Apex Predator

by S. M. Douglas

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Are you ready?” A woman’s voice answered.

  “We follow my rules. That means no violence. Got it?”

  “Yea, sure.”

  Brody didn’t respond. He once had an entire team backing his every move. Now all he had was her.

  “Do you trust me?” The woman’s voice cut in.

  He hesitated, watching a swale of grass filling with water before replying, “Without you I wouldn’t be here.”

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s mine, not yours. Understand?”

  “I’m so ready to do this.”

  “You know where to be, and when,” Brody said, swiping the phone off and dropping it into his pocket.

  He had recently come to an important understanding about this world.

  It needed the bad. Though not to balance the good as many thought, there was less of that than most realized. No, sometimes it took doing bad to stop even worse things from happening.

  At least he hoped that was true.

  Chapter 35

  October 2016 – Connecticut

  Brody crept down the wooded hill side, the full moon gleaming in the crisp night air. He shivered as the silvery clouds slid east with increasing vigor, thinking of a time when being in the forest made him peaceful and wondering when he would get that feeling back. Reaching the edge of the tree line he crouched next to a majestic pine.

  To his right a slope led to the shore of Long Island Sound. Before him loomed a French Renaissance style mansion. He checked off the salient points from his briefing. It featured twelve bedrooms and sixteen bathrooms as well as numerous other rooms for play, work, and showing off. A brick paver patio, outdoor kitchen, and sumptuous gardens sprawled behind the home. On the manor’s far side were tennis courts, a putting green, separate twenty car garage, and a helipad. If everything went right he knew exactly where to find the homeowner; Jimmy Donnelly.

  The wind whipped up, the calm of the moment disappearing along with the branches eerily blowing about. In a few minutes it would be Halloween. In Detroit it was Devil’s Night, a night of once otherwise harmless pranks that had turned to vandalism and arson when some realized tomorrow would not be a better day.

  A cloud drifted in front of the moon, shadows shimmering across the lawn. Brody sprinted from the trees. He slid to a stop on the slick grass at the garden’s edge, catching his breath next to a row of boxwoods before stepping onto the brick paver patio. A security guard appeared, a Mossberg twelve-gauge tactical shotgun pointed at Brody.

  “He made it,” The security guard whispered into a collar mounted microphone.

  Brody relaxed ever so slightly, still more than a bit incredulous that she was delivering on her promise.

  An alarm began to blare. Nodding toward Brody, the guard lowered his weapon and dashed off toward the beach. Flood lamps clicked on from one end of the grounds to the other, armed figures sprinting through the unnatural light’s harsh glare.

  Cloaked by the security team’s mobilization Brody approached the home’s darkened lower level, pausing at the open door. Two months ago he wouldn’t have imagined doing something like this regardless of whatever childhood stunts he had once pulled. However, his face hardened as he remembered an old photograph he had seen at Mr. Granger’s funeral. It was a picture of him and Chris, along with their dads. They were at their father-son bowling league’s year-end party. A first place trophy stood before them, their father’s arms proudly draped around the shoulders of their sons…

  Brody shook off the memory and stepped into the house, reaching into the soft leather holster under his arm and drawing the heavy .45 long-slide semi-automatic pistol. He had lost his old .45 in the river outside Dibrovno’s castle two months prior and had wanted something that hit harder. The AMT version of the .45 fit the bill and then some, its brushed stainless steel finish and wide target style trigger providing the pistol with an intimidating look to match its power. He moved off in a crouch, his weapon up in a high ready position. Within minutes he cleared the luxuriously appointed basement and began climbing a winding staircase to the first floor. Focused on the task at hand, he failed to notice the pair of dark clad figures that had slipped inside behind him.

  Brody reached the top and padded down the first floor hallway, his footfalls hardly registering on the hand woven rugs. A muffled voice escaped from a set of French doors near the front of the house, a light shining out into the hallway. Brody peeked around the corner. Jimmy Donnelly stood behind a large desk, barking orders into his smart phone. A glass topped wooden box sat on the desk. The box was open, a paper certificate next to it.

  “It’s a what?” Donnelly said. He wore a powder blue robe and was speaking rapidly, “Somebody spotted by the beach? Do we need to call the cops? No? Okay, I want a report.”

  Brody holstered his weapon and took a deep breath, walking in as Donnelly set down the phone.

  “Come with me,” Brody growled, flashing his badge.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Donnelly smiled. “I’ve often wondered when you’d grow a pair.”

  Virtually nothing had changed since he had last been in the CEO’s presence. The only other time Brody had ever seen someone so arrogant with power had been when he saw video footage of the drug lord Pablo Escobar at the height of his cartel’s reign.

  “Follow me,” Brody commanded.

  “I’ll change first.”

  “We have to go,” Brody said. “Now.”

  “The front door is this way,” Donnelly said, knocking into Brody as if he were in a high school hallway and trying to signal his dominance.

  Brody’s free hand wrapped tight around Donnelly’s bicep, steering him in the opposite direction.

  “What’re you doing? My security will be back in a few—”

  “They won’t,” Brody said. “Walk.”

  Everything the guards did was logged. So she had created a fake situation, and those carefully managed events unfolding outside would be recorded to provide the company shelter from liability.

  They arrived at floor to ceiling double doors.

  Brody gestured.

  Donnelly pushed them open. Deep shadows obscured much of the room. Donnelly reached for a light switch. Brody grabbed his wrist, shaking his head no. Donnelly glared at Brody who ignored him and turned to walk into the room. He came to an abrupt stop. A stuffed and mounted timber wolf towered on a pedestal, snarling in a permanent rage. Brody stared past the wolf to see at least a dozen other dead animals similarly displayed.

  “What? Don’t you have a trophy room in your house?” Donnelly said.

  Brody waved Donnelly toward the far end of the high ceilinged room. There, an intricate Afghan rug of at least twenty square feet covered much of the hardwood floor. Donnelly plopped into a weathered leather club chair. Brody eased into the matching chair opposite him, glancing around.

  “How’s Julie?” Donnelly said.

  Brody face flashed red, the blood buzzing hot in his ears.

  “It didn’t have to be this way,” Donnelly said. “All you had to do was look the other way and—”

  “You know I couldn’t do that.”

  “She loved you.”

  “She used me.”

  “No she didn’t,” Donnelly said. “I did.”

  “Same thing.”

  “If you believe that, then you’re dumber than you look.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Fuck if I know, but that’s hardly news to you. So why don’t we knock off the chit-chat and you tell me why you’re really here.”

  “I’m curious,” Brody said. “At what level do you define success? One hundred lives ruined per week? One thousand lives per month?”

  “Cut the sanctimonious crap, Brody,” Donnelly said. “Virtually ev
ery great American has gotten to the top by cheating, or as our esteemed leaders in the political class do it — being paid off by other people. The working class you so desperately hoist onto a pedestal does the same thing. They just aren’t as good at it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Oh Brody, you simple, simple man,” Donnelly said, “Years ago this home’s builder pulled me aside and told me he hadn’t been reporting all his income. The IRS had him dead to rights and he needed my help. Then again, it seems that my entire adult life every other blue-collar contractor that I hire wants cash payments. Give up, Brody. Everybody cheats.”

  “You’re not a plumber for chrissakes,” Brody said. “If you screw up, then the entire economy crashes.”

  “My position in life isn’t an accident,” Donnelly said. “Get over it.”

  “If you’re so important then why did you need the taxpayer when your precious bank nearly imploded?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Donnelly huffed, for the first time showing that Brody was getting to him.

  “Let’s make it simple. Why did you foreclose on an old man’s house when it was paid for? Why shouldn’t you be held responsible for his suicide? Shaking people down wasn’t enough, was it?”

  “What makes you think I’m responsible?”

  “What part of ‘the government has been reading everybody’s email’ don’t you understand?” Brody said. “Wake up, Donnelly. In spite of everything you’ve done I’m giving you a choice. Take a deal and roll over on your buddies. Give me what I want and you’ll only do a few years in a country club prison. Then you can fade out into retirement.”

  “People like me don’t go to jail, you delusional sonafabitch.”

  “People like you?” Brody said. “It’s time to give the taxpayers a better return on their investment. Take my deal or—”

  “Go to hell.”

  Brody played his last card, “I got you dead to rights, emails, phone transcripts, you name it. I’ve documented your greasy little fingers all over multiple frauds and this time I ain’t going up the chain of command. You’ve got that angle pretty much covered, but that’s not everything. Last chance, work with me or I’m going public.”

  “They’ll crucify you,” Diamond said, but he had an unsure look on his face.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Brody said. “This summer’s congressional hearings made you famous. There’s no hiding now. I go public and you’ll be the poster boy for every bad banker out there. You and your buddies have gotten away with so much shit, the people are so fucking angry, and Congress will be so embarrassed you played them for public fools that they’ll have to do something. And you know it.”

  The outside alarm and flood lights clicked off.

  A low rumbling growl echoed through the room.

  Brody shot upright in his chair. No, no, no. She was supposed to handle the diversion, that’s it. What was she doing?

  “What was that?” Donnelly said.

  A different growl pierced the air.

  Brody spun around, turning his back to Donnelly, eyes searching the opposite end of the huge room, straining to see...

  A click came from where Donnelly had been sitting. Brody’s heart plummeted into his stomach, hand plunging into his jacket, jerking his .45 free as his peripheral vision caught sight of Donnelly standing, arm raised, a snub-nosed revolver pointed—

  The gun’s deafening report echoed through the room.

  The bullet’s impact slammed him back into the chair, his .45 tumbling from his hand. Brody stared in numb fascination at a spreading patch of red seeping from his left shoulder and across his jacket. Then the pain hit, white-hot and radiating up his neck. He clenched his teeth in response, not wanting to give Donnelly the satisfaction.

  “Oops, I meant to kill you,” Donnelly said. “If it’s any consolation I was considering your offer.”

  “Fuck off,” Brody replied through lips pursed tight against his pain.

  “You’re not much of a cop,” Donnelly said. “I thought patting down a suspect was police procedure 101. You must have missed that class.”

  Brody’s angry lunge upward stopped before it really began, the sudden movement sending a sharp stabbing pain lancing into the base of his skull. He fell back into the chair, his mind flashing back to the empty box on Donnelly’s desk and the voluminous pockets on the front of Donnelly’s designer robe.

  A long murmuring snarl rippled through the room. It sounded close.

  “Nice touch,” Donnelly said, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you actually think I would’ve given up if you threatened me with a police dog? Well, I’m not some chicken-shit-camel-fucker and this isn’t Abu Ghraib.”

  “You pompous ass,” Brody said, his voice strengthening as he willed himself to accommodate the pain, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll take care of Rover in a second,” Donnelly said. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

  Brody defiantly glared at Donnelly.

  The banker aimed the unfamiliar weapon.

  Something rippled in the shadows.

  Donnelly never saw it coming. A hairy hand clamped down on his wrist and squeezed, the revolver thumped harmlessly onto the floor. Each of the carpal bones in Donnelly’s wrist shattered in a series of sickening crunching sounds. A second werewolf appeared and lifted Donnelly into the air then dumped him into a chair.

  Brody used his functional right hand to retrieve his pistol, his left arm hanging limp at his side. To stem the bleeding he grabbed one of the decorative pillows next to him and stuffed it under his jacket and against the open wound. A kaleidoscope of stars exploded behind his eyes. After several moments of controlled deep breathing he managed to avoid fainting, focusing his attention on the primeval scene unfolding before him.

  There was something horrifyingly captivating about the delicate grace with which the werewolves’ moved. A thin sheen of silky hair covered each beast; one werewolf black as night, the other gray. A distinctive white streak of fur creased the gray werewolf’s upper chest and side of his throat.

  Brody recognized the reminder of his handiwork. His heart beat like it was full of hummingbirds as nightmarish memories of the castle tunnels settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. His good right hand holstered his next-to-useless .45 and trailed down his side.

  Inside a jacket pocket his fingers curled around his back-up weapon - a compact Walther PPK loaded with silver bullets. It had cost him a fortune, though he couldn’t imagine shooting who he surmised to be Tanya or the gray beast he had recognized right away as Owen. On the other hand, he should do something but the mere act of getting his hand into his pocket had been torturous.

  So now what?

  The black werewolf leered at Donnelly. Her muzzle wrinkled back, glistening fangs shining luminously in the moonlight. She could taste the delightful smell of the man’s terror escaping from the pores of his skin. The man’s vanity only made him more savory. Too much time in the tanning booth had turned his leathery skin into a crisp crust protecting the marbled mouthwatering layers of flesh waiting within.

  Brody watched, again toying with the idea of drawing the Walther. He didn’t have to kill them. The silver bullet he had winged Owen with had laid him out as if he had been run over by a truck. Then again, his carefully aimed shot in the tunnels had been luck. No matter how good of a marksman he liked to think he was, just getting the short barreled Walther centered on target with the pain he was in and with those two monsters charging him would be a feat, no less trying to wound both of them in the shoulder or leg—

  “You have no idea what you’ve done,” Donnelly abruptly said to Brody as the black werewolf grasped the banker’s ankle, spinning him onto his back. Before Brody could even think to respond the black werewolf’s hand reached under the robe and through Donnelly’s boxer shorts. Razor sharp claw
s sliced into the pulsating flesh, gripping tight. A high pitched staccato scream burst from Donnelly’s mouth as her arm pulled back accompanied by the wet tearing sound of flesh and fibers, the banker’s torn organ flopping limply in her grasp.

  Donnelly’s head thrashed about, hysterical at the sight of his crimson covered penis and testicles grotesquely mashed together between her slippery fingers. The black werewolf casually flung her arm to the side. Donnelly’s genitals hit a picture window with a loud splat, one of his testicles grotesquely stuck in place, the remainder of the steaming mess sliding down the glass in one glistening red streak.

  Whining like a dog looking for a treat the gray werewolf licked at the gouts of spurting blood slathering Donnelly’s stomach, arm braced on the floor to steady his huge frame, virtually intoxicated by the salty taste seasoned with fear. The werewolf’s mouth opened, tearing through the pink flesh, snout pushing past the fatty folds of skin, reaching inside. His jaws worked once and he eased back, a ropy section of squishy intestine dangling from each side of his dripping muzzle. He tossed his head. Chewy lumps flew up in the air like so many fat sausages, blood droplets scattering like paint from a roller before plummeting into the werewolf’s open maw. He licked his rubbery black lips, delighting in the smoothest tasting elixir he had ever known. Every tangy drop sliding down his throat made his head swoon like the first time he had experienced the everything-is-right-in-the-world-feel brought by heroin.

  The black werewolf’s body tingled as she watched. It had been years since she shared a meal with a lover, no less one for which she could savor every morsel without any moral compunction. The majority of her kills had been depressingly the same. Her victims dispatched with such humane speed they didn’t have time to realize what happened. This man’s crimes however, meant she could do whatever she wanted. She hadn’t felt so wolfish in a long time. She leaned in, mouth clamping down, ripping away a fat chunk of meat from the writhing man’s spongy thigh and rolling its sweetness around in her mouth, swallowing the ragged piece in one juicy gulp.