by Chris Carter
The Werewolf’s lips drew a thin line while he scratched his chin with the barrel of his gun.
‘All right,’ he finally agreed. ‘Give me the codes and you have my word that I’ll set both of them free.’
‘No,’ Hunter countered. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You set them free first and then you get the codes.’
‘The problem with that, Detective,’ the Werewolf retorted, ‘is that you don’t know where you are. So let me put you in the picture here. We’re in the middle of absolutely nowhere. If I simply open the door and let them out, they won’t go far because there’s nowhere to go from here. The only way for them to get out of here is for me to sedate them and drop them somewhere where they can find their way back. Now, you have my word as a soldier that I will do that. That’s the best I can do. That’s the only deal you’re going to get. I told you that you should’ve trusted me before when I said that I would release the thieving bitch once I got my diary back, and I would have. My word is the only thing I have left. I won’t go back on it and I always, always honor it.’
There was a mixture of sincerity and emotional pain in the Werewolf’s words.
Hunter weighed his options – in truth he had only one.
‘That’s the deal,’ the Werewolf pushed. ‘If you don’t take it, I’m going back through that door and I’ll blow the dark-haired woman’s head off. You can watch it all from the comfort of your seat.’ He gestured toward the wall monitor. ‘Then I’ll come back here and we can try this whole thing one last time.’
Hunter’s attention moved back to the two women on the screen. He had no doubt that the Werewolf wasn’t bluffing. If Hunter didn’t give him the codes, he would kill the dark-haired woman without hesitation. From there, the next logical move would be to kill Angela and then Hunter.
The Werewolf also had Hunter’s cellphone. After Hunter was dead, it stood to reason that the Werewolf would break into Hunter’s phone just to see what he could find, and he would find the photo with the codes.
‘The codes, Detective.’
Hunter held his breath for a second.
‘I have your word that they’ll be freed and you’ll never go after them again.’
The Werewolf looked Hunter dead in the eye. ‘You have my word.’
Given Hunter’s predicament, there was absolutely nothing else he could do. Whichever way he thought about it, it looked like game over for him.
Hunter took a deep breath and, as he spoke, his voice almost faltered. ‘The Dark Web address is—’ he began, but the Werewolf interrupted him.
‘The web address and log-in I still have them,’ the Werewolf said, moving back to the computer on the control desk and opening up either a program or a website. Hunter couldn’t tell from where he was sitting. ‘I use them regularly. The other two codes are my—’ He thought about it for a quick second. ‘Special kind of insurance, I could say. And I need them now, Detective.’
Hunter closed his eyes as he dictated. ‘The first one is – 122001FOBRhino.
The Werewolf wrote it down before typing it into the keyboard. A couple of seconds later he smiled at thin air. ‘Fantastic. Next.’
‘15052004MNF-I,’ Hunter said.
Once again, the Werewolf wrote it down before typing it into the keyboard. Another satisfied smile.
‘Now let them go,’ Hunter said. ‘You gave me your word.’
‘I did,’ the Werewolf agreed. ‘And I will honor it, but first, you have to die. That was the deal, wasn’t it? The codes for the dark-haired woman and your life for the thieving bitch.’
Hunter stayed silent.
The Werewolf picked up his weapon.
‘You’re a good man, Detective. You have honor and integrity, something quite rare these days. You should’ve joined the military. You would’ve made an excellent soldier. Unfortunately, this time you came up against someone who is better than you . . . much better than you, actually, and in this shit world we live in, it’s survival of the fittest.’ The Werewolf extended his arm and aimed at Hunter’s forehead. ‘Goodbye, Detective.’
Everything inside Hunter’s body got tangled into a suffocating knot, but he still held the ex-soldier’s stare. He would not close his eyes and wait for his death. He would not give the Werewolf that satisfaction.
Hunter saw the Werewolf’s finger tighten on the trigger of his P228 and all of a sudden his subconscious picked up on something that he had overlooked – this time you came up against someone who is better than you . . . much better than you, actually.
There it was again – the ex-soldier’s ego . . . the narcissistic side of the psychopath in him screaming from somewhere inside.
Hunter had studied and dealt with many similar cases before. He understood how the mind of a narcissistic person worked. He knew how to push it.
Hunter’s next words left his lips almost involuntarily, as his subconscious simply spat them out.
‘Yes, they did,’ he said. ‘Even better.’
Ninety-Three
Gun in hand, aimed at Hunter’s head, the Werewolf frowned as the detective’s words reached his ears.
‘What was that?’
‘Earlier on you asked me if the police academy had taught me to shoot the way you do. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes,’ the ex-soldier’s grip on the trigger relaxed just a tad.
‘Well, that’s my answer,’ Hunter said. ‘Yes, they did. Even better than you.’
A broad smile spread across the Werewolf’s lips. ‘Don’t do this, Detective. It’s embarrassing.’
‘What is?’
‘You, clutching at straws. That is embarrassing. You know you’re going to die. You know that you have no way out of this. What are you trying to do, prolong the inevitable? Why?’
‘Believe whatever you want to believe,’ Hunter said back. ‘But with a handgun, I’m a better marksman than you are.’
The Werewolf’s laughter was sincere. ‘That’s a very bold statement, Detective. You saw me shooting, right?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Hunter replied. ‘You are good. No doubt about that. But I’m better. Give me a gun and I’ll show you.’
Another animated laugh. ‘But of course, let me just pass you a gun. Hold on a sec.’
The Werewolf lowered his weapon, turned around and made as if he were going to the locked cabinet in the corner, but stopped after two steps.
‘Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot. I can’t hand you a gun because you might shoot me. C’mon, Detective, stop embarrassing yourself. Don’t beg. What’s the point in delaying this any longer? Like you’ve said – you’ve been in this world much longer than that bitch has. You’ve lived your life. You’ve fought your demons. You won some, you lost some. Today, this demon won.’ The Werewolf’s thumb pointed at himself.
Hunter had no real idea where he was going with this. No one was coming for him, but he understood what he needed to do.
The most basic, animalistic instinct humans possess is the instinct for survival. When the body realizes that it’s about to lose its fight for life, it enters a sort of hyper mode. Rational thought goes out the window and the brain starts sending desperate ‘fight harder’ signals everywhere – muscles, lungs, heart, brain. Those signals have a partner – adrenalin – which superpowers everything. Muscles become stronger, lungs can take in more oxygen than normal . . . and so on. The body, as a living organism, wants to live, no matter what. Well, Hunter’s body was tied down, so his brain did the fighting.
‘I think you’re the one who is scared of embarrassing yourself,’ Hunter said. ‘You keep on saying that you’re the best at this, the best at that . . . but the truth is that you’re scared of being proven wrong, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, is that what you think?’
‘It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? And in this case, I know I can shoot better than you.’
The Werewolf smiled at Hunter. ‘And how would you like to prove that, Detective? Shall I just drive us down to the shooting range?’
/> ‘I’m OK with that,’ Hunter said. ‘Or we can just go outside and shoot at cans, beer bottles, whatever you like. Whatever you choose, I’ll still beat you.’
Hunter’s brain was getting desperate.
‘Or we can shoot at each other, if you prefer.’ Hunter’s suggestion surprised even himself, but he kept a steady poker face.
The suggestion halted the ex-soldier. The smile vanished from his lips and his gaze scrutinized the detective in front of him.
Hunter knew that that sounded like a crazy idea, but as everything stood, he would die anyway. Might as well die fighting.
‘Old West duel style,’ he added. Once again, desperation outweighed rational thought. ‘A single round each. Winner takes all.’
From the expression in his eyes, Hunter could tell that the narcissist inside the Werewolf was seriously toying with the idea. He pushed again.
‘Are you scared to put your life on the line?’
The Werewolf exhaled and narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘We do this and the deal is off. After I kill you – because that’s what’s going to happen – I will not set them free.’ He indicated the monitor once again. ‘I will either kill them right after I’ve killed you, or sell them to the voices, where they’ll die screaming and in agony. Are you OK with that?’
Hunter felt the pit in his stomach expand to a black hole.
‘I kill you now,’ the Werewolf continued, ‘they go free as I’ve promised. You’ll be dead, but you would have saved two lives. A very dignified last act as an LAPD detective. I kill you in a “duel” and they both die. Are you sure you want to murder them as well, Detective? Because this won’t be a gamble. You don’t stand a chance in a face-to-face shootout with me.’
The Werewolf had a point – save two lives or gamble all three. The problem, Hunter thought, was that in his mind, both sides of the equation were a gamble. He had no guarantees that the Werewolf would set them free, other than the ex-soldier giving him his ‘word’. Which could mean absolutely nothing at all, but even if it did, even if the Werewolf stayed true to his promise and did release Angela and the other hostage, even if he never went after any of them again . . . he would still go after other people, abduct them and then sell them to the voices. In the long run, this was a bad deal, no matter which way Hunter looked at it.
He decided to trust himself..
‘I guess we’ll see about that,’ Hunter replied.
With another broad smile on his lips, the Werewolf walked over to the metal cabinet to the right of the control desk and unlocked it, using a key he’d retrieved from his pocket.
Hunter saw the Werewolf reaching for something inside the cabinet, but he couldn’t tell what it was, as the Werewolf’s body was blocking his view.
‘I like you, Detective Hunter. I like the fact that you want to go down fighting. I can’t blame you. I would do the same. Like I said, you really should’ve been in the military.’
As the ex-soldier turned to face Hunter, he was finally able to see what the Werewolf had retrieved from the locked cabinet – a Ruger SR22 pistol.
‘And I know just how we can do this.’
The Werewolf placed the new weapon on the control desk and returned to the cabinet, where he reached for something else. This time he picked up a Kevlar ballistic vest, which he put on.
Hunter’s whole face became one huge question mark.
Once the ex-soldier had put on the vest, he reached for the pistol on the control desk. The SR22 was a lot more compact than the 9mm Sig Sauer P228 that he was holding earlier.
‘This is a Ruger SR22,’ he explained. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it before.’ He pressed a button on the weapon and released its magazine. ‘Ten rounds.’
With his thumb, he began extracting all the bullets from the clip. He extracted nine of them and then stopped, leaving only one in place. He made sure Hunter had seen what he was doing. He then slotted the magazine back into the weapon and chambered that single round.
‘I’m sure that I don’t need to explain that the sort of damage that a 22-caliber bullet inflicts is minimal, especially when compared to something like this.’ The Werewolf once again showed Hunter his P228. ‘Unlike a 9mm round, a 22-caliber one will not halt an enemy coming at you, it’s not powerful enough . . . unless that round perfectly strikes a vital organ.’
He used his index finger to first point to his heart, then to his forehead.
‘Well,’ the Werewolf continued. ‘As you can see, my heart is protected by a ballistic vest, so my only exposed vital body part is my head.’ He pointed to it again. ‘So this is how this is going to go down, Detective. I will untie one of your hands – your shooting hand – and I will hand you the Ruger SR22. As you saw, there’s only one bullet in the chamber, none in the magazine, which gives you one chance and one chance only to hit the target. Right here.’ His index finger pointed to the center of his forehead one more time. ‘This is the only way you will stop me, Detective. A 22-caliber bullet through my brain will halt me. A 22-caliber bullet anywhere else on my body . . .’ He shrugged.
Hunter had certainly not anticipated the ballistic vest.
‘So, continuing with the rules of the game. You’ll have the Ruger SR22 with a single chambered bullet and I’ll have my own 9mm Sig Sauer P228.’ The Werewolf once again showed Hunter his weapon. ‘Now, what you need to know is that my clip contains expanding rounds. That’s why the blonde woman’s head exploded like a watermelon.’
Hunter breathed out.
Expanding rounds were bullets that were designed to expand on impact, sometimes to twice the original diameter. When that happened, the bullet slowed down and more of its kinetic energy was transferred to the target, producing a much larger wound and consequently a lot more damage than a regular round. Expanding rounds were the most lethal type of ammunition available on the market.
‘So,’ the Werewolf continued with the rules of the game. ‘Arms down by the sides of our bodies.’ He demonstrated. ‘I’ll give us a count of three. To even things out, I promise you that I will sit as still as possible. At the count, we shoot.’
‘Am I supposed to trust you that you won’t shoot before the count?’ Hunter asked.
‘Am I supposed to trust you that you won’t shoot before the count?’ The Werewolf threw the question right back at Hunter. ‘You’ll also be holding a gun, Detective.’
Hunter stayed quiet.
‘Remember,’ the Werewolf carried on. ‘You’ve got a single round in your weapon and you’re tied to a pretty heavy chair, so don’t go thinking about injuring me and then calling for help.’ He shook his head carelessly. ‘Not going to happen. A 22-caliber bullet won’t stop me.’
The Werewolf placed the Heckler and Koch Mark 23 pistol he had taken from Hunter on the control desk. Too far for Hunter to get to, but just an arm’s reach from him.
‘This is so you don’t get any ideas, Detective, and try to shoot the gun out of my hand,’ he continued. ‘Remember, you’re tied to that chair. Only your shooting arm will be free. Wounded or not, I’ll still be able to reach for your gun and finish the job way before you get to me. And yes, I can shoot with both hands. If you choose to shoot to wound, that’s your prerogative, but at the count of three, I promise you that I’ll shoot to kill and this time, I will blow your head clean off your body. After that, like I’ve said, I’ll either kill those two in there, or I’ll sell them to the voices.’
He paused and smiled at Hunter.
‘So, are we really doing this?’
Hunter knew he couldn’t go back now.
Ninety-Four
Calmly, the Werewolf returned to the same cabinet from where he had retrieved the SR22 and the ballistic vest; he picked up a sharp, stainless-steel knife, and walked over to Hunter’s chair.
‘I will now free your shooting arm and hand you the weapon,’ he said to a silent and tense Hunter. ‘We’ll sit facing each other with our weapons down by the side of our chairs. At the count of three, we lift our ar
ms and we shoot. That’s it. Simple. Like you said – an Old West-style duel.’ He lifted the front of Hunter’s shirt.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ Hunter asked, his eyes wide in surprise.
‘Relax, Detective. You’re not my type.’ The Werewolf slid the Ruger SR22 pistol into the front of Hunter’s trousers. ‘You have my word that I will not shoot before the count of three. I trust you’ll do the same, but I’m quick and my eyes are very sharp, so if I notice the slightest movement from your arm before the count is over, I’ll shoot.’ From the small of his back, the Werewolf retrieved his Sig Sauer P228 and showed Hunter. ‘Let’s do this like gentlemen, shall we?’
Hunter could barely believe that the Werewolf was referring to himself as a gentleman.
The Werewolf went round to the back of the chair.
SNICK.
He cut the zip-tie that held Hunter’s right arm to the chair.
SNICK.
He cut the zip-tie that secured Hunter’s right wrist to his left one. His left arm was still zip-tied to the chair, as were both of his legs. As his right arm was freed, Hunter extended and curled it several times to get the blood circulation back to normal. He did the same with his fingers.
‘Yeah,’ the ex-soldier said, as he rounded the chair again to face Hunter, his P228 held firmly in his right hand and aiming at the LAPD Detective. ‘Move it around a little. Get that blood pumping. I’ll wait.’
With his weapon still aimed at Hunter, he walked backwards until he reached his chair, about eight paces away.
‘Are you ready, Detective?’ he asked after several minutes.
Hunter breathed out as adrenalin flooded his brain and body. Ready or not, he knew that the Werewolf wouldn’t wait any longer.
They locked eyes once again.
‘You can reach for your weapon now,’ the Werewolf said.
Hunter lifted his shirt and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the Ruger SR22.
‘Easy now, Detective. No sudden movements. You don’t want me to read it wrong and shoot you before the right time, do you?’