by Gale Stanley
“What can I get you?” A barmaid stood by the table, waiting to take their order. Mike listened to Slade make small talk for a few minutes until she came back with their drinks. Slade waited until she walked away before speaking again. “This was a good choice, but we probably shouldn’t meet here again.”
“You’re right. There are other places…” Mike took a swallow from his mug of dark amber ale and studied Slade over the rim. Cinnamon with a faint hint of wet dog. It blew his mind and his blood pressure. Jaxon had come to Mike’s bed with Slade’s scent all over him. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You make any progress?”
Slade shrugged. “I got a job in the club.”
“Doing what?”
“Stripping.” The wolf grinned at him. “And doing a pretty damn good job of it, if I do say so myself. Which I don’t have to, if you judge my performance by the size of my tips.”
Motherfucker. Another surge of anger ripped through Mike. He couldn’t keep the sneer off his face.
Slade gave him a funny look. “You have a problem working with a wolf?”
Yeah, if the big, bad wolf is after my boyfriend. “Only if he’s a cocky bastard.”
Slade’s face creased into an irresistibly devastating grin. “I prefer to think of myself as confident.
It might be the boredom of being stuck in a squad car for eight hours a day with the same partner, but most cops spoke to each other candidly about their personal lives, about everything. That wouldn’t be happening here—and not just because Mike couldn’t reveal his relationship with Jaxon. Mike had mixed emotions about Slade Wolfe. The wolf might be the second sexiest man he’d ever met, Jax being number one, but his cocky persona gave off bad vibes. “Whatever you want to call it, it comes across as arrogance in my book.”
“Whatever you want to call it, it’s purely a fundamental belief in my own abilities.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that one, but you still have to make me a believer.” Mike still wasn’t sure how he felt about his new partner. He had to admit he liked a man who was comfortable in his own skin, and Slade appeared to be a man who would know how to handle himself if the fur started to fly.
“Believe me, I’m doing my job,” Slade said with a smile of male satisfaction. “I got inside Castle’s apartment yesterday.”
That hurt. Mike had never been past the boundaries of Dogtown, let alone inside Jaxon’s apartment. “I don’t like it.” Understatement of the year.
“Why?” Slade frowned at him. “I’m just doing my job. I already planted a bug in the living room.”
“And he’s not suspicious?”
“No. The man was obviously attracted to me. Getting inside was a piece of cake.”
Mike’s heart sank. He couldn’t blame Jax for being infatuated with Slade. The man sitting across from him was intelligent and easy on the eyes. More than that, he was a wolf. Hell, even he was physically attracted to the guy. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t the tiniest bit jealous that Jaxon had bedded Slade first. “So now what?” Mike said through gritted teeth.
“Weren’t you briefed?”
“I want to hear it from you.” Mike said impatiently.
“All right.” Slade snorted, clearly annoyed. “Here it is in a nutshell. The FBI has been watching the Weres for years and—”
“Does that include you?” Mike sneered. How could he trust a man who spied on his own people?
Slade shrugged. “Probably. We’re all being watched. Even you, Mike, and we have to choose sides. I chose the right one.”
“You mean the one that’s paying you big bucks.”
Slade regarded him carefully. “I thought we were on the same side. What’s your point?”
Inwardly, Mike cursed himself for letting emotion color his words. He agreed to this so he could help Jaxon, not make things worse. “No hard feelings. I just want to know that I can trust you.”
“None taken. You can never be too careful in our line of work. The Were population has been increasing steadily, and like birds of a feather each group tends to stick with its own species—the feline-shifters in one area, the wolves in another, and so on and so forth. Relations between them and the human population have been relatively quiet.”
Mike raised his brows. Obviously this guy hadn’t been in New York all that long. Race relations had never been peaceful here.
“In the last year, disturbing intelligence reports have come back indicating that communication channels have opened up between these diverse Were neighborhoods. These groups have always functioned independently from each other. A storm is brewing. The Weres are talking about banding together in a hostile takeover. Rebellion and riot is not the answer. If they want equality and integration, they’re going about it the wrong way. There are politicians in Washington lobbying for their cause. They need to let those supporters do their work.”
“Maybe they’re tired of waiting,” Mike broke in. “Maybe the Feds are feeding you a bill of goods.”
Slade frowned at Mike. “The wheels turn slow, but they are turning, and at least nobody is getting hurt. And that’s why I’m in this. It’s not all about money. I don’t want my people hurt any more than you want yours put in jeopardy. Castle’s name keeps coming up as an insurgent, a radical supporter of revolution.”
“I think the term is patriot.”
Slade’s brows rose. “The government doesn’t agree. If he’s allowed to keep stirring up the shifters, the Feds will send in the military, and the Weres will be rounded up like cattle. We can’t let that happen.”
Bullshit! If Jaxon was involved in subversive activities, Mike would know about it. Would you? Maybe this is why Jaxon doesn’t want you in Dogtown. He’s says he’s keeping you safe, but maybe he’s got secrets he’s keeping safe. What about your secrets? He shut off the voice of conscience in his head.
“Earth to Mike.”
“Sorry.” Mike focused on the conversation. “I’m listening.”
“So I planted the bug in his living room, and now I sit back and listen. When I get something we’ll pick him up.”
Mike’s chest went tight. He expected this, but hearing it out loud made it real.
“Fortunately, there are no problems over electronic surveillance. In a terrorist situation, we don’t need prior permission to plant surveillance in private homes.”
“So did you bug the bedroom too?”
Slade shook his head.
“What’s the matter? Couldn’t get inside the bedroom?”
“Oh, I got inside all right. So did he. In this case, fucking the man was not a hardship.”
Fucking wolves. They were all hound dogs. And what are you? Judging by the boner trying to fight its way out of his jeans, Mike’s testosterone levels must be off the charts. He bit his tongue to stop the hormone rollercoaster. If he couldn’t control his libido he’d fuck up the assignment and his relationship.
“So for now things are status quo until the bug brings in something concrete. If not we’ll go to plan B.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll talk about it when we need to. How can I contact you if I need you?”
Mike had a prepaid disposable phone ready for Slade. He really hoped this would be over quickly. The sooner Slade Wolfe got out of New York, the better.
Chapter Five
Slade did a lot of walking when he left the Safe Zone. Walking always calmed him down and helped him think. Mostly he thought about Mike Donovan. Something about the cop was off. Slade didn’t trust him. Apparently the feeling was mutual. All through their meeting Donovan acted sullen and angry. Slade kept expecting him to snap any minute.
This was bullshit. Slade usually worked alone, and that’s the way he liked it. He didn’t need a sullen cop on his ass. Donovan had been forced on him. According to his superiors, he needed a contact that was familiar with the area, and who better than a member of the NYPD, a man who could call in the calvary if needed. More likely they didn’t trust a wolf to bring in anot
her wolf, and they wanted a human to keep an eye on Slade. Whatever the reason, Donovan wasn’t going away. They were stuck like glue.
If he had to have a partner, he wanted a man who’d be willing to risk his life for him. He didn’t see Donovan sticking his neck out for a wolf. Danger usually created a bond between men and helped them to overcome differences. When an agent put on the cloak of law enforcement he wasn’t human or Were. All agents were created equal, but it appeared Donovan didn’t agree.
In that respect, he was like most humans. They all had preconceived notions about Weres. All shifters were dishonest, lazy, drunked-out animals who liked to fight and fuck. The men in Dogtown were a rowdy bunch, but they didn’t fit the stereotypes that were being thrown around by the media and his own employer, the United States government.
Donovan lived here in New York where there was a big shifter population. He must deal with wolves all the time. Couldn’t he see that, just like in the human world, no shifters were the same? He should know better than to believe the hype. Maybe it was something else. Maybe he just doesn’t like me. If that’s the case he’ll just have to deal with it until we’re finished here, which hopefully won’t be too long because working with someone you don’t trust is hell.
His superiors had told Slade that Donovan was a stand-up cop, recommended highly by his captain who thought he’d be good in undercover work. Donovan would disarm a target with his all American good looks, and then take him out when he least expected it. That might be true, but he’s not a good fit for me. Slade would put his life on the line for Donovan, but he didn’t trust Donovan to do the same, and that would color his actions in future situations.
Slade stopped in his tracks. Am I the target? It wouldn’t be the first time the FBI took out one of their own. He’d seen it happen. The unlucky shifter had been a double agent—or so they said when Slade replaced him. The Were agent had been spying on a group of wolf-shifters who were operating a drug cartel in California, but in fact, he was a member of the target organization himself. A human friend on the LAPD told Slade the agent had been framed, that drugs had been planted in his home, and not by the cartel. A SWAT team had been called in to pick the agent up, and he’d been shot trying to get away. Murder? He’d never know for sure, but he didn’t plan on suffering the same fate. Now, he had Donovan in his crosshairs as well as Castle. Until Slade knew Donovan’s real motives, he’d be walking on eggshells around the man.
Slade navigated beer cans, hypodermics, and fast-food containers as he walked around the neighborhood. He looked for trouble, but he didn’t find it. Dogtown had a reputation for being a high-crime district, but the more Slade saw of the neighborhood, the less evidence he saw of violence. The area was depressed with a lot of abandoned and boarded-up buildings, but the wolves were slowly fixing them up. Sure, this ghetto didn’t compare to the upscale area of Los Angeles he lived in, but then few areas did. The human media always exaggerated reality to sell papers.
He stopped at a diner for coffee, bought toiletries at a corner store, and watched a group of kids play ball in the street. He even talked to a few people on the pretense of asking for directions. When he brought up the subject of crime or drugs, he heard a common refrain. People here wanted the same things humans wanted—safe streets. For the most part they policed themselves. The cops were slow to respond to calls. Either they were afraid to enter the wolf ghetto, or they didn’t give a shit about protecting its people. Either one didn’t bode well.
* * * *
Days in Dogtown passed slowly. Wednesday felt like it should be Friday. Before Slade left for the Kennel Club he listened to the surveillance tapes again. Not a damn thing on them. This kind of operation took time, and he swore he’d go stir-crazy by the end of it. Even Jaxon was MIA, so he had no eye candy to inspire him when he danced. There wasn’t one other man in the club who appealed to him on the same level.
For the past two nights Jaxon had been conspicuous in his absence. Maybe he was on vacation. Maybe he was trying to avoid Slade. Somehow he’d given him the slip. Slade couldn’t even tail him. Jaxon had taken his car, and driving didn’t leave a trackable scent. It annoyed the hell out of him.
Slade threw on old jeans and a sweatshirt for the walk to the club and managed to arrive just before he was due to go on. He looked for Jaxon, but once again the man was nowhere to be seen. According to Quinn, the club’s owner had ducked out early in the day and told him to hold down the fort. Where the fuck was he going? Probably to meet the others in his terrorist organization. While Slade was shaking his ass, Jaxon was plotting to overthrow the government.
Slade wished he could duck out as well. In spite of Jaxon’s alleged crimes, Slade still wanted him. He danced for Jaxon. Without him in the audience, Slade had no desire to strip. He heard the music start, and he made his way to the stage entrance, four steps leading up to a curtained doorway. Just in time too. The announcer’s tinny voice came over the mike.
“All right, boys, here’s the man you’ve all been waiting for. Give Slade a hand.”
This is it. Slade stepped out to wild applause and wolf whistles, his heart pounding in time to the music. The crowd appeared larger every night. Hope Castle appreciates all the money I’m bringing in. Slade ignored the cheering men, putting everyone out of his head except his boss, pretending he was dancing only for him. Moving slowly and sensuously, he walked to center stage and scanned the room, filled with disappointment when he didn’t spot Jaxon.
The crowd showed their own disappointment at Slade’s slow start, and he picked up the pace, moving along the front of the stage and playing with the buttons on his shirt. Strutting his stuff, he tried to keep out of reach of the men who were pressing forward in an attempt to yank him off the platform.
Slade removed his shirt, tossed it, and danced from one side of the stage to the other, still scanning the room. Finally he had to admit Jaxon wasn’t going to show, and he cut a few minutes from his performance. Dressing in record speed, he hightailed it out of the club before any of the men could speak to him. Slade went straight to his apartment, hoping to hear something on the tape that would tell him where Jaxon had gone. The recording device hadn’t caught a thing other than a game show on the TV. Next he checked the phone tap. Nada. Either Jaxon was super careful or he led a very dull life. Maybe Donovan had something. Slade pulled out the cell phone the cop had given him. He wasn’t answering his phone. Slade slammed it down on the dresser, and then picked up his own cell to check his messages. Only one. He listened to his superior officer’s voice with a rising sense of dread.
Richard Graham, the FBI officer responsible for DSA, was also responsible for putting him and Donovan together. Graham wanted to know why Slade hadn’t called in since he met with Mike Donovan. He expected a call immediately, and he ended by saying if Slade thought he couldn’t make the case, it might be time to implement Plan B.
Chapter Six
Plan B, backup plan, meant one thing—if you have nothing on your suspect, frame him. And if a wolf was accused of terrorism, he’d get the death penalty.
Forget civil rights. Forget the Constitution.
The Feds would go to any lengths to protect their reputation. If they said someone was guilty, then they were guilty. End of story.
Since Graham’s call last night, Slade’s stress level had reached epic proportions. He had extensive training in a number of areas such as surveillance, firearm training, explosives, hand-to-hand and knife combat, and military strategy and tactics. He could function as an FBI assassin easily. He’d killed men in combat situations without batting an eye, but they had posed a threat to national security.
He did not want to take down an innocent man. Graham’s directive was completely off base. For one thing, it was too soon. He hadn’t been here long enough to get his evidence. Why were the Feds in such a big hurry to get Castle? Slade could not believe Jaxon presented that big a threat, and he had no intention of getting him arrested until he knew his intended target
was really a threat to national security. Maybe if he’d been doing his job, he’d know already.
Where was Jaxon going? He should have been tailing him around the clock. Graham had been right about one thing. Slade had been lax, letting his attraction for the other wolf override duty and good sense. If he had been able to report on Jaxon’s whereabouts, Graham wouldn’t be on his ass about Plan B. So, okay, he’d follow Castle today and report back to Graham with something solid, buying himself and Castle more time, maybe saving the man’s life in the bargain.
Slade walked by the club at 8:00 a.m. and saw Jaxon’s Toyota parked behind the building. The one car rental agency near Dogtown opened at nine, and Slade was waiting at the door. He leased a nondescript Subaru and parked it in a spot where it wouldn’t be noticed but he’d be able to see the Toyota if and when it pulled away. Slade settled down in the driver’s seat, determined to wait all day if need be.
At one in the afternoon, the Toyota pulled into the street and Slade followed a discreet distance behind. Castle headed toward Greenwich Village, and Slade dug out his cell phone to call Quinn. The bartender wasn’t thrilled to hear that the star performer felt sick and wouldn’t be dancing that night, but he wished him well and ended with, “I’ll see ya tomorrow.” Slade ended the call and concentrated on the Subaru.
Slade pulled into the same parking garage as Jaxon. From there, tailing him would not present a problem. As long as the other wolf traveled on foot, Slade would be able to track his scent.
The quirky neighborhood, known as an artistic center, captivated Slade. He’d missed this section on his earlier trips around the city. Walking along the crooked cobblestone streets, Slade checked out the brownstones, antique shops, and upscale boutiques as he followed Jaxon to a midsize apartment building. He ducked into a shop across the street and made note of an intercom by the entrance. Jaxon pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Slade’s heart sank. It was beginning to look like Castle might be meeting some bohemian types who were sympathetic to shifters.