Wolf Hunt

by Jeff Strand

  Wolf Hunt

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  WOLF HUNT

  By Jeff Strand

  Wolf Hunt copyright 2010 by Jeff Strand

  Smashwords edition

  Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Meet George and Lou

  "Okay, it says here that you stole..." George Orton glanced down at his notebook, then flipped through a few pages. "Where did I write that down? Bear with me for a second...yeah, here it is. Sixty-three thousand dollars." He whistled. "Wow. That's a lot of skimming off the top."

  The old man's eyes glistened. "I have a family. I have five grandkids. Please don't hurt me."

  "Hurt you? For sixty-three thousand you should be begging me not to kill you, right?"

  "Please don't kill me," said the old man, Douglas, in a whisper. "I'll double whatever he's paying you."

  "Hmmmm. Let me check my notes." George glanced down at his notebook again. "Ah, here we go. 'If he tries to bribe you, break an extra finger.' Look at that, you just created more work for me."

  "Please--"

  "Not to mention that you probably intended to pay that bribe out of the money you stole, so in a few hours I'd have men at my house wanting to break my thumbs. Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of getting double pay for this job, but you're asking me to put future earning potential at risk. That's an unfair thing to ask of somebody you've just met."

  Douglas' voice cracked. "There has to be a way we can work this out."

  "There's really nothing to work out. Were we sent here to break your thumbs? Yes. Will your thumbs be broken when we leave? Yes indeed. Does it have to be the worst experience of your life? Not necessarily."

  "I'm sure that--"

  "Discussion over. I want you to understand, Doug, that I'm no sadist. I'm here to do a job like any other working man. If it were up to me, there would be no snapping of bones in the next few minutes. But it's not up to me. So now that we've established what is most definitely going to happen, let's see if we can work together to make it go as smoothly as possible."

  Douglas looked over at George's partner, Lou Flynn, as if for help. Lou shrugged and leaned back in the recliner, the briefcase of recovered cash resting in his lap. The old man had been skimming for the past few months but hadn't spent a cent, which made things a lot easier for everybody.

  Really, the old man should've felt lucky that it was George's turn to handle the uncomfortable part of the business. Lou was pretty good with knives, but he cringed at the act of breaking bones, which meant that he didn't always get it done on the first try. Yeah, Lou was doing an excellent job of presenting a casual front, pretending to be sitting there all cold and emotionless, but George knew that he was feeling sick to his stomach.

  Apparently realizing that no help was forthcoming, Douglas looked back at George. A tear trickled down his cheek. "Yes, sir."

  "Good to hear. Do you have a cover story?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "For your family. You're not going to tell them that a couple of hired thugs came over and broke your thumbs for stealing from a drug lord, are you?"

  "I guess not."

  "Are you clumsy?"

  "I...I can be."

  "So, theoretically, you could have tripped, put out your hands to break your fall, hit the floor, and snapped your thumbs, correct?"

  "I'm not sure."

  George sighed. "Work with me, Doug. This is for your benefit. I'm trying to protect your marriage. You want your grandkids to know that you're a scumbag sleazeball criminal? You're way too old to start your life from scratch, so you need to commit to the story, make it believable. Let's practice."

  "I fell...and, uh, hit the floor..."

  "That's total crap. You need conviction, and you also need a sheepish demeanor. Look me in the eye and start it off with something like 'You'll never believe this,' and then hold up your thumbs. That'll make it seem like you aren't trying to hide anything. It's kind of a ridiculous story, so your performance needs to be spot-on."

  Douglas cleared his throat. "You'll never believe this...but I was walking through the living room..."

  "Hold up your thumbs."

  Douglas held up his thumbs. "I was walking through the living room, and I tripped on a dog bone--"

  "Chew toy sounds better."

  "A chew toy. I fell and tried to break my fall, and I hurt my thumbs."

  "Nobody's going to punish the dog for making you trip, right?"

  "No."

  "Good." The Yorkshire terrier had been shut in the bedroom after George and Lou arrived. "Let's hear it a few more times."

  The old man recited his story five more times, refining it upon George's suggestions. "You'd buy that, wouldn't you?" George asked Lou.

  Lou shrugged. "I suppose so."

  "That'll have to do." Douglas seemed like a decent enough guy, and he'd clearly learned his lesson, so George didn't want to see him lose his family over this whole mess. "So, Doug, are you ready?"

  "Isn't there a way out of this?"

  "Oh, come on now, we were doing so well. Why would you want to backtrack like that? Give me your hand."

  Douglas hesitated for several seconds. "Which one?"

  "Doesn't matter. We're doing them both."

  After a few more seconds of hesitation, Douglas held out his left hand. George took it gently in his own, then wrapped his right fist around Douglas' thumb.

  "Just close your eyes and breathe deeply. Think about something else. Do you like skiing?"

  "No, sir."

  "Fishing?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Imagine that you're fishing. Picture yourself on the bank of a calm lake, sitting in your favorite lawn chair, watching a bobber float. You've got a cold beer in your hand. It tastes good, doesn't it? Ahhhh, nothing better than a nice cold frosty beer. Do you taste it?"

  Douglas' shoulders trembled and he was on the verge of sobbing.

  "Nod if you taste it."

  Douglas nodded. In one sudden motion, George jerked his thumb backwards until there was a loud snap.

  The old man screamed in pain. George grabbed his other hand and quickly broke his right thumb as well. Douglas' scream intensified, becoming so high-pitched that George might have almost found it amusing were this not a serious, professional matter.

  George waited patiently for a couple of minutes until Douglas stop
ped shrieking and thrashing. "It's all over now," he said. "I know it hurt. But, hey, in another time and place they would've chopped your hand off for stealing a loaf of bread, so a pair of broken thumbs for sixty-three thousand dollars isn't a bad deal. A better deal if you'd actually got to keep the money, but you know what I mean. So are you cool with your cover story?"

  Douglas nodded and wept.

  "Technically, I'm supposed to break another finger for your attempt to bribe me, but I like you and I'm going to pretend it didn't happen. You should feel lucky--I'm not always this nice. We won't tell if you don't. We'll get out of your hair now. Please don't take any more drug money that doesn't belong to you, okay?"

  * * *

  "Jeez, I hate that sound," said Lou as they pulled out of Douglas' driveway. "I'd almost rather have his fingers get cut off, know what I mean?"

  "I don't think he'd agree with you."

  Lou shivered. "It's just disturbing."

  "I thought he took it pretty well."

  "They usually do, when it's your turn. Maybe we should stick with that dynamic. I kinda like being the quiet creepy one."

  George chuckled. "Nice dynamic. You supervise and I do the manual labor. Screw that."

  "I'm not saying I won't ever rough them up. You're just a better communicator is all." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I hate this car."

  "Me too." George and Lou were both big guys, and the car wasn't designed for big guys. George stood six-five, and though he wasn't quite the all-muscle physical specimen at age forty-three that he'd been at age twenty, he was still in fine shape. Lou stood an inch taller and had let himself go a little bit, but even with a potbelly, he was one intimidating son of a bitch.

  They both had black hair. George wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, while Lou favored a full beard, which he was in the process of re-growing out like a mountain man, since he'd reluctantly trimmed it before a classy job a couple of weeks ago. Normally they wore black suits, but it was too damn hot and muggy down here in Florida, and so they wore only their white dress shirts. Red tie for George, no tie for Lou, sweat stains for both.

  George's cell phone rang. "It's Ricky," he said.

  "Tell that scrawny punk to get us a bigger goddamn car next time."

  George pressed the "talk" button and put the phone to his ear. "Get us a bigger goddamn car next time, scrawny punk."

  "I love you too, George," said Ricky. He made a kissy sound into the phone. "So did the old guy cry like a baby?"

  "There were tears."

  "Oh, yeah, I bet there were, I bet there were. Did you leave his fingers at a freakish angle?"

  "Why'd you call, Ricky?"

  "I pulled some strings and got you a top-notch assignment."

  In Ricky-speak, that translated to I've got a crap job that nobody else wants. "What is it?"

  "I can't talk about it over the phone. Let's just say that I hope you've got some silver bullets handy."

  "What are we doing, killing a werewolf?"

  There was a long pause on the other end. "Look, George, pretend to be surprised, okay? I wasn't supposed to give the werewolf part away."

  "You're serious? Some whack-nut really wants us to kill a werewolf?"

  "What werewolf?" Lou asked. George waved at him to shut up.

  "It's an easy job," Ricky insisted. "There ain't no such thing as werewolves, I know you know that, but this guy Bateman, he swears he's got one in captivity, and he needs you to drive it up to this other guy Dewey."

  "Dewey. Like the decimal system?"

  "Yeah. And you should make that joke when you see him. Guys in his position, they get a real big kick out of people making fun of their names."

  "I wasn't making fun of it. I was clarifying it."

  "Anyway, it's not even a half-day job. You'll be on the red-eye back to New York tonight."

  "Are we seriously expected to drive with a wolf in the car?"

  "Nah, he's in human form. And it'll be a van. Lots of legroom. But I'm not supposed to be telling you this, so act surprised."

  "So it's some crazy guy who thinks he's a werewolf? I'm not so keen on sharing a van with the mentally ill. He's not going to be howling and crap like that, is he?"

  "Just forget I said anything," said Ricky. "I'll text you the address. Be there in an hour." Ricky hung up before George could protest.

  "What werewolf?" Lou asked.

  "I don't know. I think Ricky's screwing with us."

  "Remember a few months ago when we had to lean on that guy who wore the dog collar around his neck because he thought his head was gonna fall off?"

  George scowled. "Don't remind me. What a joke that was. Maybe we need to treat Ricky with a little more respect so we can get a higher class of assignments."

  "Respect would just confuse him. He enjoys our suffering."

  "He's going to be doing a lot of suffering of his own if he was lying about this being a quick job. I'm serious--I'll pop his nose like a water balloon. I've gotta get out of this state."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wolf in a Cage

  They stopped for an early lunch of drive-thru chicken sandwiches and fries, then followed the GPS directions to a small warehouse in downtown Miami. A kid in sunglasses who looked about nineteen stood outside waiting for them. He raised the sliding metal door and waved their car through.

  The warehouse was mostly empty, except for a van, two cars, and about a dozen wooden crates stacked against the far wall. George parked next to a red Porsche that was dirty and a bit dinged up--a criminal act, as far as George was concerned--and then he and Lou got out as a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting business suit approached, flanked on each side by a goon in black.

  "Are you Bateman?" George asked.

  "I am." Bateman smiled, revealing yellow teeth that marred an otherwise handsome face. "You two come highly recommended. Which one is George and which one is Lou?"

  "I'm Lou," said Lou, tapping his chest.

  "And you're George?" Bateman asked.

  "Yes, sir." Nice process of elimination.

  "I've got a task for you gentlemen," said Bateman. "It's a simple transport job and shouldn't cause any problems, but I need good men like yourselves on it. Extremely valuable cargo is involved."

  "We know how to protect cargo," George assured him.

  "That's what I hear." Bateman gestured to a black van that was parked about twenty feet away. "Follow me."

  "It's too damn hot to be in a black van," Lou whispered to George as the five of them walked over to the vehicle.

  George couldn't see anything through the tinted windows, but one of the thugs opened up the rear doors, revealing a metal cage with thick bars that filled most of the back of the van. A man sat inside, leaning against the cage wall, looking scared and miserable.

  Lou sucked in a deep breath.

  George hated assignments that involved this kind of crap, but kept his expression devoid of emotion. It was important to always behave in a professional manner around the guy who signed the checks...or at least authorized the non-traceable cash payments.

  Bateman gestured to the man. "Do you know what that is?"

  George shrugged. "Somebody who fucked with the wrong guy?"

  "That is a lycanthrope. A werewolf."

  "I see."

  "By the light of the full moon, that weak-looking, frail man will transform into a vicious beast. The legends are true, gentlemen. Werewolves live among us. Their numbers are small, and few believe in their existence, but we've been given an unprecedented opportunity to study one." Bateman shrugged. "Or, if you don't believe me, then you're just driving some poor caged-up bastard from Miami to Tampa. Either way, you get paid."

  George glanced at the other two goons, hoping to get some clue as to whether this was all a big gag or not, but their faces were unreadable.

  "I'm not in the habit of questioning my employers," George said. "But...a werewolf? Really? Isn't that just movie stuff?"

  "I don't blame you
for being skeptical. I'd worry about your sanity if you weren't. Rest assured that you're being trusted with an astounding discovery, and I'm confident that you'll deliver him to my associate safely."

  "What if he sprouts fur and fangs while we're on the road?"

  "That won't be an issue. The full moon is two weeks away."

  "Ah, okay," said George, not sure why he was embarrassed. "I don't really keep track of the lunar cycles."

  "The rules are simple. Even though he's not a transformation risk, do not, under any circumstances, let him out of the cage. Do not, under any circumstances, let anything happen to him. Keep your hands away from the cage. That means do not offer him any food, do not offer him anything to drink, do not offer him any reading material to pass the time during the ride, and do not reach in there to slap him if he won't stop talking. I don't think I have to tell you that getting stopped by the police would create an awkward situation, so don't break any traffic laws. Any questions?"

  "Is anybody after him?"

  "To the best of our knowledge, no. But I'm sure that you'll proceed with all due diligence."

  "Of course." George looked over at Lou. "You have anything?"

  Lou thought for a moment. "What if he's gotta use the restroom?"

  "Then the cage will get messy."

  George grimaced. "Really? Isn't this a five-hour drive?"

  "I think you can handle an unpleasant odor for a few hours. We'll give you a can of Lysol." Bateman raised his voice and turned his attention to the man in the cage. "However, if he wishes to be treated with more kindness upon his arrival, he may want to consider keeping his bodily functions under control."

  The man glared at him but said nothing.

  "What's his name?" George asked.

  "Ivan."

  "All right. I guess we're taking Ivan the Werewolf for a ride."

  * * *

  They quickly worked out the remaining details, moved their suitcases to the van (behind the seats but still out of Ivan's reach), left the too-small car in the warehouse, and drove the van out onto the downtown street. It was Lou's turn to drive, so George slid the briefcase of recovered cash under his seat, then turned around and looked into the back of the van.