Wolf's Cut (The Nick Lupo Series Book 5)

by W. D. Gagliani

  The monster’s eyes still blazed, but the light there was rapidly fading and the animal staggered sideways, its legs collapsing out from under its body but unevenly.

  Its howl turned into a scream of unbelievable pain as the silvery poison shot through its flesh and organs. Its snout dug into the bricks as if it could burrow itself into the ground, and Franco quickly stepped up and drew the blade first across its neck and then into its belly. The flesh and muscle parted like lard and foul-smelling blood from above and entrails from below poured out onto the bricks.

  The wolf’s death throes fascinated Franco and he watched, dispassionately, as it died in agony. Its body twitched and shook and then finally lay still.

  Then it blurred and it was the tall man again, gutted, his genitals shriveled, lying in a puddle of his own filth.

  Franco spit on the body, then made the sign of the cross with the dagger before resheathing it.

  Remembering that he was still standing in the street, he stepped toward the shadows and melted into the darkness.

  There would be no surveillance of a meeting place tonight, but there would also be one less monster taking its victims from the city’s outskirts, making meals out of poor farmers.

  Tomorrow he would start watching again.

  Franco figured there was no one else to do this job.

  He slipped away before the carabinieri could find him standing over the ex-Nazi’s corpse.

  Chapter Eight

  Shooter

  The bus stop was one of the largest in the central downtown area. On the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Water Street, near the sluggish river, it routinely pulled ten to twenty regular riders every twenty minutes who waited for one of the several routes that crossed at that corner: the Green Line, the 57, the newly redrawn 15, which had been returned to its Water Street roots, and most of the summer-only trolley lines that circled the more interesting portions of Milwaukee’s stately old-fashioned downtown.

  Unlike most other large city bus stops, this one did not have a Plexiglas and steel shelter structure, most likely because the bank building that dominated that corner left only a few feet to the edge of the sidewalk in both directions. A shelter would have impeded pedestrian flow as well as being an eyesore, if it was haphazardly connected to the building’s limestone blocks.

  Today was no different and for the twentieth time a dozen or so people had gathered to wait for the next Green Line bus, which was scheduled to arrive in the next three to five minutes. While the weather was not yet truly cold, the downtown breeze that blew in off Lake Michigan—which was almost visible just down the sloping Wisconsin Avenue—was frigid and the waiting riders huddled in their coats and hoods, accustomed to the lingering Midwestern winders even though of late they’d been milder. Milder but drawn out, most people agreed, was still better. Still, the riders perked up when they saw the bus making the slight turn as it came even with city hall and headed straight down Water Street.

  Some of the riders noted that the bus seemed to be barreling toward the stop at a faster clip than was advisable, especially since in addition to the waiting group eagerly heading toward the curb, the light was also turning red. No driver should have been so lead-footed on their approach to a large stop and a busy intersection.

  Nervous, one or two who were waiting took a few careful steps backward, away from the curb. Others paid little attention, stamping their feet in frustrated impatience.

  Suddenly one woman screamed.

  Two others looked up to see what was wrong and followed the screaming woman’s stare and pointing finger, realizing much too late that the bus was not only still speeding, but had suddenly swerved toward the group.

  People scattered as they became aware that the screaming bus was hurtling right at them, not slowing but increasing speed. Its front right tire slammed into the curb at an angle and blew, but the momentum and the racing engine caused it to jump the curb and continue on its way like the squared-off cylindrical cannonball it had become. The second front tire blew and collapsed but the bus was already gorging itself on the sidewalk full of slow-moving, confused victims, several of whom had simply stood staring in disbelief at its windshield and the great gout of blood that painted the inside crimson with splashes of grotesque pink.

  Arms and legs were torn asunder as the huge vehicle ground up the riders it caught under its tremendous weight, ramming others and crushing a few more between its bulldozing front end and the bank’s solid limestone blocks, leaving behind streaks of blood and entrails.

  Screams and cries for help were smothered by the screeching created by the bus as its metal impacted the bank walls and its victims before continuing on toward the other major street, Wisconsin Avenue, where cross-traffic was caught in the runaway vehicle’s sights. The bus engine screamed as it powered the vehicle across the corner, demolished the stoplight pole, and shed jagged parts like cheese passing across a grater, leaving behind broken and twisted bodies dabbed in red.

  The bus continued into the cross street and smashed into a semi-trailer heading east on Wisconsin Avenue after crossing the near-side lane, the two of them spinning around and taking them all the way to the edge of the large bridge that spanned the river at that point, where despite the still-roaring engines they came to a halt because there were no wheels left to continue the forward motion.

  The semi driver was crushed to death by the marauding bus, but could be credited with having stopped the killer vehicle’s rampage.

  Twenty-three people who had either been waiting for the bus or had been unlucky enough to be crossing one street or the other were killed or gravely injured.

  The first uniform cop to arrive on the scene, a ten-year veteran named Voltanek, called for multiple ambulances, his voice cracking as he surveyed the devastation across the street corner and onto the avenue. His partner was able to set up a perimeter and start diverting traffic until the crime scene could be secured.

  But when Voltanek finally boarded the bus to check on the driver and what might have happened there, what he found caused him to call dispatch again.

  “I’m gonna need fuckin’ Homicide here!” he squawked into his radio.

  The call was routed to the Homicide squad room, where Detective DiSanto took it.

  Chapter Nine

  Heather

  Madison, Wisconsin

  A chilly breeze off Lake Mendota ruffled her hair through the car windows, which were lowered a crack.

  She was meeting her source at one of the University of Wisconsin campus hangouts, a place known for its gigantic breakfasts on game day. The Camp Randall field house was visible just past the railroad tracks as she pulled into a space down the block on Regent, near Monroe. She was early, so she checked her face in the rearview mirror, fixed whatever looked wrong, which was never much, and kept an eye behind her. Traffic was light, and she wanted a chance to spot this guy if he decided to sneak up on her from behind.

  She’d dumped her bags in a motel east of town on 94 and doubled back past the capitol building and straight down the spit of land between Lake Monona to the southeast and the larger Mendota, just north of the campus.

  Not at all sure why this guy had picked this meeting spot, but she’d driven straight through since her little encounter in Nebraska.

  She glanced at the mirror. Still nothing much behind her. She caught her reflection though, wondering if it was a mistake to have reverted to her honey-gold mane of hair. People were sure to remember her from her days as an anchor and investigative reporter in Wausau, and later Washington, D.C., though they might not be so clear how she’d been involved in the Wolfpaw takedown she and Nick Lupo had engineered.

  Well, the two of them and that wacko Simonson, who’d turned out to have one foot in reality and the other in la-la land.

  Now thinking of Lupo, the angled planes of his face, his long swept-back hair (against most MPD regulations), the compact muscular physique now crisscrossed by scars similar to hers…

  She shi
fted in her seat. She was wet thinking about him.

  She smiled at herself in the mirror, licked her lips, and remembered his body above her, thrusting, and beneath her with her legs astraddle as she rode him. And then: Her mouth on him, worshiping, licking, her eyes fixed on his, and the two of them watching each other’s pupils spinning like multi-color kaleidoscopes.

  And then this: On all fours with him behind her, his flesh reaching deep within her, finding her center, while their inner creatures connected, blending into one.

  Screaming, grunting, growling with pleasure and finally collapsing spent and sweaty onto her stomach with him still buried inside her to the hilt, still hard and ready for more. And she, ready to take it.

  The musky scent of her sex permeated the air and she shifted again.

  Damn it, Nick, we were meant to be together.

  Then again, there were issues—obstacles—to be overcome.

  That bitch, Jessie.

  Her newest scars still throbbed with aches she could barely stand, most days challenging her ability to appear unconcerned about anything. It had taken over two months to heal, and even then she really hadn’t yet. She’d wondered if she would heal at all, this time. The Vatican blade wielded by the bitch had done its damage, had almost ended it all for her, and she still harbored a very real sense of hatred for the person who’d forced her to go on the run, literally to lick her wounds.

  She’d screamed out incoherently as the silver poison had worked its way through her system, not at all sure it would. She’d managed to rent a remote cabin in the mountains and shrieked her way through the waves of pain that struck without scheme or pattern, wondering if she’d see the next full moon. She’d found that some pains were worse in her wolf form, while others were worse in her human form, making her walk like a damned cripple. Problem was, she never knew which pains would show up when. Her life had become a nightmare of scorching, slicing pain through her joints, veins, tendons, bones, and skin. No part of her seemed immune.

  But she’d started to write whenever she could stand the pain. At first it was therapy. And then it became a mission. When she realized that she would survive, she had half a book about Wolfpaw Security Services written and the other half sketched out.

  Of course, there were things she’d had to leave out. Details no one would want to see in a nonfiction work, that was for sure. But she still had plenty of material.

  And today she would get some more.

  Thankfully the image of Nick Lupo fucking her had receded and she could concentrate again on her meeting.

  Which was just about now.

  She entered the funky diner, found a place along a side wall, one of several angular high-backed booths. She ordered an iced tea from a bored waitress—business was down outside of game day, which was probably why her source had wanted to meet here. She drank the surprisingly good tea and waved the empty at the girl, instigating a refill.

  A minute later she saw him approach, uncertainly standing outside looking around, until he seemed to think of looking through the large window that overlooked the street and saw her. She waved her cup at him, too, and he nodded and entered.

  He was a good-looking guy who had let himself go. His body looked weary and out of shape, though it echoed what might have been a fine shape some years before. His face was lined beyond its age and his skin was sallow, his eyes rheumy. His hair was long but thinning to the point where his scalp showed through in patches.

  What the fuck’s happened to this guy?

  She had some idea.

  He caught her looking as he slid in across from her.

  “Yeah, I look like shit. I was two tours in Iraq, one in the ’Stan, and then I signed up with the W gang.”

  She nodded. His name was James Wineacre and she wasn’t sure how he’d found out about her interest in the W gang, as he put it—as if he didn’t want to use their name lest they hear him. Although she had put feelers out in some quarters, looking for whistleblower types to come forward with more insider information.

  “Depleted uranium ammunition,” he said as if she’d asked, though she was thinking about it. “From the M242 25mm cannon mounted on the Bradley desert boats. I was a gunner, but it looks like I’ve become a statistic.”

  She summoned up some sympathy in her tone. “Sorry to hear it.” She didn’t do sympathy very well, but most people thought she could act.

  “Yeah, shit happens,” he said. “Hey, can I get some coffee, black, over here?” he called out. The bored waitress gave a bored nod and moved glacially to fulfill his request. He smirked at Heather. “You, on the other hand, look luscious.” He grinned. He had sad dentures. His eyes took her in as if she were the latest Penthouse Pet or Hustler Honey, unabashed at the looking.

  “Look, Wiseacre,” she said cruelly, “you reached out to me. You got anything worth my time? There’s some money attached if it pans out. But I don’t have a lot of time.”

  I’ve got a Nick Lupo on my mind.

  He waited for glacier-girl to bring him the chipped mug and a frown, but he ignored her.

  “Okay, sweets, I get it. I’m not your kind of date.” He slurped some coffee, impervious to the heat. “But I think you’ll like what I got. See, I’ve followed some of your work. I was in D.C. when you were covering the hearings. I read some of your pieces, watched you melt the TV screens. You’re on the right track with a lot of stuff, but you don’t even know the half of it.” Slurp. “There’s a whole lot of shit on heaven and earth, my little Horatio, than you’ve dreamed of in your worst nightmare.” Slurp.

  Heather considered telling the asshole she knew all about the wolves that riddled the ranks of Wolfpaw, all the way up to the top. She considered telling him she knew about their plans to infiltrate the U.S. military to effect a sort of coup sometime in the future. She considered telling him she’d been there when Schlosser, the CEO, had blown his brains out (well, that was what Lupo said, anyway). But she shut up and waited to see if he broke some new ground. His phone calls had been somewhat intriguing.

  Or I never would have come back this close to Lupo’s territory.

  Yes you would have.

  Fuck you.

  “I got a whole file with pictures that’ll make your eyeballs burst, pretty lady, believe me.” He slurped again.

  “Oh, I do. There’s a pretty good chance I know more than you think, but I’ll take the chance and buy that file from you. We agreed on a price.”

  Wineacre grinned with barely repressed evil. “That was before. Now that we’re here, I feel like dickering. The price went up a little. I’ve got another buyer lined up.”

  “You’ve got—”

  Shit.

  She looked past him through the window. Suddenly the people on the sidewalk were all suspect, and any who glanced inside at them made her spine tingle.

  The idiot had invited someone else to the party? Didn’t he understand what he was trying to sell was worth killing for?

  She started again as if he were a child. “You’ve got another buyer and you invited him here?”

  “I ain’t stupid. Not here. It’s another reporter type.”

  They might well have followed him. He wasn’t the sharpest…

  “Look, I was ready to go higher anyway. Tell me something that’ll give me a hard-on and we’ve got a deal. Half now, half on delivery.” She slid a fat envelope out of her bag. She had a compact Glock in there, too.

  He snickered. “I like girls who talk like you. Bet you suck like a pro.”

  Heather felt the fur start to run up her forearms and a growl worked its way up her throat. She was close to going over just to show him a thing or two. She swallowed the urges down and the hair retreated. He never noticed.

  She gave him the eyebrows instead. Maybe he got the message.

  “Okay look, there’s a lot in this file. A lot you won’t even believe, but the pictures I got will convince you. Here’s another tidbit though. You and everybody thinks the W gang got taken down wh
en that CEO blew out his brains. The board of directors disbanded, some of ’em are under indictment, some flew the coop. But this is better than all that.”

  He leaned forward, tipped the rest of the coffee into his mouth, then whispered, “That future coup you speculated about, it’s already in progress…” He set down the mug with a satisfied smack.

  Heather processed the information. If it wasn’t bullshit, then maybe it was worth buying. Her breath suddenly hitched. If the coup was still on, that meant… Her eyes widened.

  Wineacre was looking at her. “Yup, you got it. There’s a group behind the W gang. Sure, there was a visible chain of command flowin’ downward from that CEO all through the W organization, includin’ some military higher-ups. But there’s a super-secret group of generals and their plans haven’t changed all that much because of the investigation and the grand jury indictments.”

  “Names?”

  “Lady, do we have a deal on the file?” He waved the slow waitress away. “I got to get the file if you’re buyin’, and then I cancel the meet with the other buyer.”

  Heather hissed in frustration. “Okay, the envelope has the full amount you were asking, but we’ll call it half. I’ll give you the same amount again when you hand me the file. Is it a stack of paper?”

  “Nah, I ain’t an idiot. Flash drive.”

  Another fucking flash drive?

  “All right, let’s go.” She eyed the window. Was someone standing there, staring inside?

  “Hold your titties,” he said, snatching the envelope and flipping it open. He counted, damnably slow and in no hurry. “Okay.” He tilted his head in the direction of the door. Heather tossed a ten on the table and stared down the waitress, who seemed too bored to handle the cash register anyway.

  They stepped out onto the sidewalk and immediately Heather felt eyes on her skin, a creeping goose-bumpy feeling that once again raised her hackles. Was it her or the wolf? She had no idea, but every person she could see seemed suspicious suddenly.

  She followed Wineacre down the sidewalk, keeping an eye on other people passing by, but no one seemed the least bit interested in them. He was chattering nervously about something or other she had no trouble ignoring as she watched his feet and hands and occasionally scanned all around them. A few minutes later they reached a tired old Volvo station wagon that might have once been green but now seemed gray, and he made a motion. Wait here.