His body sagging, Marcowicz slipped to the floor of the van as Mordred slammed the side door shut. He slipped the gag into the guy’s mouth, checked his eyes under the twitching lids, rolled him half around so he wouldn’t choke, and kicked another tarp over him. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key and slipped out of the parking space. In the mirror he saw only normal traffic, which was light on the side street. And no nosy cops.
Whistling one of those unrecognizable tunes from the lab, Mordred headed for the warehouse he was squatting. His head throbbed, but he forced himself to ignore it. The cattle prods had taught him how to ignore the pain.
He had work to do, and he needed to focus.
DiSanto
“Nick, talk to me.”
DiSanto waited for the CSI guys to continue doing their thing. Lupo was stalking around the crime scene, now ignoring the vic altogether. He seemed fascinated by the damned wolf figurines and wolf-related everythings that lay scattered about.
Many of the wolves were speckled with the vic’s blood, giving them a certain realism that almost tickled DiSanto’s sense of humor. But Lupo seemed on a mission and ready to erupt, so he kept it to himself.
Sure as shit, he’d seen those teeth marks, and he wanted to point them out to Nick, but it looked like he’d already seen them and now he was acting out some sort of anger. DiSanto remembered how often the term “animal attack” had been used in the great forested state of Wisconsin lately, and—if he thought about it at length, which he might do later—he knew that many of those instances ended up involving Nick Lupo. Whether it was Eagle River, Wausau, or just right here in metro Milwaukee, the guy to call for those fucking “animal attacks” was Nick Lupo.
Coincidence?
DiSanto didn’t think so.
But what did it mean?
He followed Lupo around and saw him crouch to sniff a stain on the carpeting.
What the hell…?
The big cop stood, making a face, as if what he’d smelled had been very bad indeed. But he made no effort to share with DiSanto whether this new thing was a clue of some sort or not.
DiSanto eyed his partner as he made like a ghost and disappeared into his own observations.
“Hey, watch it!” one of the techs blurted out as he stepped into one of the bloodstains.
“Sorry,” he muttered, one eye still on Lupo.
It was clear Lupo was working the scene his own way, in his head.
DiSanto swallowed his rising anger and settled back to watch Lupo until they agreed they were finished. Lupo made calls, got calls, and played the role of task force head even though DiSanto could see his heart wasn’t in it.
Heather
The local press had gotten a whiff of this new murder—brutal murder, they would say on the newscasts, though by definition all murders are brutal—and connected it to the other senseless ones. And then probably Bakke had given them Lupo in a fit of generosity, so when Lupo and DiSanto finally sidled out from the duplex they found themselves facing a ragged row of microphones and recorders held over the barricades by the most dogged of the local television reporters.
Uniforms looked to Lupo for the order to disperse the vultures, but Lupo shook his head imperceptibly. He made an off the cuff statement so generic the reporters could have written it for him. Leads were being followed, the investigation was ongoing, progress was being made.
Heather was concealed once again by the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered, tearful neighbors and total strangers. Lupo didn’t see her, but she was sure the big military guy from the other crime scene did—though he ignored her.
Was he the guy? Getting his jollies by ogling at the scene like a textbook firebug?
Her instinct had always been good, but this time her instinct was confused. As much as he appeared to be connected, it also could be that his only connection was similar to hers. After all, she herself had been to both crime scenes, and she hadn’t committed the murders.
She wanted to snap a picture of the military guy and wrestled with her cell phone, but he seemed to know what she was up to and managed to keep several spectators between them. She gave up.
Heather would have bet he was involved in her investigation, but how? She put her cell away, and when she looked up, he had disappeared.
Definitely involved.
Lupo had finished up, taken a couple questions with non-answers, then he and DiSanto had retreated away from the menacing microphones.
It was time to make her approach.
Jessie
She felt a presence standing over her shoulder and somehow just knew it wasn’t merely a spectator or someone waiting for her to clear off. She pressed MAX BET and watched the reels turn, trying to catch the person’s reflection. All she got was a hint of dark hair.
Jessie whirled—as much as one can whirl while seated on a stool—and faced her visitor, muscles tense.
A stranger, at first.
Tall woman, luscious figure, face fit for centerfold or cover, or…television?
No, it can’t be…
Glance up—the hair was too dark, almost blue-black.
The make-up dark and almost menacing. Certainly too serious.
But there was no mistaking those large, penetrating eyes, and the long, straight nose. And that porn star mouth.
“Heather,” Jessie said. Inside, she wanted to pummel the woman.
“Hello, Jessie,” Heather Wilson said, extending her hand.
Jessie ignored it and, after a few awkward moments, Heather pulled it back.
Not gonna happen, Jessie thought. If she touched that woman, it would be to kill her.
“So, you’re back,” she said. “Unfinished business? Plan to see Nick?”
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I did see Nick already. He just didn’t see me.”
Jessie felt a wave or rage wash over her. Who was this woman kidding? What did she want from her?
“Look, I know you don’t like me.”
“That’s an understatement.” Jessie couldn’t help herself.
“But you didn’t like me from the start, even before Nick…and I—”
“Just get to the point.” Jessie could feel her face scrunching up like a prune.
“Okay, okay. So I’m not here to sweep your boyfriend away. Far as I’m concerned, you two deserve each other. I’m here because I’ve been following the Wolfpaw hearings, and I have some information Nick will probably want to hear. I’d like you to smooth the way for me—”
“No way, sister. You want to talk to him, you do it yourself. What’s it all about, anyway?
“If you won’t help me, why should I tell you?”
Jessie had second thoughts. Given Nick’s fears, maybe it was foolish to turn this woman away, if she was a source of information he didn’t have.
“All right.” She nodded. “All right, I’ll talk to him. What about those hearings?”
Heather looked entirely different, but still ravishing and enticing. Jessie could see how people fell over themselves to help her.
But she was now a werewolf, too, and that made her dangerous, as ally as well as enemy.
“The hearings aren’t the biggest news. I have information on what Wolfpaw is up to, and believe me, it’s more than just about some petty crimes in Iraq.”
“I wouldn’t say petty…” Jessie said.
“They’re petty in the bigger context. They’re symptoms of the disease at the heart of the company. It’s not a company, in philosophy. It sees itself as a movement.”
“So let’s talk.”
“How about a coffee or something? There’s too many people around here. Maybe the corner of the cafeteria?”
“Lead on.” Jessie followed, barely believing she had given in so easily.
Sigfried
When his cell burped and vibrated across the vast desk in his inner office, Sigfried was occupied. His hands were cupped around the woman’s ears, and he was forcing her up and down
on his aching erection.
He’d just been grinning widely, enjoying one of those moments of privilege.
Lowly “everymen” suspected captains of industry indulged themselves in such base ways, and joked about it, but probably didn’t realize how much head was given from below the ornate desks located in the middle of basketball court-sized offices. Offices tastefully appointed with multi-million-dollar trinkets plundered from the world’s art galleries and collections.
Her golden hair, a requirement today, was silken beneath his strong fingers. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth, very talented indeed. Sensual and accommodating, opened wide and receiving his deep thrusts with practiced ease. A long line of drool connected her chin to his groin, and more saliva dribbled down his cock. Her sucking sounds blended with her rapid nose-breathing and perfectly matched the rhythm of his thrusting.
Her knees were probably screaming by now, because Sigfried was known to require a very long session. But Margarethe’s stand-in, Veronika, had sent the best she could find, and his instructions had been followed to the letter. The kneeling woman wore a typical Bavarian beer hall maiden’s outfit, although he had pulled down her dirndl and bared her impressive breasts before pushing her down to worship in front of him. Her hair was tied up in two braids on the sides and piled up high, giving his hands plenty of purchase for his grunted maneuvering of her face in relation to his shining erection.
But now the damned cell phone had interrupted his concentration, and he felt himself soften a bit between her fleshy lips. She noticed, for her eyes opened, and she blinked up at him inquiringly. Mascara ran down her cheeks in black-marker lines. He’d been at this a while, and her eyes had started to water. Now he sensed that she wondered silently whether she should go on, or did he want to take that?
“Just keep sucking,” he growled. “Voice mail.”
So she bore down on him, and he ignored the vibrating phone until it stopped, satisfied, and he finally felt the enormous climax rising from down low and finally he screamed in German as it resolved in a gush that filled her mouth and choked her. He held her head so she couldn’t go anywhere—the privilege of rank, baby—and made her lick him clean.
He was still hard, as usual, so he continued to thrust long after she had finished.
Take that, Everyman. Bet you wish you were me.
Goddamn it, those hearings had emasculated him for hours, the preening, primping, bloated camera-whore congressmen scoring their points against him with their self-important rhetoric and barely veiled insults that ultimately simply hid their envy for his money, his lifestyle, his power. They’d publicly emasculated him, but right now he felt a million times the man any one of them was, and he finally pulled the woman off the floor and allowed her to half-collapse on his lap.
He’d taken notes. Several unfortunate “accidents” would shake the Washington establishment in the next year. Maybe they’d even tilt the balance of power. Either way, he’d have the last laugh even if he was forced to wear orange.
And he knew he wouldn’t.
He manhandled her lithe body around sideways, and she went slack, following his very specific instructions, and then he flipped up her frilly skirt. No underwear impeded him. First he paddled her ass cheeks until they glowed a healthy red—wonderful globes, beautifully shaped—and then he worked his fingers into her and manipulated her shaved folds until she squealed. He continued, alternating the paddling and the fingering, until she screamed and went slack on his lap. Unsurprisingly, he was hard again. When he moved her off himself, she looked at him, a question in her glazed eyes.
“Nah,” he said, waving her off. “Tell Veronika she’s a treasure. I’ll tell her boss to give her a raise.” He plucked a stack of cash from a drawer and handed it over, dismissing her with a tiny wave. She collected herself and exited hastily. He waited for his second erection to fade before standing to re-button.
Maybe later.
After the next round of fucking hearings.
He snatched the phone off the shining mahogany and fumbled with it until the voice mail played.
They were informing him that the council was assembled, waiting for him. He grinned without any humor. Well, they’d damn well wait until he changed his pants. This pair was speckled with bodily fluids—his, hers, both, it didn’t matter.
When he entered the conference room located far down his private corridor, he stopped to survey his hand-picked inner council. Several would be known to television cameras. Several would most definitely not be known, ever. And several would not last the month.
He believed in turnover, Sigfried did.
He liked keeping them waiting.
“Come to order,” be barked, and a couple of them jumped.
Good.
He liked them afraid.
“Damage control?”
One at the far end spoke up. “Editorials in five major papers and sixteen websites, all negative but three websites. Reporting on major networks, negative except for one.”
His money spoke loudly, but it would have to speak louder.
“Response?”
Another, to the right this time, piped in. “Press releases forwarded to all usual outlets. PR section has created a half dozen YouTube videos that show the congressmen in negative lights based on their stupid and/or incomprehensible comments and questions. Another half dozen YouTube clips show your answers to be balanced and well-structured.”
Sigfried nodded. “More?”
A third voice, shakier, responded. “We still have teams scouring the Internet for illicit video of, uh, questionable activities. Where appropriate, servers will be sabotaged and posters will be, uh, discouraged from further posting. Problem is many of these things go viral and get mailed back and forth. We have a tough time controlling such traffic.”
“Do a better job of it,” Sigfried said, making a mental note. It was time to promote someone from outside to the inner circle. It was time to clean house.
“Yes sir,” said the doomed man, wiping his brow.
Sigfried detested weakness of any kind.
“Any other reports?”
“Financial, sir. Profits are still up. Stock price has stabilized after a dip last week. Your appearance, while somewhat damaging, assured stockholders we are on top of the problems. The ‘bad apples’ defense is working. Public opinion is easily swayed when the stockholders are happy.”
“Good. Contracts?”
The appropriate voice arose from a corner. “Several new from the African continent. One cancellation, but Legal is investigating a lawsuit to halt it. U.S. Army has requested pricing on several new contracts, despite being warned by congress to withdraw support. Oh, and Bell has accepted our request for new fleet attack helicopters based on our own design. We are haggling, but the bid will be lowered even more by next week.”
Sigfried nodded. The company his father had built on the foundation laid down so long ago was thriving despite some setbacks. The government’s misguided witch-hunt notwithstanding, Wolfpaw’s health looked good.
“Send in our guest.”
Near the door, one of the members stood and hurried out. He returned a few moments later with a large, muscular man in a black Wolfpaw Land Forces uniform. He moved stiffly and limped slightly. A network of scars across his face extended below the collar of his starched tunic. His beret was tucked neatly through an epaulet. He stood at attention as well as he could, given his recent injuries.
“Major Wilcox?”
“Sir.”
“You have a report for the council?” Sigfried lounged in the huge leather armchair and rocked imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
“Well, go ahead, man.” Sigfried waved impatiently.
“Thank you, sir.” Wilcox clicked a remote in his hand, and an LCD screen slid down from the ceiling where they could all see it.
“I’m grateful for the second chance, sir,” Wilcox blurted out.
Sigfried frowned. Poor decorum. But the soldier had hi
s uses, though he had been bested. “Carry on.”
Wilcox flicked on the screen and video began.
“Regarding the problem up north,” he said, “our agent Mordred sent this report.”
First there was some dark footage of a couple fucking.
Can you still use the word “footage” when there’s no film?
Regular light and infrared gave all the necessary details, and a tinny soundtrack provided the grunting.
“This is our infiltrator, you’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. Dominic Lupo, a homicide cop. A good one. He is one of us, and he has proven to be stubborn and ridiculously lucky.”
“And his ladyfriend?”
“A woman doctor who works on the reservation. Jessie Hawkins. Self-reliant and tougher than she looks.” He cleared his throat. “Sir, Mordred could switch from surveillance mode to elimination with ease.”
“No, Wilcox. I know all that. I am intrigued by this shifter’s origins, and I want him watched for now. I may want him tortured a bit, later on, but I don’t want him eliminated yet. He’s caused us some great damage, but we’re busy right now with our own problems. You may have noticed me in front of that rogues’ gallery of so-called lawmakers, allowing them to aim their barbs. But we’ll see about that last laugh, won’t we?”
“Yes, sir.”
The video ended. Another began. This one was of a different nature.
“Mordred’s questioning session of the local police psychologist, David Marcowicz. He was reluctant at first to provide any information, though we knew he’d been speaking to other players. Then he became interested in cooperating.”
The screaming startled a few council members. Others licked dry lips. One wiped a brow. No one looked away.
On the screen, an indistinct set of backyard clippers was snipping off the fingertips of the screaming subject, who was manacled to a chair.
Snip, snip, snip.
Over the screaming, a voice intoned: “Those are the first knuckles. No need to worry about trimming nails, eh?”
The screams degenerated into snot-distorted bawling. Making out the words was difficult due to all the whimpering and crying and snorting.
Wolf's Edge (The Nick Lupo Series Book 4) Page 19