* * *
"Here are the photos, Director." A file was dropped onto Tony's desk.
"You're sure these are the ones?" Tony glanced up at his spy.
"Yes. Obviously the one on the left is Rahim Alif, the other is the one who calls himself Xenides."
Tony examined the photograph. Rahim Alif was using the first letter of the Arabic alphabet as his last name. Xenides had allied himself with a known terrorist. Both were linked to bombings in Tel Aviv, Madrid and Milan, and now the U.S. The attempts on the President and the Secretary of State were linked to these two. If Lissa hadn't been available to help, the country might now be in crisis. Frazier's experiment with six special ops agents had also gone very well. Tony witnessed the injections and subsequent disappearances himself and Frazier was now desperate to get his hands on more blood and tissue. Tony sighed. If he could just get one of the six operatives anywhere near these two while Frazier still had the supply of Lissa's blood—he stared at the photograph of Rahim Alif and Xenides again.
"Where?" Tony didn't have to elaborate.
"This was taken in Atlanta, two days ago."
"What the fuck are they doing back in Atlanta?" Tony got up and paced angrily.
"We've gone through several scenarios," the spy replied. "Not that any one of them might be determined more likely than the others."
"Do you have hard copy?"
"I do." The spy pulled a folder from his briefcase and handed it over. "But that doesn't explain why they've been tracked in France, Belgium, Germany, Great Britain and now Atlanta. There hasn't been anything bombed in any of those places."
"Yet they've hit Israel, Spain, Italy, Los Angeles and made an attempt here in D.C." Tony flipped the folder open and then closed it again. "I'll take this with me and read it later. There are things I need to take care of now."
"Not a problem, we've got copies at the office. We're still going over it ourselves."
"Let me know if you come up with anything." Tony grabbed his suit coat and headed for the door. The spy followed and they left Tony's office together.
* * *
"Trajan, are you sure you're willing to do this?" Winkler studied the tall werewolf. Trajan was a basketball star in high school, but turned down an athletic scholarship to a Texas college—he was too afraid of being on the road during a full moon and getting caught as wolf. Winkler paid his college tuition instead and now Trajan worked as a sports writer for a Dallas newspaper. If Trajan went down, it would be difficult to explain his disappearance.
"I'm willing," Trajan growled a little. Trajan was handsome, with black hair that curled slightly, dark brown eyes, a well-shaped jaw and mouth—he could have his pick of any number of eligible human females but only dated casually for the most part. He was still young—barely thirty-eight in human years. Too young to settle down as a werewolf.
"Fine. Let's go." Winkler walked out of his study with Trajan; Davis was waiting for them, just outside Winkler's study. Davis fell in behind Winkler as the three werewolves made their way through the side door into the garage. If Trajan died, Winkler and Davis would likely follow him quickly.
Davis held no illusions that Karl Johnson would allow any of them to live. He sighed a little—Lissa was already dead or they'd have heard from her. Tony Hancock was still looking for her—that's what he'd told Winkler, anyway.
The drive to the Wilburn Ranch would take twenty minutes, provided traffic wasn't heavy. Kellee was holed up in her bedroom at the Denton mansion, unwilling to attend the challenge. She and Winkler had such a blowup after the wedding that they no longer looked at one another, let alone considered going to bed together. Weldon and Thomas Williams had already left for the Wilburn Ranch; Randall Wilburn invited the Grand Master and the Sacramento Packmaster to dinner before the challenge, which was scheduled at midnight.
"Is that his car?" Davis examined the rented Cadillac in the Wilburn's driveway. It was bright red with a white interior, as flashy as the one who'd rented it. Davis didn't look forward to making nice with Karl Johnson and his chosen Second. None of them knew who it might be, not even Weldon. It wasn’t required by werewolf law or tradition. Consequently, Karl didn't know who was fighting for Winkler, either.
Randall Wilburn's human wife answered the door and invited Winkler, Trajan and Davis inside her sprawling ranch house. She and Randall had been married for thirty years; Randall was close to one hundred years of age and had lived in the Denton area for fifty of those years. The silver in his hair was dye—his hair was as dark as it had ever been. His wife, Shelly, looked much older and the gray in her hair was authentic.
"I trust you all can behave yourselves during introductions," Randall said, offering Winkler and his two escorts something to drink. Trajan and Davis only accepted water; Winkler took a beer but didn't drink much of it. Two werewolves, introduced as R.J. and P.J. Pitt, werewolf brothers, accompanied Karl Johnson and stood at his side as introductions were made. Winkler didn't blink when he was given their names. He'd heard of the brothers, however. Many in the werewolf community had. Their father was the Cleveland Packmaster and owned a Dojo there, teaching Martial Arts and Kendo. The fuckers intended to slice somebody to death with swords. P.J., eldest of the brothers, had already offered his services to several in the werewolf community, taking down at least six Packmasters. Weldon suspected he'd taken payment to act as temporary Second, but no proof could be provided. And if a challenge was issued outside a full moon, the combatants fought in their human shapes. That's why Winkler had asked for Lissa. Now, Lissa was dead because of that. No matter, Winkler sighed. He was about to follow her, anyway.
"It's after eleven," Randall announced. "I have carts to take us to the site if you want a ride." Many of his ranch employees used golf carts and four wheelers to drive through pastures and check on the brood mares and yearlings.
"I'll get myself there," Winkler growled. Davis and Trajan followed his lead. Winkler wanted to turn to wolf one last time before he died. The others loaded into three golf carts, but Shelly Wilburn refused to go. She had no desire to see anyone die. She'd gone in the beginning and had even watched Winkler take down his father. After that, she'd stayed at home, begging her husband never to make a challenge while she lived. He'd honored her request.
Winkler turned first, followed by Davis and then Trajan. Three large wolves trotted over newly mown grass, following the wake created by the Grand Master's golf cart.
* * *
Tony Hancock had provided Thomas Williams with a button camera, delivered by an agent outside Winkler's mansion. It would supply a video and sound feed directly to Tony's laptop. He was going to watch the challenge, since Winkler was his contact and technical support for the recognition software his department employed. If Winkler went down, Tony would definitely need to know.
Thomas and Weldon watched dispassionately as P.J. Pitt lifted a leather case from the back of a golf cart and then proceeded to pull two very sharp swords from the covering. He checked the edges on both blades before handing them off to his brother. He then removed his shirt and stretched. P.J. was broad across the shoulders; evidence that he'd trained long and hard with the swords he'd brought with him. Muscles rippled as he limbered up. Time was ticking downward and P.J. knew he had the upper hand; neither of the werewolves accompanying Winkler stood a chance against him. He was his father's Second and had fought off three challenges against his father so far, in addition to helping select others take Packs away from legitimate Packmasters. Karl was paying P.J. handsomely to make him Packmaster of the Dallas Pack. Outside a full moon, hand-to-hand combat was permitted, along with any weapon that allowed combatants to face one another. It wasn't unusual for knives, fists and clubs to be employed. The only weapons not allowed were guns.
Weldon was the official timekeeper since he was Grand Master and highest-ranking werewolf present. Weldon checked his watch; it was nearly midnight when Winkler, Davis and Trajan trotted up as wolves. Weldon had extra clothing for all three wolv
es on his golf cart; Winkler asked him to carry it earlier. Trajan had time to pull on pants; that was all he would wear while fighting. He remained barefoot, however; Trajan had martial arts training, but his hands were all he used. P.J. would have the reach— and the upper hand—with his blades.
"Time," Weldon called softly, checking his watch.
Karl stepped forward first, since he'd laid the initial challenge. "I, Karl Johnson, Packmaster for the Boise Pack, lay a challenge before William Winkler, Packmaster for the Dallas Pack and demand that the Seconds fight," Karl pushed out his chest importantly. He knew the Dallas Pack was his—the challenge was merely a formality. P.J. would have either of Winkler's companions dying in the dirt in minutes.
"I, William Winkler, Packmaster for the Dallas Pack, accept the challenge. Who fights for you?" Winkler stepped forward.
"Patrick James, P.J. Pitt," Karl replied. "Who challenges him?"
Trajan made to step forward when Lissa coalesced in front of Winkler. "I do, you piece of shit," Lissa snapped.
* * *
Winkler had the biggest look of shock on his face. I didn't think I'd ever seen him that surprised before. That was nothing compared to the expression Karl wore. He looked nearly purple with anger. I guess he didn't like the name-calling. P.J., though, I thought he was going to laugh at me. Mighty brave for somebody whose initials spelled what I wore to bed most days.
"State your name," Weldon said. I wasn't up on challenges and werewolf protocol. I just hoped I lived over all of it.
"Lissa Beth Huston," I said. "Of the Sacramento Pack."
"You're a fucking vampire," P.J. declared with a snarl, aiming a very long, pointy sword at me.
"I already know that," I said. "Although my sex life has been nonexistent lately. You may want to amend that statement to just vampire."
"The challenge has been issued and accepted. We await the attack," Weldon said gruffly, silently warning me that this was no time for jokes.
"You're dead," P.J. growled, shaking a sword in my direction.
"Tell me something I don't know," I snipped as P.J. rushed me, twirling both blades like a blender.
* * *
Tony was getting the live feed and recording it at the same time. The wolf would rush Lissa with both blades flying and Lissa would duck or slide out of P.J.'s way, moving so swiftly the camera couldn't record it most of the time. Her claws hadn't come out until three minutes into the fight and she didn't appear to be using them for anything. As far as the wolf knew, she only had speed on her side. Tony found himself wishing he had other cameras placed; he only had the one and although Thomas was keeping the action in front of him, Tony wanted to see Winkler and Weldon's faces. Nobody was cheering either combatant on—only the sounds made by Lissa and P.J. came across.
Tony couldn't imagine what Lissa was doing—did she have any sort of strategy? He couldn't tell and he'd never really seen her fight. He was beginning to get worried when P.J. made a furious pass at her, blades blurring and Lissa, instead of ducking or sliding out of the way, turned to mist, causing P.J. to hesitate. He jerked his head from side to side in frantic wariness, his swords held at the ready, waiting to strike. His enemy, however, had disappeared before his face. The werewolf had never heard of a vampire mister that could change in a blink, but that's exactly what Lissa had done. She rematerialized suddenly before him, dealing a vicious kick to P.J.'s jaw before misting again. Tony was standing and cheering as the werewolf's head snapped back. P.J. rocked on his feet for a second or two, growling as he straightened up again.
"Show yourself!" he shouted. Lissa appeared in front of him. He came after her; she misted again.
"Not fair!" Karl Johnson shouted.
"It's as fair as you were going to be," Weldon barked. Karl backed up a little. Lissa reappeared.
* * *
Things had come to the critical point, as they always do in any fight. If P.J. didn't back away now, I was going to kill him. Everything I'd done up to this point was a warning to him—that I wasn't going to allow him to win this fight. Now, I was going to give him the opportunity to give up peacefully and go home with his brother, who stood on the sidelines, a worried expression on his face.
"I'll let you walk away now," I pointed an extended claw at P.J. "With no hard feelings."
"Lissa," Weldon growled low. Well, there I was, likely breaking werewolf rules and tradition right and left. But I wanted to make myself clear before anybody died.
"You're just playing games with me, because you can't take me down," P.J. insisted, pointing a lengthy blade in my direction.
"You know, I've been known to play games," I admitted. "I'm terrible at chess and checkers. But I'm not playing games, here. I'm fighting with you. And when I fight, I fight to win. Walk away now and keep your life."
"You will not walk away," Karl Johnson hissed at P.J.'s back. P.J. nodded at Karl's words. That's when I knew. P.J. would rather die than go back to his Pack a loser.
"You want to finish this?" I stared—hard—at P.J. Pitt.
"More than anything," he snarled, his fingers flexing on the hilts of his blades.
"All righty, then," I nodded to P.J.
"Lissa, will you please get this over with," Weldon growled.
When Weldon told me to get on with it, I guess it was time to get serious. I went to mist and watched from the side as P.J. did his three-sixty again, gauging it as carefully as I could. I waited a few more seconds this time, moving clockwise to his counter-clockwise. He might be the greatest werewolf swordsman ever, and Karl had more than likely paid him a truckload of money to take down Winkler, Davis and the one called Trajan. I wasn't going to let that happen. I might be pissed at Winkler, but Karl Johnson did his best to kill me, too. I still didn't understand how that hadn't happened. It no longer mattered; P.J. had backed the wrong horse and the only way to keep Winkler alive was to take Karl Johnson's temporary Second down. Too bad the bookies weren't in on this; somebody might have made a ton of money that night. I materialized at P.J.'s back and relieved him of his head with one swift stroke. His death was as swift and painless as I could make it, and he never knew what hit him.
I stood there, panting slightly, staring down at P.J.'s body and head, which were no longer connected. Sometimes I forget that werewolves don't disintegrate like vampires do. Honestly, if Thomas hadn't shouted, I might have been dead too as Karl launched himself at me, determined to take me down. I turned swiftly, slashing out with my claws and slicing his body in half. No, I didn't mean to do it that way; Karl Johnson lay on the grass in two separate pieces, gasping for breath with lungs that had been severed. His lower half lay still and unmoving while the upper half twitched until Karl's eyes rolled back in his head. Thomas rushed to my side, prepared to fight in case P.J.'s brother decided to get in on the action. R.J. was already backing away, tears for his brother falling as he stared in horror at the body lying on the ground.
Karl thought he'd stacked the deck in his favor, only it hadn't turned out that way. Now he lay dead in Randall Wilburn's horse pasture, his eyes wide and staring sightlessly at the stars overhead. I still had no idea what kept Karl's buddy Elias from allowing me to fry in the sun, but the FBI likely had him in custody. Kellee was at Winkler's mansion, thinking that daddy was going to bring her a crown and make her princess of the Dallas Pack. If she'd loved Winkler and he'd loved her, that crown would have been hers anyway. Now she was fatherless and pregnant in enemy territory.
"I'll take care of the bodies," Randall Wilburn offered. Trajan stepped up to help. Winkler, who'd stood back and watched the whole thing, asked Weldon if he and Davis could ride back to the house with him and Thomas.
"I can leave our car here for Trajan. Lissa, will you come back with me now?" Winkler turned to me, begging me with his eyes if not his voice.
"Lissa, I want to talk to you, anyway," Weldon said quietly.
"Fine." I bent down and wiped my bloody claws off on P.J.'s pants; he really didn't need them anymore.
"R.J., do you need a ride?" Weldon turned to P.J.'s brother. Karl should never have allowed him to come, but Karl had been so confident and I figured R.J. wanted to see his brother help take down a Packmaster of Winkler's status.
"I'll take him to the airport," Randall Wilburn offered. R.J. dropped by his brother's decapitated body and sobbed. I felt sorry for him. I might have felt sorrier for Winkler, Davis and myself if things had gone the other way.
Weldon drove one of the golf carts; Winkler drove the other. I rode with Weldon, Thomas and Davis went with Winkler. Shelly Wilburn stood on the back porch of her ranch house and watched as we drove up. She knew, just by seeing who'd come back that Winkler was still Dallas Packmaster and she nodded respectfully to him. We didn't go through the house; we walked through the side yard and out the gate next to the garage. Weldon, Davis and I got the back seat of Winkler's car, Winkler drove and Thomas sat up front with him. I was wedged in the back seat between Davis and Weldon.
The drive to Denton was nearly half over before Weldon spoke. "Lissa, you are Pack."
I'd been lost in my own thoughts, thinking about P.J. and Karl and what Karl had hoped to gain and hadn't. I'd also been wondering how much Kellee loved her father and about Kellee's mother. Well, they weren't my problem. Except that they were, as it turns out. "I know, Grand Master." I didn't use his title often, but felt it was warranted under the circumstances.
"Lissa, when you successfully fought off Karl's Second, you kept the Dallas Pack in Winkler's hands."
"I know, Grand Master."
"Lissa, the challenging Packmaster attacked you afterward without issuing a formal challenge against you. You took him down. Do you know what that means?"
Until then I'd been looking at Weldon's shirt; he hadn't worn his usual flannel—it was too warm this far south for it. Instead, he had a short-sleeved polo shirt on and he looked nice in it. It was yellow and that was a good color for him. Now I looked up at his face. He was gazing down at me and he smiled just a little. "No," I said. "What does that mean?"
Blood Sense (Blood Destiny #3) Page 21
