Wolf's Edge (The Nick Lupo Series Book 4)

by W. D. Gagliani

  “Papá, I’ve come to bring you back home with me. Our new home.”

  He held his nostrils. He remembered this same smell in butcher shops down the street. He entered the kitchen. The lights didn’t work, but there was enough light from the balcony door to see the form in the shadows at the far end of the massive room.

  It was his father, his clothes ragged and his hair growing wild.

  “Papá’!” he said, startled by his father’s appearance.

  “Hello, my son,” Giovanni said, and then his voice broke, and he was sobbing. “I knew you would come back. I felt it. And your mother…?”

  “She’s safe on Uncle’s farm, but she sends her love.”

  “Dio mio, what a terrible time it has been.”

  “Yes, Papá’, it has been.”

  Giovanni stepped farther out of the shadows. Franco gasped when he saw the bloody smears around his mouth, crusted in his father’s stubble. Giovanni blinked rapidly, as if this was too much light for him.

  “I’ve been hiding here for weeks, hoping you would return. I—I’ve changed, Franco, I’m not the way I was. I get these urges, I become hungry as you’ve never known hunger. I become another person altogether, a creature. I try to control this hunger, this cursed hunger, but the moon brings it out in me. Sometimes I think I can control it, but then I cannot, and I do terrible things.” He put his head down and wept.

  “Papá’,” Franco whispered. “It’s all right.”

  “I prayed, you know. I prayed that it would go away and leave me alone. I prayed that I could go back to that day when you were playing with your friend and I was trying to earn some money for food, and if we had both just—just come home. If we hadn’t… But it’s the past now and we can’t change it, can we?”

  “No, Papá’.” Franco felt the tears squeeze out of his eyes.

  Giovanni came closer to his son. He reached out and touched Franco’s face.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “Things will be better now.”

  “Yes,” Franco whispered.

  “I hear the Germans are finally on their way out of the city. The Allies are only a few days’ march away. The war is almost over for us.” He spread his arms. “We can be together again, a family. We’ll go and fetch your mother.”

  Franco stepped into his father’s embrace. It felt good for a few moments, like it always had. He laid his head on his father’s chest. He felt his father’s heartbeat.

  Giovanni kissed his son’s cheek and caressed his face with rough hands.

  “My son—” Suddenly Giovanni’s body stiffened, and he began to pull away. “What—? Franco, I feel…Franco?” His voice rose as the fear took him. “My son, what have you done?”

  The heat must have become suddenly obvious. Franco held his father close, his strength surprising the older man, while his hand had reached behind his back where he’d tucked the dagger stolen from the priest, the companion dagger to the one Giovanni had lost to the enemy wolf. As soon as the blade was free of the scabbard, Giovanni had sensed the heat of the silver dagger.

  Franco brought it around quickly, before his father could free himself of the embrace and flee.

  But Giovanni didn’t attempt to flee.

  Franco buried the dagger in his father’s chest, hitting the heart on the first try.

  Giovanni screamed, and the wound caught fire, as did his clothing around it, and the boy plunged the blade in and out several times, the reek of scorched flesh and blood enveloping them as they hugged one last time.

  The creature within Giovanni began to manifest, the hair lengthening and his face beginning to change, his mouth becoming a snout, and Franco thought his father would take him along to hell. He twisted the knife cruelly within each new wound, each twist and each stab piercing vital organs and liquefying them in a flash of silvery heat.

  Franco watched as his father flickered from human to wolf and back again, his eyes bulging and finally exploding in a shower of blood and gore, and his hands—which were now claws and could still have raked Franco’s face and head—spreading in helpless surrender.

  The boy stepped back, and his father collapsed in a burning, smoking heap onto the marble floor.

  “My son,” he cried in a ragged whisper through charred lips. “Grazie… Thank you.”

  And then Giovanni Lupo was dead, his body once again resembling that of a human.

  Franco’s tears came, and wouldn’t stop until he had done what he knew must be done.

  Later, he would arise from where he had sat in vigil and leave the apartment of his youth, changed forever.

  The silver dagger would go with him, but after the war he would seek out a crippled Father Tranelli and return it to him. And then he would try to forget everything.

  Until someday in the far future, when neighborhood men in the America where Frank Lupo had made his life with a wife and son would come to him, whispering about a wolf…

  Endgame: Fifth Day

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lupo

  The card Simonson had snagged from the dead inner perimeter guard got them through the outer doors on the building he pointed out as the compound’s hub. The guard had started to question Lupo’s visitor tags, but Simonson had acted as if there’d been no choice.

  “Goddammit Simonson, don’t do that. We could have taken the guy out without killing him.”

  Minutes before, they had accessed the central guardhouse, knocked out and taped up the guy manning it, then spliced in a loop of what was in the cameras’ view. Simonson had it ready, but Lupo wondered how he could have prepared it.

  “Sources,” Simonson had said, grinning.

  The drive into the capital had been long and circuitous, but Simonson had steered them unerringly to this compound in the rolling Maryland hills. It was a miniature Langley, a scale version of the CIA’s main facility, but here the Wolfpaw logo was everywhere. And Simonson’s access had been good through the compound’s outer layer of security, but the inner perimeter guard had argued about Lupo’s guest badge—it was the wrong color for the day.

  “You’re planning to whack the council and killing a guard bothers you?”

  “He’s not on the council,” Lupo growled.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if learning that others shared the werewolf gene had dragged his soul to hell.

  Now, with blood on their hands, they were committed. It had to end here.

  Sigfried

  The secret council meeting was scheduled for later, but as excited as Sigfried was about it, he had other plans for now.

  His call had revealed that Margarethe was indeed back and available, so he booked her for a special session and prepared the playroom.

  What was the point of being incalculably wealthy if he couldn’t enjoy himself?

  The congressional hearing had been cut short today, with several congressmen—and the one woman—suddenly displaying much less dogged determination to accuse Wolfpaw of egregious crimes against people, not to mention numerous human rights violations and felonies here on home soil. The list aired early on was long, but in the shortened session some of the wrinkly old dinosaurs took shots at the list and eventually wiped a fair amount of charges, essentially cutting by over a third the number of wrongdoing incidents by the Wolfpaw rank and file.

  To Sigfried, this was worth a celebration. His wife had taken off for a shopping spree in the city and wouldn’t miss him until late the next day. Margarethe was back, but she had claimed not to have enough time to procure a plaything for him, so it would just be him and her and whatever favored toys she chose to bring. And of course the playroom was fully stocked.

  He whistled a little tune his father and grandparents had taught him. Deutschland Über Alles.

  Margarethe had already come through the special elevator entrance at the rear of the penthouse and had made herself comfortable on the round bed.

  Her leather-clad body was nevertheless displayed for his pleasure. When he walked into the room,
he faced her spread legs, and his view of her shaved pubis and its tiny chain was enough to drive him wild. She batted her darkened eyes at him from behind the leather mask and smiled with lust. Her nipples stood at attention, and he knew she had been squeezing them in anticipation.

  He saw an array of colorful toys spread out beside her and shed his clothing as quickly as possible so he could stretch out beside her lithe form.

  She was perfect in every way. Her hair was a few shades darker, but he didn’t mind.

  “Hello, Sigfried,” she muttered, her voice husky. “I’ve been keeping these warm for you.”

  She withdrew a long, slick phallus and offered it for his tongue. He lapped and purred, like a cat.

  “My dear, you are worth every dollar…”

  “I know,” she said.

  She took hold of his erection and stroked it with her long hand, making him rock-hard. He slid around and nosed at her groin, reaching her favored spot when she spread her thighs apart. Her hand never left him, massaging downward with increased pressure just as he preferred. He raised himself up on all fours and she knew what he wanted. She twisted sideways and approached his buttocks with her perfect face. The phallus she had allowed him to lick now became her way to fuck him, and he grunted as she buried it to the hilt.

  His grunting increased in intensity until he sounded like a pig at the trough.

  “Are we a good little Nazi?” she mumbled, working behind him now as he panted. “Are we a good party member? Do we have a good party member? Apparently we do!”

  He moaned, now speechless in his wild lust. And then he screamed as she worked him over with the phallus in one hand and a studded paddle in the other, sparing neither his buttocks nor his testicles.

  By the time she was finished—and so was he—they were both covered in sweat, and Sigfried lay on his flaccid belly gently snoring into the jumbled bedclothes.

  Margarethe untangled herself from him and slid off the bed like a panther. Sigfried’s satisfied snoring continued, and he snorted once.

  She left him in the playroom and made her way to the guest shower, the one with the extra professional drain enclosed within a hidden janitor’s closet—perfect for bleeding dead playthings. Margarethe started the shower and backed out of the bathroom, instead stalking on long legs down the corridor to the more public area of his sumptuous penthouse. She used her card key, one of his she had managed to have copied. She entered his office and was at his desk, riffling through papers and folders, in barely a minute.

  Then she slid open his inner sanctum, his real office, and checked the rank of wide, flat displays showing his entire penthouse. She figured the “sessions” were recorded to the stack of hard drives blinking in a nearby rack. Sigfried was still asleep. His laptop was open, and she played with the software he had left up and running, working the sleek mouse expertly. She plugged in a series of flash drives and downloaded files, one eye on the door.

  When Sigfried startled himself awake, he was handcuffed to the bed and Margarethe was gone, her musky scent lingering over him.

  He whined a few minutes about the erection she had left him, but enough toys were nearby that he was able to amuse himself. And the handcuffs were specially made so he could defeat them, and he did.

  He prepared for the council meeting, whistling more patriotic tunes that reminded him of his grandparents and the lost grandeur of their fatherland. The car was downstairs, ready for his ride.

  He was almost ready to implement his family’s plans and schemes, carefully shepherded for decades.

  Der Führer would have been pleased.

  Lupo

  Lupo swiped a key card through the box, and the green light gave him reason to breathe again. His muscles had been poised for flight if alarms had been activated.

  He was completely prepared to force a Change and retreat in wolf form, leaving Simonson to his own devices. After all, the guy kept surprising Lupo with his seemingly inexhaustible resources—it had occurred to Lupo once or twice that Simonson might be a CIA or NSA plant, an operative charged with destroying Wolfpaw with no accountability. Publicly they dealt with the company and granted contracts, but privately they either loathed or feared it.

  Knowing what he knew, Lupo figured the latter was more likely.

  He wondered how many werewolves were on the contractor’s payroll.

  Once inside, Lupo wanted to access the database, even if he had to torture someone, in order to get an idea how many enemy wolves there might be. And, if possible, to get a list of them.

  Jessie wouldn’t like it, but Lupo thought they’d both rest easier if he could hunt them down one by one and terminate them.

  How’s that for a soul dragged to hell? he thought.

  The door swung open silently, and they covered each other until both were inside. A long corridor extended in three directions before them.

  “You know the layout?” Lupo said into his mike.

  Simonson grunted. “Yeah, of the lower-echelon areas. This is the nerve center. A whole other animal.”

  “Listen, if the roving werewolf patrols get wind of us, they’ll tear us apart. I can’t hold them all off, and they don’t die easily.

  “I know, I saw plenty of shit over in the desert.”

  They moved down the corridor, Simonson in the lead.

  “Notice I’m following you,” Lupo said. His hackles rose. He felt watched despite the fucked cameras. He gripped his off-the-books .40-caliber Glock, which he had fitted with a suppressor. On his back was an HK MP5 submachine gun, also suppressed.

  Tucked securely into his right boot was the Vatican dagger.

  If the letter his grandmother had left him was the truth, then it was the dagger his father Frank had used to kill his own father, Giovanni Lupo.

  No wonder the thing had always felt strange to him.

  Simonson seemed to know his way well enough, and the hallway being empty meant they traversed the building quickly.

  Simonson spoke in Lupo’s ear, his voice tinny. “The center of the building is where the conference rooms are. The council meets there. The CEO’s offices and quarters are there, as well, in a three-story tower smack-dab in the center. There’s a courtyard there, too, and several guest apartments with separate entrances.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Research.”

  A door opened just ahead, and two uniformed guards jogged out, drawing up short when they caught sight of the intruders.

  “Shit,” muttered Simonson, and shot them both with short bursts of his suppressed MP5K.

  “How do we know they’re not wolves?”

  “We don’t,” Simonson said as he sidled past the dead guards. “If they get up and come after us, we’ll know.”

  “Great.”

  They dragged the guards behind the door and continued down the hall. The bloodstains were masked somewhat by the dark carpeting.

  “How long is the loop?” Lupo asked, glancing at the camera bubbles.

  “Continuous. We’re okay, that way, but if anyone stumbles on those dead guys…”

  “Lead on, Simonson,” Lupo said, his silenced Glock racked and ready.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if Simonson knew what he was doing. And whether he was taking them into a trap.

  They came upon a wide-open area furnished with maroon leather furniture and ebony end tables. War art prints lined the walls, all representations of famous battles. Lupo recognized several at a glance: Rorke’s Drift, Bunker Hill, the Ardennes, Tobruk, Dunkirk, Dien Bien Phu, Gettysburg, the Alamo, Stalingrad…

  A set of huge wooden doors at one end was where Simonson led them.

  “The council should be in there now,” he said, checking his watch.

  Lupo’s neck tingled. “Why no guards?”

  “Shit, they’re in the middle of their most secure space, why post unsightly guards?”

  “You don’t find it strange?”

  “Hell no.” Simonson checked the bolt o
n his HK. “Ready? This is what we came to do, man. This is gonna topple the company. Get ready to make CNN.”

  “Fuck it, let’s go.” Lupo cringed at the thought of the road his association with Wolfpaw had led him down. He steeled himself for the slaughter.

  Simonson kicked in the door and it crashed open dramatically.

  Behind it, a huge oval conference table. Twenty tall leather chairs.

  Unoccupied chairs.

  Sigfried

  He swept into the conference room at the far end with no fear.

  The dark-haired cop, Nick Lupo, whirled at the sound and extended his hand. His Glock was pointed at Sigfried, and the CEO of Wolfpaw laughed.

  Lupo fired two shots, paused a beat, then a third. Any of them would have been a kill shot.

  The slugs made cracks in the armored glass wall that crossed the far end of the room, but the wall held as it had been designed to do.

  “You can lower your guns. They’ll be useless against this reinforced glass wall.” He punctuated his words by rapping his knuckles on it.

  The look that crossed the cop’s face was priceless, and Sigfried thrilled to the feel of the win.

  It’s such pleasure, being superior.

  “Welcome to my little kingdom! As you can see, I was expecting you.”

  He watched the disgust on Lupo’s face with satisfaction.

  “You’re probably wondering what my game might be. Well, stick around and I’ll tell you.” He smiled. “After all, it’s been both frustrating and fun playing this chess game with you. Just for the hell of it, though, drop your gun.”

  Then Sigfried looked straight at Simonson.

  “You can cover him now, Mordred.”

  Lupo

  His better judgment tossed out the window, Lupo watched helplessly as the glass-protected CEO grinned at him condescendingly.

  He stared at Simonson, who stood stock-still—a statue.

  “Simonson? What the hell?”

  A range of emotions washed over the big military guy, and his expression cracked. As Lupo watched, his face seemed to sag as if he’d suffered a sudden stroke.