Wolfkind

by Stephen Melling

  Wolfkind

  The Invisible Assassin

  A novel

  by

  Stephen Melling

  Wolfkind

  By Stephen Melling

  Copyright© by Stephen Melling 2011

  Published at Smashwords

  Dedications

  This book is dedicated:

  To Elaine, my wife and best friend, for her patience and no nonsense approach.

  To my children, whose innocence always serves to set me free.

  To my mother and my late father.

  Big thanks go to Alan I'Anson, Stephen Gallagher, Bev Jackson, Nick Hogg, Joe Standing and Jill Wells for their readings and helpful criticism and suggestions.

  Prologue

  Fox Hills, Los Angeles. Fletcher Regan.

  “All quiet on the Northern front?” the metallic voice filtered through the radio clipped to Nate’s belt, the words crisp and clear in the still twilight.

  Nate Kellerman reached for his radio. “Everything here’s quiet.” He almost said too quiet. But he remained tight-lipped. In the brutal realm of the LA underworld anything less than cold dedication was a liability. Kellerman had no liabilities.

  Amid the chirp of crickets and the distant drone of traffic on San Diego Freeway he made his way lightly along-side the perimeter fence. On the westward horizon the soft orange glow turned purple as the hot California day departed, leaving behind an equally balmy evening. The absence of the infamous smog left the air redolent of Star Jasmine and Mimosa instead of carbon monoxide: the LA of which people dreamed – balmy, fresh, picturesque, and a tad offbeat.

  His shoes crunching the gravel and his radio clasped in his left hand – he always kept his gun hand free – Kellerman re-checked the surveillance cameras, the gates and guard posts. In the growing darkness he watched their silhouettes wax and wane beyond the trees at the perimeter.

  On the driveway inside the front gates Kellerman said. “Finished my sweep.” But as he lowered his radio he felt an icy shiver and snapped alert. Motionless, not breathing, he sniffed the air like a bloodhound. The beat of his heart quickened. Hairs on the back of his neck stood erect.

  All at once he felt watched.

  Nate Obadiah Kellerman had been alive for forty-two years, the last eleven spent in the employ of crime boss Fletcher Regan, who recruited him from the military. Nate was extremely efficient, a true professional who remained fiercely loyal, yet equally was a disciple of self-preservation. His devotion had kept him alive, whereas many of his colleagues were now cautionary tales in mob lore.

  But Nate’s continued survival was not due entirely to Special Forces training, or that he kept in terrific shape. It was intuition – plain old hunch-play, perhaps primal instinct; the biological alarm that warned of impending danger.

  He might argue that his fear was irrational, that he had succumbed to the hysteria fast infiltrating the underworld. Fletcher Regan’s mansion boasted top dollar surveillance, and the largest ratio of guards to square feet of ground Kellerman had ever seen – an urban fortress. No elite force on the planet could breach the security undetected.

  Nevertheless, standing on the driveway of Regan’s Fox Hill’s mansion, Kellerman felt those bio alarm bells tolling ominously at the outermost limit of his senses. A worm of superstitious terror squirmed in his mind. He lifted his radio. “I’m coming in.”

  In the bowels of Regan’s mansion the dim, windowless surveillance room flickered with a dozen monitor images. Head controller Ray Ulrich, still pissed about being assigned permanent graveyard shift, tossed aside the remnants of his Chinese supper and belched with aplomb. On his screen he noticed Kellerman behaving oddly by the front gates. “Hey Rogers,” Ulrich nudged his partner. “Check out G.I. Joe here.”

  But his partner wasn’t listening; Rogers was eyeing his own console, switching camera viewpoints, pushing buttons. He fumbled for his radio. “Oswald,” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “You left your goddamn post.”

  Ulrich swiveled his chair. “What’s up?”

  Rogers jabbed a finger at a monitor that displayed a deserted stretch of fence. “Oswald’s not there – he’s…he’s gone.”

  Ulrich leaned in and gave a disinterested look at the screen. “Relax,” he said. “This cradle’s strapped tighter than the Pentagon.”

  Rogers ignored him. “Oswald, where in the hell are you? Come back.” When all he got back was static, he reached for the alarm.

  Ulrich’s outstretched hand stopped him. “Wait a goddam minute.” He flicked on his own radio. “Kellerman, has Henry been by you? Can’t see him on the screen and he isn’t answering his radio. Over.”

  “He was there a minute ago.” Kellerman’s voice crackled over the air. “Give me one second.”

  A moment later Kellerman appeared on Henry Oswald’s monitor, glancing warily to his left and right. Then he saw something and dropped to his knees.

  “Oh shit.” Rogers said. “Shit shit shit.”

  “Can it, will you.” Ulrich said. “I ain’t hitting the siren ‘cause one of the guys went to take a piss.”

  A burst of static from the loudspeakers. “Control! Control!” It was Kellerman. “I’ve found Oswald. The perimeter’s breached. Repeat. The perimeter’s breached.”

  Rogers tore free of Ulrich and slapped the alarm button hard enough to crack the red plastic casing. The shrill, whooping siren penetrated the complex.

  In Western California the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Darkness settled over the land like a shroud.

  Under the motionless fronds of a palm tree, Kellerman leaned over Oswald’s body. The guard’s head appeared to be missing. A pool of blood spread from his decapitated body. On the grass beside him lay his unfired weapon. Kellerman bent to retrieve it. The barrel was crushed and bent upwards. A man’s finger, torn out at the knuckle, hung from the trigger guard.

  Kellerman’s intuition crashed in with dreadful finality.

  Sshhhffffff.

  It was the stealthiest of sounds, followed by a fleeting shadow, which sprang up behind him. Kellerman’s military-sharp instinct kicked in and he dived like a trained gymnast over Oswald’s body, high forward rolled and twisted so he faced whatever cast the shadow, his weapon un-holstered and ready to spit poison.

  Back in the control room the sound of automatic gunfire tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tatted over the air. Then a piercing cry.

  On each of the monitors the hitherto well-disciplined guards stampeded in monochrome silence. Gunfire, muffled by distance, broke out in several parts of the grounds; dogs barked; guards yelled at one another; someone shrieked; then someone else. One of the monitor images shook, fragmented, as if something had crashed into one of the camera poles.

  Ulrich’s eyes snapped from screen to screen. He grabbed his radio. “Kellerman? Kellerm-” He threw down the radio for his weapon and stuffed spare ammunition clips into his waistband.

  Rogers was staring with child-like fear at one of his screens. “Mother of God…”

  “The hell you talking about?” Ulrich fumbled with his weapon. “This is no drill, sweetheart, grab some steel.”

  But Rogers slumped in the chair, arms limp at his sides. “Ray,” he said, not turning to his partner. “We’re all dead.”

  The monitor images flickered.

  All the lights went out.

  Part One

  Of Mice and Men

  Ahead lay only darkness.

  The Camaro’s headlights cut the night as two drizzle-specked beams, heading straight as arrows in a westward direction. Though no other cars were on the highway, Joshua Grenire kept his foot easy on the gas. The needle twitched at the fifty-five mark. If ever it crept beyond, he eased on the gas.

  Since leaving the old man and the ramshackle w
ood-framed house over a day ago, his fears of being unmasked had started to fade. When he had first set out, he had half expected the public at large to see through his masquerade and point at him, screaming and hollering. A torch-bearing mob would quickly assemble, carry him shoulder-high to a hastily erected funeral pyre, and burn him at the stake while dancing in the fire glow.

  But in the last twenty-four hours he had moved among the general population unchallenged; shared highways with other motorists, pulled in at gas stations, stopped at red lights and queued in traffic. Although a few people had looked at him, no one had looked at him twice; no one had pointed and screamed. No chants of unclean! Unclean! Like the rest of the faces he dissolved into the population.

  Why should I not? He dared to think. At twenty-five years old, in faded Wranglers, new loafers, a western style open throated shirt, he cut the figure of a young all-American guy. The only fashion tilt which separated him from the mainstream was his longer than average hair. Barlow told him he looked like a Rock Singer, but Joshua liked to think of himself as an undercover agent, like 007. After all, like James Bond, he was on a mission for the common good. And he was the good guy…wasn’t he?

  He took his attention off the road and smiled at his reflection in the rearview mirror, but his eyes remained haunted by the reason for his journey – his own raison d’être - and the smile soon died. So he returned his gaze to where the Camaro’s high beams opened a capsule of light in the all-encompassing gloom.

  Up ahead on the right, about half a mile distant, faint light from a truck-stop twinkled in the darkness at the roadside. Soon the name Mel’s Diner asserted itself in a blaze of orange neon. A small, self-contained restaurant, it was the only building on this stretch of highway, set back twenty or so yards from the road behind a pock-marked parking area.

  The meager food supplies he had brought along with him from New Hampshire were little more than crumbs and discarded cellophane on the back seat. Over eight hours had gone by since his last meal and his hunger pangs were more like stomach cramps. Well here goes, he thought as he neared the diner, the moment for him to take the next step.

  Time to interact.

  He eased on the gas and maneuvered onto the puddle-filled parking lot, where dirty water hissed against the underside of the car. On the deserted west side of the lot the Camaro came to a halt, rocking gently on its springs. He shut off the engine and killed the lights. But didn’t get out. Not right away. For a moment he stared hard at his reflection. “Let’s do it,” he said at last and eased himself out of the car.

  The night air was cool against his skin. Faint strains of a golden oldie came from within the building. A pleasant, inviting sound. A broad ribbon of steam floated skyward from a rooftop vent, which the wind caught and spread like fog across the other vehicles in the lot: a huge semi, an Oldsmobile, a hot rod with flames painted on the doors, and a brown Winnebago. Soft light from the diner’s windows reflected in the puddles. The air surrounding the diner smelled nothing less than divine, beckoning, inviting him to come on in, the water’s fine.

  I’m about to interact with people right now, he told himself, and took several deep breaths. Act like the natives and all will be well. He skirted the puddles and approached the entrance, deliberately rattling his car keys – which seemed the proper thing to do. He tried whistling, but no sound came from his pursed lips. Just hot breath. I’ll never pull it off, he thought inwardly. I’ll eat dirt at first base. And then the crowd will assemble...

  The glass door creaked open and as music drifted out, Joshua drifted in, hesitating only briefly at the threshold. The interior appeared reasonably clean, a tad warm for his comfort, the air heavy with cooking aromas. Over at a jukebox against the wall the golden oldie faded.

  At the first table a truck driver was eating a steak dinner, the smell of which clawed at Joshua’s stomach. The trucker nodded perfunctorily and then returned his gaze to his plate. Joshua opened his mouth and almost said: “Howdy, partner”, when a girl’s high-pitched laughter three tables along distracted him.

  Three young people. A bleach-blonde girl and an unshaven guy who wore ripped denims. Joshua pegged these as the owners of the Hot Rod. Another guy who could have been a twin of the first sat slightly apart from them.

  Joshua started toward the order-counter with his head slightly bowed. As he passed the table he glanced sideways. The girl looked at him. She had almost white blonde hair that she pinned back with a bright blue slide. Around her neck she wore a silver crucifix similar to the one Barlow wore back in New Hampshire. Only Barlow’s was tarnished and fixed to a length of string rather than a chain.

  “You want something, boy?”

  And whereas this girl appeared to wear the chain for decoration, Barlow wore his because he truly believed his soul was reliant upon it.

  “Hey boy, I’m talking to you.”

  Joshua hadn’t realized the guy sitting beside her was addressing him. Indeed was rising to his feet. “You got wax in your ears?”

  His buddy shook his head gravely. “I don’t think he hears you, Earl.”

  Joshua came back to himself and stepped away. The girl grabbed Earl’s arm and pulled him back toward his chair. “Set your butt down, cowboy.”

  Earl reluctantly returned to his seat, scowling and puffing out his chest like a prize peacock. “I’ll kick his country ass all over the-” His girl stuffed a handful of french-fries into his mouth, truncating his speech. The trucker watched them over the top of his spectacles, chewing soundlessly on his steak.

  “Get you something, pal?” Joshua turned around and saw the short-order cook around this side of the counter, a dripping spatula in his hand. Several greasy handprints stained his otherwise clean apron. The man stood six four and probably tipped the scales at twice Joshua’s weight. His forearms were thick as a man’s calf.

  “Excuse me?” Joshua said.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Oh.” He pointed at the trucker. “I’ll have what he has, please.”

  The cook grunted and returned to his grill.

  Joshua selected a booth against the far wall, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his fingers drumming the Formica, trying desperately to remain upbeat. But with a sinking kind of certainty he feared every pair of eyes in the diner rested on him. He resisted the urge to look up, and got his first real inkling of how difficult was the task ahead.

  Instead he scrutinized his distorted reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser on his table. Wondered what kind of persona he presented; whether his disguise was as transparent as it now felt. He poked his fingers inside his shirt and pulled out the small gold wolf’s head fixed to a chain around his neck. The trinket felt solid and weighty between his thumb and forefinger; he caressed it, drew strength from the contact.

  A morose young waitress brought over coffee. Spilled a drop on the table and immediately wiped it up with a jiffy cloth. “Oops.” She said tonelessly and waddled back to the kitchen. Joshua tucked the amulet back inside his shirt and watched the waitress saunter off. His roving gaze found old buddy Earl.

  “Don’t eyeball me you long-haired freak.”

  Joshua quickly picked up a menu and shielded his face. Whilst pretending to read, he closed his eyes and sighed. Although he had always wanted away from the house in New Hampshire, part of him now pined for its comforting familiarity. He felt half naked, transparent, altogether ill-prepared to engage the public.

  A couple of minutes later the waitress set down his meal in front of him. Blood pooled on the plate around the half cooked meat.

  “Bon appetite,” she wrinkled her nose.

  Joshua set about the steak without once lifting his eyes from his plate. During his meal, several screwed up napkin missiles landed on his table, and he did his best to ignore them until a French-fry bounced off the Formica near his plate. This brought another round of giggles from Earl’s table. Joshua snuck a glance their way. Both Earl and his buddy g
lared at him.

  As soon as he finished his meal he paid, forgot to leave a tip, and then quickly made for the exit. Fresh air slapped him in the face. He inhaled deeply, grateful to be free of the diner. He moved in a straight line for his Camaro. Fumbling for his keys, he stepped in puddles up to his ankles.

  Behind him the door of the diner squeaked open, letting out a truncated verse of a Garth Brooks tune. Heavy footsteps crunched through the gravel. Then the door opened again. “Earl,” a girl’s high pitched voice. “Come on back here.”

  Although he felt like sprinting for his car and tearing out of the lot, Joshua looked over his shoulder. Earl was marching through puddles toward him. He was grinning. “Wanna come look at my girl some more?” he said. “Staring at some other guy’s chick your thing?” Earl’s buddy swaggered onto the lot to join them.

  “Look, I’m sorry if….” Joshua heard half the words before realizing he had actually spoken them himself.

  Earl’s grin disappeared and he broke into a run, charging through the puddle like a water buffalo. With a grunt, he swung an almighty haymaker at Joshua’s chin. “Kick his ass, Earl.” his buddy yelled.

  Joshua easily sidestepped the clenched fist. Earl’s special delivery haymaker found only fresh air, and without the resistance of Joshua’s face to counter-balance the force, all two hundred and forty pounds of his bulk helped his kneecap into the Camaro’s fender. “Motherfucker.”

  The girlfriend covered half her face. “Earl…don’t.”

  Joshua circled away. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Earl turned around. His face had gone purple and a string of spit looped from his teeth. He pushed himself away from the Camaro, limping now. Instead of re-launching his blitz attack, he reached into his jacket and pulled a switchblade. “Get in the fucking car, Donette.” He feigned a lunge and then threw himself forward proper, thrust out the six-inch blade like it were a fencer’s foil.