SHADOW PACK (Michael Biörn Book 1)

by Marc Daniel

  “Make sure your business doesn’t interfere with our case, or I’ll have you arrested, as sure as my name’s Samantha,” she threatened.

  Michael nodded and started heading towards the reception to request a different room for the night. He came back a few minutes later to find Sheila Wang in the midst of a voluble discussion with the detectives.

  The journalist was prying into the incident, but was going nowhere fast with the cops, who mostly ignored her questions.

  “Does this have anything to do with the recent police officers’ assassinations?” he heard her ask David Starks, who simply answered, “It’s too early to tell anything for certain, but nothing seems to support that hypothesis.”

  Sheila suddenly recognized Michael who had rejoined the group and welcomed him with a “My savior!”, which drew questioning looks from Salazar and Lewis.

  She answered their unspoken question by explaining how Michael had neutralized the thief who had stolen her camera. She was staring at Michael with hungry eyes that reminded him of the type of look a wolf would give a tasty lamb. She was an experienced reporter and she knew Michael was more likely to let interesting bits of information slip out than the detectives were.

  “Short of arresting this one,” started Salazar, nodding towards Michael, “we’ve done everything we could do this evening. Let’s go home, Lewis, we’ll get back at it tomorrow.”

  She agreed, and the two took their leave. They were about to reach their car when Lewis turned around and headed for one of the officers in uniform. She talked with him for a few seconds before returning to Michael.

  “I asked one of the officers to stay on this parking lot tonight. Just in case the mo—” she stopped in mid-sentence remembering who Sheila was, “—just in case.”

  “Thank you,” answered Michael, as Lewis turned around and headed once more towards her car.

  “It’s about my bedtime as well,” said David. “Do you think you can handle Lois Lane on your own?” He looked pointedly at Sheila.

  “Let’s hope,” answered Michael.

  “All right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.”

  Michael and Sheila were left alone in the parking lot. Alone… with the dozen remaining officers, the coroner’s team picking up the bodies, the forensics experts still at work and the nosy patrons whose number had dwindled down to five or six.

  “Were you involved in the shooting?” asked Sheila in a concerned voice. She was wearing a low-cut blouse designed to show as much cleavage as one could afford without looking vulgar. Michael, who was typically an oak when it came to women, was trying his best not to stare at her chest; but it was harder than he would have suspected. Sheila, with a concerned look on her face, pretended not to notice.

  “I was the target,” answered Michael after a moment.

  The journalist’s look of concern turned into a mixture of surprise and outrage. She would make a very fine actress, thought Michael, but he kept the remark to himself.

  “Would you like to talk about it over a cup of coffee? I know a nice little place not three blocks from here,” she suggested.

  “Why not?”

  Chapter 45

  The sun was shining brightly outside Dimitri Ivanov’s office. Had it not been for the tinted glass windows, it would have blinded the two detectives standing on the other side of Ivanov’s desk.

  Lewis and Salazar had found out that not one but two of Michael’s failed assassins had ties with the Russian mafia, and they had decided to go kick the hornets’ nest to see what came out. They had, therefore, found their way to Ivanov’s office in downtown Houston and knocked on the door.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detectives?” asked Ivanov pleasantly in his slight Russian accent, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off the sleeve of his Yves Saint Laurent suit.

  “We are working on a case, and we were wondering if you would mind answering a few questions for us,” replied Lewis in the same pleasant tone.

  “Anything I can do to help the police…” answered the mob boss in his fakest voice.

  “There was an altercation last night in which four men lost their lives, and we have reason to believe that you knew these men.”

  “What are their names?” asked the mobster, looking concerned.

  Salazar read the names from a piece of paper he pulled out of his pocket, while Lewis kept her eyes trained on Ivanov, hoping his facial features might betray some involuntary reaction. The mobster remained impassive at the enumeration, however, and simply commented, “I am afraid none of these names sound familiar.”

  He had sent his men after Biörn but they had failed to report to him. His men’s silence had forced him to send someone inquiring at the motel late in the evening. The envoy had returned with worrying news. He had found cops snooping all over the motel parking lot and going in and out of Biörn’s room. The envoy had been unable to gather more information, but the detectives had just confirmed what Ivanov already dreaded.

  “What happened, exactly?” he asked calmly, perfectly hiding his rising wrath.

  “They tried to kill a man in his hotel room, but met with some resistance,” offered Lewis.

  “Is the man all right?” asked Ivanov, falsely concerned.

  “Not even a scratch,” replied Salazar.

  This time a shadow passed over Ivanov’s face. It was only there for an instant, but Lewis did not miss it. She wished Salazar had not mentioned Biörn was still alive—it would have been a lot safer for the ranger if Ivanov had believed him dead—but at least they now had confirmation that Ivanov was behind the failed assassination.

  “That’s a lucky man,” said Ivanov with a forced smile.

  “Lucky indeed,” replied Lewis with a genuine smile.

  “Well, Detectives, if you have no further questions, I need to get back to work,” said Ivanov before adding, “Stan, will you please see the detectives out?”

  The bodyguard nodded and held the office door open for Lewis and Salazar to take their leave.

  Lewis turned towards Ivanov as they were departing and said, “In case our lucky friend became the target of another assassination attempt, rest assured that your office will be our first stop.”

  She was smiling her nicest smile when she added, “Tell your boys to play nice, because we’ll be watching.”

  Chapter 46

  Peter Clemens’ cell phone chimed, announcing the arrival of a new text message in his inbox. He picked up the phone from the coffee table where he had left it and read the message:

  We need to talk right now, usual means.

  Although the inscription “Sender unknown” was displayed on the caller ID, Clemens knew exactly who had sent the message, and what he meant by “usual means”. These last two words could only imply two things. One: Ivanov had something very urgent to tell him which could not suffer any delay; or two: the mobster was very pissed off and could not stand the idea of waiting a few hours for a meeting in person. Given the circumstances, option number two was the likeliest. Ivanov always preferred interacting in person; mobsters usually did. It was much easier to judge your interlocutor face to face than over the phone or worse via email.

  Clemens walked to his study and sat down in front of his desktop computer. He logged into the usual chat room under the username Blondie-TX and found the private chat room hosted by Isaac_Steinman, Ivanov’s nickname on the site.

  “What did you want to talk about?” typed Clemens before pressing the send button.

  The answer came within a few seconds. “I sent four men after M.B. They were packing heavy but they are all dead, and he did not get hurt. What did you send us after?”

  Clemens could sense Ivanov’s anger pulsing through his typed message and found himself wishing he were face to face with the mob boss at this instant. Ivanov’s fury would have entertained him, and now that his fears had just been confirmed, he could have used some divertissement.

  “I warned you about him,” typed Clemens. �
��Don’t blame me for your men’s incompetence.”

  “Tell me why you asked me to take care of this man. Why didn’t you do it yourself? I want the truth this time! No more bullshit!” replied the mobster in a demonstration of bravado that surprised the Alpha. Ivanov was a respected mob boss used to ordering people around, but he had not tried this tone with Peter in a long time. Ever since that afternoon twelve years earlier, he knew better.

  Ivanov had lived in the blissful ignorance of the praeternatural world at the time, focused on ascertaining his newly found position of power at the head of the Russian organization. One of the ways he had planned on doing that was by increasing his racketeering revenues. Little did he know that the world as he knew it was about to collapse the day he sent a group of collectors to a small law firm ran by a certain Karl Wilson. His goons had scared the office staff half to death before leaving with the cash from the safe and the promise to return a month later, but they had never been back. The same afternoon, Clemens and Karl had dropped by Ivanov’s office unannounced. Only three other wolves had accompanied them, but their demonstration had been compelling enough to convince Ivanov of his mistake and of the value a business relationship with the Houston pack represented. Seeing a man changing into a wolf in front of one’s very eyes had a sobering effect, even on a Russian mob boss.

  “I told you all I knew already, and I do not like your tone. It would seem I’ll have to handle this matter without your help. Do not expect favors from me in the immediate future, and do not contact me again regarding this matter.”

  Clemens clicked on the Send button and disconnected from the chat room before Ivanov had a chance to reply. He was not the least concerned about Ivanov’s wrath. What was the boss going to do? Come after him? Unlikely… and if he was stupid enough to try, the Houston pack was more than a match for Ivanov’s organization.

  The Alpha, however, was more concerned with Michael Biörn. In spite of what he had told Ivanov, he knew his men were professionals and were more than able to deliver on this type of assignment. The fact Biörn had survived the attack unscarred was an indication of the man’s power.

  Biörn was definitely a praeternatural being, Clemens had known that the instant he had seen the guy. Now he had confirmed Biörn was a dangerous predator, and since he was not a wolf, there were limited possibilities left. Peter Clemens was pretty sure he knew what Biörn was, but there was one problem with this answer: his kind had been extinct for nearly two centuries.

  Chapter 47

  The rain was falling hard and bouncing off the pavement all around David Starks. He increased his pace, walking towards his favorite coffee shop for his morning fix of caffeine. The streets of downtown Houston had already started flooding under the relentless assault of the weather. In some places, the water was overflowing onto the sidewalk, making it difficult for the handful of pedestrians to keep their feet dry.

  David pushed the door open and stepped briskly into the shop. He ordered a large black coffee, and paid for it. He was trying to summon enough motivation to brave the elements once again when a newspaper abandoned by a customer on one of the tables caught his eye.

  It was the morning edition of the Houston Post. On the first page, a close-up picture of a growling gray wolf, fangs showing, was preceded by the title “KILLER WOLF IN HOUSTON, by Sheila Wang.”

  “Here comes the unwanted publicity,” he thought, sitting down at the table in front of the paper. He was not particularly surprised the press had finally gotten a hold of the story. As a matter of fact, it was a miracle it had taken them this long to find out.

  The article was concise, well written and mostly factual, which was not a given for a news piece in this day and age. There was, of course, a small amount of speculation as to the motives of the murders, but nothing much.

  In essence, Sheila Wang was informing the public of the recent series of murders targeting police officers, while insisting at length that in every case a wolf had been used as the murder weapon. The fact she had used the singular ‘wolf’ instead of the more appropriate ‘wolves’ indicated her source at Houston PD did not have access to the lab reports.

  The article also recounted the attack on Michael Biörn, the wolf expert brought in by Houston PD as a consultant in the case, and the fact that at least two of the assassins had known ties with the Russian mafia. From there, Sheila more than alluded to the seemingly obvious conclusion that the mob was behind the murders, and that Biörn had likely been targeted because he posed a threat to their organization.

  The chick has balls, thought David as he folded back the paper and grabbed his untouched cup of coffee. Accusing the cops of hiding a series of sensational murders from the public was the type of thing one could expect from a journalist, but going after the mob was a different ballgame altogether.

  The Russian mafia did not like publicity, and Sheila Wang was too smart to ignore that. Making accusations against the mob in a newspaper article amounted to a war declaration, and most reporters did not dare swim in these troubled waters.

  Chapter 48

  Michael had just completed his leisurely stroll around Elm Lake, an eighty-acre body of water located in the center of the park, and was walking towards a picnic table facing the lake’s east shore.

  Situated forty-five minutes south of Houston, Brazos Bend State Park was as remote and wild a place as one was going to find so close to the city. It had been many years since Michael had first visited the park, accompanied by Steve Harrington and his two daughters. Olivia had been just a kid at the time and her sister Lucy barely a toddler.

  The park was virtually deserted on this Tuesday morning, and Michael had encountered many more alligators than he had humans. After hours of continuous rain, the sun had finally deigned to come out, and the reptiles could be found sunbathing all around the lake.

  The temperature was steadily rising from the low seventies where the storm had dropped it, but it still hadn’t reached the mid-nineties forecasted for the afternoon. The humidity was on the rise as well, and Michael’s shirt was soaked with sweat, but he scarcely noticed it.

  He had reached the picnic table still lost in his thoughts and had sat on the bench, facing the lake. He pulled out a notepad and a pen from a small backpack and placed them in front of him on the table. He then got out a large bottle of water and proceeded to drain it in a single gulp. His thirst partially quenched, he grabbed the pen and started a list of the facts and evidence he had collected so far:

  1) Deputy Chief Sullivan and his two Rottweilers were killed at home by Wolf-A, who escaped through a window. Window broken from the inside indicates escape point and not entry way.

  2) Two guns were found on the floor in Sullivan’s living room, but only one set of paw prints.

  3) Steve and Marge Harrington were killed in their home by Wolf-B, who too escaped through the window. Same observation as above for the window.

  4) David Starks attacked at home by Wolf-C, who was shot repeatedly by the detective but managed to escape…

  Michael stopped writing, suddenly wondering about the windows. Why had they all been shattered from the inside? It was the case at Sullivan’s, at the Harringtons’ and even at David Starks’, although he had survived the attack.

  This peculiar detail about the windows bothered Michael particularly. He simply could not find any logical reason for the wolves’ modus operandi. It seemed as if every attack was designed to follow the exact same pattern as the others, and he could find no reason for this. No reason unless someone was solely trying to draw attention away from more important details by orchestrating a needlessly sophisticated mise-en-scène around the murders.

  Not finding any immediate solution to this puzzling question, Michael returned to his list:

  5) There is an active Wolf pack in Houston whose association with the mob is likely.

  6) I was attacked by the mob shortly after visiting Peter Clemens, the Alpha, at his house in the forest. Possibly the pack headquarters. />
  He was trying to think about what else was missing on his list when he suddenly remembered the sheriff deputy at Steve’s funeral and added:

  7) At least one Wolf has infiltrated the local police, possibly more.

  He looked down at his list for a minute, trying to decide if anything else needed to be added, but decided against it. These were the facts so far; everything else was pure speculation.

  Chapter 49

  The restaurant was nice, an upper-class Italian establishment in Houston’s River Oaks area, but Samantha Lewis would have preferred being at home playing with her two kids. Instead, she was sitting at a table in a small private dining room in the company of her partner, Detective Salazar, and Executive Assistant Chief of Police Thomas Maxwell.

  Maxwell had called Salazar earlier in the afternoon to invite both of them for dinner. Lewis and Salazar had both been in shock after the call, wondering why in heaven the Houston PD second in command would want to have dinner with them.

  After a few minutes of chitchatting, which had allowed them to look at the menu and place their order, Maxwell had finally come to the point of the meeting. It hadn’t really surprised the detectives when the assistant chief had brought up the wolf case they were working on. The case had made the first page of the Houston Post that morning, and, since they had had plenty of time to ponder the reasons of their summoning during the day, the detectives had reached the only logical conclusion: the wolves had started to make noise in the city’s higher circles.

  “…now that the media have jumped on the case, you can be certain they won’t let it go…” Maxwell was saying.

  Lewis’ first impression of Thomas Maxwell caused conflicting feelings in her. The man was handsome, athletic, polite, well mannered, and had plenty of charisma. He had to be in his early fifties but seemed to be in a better shape than most men half his age. He talked to the detectives as if they were old buddies and tried his best to act as if there were not five pay grades separating them. Despite all his efforts, however, Lewis still felt uneasy in the man’s company. There was something about the way he looked at them which worried her: something she couldn’t quite figure out.