s evil about,” Eagleson agreed, shaking with cold and something more. “Davison threw me out of his house. What have we done to deserve this hatred?�
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“You know, maybe you should look within.” Sam felt bold, probably because there was no fancy conference table between them. “Maybe some of it is hatred bouncing back at you.”
He herded the elderly man inside. The Grey Hawk family gaped at the elder, perhaps noting that his trademark bluster was missing.
“Please join us,” Bill Grey Hawk said. His sarcasm was subtle, and Eagleson didn’t catch on.
“Thank you, thank you. At least there’s one left with a bit of civility.”
There was a tap at the front door. When everyone whirled to face the door, two living room windows burst inward in showers of glass and wood. A large black wolf and a smaller gray wolf leaped through the jagged openings.
Sam let loose with the shotgun and a partial load of buckshot burned off part of one wolf’s head.
The black wolf’s skin sizzled and smoked, and he screamed like a gut-shot hyena. The smell was sickening.
Sam tried to bring the shotgun to bear on the other wolf, but the front door exploded and sent sharp wood slivers flying in a wide radius. Sam took a large strip of door frame across the head and landed in a heap. The shotgun flew out of his grasp and skittered behind the other wolves. The gray wolf approached the defenseless humans menacingly. The wounded black wolf whimpered, trying to bite off his own head.
“Hold up,” said the tall man who now stood in the doorway. The gray wolf stared like a stone sentry at the terrified Grey Hawk family.
Bill Grey Hawk looked desperately for the shotgun, but the gray wolf advanced, fangs exposed. Grey Hawk retreated, hugging his children. His diminutive wife hid behind him.
“What do you want?” he asked the man in the doorway, who seemed to control the beasts.
“You,” the man said. “All of you.”
He smiled, and his wolf’s fangs made the children cry.
Schwartz
The silver should have killed him, but his wolfskin was tough. His grandfather had passed down good genes, forged in the Fatherland and nurtured with patriotism and ruthlessness.
Instead, the silver ate into his flesh and killed everything in its path. Schwartz swore he could feel each organ shut down in the onslaught of the silver cancer from the humans’ buckshot. How, how was it that they knew the ways of the wolf? How did they know what they faced? Why were they not impotent in the face of Tannhauser’s pack, as they should have been?
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