Wolf Untamed

by Paige Tyler

  Diego threw a glance at Trey and Hale to see they were almost certainly thinking the same thing he was—that they’d come to the right place.

  “We did a little digging in Cowell’s prison file.” Trey leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table. “But other than some minor comments about run-ins with other prisoners and a lot of time in solitary, there wasn’t much there.”

  “Official records are like that. Nothing but the facts,” Beasley said in a deep voice. “Of course, they rarely tell the real story about a person like Cowell.”

  “What is the real story about him?” Diego prompted. “The one that’s not in the official records.”

  “First, you tell us what he did,” Clark shot back. “Must be something good if they’ve sent SWAT down here to talk to us.”

  Diego didn’t answer right away. This could get tricky if the wrong thing got back to the wrong people. But if he wanted the prison guards to talk to them about stuff that was off the record, there’d have to be an exchange of trust. That’s the way the system worked.

  “We don’t know anything for sure. That’s why we’re here.” He glanced at Trey and Hale, who both nodded. “Officially, we’re not supposed to be messing around in this case, but we think there’s a good chance Dave Cowell is involved in the delirium attacks.”

  That announcement should have provoked at least some kind of response, but the three corrections officers barely raised their eyebrows.

  “Cowell came in thinking he was a tough guy,” Clark said. “He probably figured beating a man to death would give him some kind of street cred in here. But Coffield is full of guys who make him look like a Boy Scout, and most of them took an instant dislike to his attitude.”

  “That’s where all those scuffles you saw in the records came from,” Garcia added. “He’d mouth off to someone and a fight would start. He spent a good part of his first four years or so in solitary or restricted to his cell, usually for his own protection.”

  Interesting.

  “His first four years?” Trey said, catching the significance of that the same way Diego had. “Did something change?”

  “Yeah, it did,” Clark murmured. “In the form of a new cellmate named Will Bremen. And a more unlikely prisoner you’d never meet. The man had been some kind of scientist—a biologist or chemist, I think—before receiving a four-year sentence for possession with intent. Police in Houston found him passed out naked in a hotel room surrounded by a couple kilos of heroin. Swore it was for personal use, but with an amount like that, no one believed him.”

  Diego caught the looks Trey and Hale gave him at the mention of Bremen’s college background. They had to be thinking what he was—that delirium was a drug and Dave had shared a cell with a man who was either a biologist or a chemist. No way that was a coincidence.

  “Are you saying Bremen started protecting his cellmate?” Hale asked.

  The three correction officers exchanged looks and frowned.

  “None of us ever really figured it out,” Clark admitted. “It seemed that when Bremen was around, no one bothered Cowell.”

  Diego tried to sort through that. Did Bremen pay off a few of the prison’s top dogs to keep Dave safe? That had to be it, right? He seriously doubted a guy who was a scientist would be intimidating enough in the physical sense to make the other inmates back off.

  “Can we talk to Bremen?” Diego asked. “See what he’s willing to tell us now that his cellmate has been released.”

  Clark shook her head. “I wouldn’t have a problem with it, but unfortunately, Bremen was killed about six months after he got here. His body was found in the laundry area when he missed a head count. Strangled to death, though there were also multiple lacerations, including some that looked like bite marks.”

  Damn. They could really have used whatever the guy knew about Dave.

  “Was Dave involved?” Trey asked.

  “There were rumors there’d been arguments in their cell in the days before Bremen’s death, but nothing we could ever use,” Clark admitted. “The case remains open and is likely to stay that way.”

  “What happened to Dave after that?” Diego asked.

  Clark sighed. “That’s where things get strange.” Unzipping the backpack she’d brought with her, she pulled out a laptop, then set it on the table and booted it up.

  “There was a huge fight in the cafeteria two days after Bremen died,” Beasley said as the sergeant clicked through folders on the desktop. “Everybody knew it was a move against Cowell, someone probably planning to shank him or something. But that’s not what happened.”

  Clark spun the laptop around so Diego, Trey, and Hale could see the screen. On it was a video showing the cafeteria crowded with tables, chairs, and prisoners. It wasn’t difficult to find Dave, even in the dull-white, shapeless uniforms all the men wore.

  “See the big guy with the bald head walking across the room toward Cowell?” Clark said from the other side of the table, as if she’d watched the footage a hundred times. “Keep an eye on him. He’s the one with the shiv.”

  Diego didn’t watch the man as the sergeant suggested. Instead, he kept his eyes on Dave. Two large men were seated on either side of him, and Diego would bet money they were working with the one with the homemade knife. Probably there to make sure he didn’t jump aside at the last second.

  Even though Dave was looking down at the food on his tray, the set of his shoulders and the way his gaze drifted left and right to the men hemming him in suggested he knew something was coming. Of course, none of that explained why the man was grinning like an idiot.

  The bald guy dived forward then, arm coming down to drive a slender piece of metal deep into Dave’s exposed back. But right before the weapon hit its mark, the big guy to Dave’s left jumped up and slammed his serving tray into the attacker’s throat. A split second later, the man to Dave’s right stood and punched the inmate on the other side of him as the guy got to his feet.

  Things got crazy then as the entire cafeteria full of inmates began punching and kicking each other, food and serving trays flying everywhere. Prison guards in heavy riot gear quickly moved in to start separating the major combatants.

  Dave remained in his seat through the entire event, eating his food and smiling at the scene around him.

  “The guy with the shiv ended up dead with a crushed larynx,” Clark added as the footage came to an end. “The man who killed him insisted he didn’t do it even when we showed him the video. He swears it couldn’t have been him and that he didn’t remember any of it. The other big guy—the one who started the brawl—told us the last thing he remembered was walking into the cafeteria. After that fight, no one ever bothered Cowell again.”

  “Tell them about the parole board meeting,” Beasley said, leaning forward. “That was even crazier than the riot.”

  Diego looked at Clark to see her shrug. “I’m not sure if I’d describe it as crazy, but I was in the room as the board members were prepping for Cowell’s parole hearing. Based on the number of physical altercations Cowell had been involved in, not to mention the fight in the cafeteria, they had no intention of supporting any kind of early release. Fifteen minutes later, I come back to find out two of the more influential members of the board had flipped their positions and pushed for his immediate release with no probation. When I asked later why they’d done it, it was like they didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “I think I understand now why you weren’t surprised when I mentioned Dave might be involved in the delirium attacks,” Diego said. “The riot in the cafeteria and the parole-board hearing have delirium written all over them. Which is crazy, because this stuff you told us about happened months before the earliest known episode in Dallas. I can’t believe no one has ever made the connection.”

  “Not from lack of trying on our part,” Clark said, closing the laptop. “We’ve s
ent copies of our reports and the video of the cafeteria fight to the task force and called them a few times, but I guess they have no interest in running down tips from a bunch of correction officers. Hell, the only person who’s ever showed any interest is that damn irritating reporter from the Dallas Daily Star.”

  Diego did a double take at the paper’s name. No way could Clark possibly be talking about that one particular pain in the ass. A lot of reporters were irritating.

  “You talking about Ernest Hobbs?” Trey asked.

  “Yeah.” Clark looked at them in surprise. “You know him?”

  “You could say that,” Diego muttered.

  “Hobbs showed up here a couple weeks after Cowell got out, sniffing for a story about the guy’s early release,” Clark continued. “While I normally wouldn’t talk to any reporter, Hobbs was different. He seemed to actually care about what we had to say and the work we do here. I showed him the same video I showed you. He asked to see any other footage we might have on Cowell. It wasn’t like he could take anything with him, so I turned him over to one of our support staff. Hobbs spent days in the archive room watching security footage from all over the prison, getting insight about Cowell’s day-to-day life here.”

  “He must have found something interesting among all that video footage, because he hauled ass out of here like his tail was on fire,” Beasley said. “Not long after that, all the insanity in Dallas started and Hobbs was writing stories about delirium.”

  Diego shared a look with Trey and Hale before turning back to Clark. “Can we see the same video footage Hobbs looked at? Something tells me Hobbs found the piece of the puzzle that makes sense of all of this.”

  * * *

  Eight hours later, he, Trey, and Hale were pulling into the parking lot of the SWAT compound. They’d spent all afternoon and into the evening watching miles of video footage from the prison’s security cameras, but as boring as the exercise had been, they’d actually picked up a few valuable nuggets of information.

  First off, everything had changed for Dave after his cellmate had been killed. One day, the man had been a literal punching bag. The next, he was running the cell block with no fewer than two heavily muscled inmates protecting him at all times.

  Then there was the missing security footage. It had taken a while to notice it, but after digging for a bit, they’d realized the video all around the prison’s laundry area from the day Bremen had been killed was gone. Shocking to no one at all, the staff support person who’d helped Hobbs with his story had quit.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Trey said as Diego parked the SUV and cut the engine. “We think Bremen created a drug that not only makes people do crazy crap like robbing a bank, but it also leaves them susceptible to certain suggestions from people like Dave. And that Dave killed Bremen to get the drug, used it to help get released from prison with no probation, and is now using it to make people steal for him. And if that isn’t far enough out there, we’re going to also tell Gage that Hobbs has been aware of this information for some time and has been sitting on it so he can, what, sell more newspapers?”

  “Wow,” Hale murmured from the back seat. “When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  Diego sighed. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but we have to tell him what we learned. But maybe after we talk to Samantha Mills to see if a drug could do any of this stuff.”

  Beside him, Trey looked thoughtful. “I could swing by the ME’s office tomorrow and talk to her, tell her about Bremen and see what she thinks.”

  They were halfway across the parking lot, with Diego trying to organize his thoughts on everything they’d learned, when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. Lots of people had his contact info.

  “Diego, it’s Dion Harbin,” a soft voice said, like he was worried someone would overhear him. “I don’t have time to go into detail, but I’m at the Blacklight Club on Harry Hines. That boy I saw you with at the movies is here with another kid and they’re hanging out with some gangbangers, smoking weed and trying to act older than they really are. The joint narcotics/gang task force is about to raid the place, and if the kid is here when they do, he’s going to jail. I can’t break my cover to save him. You need to get your ass here, ASAP.”

  Shit.

  “I’m on the way.” Diego looked at his pack mates. “Tell Gage there’s a situation with Brandon. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You need help?” Trey asked.

  “Thanks, but I have to do this on my own,” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran for his SUV. “I got this!”

  Hopefully.

  Chapter 13

  Diego couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been so scared. He’d been shot, stabbed, blown up, clawed, run over by cars, and watched as his pack mates had nearly lost their lives. But as crazy as it seemed, all of that paled in comparison to the thought of something happening to Brandon. The idea that his beta could get arrested and dragged off to jail had him nearly shifting behind the wheel of his truck.

  Probably not a safe way to drive.

  Then again, he was stripping out of his cop gear at the same time he was weaving through traffic, pulling on a plain blue T-shirt he had in the back seat, so that likely wasn’t very safe, either.

  Regardless, he drove across town like a madman, flashers blinking as if that would help him get through the evening traffic. More likely he’d cross paths with a patrol unit and get pulled over for speeding. That was all he frigging needed.

  But his luck held, and ten minutes later, he pulled into the far end of the parking lot of the Blacklight Club, relieved to see the place wasn’t surrounded by a platoon of cop cars and paddy wagons yet. At least he’d gotten here before the raid started.

  He only prayed he got Brandon out of there before the real party started. Oh, yeah. And Kevin, too. Because he had no doubt Kevin was the other kid Dion had seen.

  Diego climbed out of his SUV and strode toward the club, fingertips and gums tingling at the urge to move faster. His first instinct had been to squeal to a stop right in front of the door, so he wouldn’t have to waste any more time, but then he realized how stupid that’d be. He needed to get Brandon and Kevin out of there. Not draw attention to himself while he did it.

  His inner wolf took in the surrounding area as he walked, absently noting the vehicles in the lot and people hanging around. The name of the club had changed, but it wasn’t much different than it had been eight years ago when his life had changed so drastically. The irony of it being the same place wasn’t lost on him.

  Diego pushed the memory away and focused on the present.

  Blacklight sat squarely in the no-man’s-land that existed between two rival gangs—the Locos and the Hillside Riders. This meant the place was largely left alone, making it one of the few clubs in this part of town that wasn’t overrun with drugs. Then again, if Dion and his task force were planning to raid the place, something must have changed and the club had fallen under the control of one of the two gangs, if not some outsider trying to muscle their way into a new territory.

  He bit back a growl at the thought of Brandon and Kevin getting involved with a gang. From what Bree had told him about the night Brandon had gotten shot, that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

  Diego focused on keeping it casual as he headed for the door and the crowd of people near it. He didn’t stare, but he didn’t miss the two or three people showing off the neck tattoos he recognized as belonging to the Hillside Riders. Guess that answered his earlier question. The Riders had obviously made their move.

  A few of them glanced his way as he opened the door, but other than that, no one paid him any attention. It had been a smart call to change out of his SWAT uniform T-shirt.

  As he walked into the loud, packed club with its flash
ing strobes and strategically placed blacklights illuminating the fluorescent paint on various surfaces as well as some of the patrons, his nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of a few hundred people, along with the typical scents he’d expect in a place like this—booze, sweat, drugs, and sex. He made his way toward the chaos of the dance floor when he caught sight of another man with a Rider tat adorning the left side of his neck. The scruffy-looking guy was leaning against the wall, his attention fixed entirely on his cell phone, appearing unconcerned about Diego walking by or the chest thumping club beat coming from the sound system.

  But as Diego moved past him, the guy surreptitiously lifted his hand, fingers spread, and silently mouthed the words, five minutes. Then the man he barely recognized as Dion Harbin pushed away from the wall and disappeared into the crowd.

  Damn, Dion was good. If it wasn’t for the man’s familiar scent, Diego wouldn’t ever know he was the same cop he’d run into at the movie theater.

  Off to the left of the dance floor was the bar area with a dozen or so high-boy tables. To the right were booths, separated by arched doorways that led off to other parts of the club—bathrooms, offices, storerooms, and probably a kitchen, based on the clanking and clatter coming from the nearest opening. The stench of drugs came from that direction. Mostly heroin and fentanyl.

  Diego drifted onto the dance floor, ignoring the bodies swaying around him as he casually lifted his nose into the air and started separating out the various scents. Even through the mishmash of competing smells swirling around the place, he was still able to pick up on Brandon’s anxiety and fear. The kid was nervous as hell for some reason. Suddenly, Diego’s fangs extended, and his muscles began to spasm with the instinctive need to shift and find his beta. To get Brandon out of there no matter how many people he had to rip apart to do it.

  He was halfway across the crowded dance floor, a low rumbling growl slipping from deep in his chest, when he finally caught sight of Brandon standing with Kevin and two other people by one of the hallways. One was a kid maybe a year or two older than Brandon. The other was a guy in his midtwenties with a Hillside Riders tat inked across his neck. Kevin was gazing at the strobing lights on the opposite side of the dance floor with the glassy-eyed look of someone high as a kite while Brandon talked to the gangbanger. The older kid nodded his head eagerly at whatever they were saying.