The Wolves Within

by David Lucin

  Wrapped in a blanket she borrowed from the couch inside, Jenn shut the door behind her, then bit off a piece of deer jerky, savored the salty flavor, and handed another sliver to Bryce. He must not have heard her come out, because when she stepped into his peripheral vision, he gasped and said, “Easy, Jansen. You trying to give me a heart attack? I’m old, you know.”

  “Not that old.” She thrust the jerky at him. “Here.”

  He held it in his lap and continued staring at the wood line beyond. Jenn took the seat beside him. The eastern sky burned a fierce red as the sun peeked over the horizon, and the scent of crisp pine tickled her nose. A layer of dew settled on the ground and the trees, and each breath chilled her lungs.

  From the ruins of the cabin rose a thin trail of smoke. Little more than rubble remained, and it smoldered even now, six hours after the inferno began. While it took most of the farm’s water reserves and almost everyone’s help, the fire was contained and hadn’t spread to the adjacent woods. Some weapons in the armory would have perished, but Ed held out hope that he could recover some ammunition that was stowed in a fireproof filing cabinet. Jenn wasn’t counting on finding her backpack, though, inside of which was Rainwater.

  “Any update on Maggy and Julian?” Bryce asked.

  Miraculously, no Beaumont staff were killed last night, but two, Maggy and Julian, were wounded. Maggy took a shot to the shoulder and should recover. Julian, however, was hit in the abdomen. From what Jenn had heard, it was the left side, not the right, so the bullet missed his liver. Still, he was bleeding badly. In the Dodge, Ed and two armed guards drove both to the hospital, along with a pair of injured CFF people. Jenn wasn’t sure how serious their injuries were, and she hadn’t thought to ask. The well-being of her friends mattered infinitely more. Certainly, also, Ed would have passed on news about the attack, so word about Grierson’s status as a criminal had, with any luck, by now spread throughout Flagstaff.

  “Nope,” she said. “It’s been a while. I assume Ed’ll be back soon.”

  “Has Grierson’s kid given up any info on where his dad is?”

  Last night, Vincent Grierson’s own son, Philip, was taken prisoner. Currently, he was tied to a chair in Ed’s shop. Jenn was tempted to march in there and spit in his face but contented herself with the thought that Dylan might, at some point, interrogate the man in the same way he interrogated “Ian” in Phoenix. “I don’t think so. Sophie tried talking to him a while ago, but he kept quiet, so she’s letting him stew in there for a while.”

  His empty gaze returned, and Jenn recalled his reaction to the shootout. At the cabin, when he watched the flames rise into the sky, she thought his instincts as a firefighter had kicked in and he was assessing how best to mitigate the damage. But then, after Dylan announced that CFF was withdrawing, he refused a celebratory fist bump from Yannick. That was when she knew something was wrong. She shot three people last night, all of whom were now dead. Admittedly, the memory of those bodies crumpling to the ground within seconds gave her the chills. So did the image of that woman taking a bullet through the neck. Jenn reminded herself that by attacking the farm, CFF had declared war, so not for a second did she question the morality of pulling the trigger. Bryce, on the other hand, was clearly dwelling on what he’d done.

  “It gets easier,” she said. “Killing.”

  He only fidgeted with his deer jerky.

  She sensed his hesitation, his guilt, his shame. All too well did she understand how it felt to take that first life. Her words wouldn’t heal his pain, but she could at least empathize with what he was going through.

  “My first messed me up in a big way,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep, started acting super short with everyone. Sam tried to help, and I just kept pushing him away and pretending I was fine. Pretty much went to Phoenix with Sophie to try and hide from everything.”

  His fidgeting ceased, and he peered over at her. “Wait, there was one before Phoenix? Before you shot that guy with Val?”

  “Not many people know about him. I don’t really brag about it, obviously.” She bit off another piece of deer jerky, tightened the blanket around her, and relayed the story of Payson and Yankees Hat. “He deserved what he got. Animals probably tore him to shreds weeks ago, but I couldn’t care less.” Scratching at her armrest with a fingernail, she added, “I’m not gonna lie, last night was different. My first two, I could see their faces. They both knew what was coming. Those guys at the cabin? The woman in the woods? That was like target practice.” Beneath her blanket, she shivered. “We just need to remember that they didn’t give us a choice. What else were they expecting? That we’d politely ask them to stop and leave?” She popped the rest of her jerky into her mouth. “But yeah, no, I’ll still be thinking about what we did for a while.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Bryce said, but through the sarcasm, she heard a hint of honesty. He ate half of his jerky and continued. “I thought being a firefighter, what I had to see with that job, made me cut out for working security. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Don’t say that.” She turned in her seat to face him. “Just because you feel guilty about killing someone doesn’t make you bad at this. I’d be a little freaked out if you were acting like Dylan and were totally cool.” Bryce was nodding along with her and had finished his jerky, so she decided to give him the honest truth. “I still dream about that Yankees hat creep. Same with the guy in Phoenix. I will forever, probably. So you’re not the only one who’s bothered by this. I am, too. We can be bothered together.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then, “Jenn Jansen. Wise beyond her years. Funny, just the other day, I was giving you advice.”

  The praise warmed her more than the blanket. Maybe she was a leader, as Dylan had said. “I’m not that wise. I think Dylan called me ‘ahead of the curve.’ You’ll catch up.”

  “Catch up?” He huffed out a laugh. “I’m twice your age.”

  “I know, right? Isn’t that weird? Because every time you try to fist bump me, I swear you’re fifteen.”

  He laughed again, but when he realized that she’d poked fun at him, he raised a hand as if he planned to strike her. She lifted the blanket to cover her face and pretended to cower away from him. All he did, though, was drive his knuckles into her scalp. When she lowered the blanket, his foreboding expression was gone. “Hey,” she said and held out her fist. “You good?”

  Smiling stiffly, he bumped it. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  For a while, they sat in silence together. The odd whiff of smoke from the cabin competed with the smells of the forest. Jenn’s eyelids were heavy. She yearned for a warm bed with Sam in it, but the vestiges of adrenaline floating through her bloodstream would probably keep her awake even if she tried lying down.

  “Grierson’s behind it all,” she said and held Val’s cross. She wondered if her murderer was here last night. Had she shot him? Or had he escaped? Maybe Philip Grierson would know. Jenn made a note to have Sophie ask him, if she hadn’t already. “He staged the Go Market, then paid people to start the protests, which snowballed into that march on the dorms the other day. Everything’s been about getting support, and it’s working. A good chunk of this town backs him, and they’re more vocal than ever.”

  “Why attack us, then?” Bryce asked. “What does that accomplish? Seems like a stupid move if things are all going his way. If he waited, he might’ve beat Andrews in the election. Then he could order the refugees deported and do whatever he wanted. Now he’ll be public enemy number one.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he freaked out that the police shut down his protests and started to figure him out. He could feel cornered and this was his way of lashing out. Just because he wears nice shirts and slacks and used to give out treats at the farmer’s market doesn’t make him any different than guys like the Major. He might say this is about refugees, but it’s not. Not completely, anyway. All he wants is power. He’s only hiding behind his Citizens for Flagstaff and using it to make himself see
m legit. Or to make himself believe he’s legit. As soon as the cops put their boot down and pushed back a little, he showed his true colors.”

  “Sure, I get that, but why the farm and not the police station? Wouldn’t that have been a smarter strategy?”

  She ran her tongue along fuzzy teeth and realized her toothbrush was in her backpack with Rainwater. “Because Sophie turned down his offer to join him and we were there helping the cops at the dorms? He could’ve thought we were an easier target. I honestly don’t know. Maybe he just hates Sophie.”

  He scratched his cheek, which was shaded in an uncharacteristic layer of dark stubble. So far, he’d remained sheltered within the relative safety of Flagstaff, and like most people in town, he hadn’t been exposed to the world beyond its borders. Reality, it seemed, had finally, maybe inevitably, begun to rear its ugly head, but there was still time to stem the tide.

  “We’ll stop him,” Jenn said, as much to herself as to Bryce. “We’ll find him and take him down. If Sophie can’t get Philip to give up where his dad is, Dylan will.”

  Bryce nodded once but added nothing more.

  Surely, CFF’s attack would compel Gary to finally announce his bid to run for mayor, and with Grierson out of the picture as a legitimate contender, he shouldn’t have much difficulty winning. Yet Grierson remained a threat since many CFF followers might not care that he was manipulating events from the start and had turned criminal by assaulting the farm. Some, Jenn feared, would even applaud the violence he’d wrought. When General Silva overthrew the president of Brazil and proclaimed himself Dom Pedro III of the Second Empire, the people didn’t oppose him; they celebrated. The same with Caliph Ali in Iran not long after. To her, a Flagstaff under Grierson would be no better than those places—America’s enemies.

  Gary was the future. He had to be. Unlike Grierson, he was compassionate and would bring residents together, not drive them apart, and unlike Andrews, he was strong and had a firm sense of right and wrong. For that future to become a reality, Grierson had to be stopped—and soon, before his supporters could organize themselves and rally behind him.

  The sound of tires on gravel drew their attention. Cream barked and took off, down the steps. Less enthusiastically and at half the speed, Cookie followed. Hand on her Glock, more out of habit than as a precaution, Jenn squinted and peered down the driveway, spotting the Dodge.

  “It’s Ed,” she said and threw off her blanket.

  Behind the Dodge was a Flagstaff PD squad car. Liam drove, and in the passenger seat was Gary. When the vehicle came to a stop, Gary climbed out, offered a terse wave while dodging the dogs, and opened the rear door.

  Then Jenn’s heart leaped into her chest.

  Sam bolted toward her at a full run. She met him halfway, and they wrapped their arms around each other. The last time she saw him was about thirteen hours ago, but with all that had happened between then and now, those thirteen hours felt more like thirteen days.

  He held her at arm’s length and eyed her from head to toe.

  “I’m fine,” she said, sensing his concern. “How did you—”

  “Liam swung by Gary’s and then they came to get me.”

  Jenn turned to ask Ed if Maggy and Julian were okay, but he’d begun running toward the house, Gary and Liam close behind. Strangely, neither had greeted her. Bryce was gone, too, chasing after them.

  “Sam,” she began, her knees rubbery. “What’s going on? Are Maggy and Julian all right?”

  “Ed said they’re fine.” He bit a thumbnail that had already been chewed raw. “Listen, Jenn. It’s the mayor. She’s missing.”

  17

  Light crept in through a dusty window, illuminating a table saw, a drill press, and a lathe. A half dozen unfinished projects—tables, mostly—were scattered about. The thick smell of pine was oddly comforting; it reminded Philip of his mother’s woodshop at the ranch, which didn’t look all that different from this one.

  A guard with a semiautomatic rifle stood by the door. Not once did he say a word to Philip, who sat in the middle of the room. His ankles were bound to the legs of a wooden chair, and his hands were secured behind its backrest. He couldn’t remember having been more uncomfortable in his life.

  Sophie came in not long after her guards locked him up in here. She asked some basic questions first, like why he attacked the farm and if CFF was involved with the Go Market. He kept quiet. The truth wanted to come out, and more than once he was tempted to spill everything to Sophie, if only as a way to get it off his chest, but he quashed the temptation. He was angry with his father for ordering an operation that took Rachel’s life and the lives of five others, but he wasn’t a rat. After the meatpacking plant, two of his guys got away. The lawyers tried to convince Philip to give them up, but he never did, not even when the prospect of a reduced sentence was dangled in front of his face.

  Through every question, Sophie was uncharacteristically cordial, apologizing again for Rachel—sincerely, too, he thought. To his surprise, she also gave him a sip of water and a piece of jerky. But now she’d left him in this chair for hours, which was no doubt part of her plan to wear him down.

  A hundred times he replayed the battle in his mind. He pictured CFF victories, but the most ideal scenario, where nobody died and the Beaumonts simply laid down their arms and surrendered, still ended with Dad asking him to lead a new attack against the police at the station or the water treatment plant. If nothing else, the disaster last night had proven that Dad would stop at nothing to avenge Mom.

  Philip blamed himself. He was the one who’d proposed no half-measures, though he hadn’t imagined that his sentiment would translate into attacking the Beaumonts’ farm. Mom would have been horrified with him. With Dad, too. This had all gone too far.

  No, it had gone too far the night Philip killed Valeria Flores. He could have stopped everything if he’d only stood up to Dad from the beginning. Then Valeria would be alive. Livingston would be alive. Rachel would be alive. But he was too much of a coward. The rage and the desire to avenge Mom were so strong that he didn’t see his father for who he truly was.

  The door to the shop swung inward with a bang. Philip jumped in surprise as Sophie stormed inside. She hadn’t cleaned the soot and ash off her face. Her jaw was clenched so tight that Philip swore he could hear her teeth grinding against each other.

  “Where is she?” she growled at him. “What have you done with her?”

  The hairs on Philip’s forearm stood on end. She? Her? “What are you talking about?”

  She pulled off her mesh-back cap and threw it between her boots. A puff of wood dust shot up as it hit the concrete. “So you’re going to keep playing dumb with me now, is that it?”

  “I honestly have no idea what—”

  “Mayor Andrews, you knob.”

  The floor vanished beneath him, and he felt like he was in free fall. Had Dad kidnapped the mayor? Killed her? No, Sophie said “where,” implying that she was alive but missing.

  Her hands went to her hips, and she leaned down so her nose was level with Philip’s and only inches away. A whiff of cigarette smoke tickled his nostrils. “As a precaution after your little attack, the police stopped by her house. They found a broken coffee table and a dead bodyguard in the living room. Andrews and her husband were gone. You expect me to believe that you don’t know about any of this, that your dear old dad kept you out of the loop?”

  Philip’s initial thought was that Dad had kidnapped the mayor so he could use her for an exchange: her for Philip. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

  Was this always part of his plan? Part of his coup? Why hadn’t he told Philip? First the Valeria Flores signs, and now this. Did Dad not trust him anymore?

  “Yeah,” he said. “I expect you to believe it. This is all news to me.”

  She made a tsk sound with her tongue. “For argument’s sake, let’s pretend you’re right. Any idea why your loving father wouldn’t keep you apprised of his plans?”


  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m assuming it’s because he doesn’t trust me.”

  Her face twisted in what might have been confusion, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. Was she enjoying this?

  “You and daddy not getting along?” she asked.

  Philip could continue lying to Sophie and defending his father, but what was the point? CFF was done for. The cops would know about the attack, then quickly come to the obvious conclusion that CFF had shot up the Go Market as well. With the Beaumonts and the police aligned against him, Dad wouldn’t stand a chance.

  You’re not a rat, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him, but he didn’t listen to it. Giving up his guys after the meatpacking plant would have hurt them, not helped. The situation was different now. Attacking the farm was a declaration of war, and Philip couldn’t foresee an outcome where his father survived. The man wouldn’t surrender; he’d sooner die fighting in Mom’s name than allow the cops to arrest him and throw him in a cell.

  But Philip didn’t want to lose a second parent, despite the rift between them. Besides, when the police finally tracked down Dad, others might be there; afraid of retaliation after the protests, Dad had insisted that Esteban remain at his side instead of joining the attack. Philip was already responsible for Brandon losing his mother; no way he would stand idly by while little Ophelia lost her father.

  “Let’s just say,” he started, “that me and him haven’t always been that close. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to hand over a good chunk of the family’s wealth to my lawyers.”

  Sophie hummed and said, “Yeah, I wouldn’t be, either.”

  “So why again are you surprised that he doesn’t keep me up to speed on every little thing that’s going on in his head?”

  Another hum, this one more thoughtful. Then, from her pocket, she retrieved a wooden stir stick, which she chomped on before saying, “The police checked out the ranch. Obviously, your father wasn’t there.”