Bear Fursuits Books 1-4: Bear Fursuits

by Montrose, Isadora

  Kirill could smell the fetid anxiety that was riding Leskov, as it had ridden him since the orders had come from Moscow for the deal with the Kyrgyz mob. Leskov hadn’t liked the scheme, but when the Boss of Bosses said jump, even he complied. But this stink of fear probably meant that Leskov planned some betrayal of his men or Moscow.

  Kirill knew that he was also filling the air with his own fear and excitement now that he was so close to escape. He calmed his breathing with the ease of an experienced hunter and turned his thoughts to home and his mate. Just conjuring his Hannah’s lovely face and lush curves made him hard and aroused him enough to change his scent profile. Besides if he was going to die in ten minutes, as he well might, he ought to think about his mate one last time.

  He could see nothing in the rear view mirror. Nothing ahead on the path. There was nothing but stunted bushes on the grey and rocky hillside, not even a goat or a goatherd. He looked at the clock. The trucks behind his should have passed the turnoff to the track by now. The rads of both vehicles should now be overheating, bringing the trucks to a forced stop.

  Leskov’s Russian lieutenants, Alyokin and Dobronravov, were impatient men. They were crude, careless drivers who he judged would ignore warning lights and drive until their rads ran dry. They would find that their water cans were inexplicably empty.

  If he was wrong about Leskov’s setting a trap, when they caught up with the others at the night camp, they would assume that the sabotage to their vehicles was meant to prevent them seeing Leskov’s truck detour. Kirill trusted their first searches would focus on those turnoffs well ahead of the path he had actually taken.

  Kirill’s bear was used to enduring patiently, and he kept cautiously driving up the rocky track waiting for the truck to run out of gas. Bingo. The transport juddered to a halt and Leskov woke up snarling. He looked around at the rough, dusty landscape and waved his gun wildly.

  “Why have you stopped, Kovolenko, you stupid bear turd?” he demanded rudely. Rude was good. Rude was normal. When Leskov was truly enraged he shot first and asked questions afterwards.

  Kirill shrugged. “I think somethin’ wrong with the truck, Boss,” he said stolidly in his guttural peasant Ukrainian. It was partially his rough accent that had convinced the Russian that he was stupid. “I go fix, Boss.” He popped the hood and got out, counting on Mihaly Leskov to be too hot and arrogant and self-important to concern himself with a mechanical problem. But Leskov decided that sweating in the baking truck was less desirable even than being outside in the dust and wind. Or maybe he was just a cagey bastard.

  He got out and came round the front bumper, just as Kirill secured the hood strut. Even shrouded in a black plastic bag, the submachine gun on the engine block was obviously the mate of Leskov’s. The boss didn’t hesitate. “You dumb fuck,” he hissed, firing point blank at Kirill’s head. Leskov’s gun jammed, there was a dull click, and the mobster looked down at his weapon in momentary bafflement.

  His distraction was Kirill’s opportunity to snatch his gun and fire at Leskov. The bag had protected the gun from the ubiquitous desert dust that had fouled Leskov’s. A spray of bullets caught the boss in the chest. Blood spurted, but unfortunately Leskov was already shifting. The injuries that would have instantly cut down a human left Leskov on his tiger feet.

  He sprang at Kovolenko, slashing at him with one powerful snowshoe-sized paw before collapsing. Blood bubbled from his snarling mouth. Kirill felt ten inch claws rip through his armored vest as he was knocked over. He staggered to his feet and looked down at the twitching tiger. He put a another few rounds through its malevolent eyes and backed away clutching his bleeding abdomen.

  Leskov’s Kevlar vest over a field dressing made a pressure bandage that slowed Kirill’s blood loss. He sat in the shadow of the truck, leaning against a wheel. He was dizzy and shaking. Probably going into shock. He sipped water slowly from a bottle while he calculated his chances of living through the next six hours.

  He looked at his gun and wondered if he was ready to eat it. Nah. He still had a mission to complete and his report to make. Semper Fidelis was not just for the easy stuff. The odds of escape from Uzbekistan had always been piss poor, and now they were worse. Fuck that.

  Master Sergeant Enright had a mission to complete. And Marines, by damn, completed missions if they weren’t actually dead. If he got lucky, he might yet get back to the states and his mate. As always, the thought of Hannah was an inspiration.

  His original plan had been to take out Leskov, drive his corpse into the desert and lose it in one of the many dry ravines of the ruined Uzbekistan mountains. Then he had intended to shave his head and mustache to match his spare identity papers. He had expected to hike out of the mountains as a peasant and eventually make his way to back to Tashkent.

  The US embassy was in Tashkent. So Tashkent was his destination. Even if there were good odds the Russians would start their search there. He hoped someone at the embassy was still expecting Jack Enright. Although after eighteen months without communication, they probably assumed he was dead.

  He did not know if Alyokin and Dobronravov were aware Leskov was a shifter. He thought not, but he had been chewing on that one for so many months that he had long since decided to plan as if they did, while making sure he acted as if they didn’t. Business as usual for a shifter. Equally he could not know if Moscow knew Leskov was a shifter.

  Obviously the dead tiger could not be left behind while he drove away in the truck. And in his present condition he could not hoist eight hundred pounds of dead weight into the truck. Besides, in his human form, without medical attention, he was a dead man walking.

  Leskov’s cargo contained several kilos of plastic explosive for sale to the Kyrgyzs. Jack rolled the limp weight of the tiger under the truck and set to work wiring the explosives around and under it, connecting them in relays to the truck. He poured gasoline from their backup containers over the tiger and soaked the interior of the truck. He moved as rapidly as his wounds permitted, but it took three hours to set the charges, but by God he set them by the book. The US Marine Common Skills Handbook, not the mob book.

  Jack drank more water and tried to eat despite his nausea. Nothing doing. So he climbed painfully up the hills until he was half a mile away and tucked into a crack in the rock facing away from the truck. He pressed the button on the radio control. The explosion turned Leskov, his arsenal, and the five hundred kilos of heroin he was taking to Kyrgyzstan into bite-sized flaming shrapnel.

  Jack waited in his niche until even the ashes had settled before reconnoitering. The blast had brought no one. Not even a peasant. There was no sign of Leskov’s men. They were incommunicado in the high desert where cell phones didn’t work. Likely they were still unaware that Leskov was missing. Maybe they had an ambush to distract them.

  Backtracking and finding the turnoff would take daylight and skill. It would be dark before they knew they had looking to do. Leskov’s men were tough and ruthless, but they were impatient city boys and couldn’t track worth spit. If they got lucky and located the debris field, there was a sporting chance that they would think both he and Leskov were dead and waste time looking for attackers.

  The sun was getting low and the hot gritty wind of the June day was giving way to a harsh gale that whipped the moisture from Jack’s body and iced his flesh through his sweat soaked clothing. The tremors in his body were getting worse, and twice he thought he had blacked out. He had to get moving. As he walked, he followed procedure.

  He field-stripped his gun, to ensure it didn’t betray his route and didn’t put a weapon in enemy hands. He threw the parts down rocky crevasses so deep he barely heard them land. He broke apart the radio that had triggered the fuse and discarded it the same way. He deposited his ammo just as prudently in widely separated fissures.

  Brushing out his footprints slowed his progress even more. His half-assed efforts wouldn’t fool an expert tracker, but he hadn’t time to do better. And his pursuers weren’t exp
erts. At last he came to the boulders that made up the bank of the Pskem River. He stripped and folded his blood stained and sweat soaked clothing and buried it under a pile of rocks. He put his money belt and armored vest in separate cairns.

  He waded into the freezing river. The four slashes across his stomach were deep and had opened up again while he was lifting rocks. He removed his bandages. He let the rushing water wash the blood away and whirl the gory strips downstream. Then, ignoring the pain, he shifted and became a Black bear.

  The bear swam upstream against the current for about a mile until his strength was exhausted. The icy water had slowed the bleeding to a trickle, and the wounds had closed themselves. But Jack knew his bear was also at the limits of endurance. He had to rest. He had to find food. And he had to find hidden shelter in case Leskov’s men did manage to track him. He left the river and moved up into the hills of the Pskem Mountain Range.

  As he meandered about looking for food and shelter, the night sky darkened and snow began to fall, gradually turning into an unexpected, late spring blizzard. Good. The snow would conceal the truck’s tracks and the debris field. When it melted the run off would scour the slopes and destroy his spoor. With luck Leskov’s men would never find him or the blast site.

  Leskov’s open scorn for his subordinates had earned him fear not loyalty. If they had survived the ambush--or if there had never been one--they might just be dumb enough and greedy enough to abort any search to try to cut a private deal with the Kyrgyzstan mob for the residue of the arms. With Leskov gone they might even fight for leadership. Whatever they did, Moscow would not be happy. And Moscow would search for Mihaly Leskov and Kirill Kovolenko and the rest of Leskov’s squad. No one screwed the Boss of Bosses.

  Jack made his slow way up the rocky cliffs in the dark following the scent of mountain sheep along the narrow trails. The snow continued to fall. He could no longer feel his paws. He stumbled, fell, and rolled sideways down a slope before he was stopped by a cluster of stubby bushes growing out of the cliff. Right in front of him was an opening just wide enough for him to enter.

  He shambled weakly into the cave. He found the low passage ended blindly about three yards in. He turned so he could sleep with rock at his back and his head facing the opening. As soon as he lay down he fell into a deep stupor before he had even licked his wounds. In his delirious nightmares, Leskov’s tiger stalked him thorough the verdant forests of Washington State.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I GOTTA SAY, I love what you’ve done with this place,” Winnie Malcom said leaning back against the big plaid cushions of Hannah’s new couch. Its wooden frame and seven foot length matched the 1930’s Craftsman style house Hannah had taken possession of two weeks before.

  Winnie looked around approvingly at the mellow woodwork and golden walls. Her broad shoulders and strong arms filled out the paint spattered denim of her shirt. Her short grizzled hair was speckled with yellow. Having found Hannah her new home she felt triumphant at its suitability. That uptight condo was no place for a bear.

  Her partner Jools finished her mouthful of pizza and patted her lips with a napkin. “This color is perfect.” She looked at the honey colored walls with satisfaction. “Am I good or what?” Her brown eyes sparkled with good nature. Her salt and pepper curls were also speckled with yellow, and a streak of honey colored paint mottled one flushed cheek.

  When they had first met and mated, long before same sex marriages were legal, Winnifred Mallett and Juliet Bascom had decided to merge their two surnames. They had changed their names by deed poll to Malcom, given this surname to their five children, and never looked back.

  Hannah laughed happily and leaned forward to top up their wine glasses. How she loved these big, cheerful good-hearted women. From her first bear shift two years ago, when they had found her lost and disoriented in the woods, they had swept her into their big arms and bigger hearts. They had made her part of their lives and their bear clan. For the first time in her life she had a family.

  A big gangling teenager with Jools’ almond shaped brown eyes came clattering down the uncarpeted wooden stairs, placing one enormous hand on the square newel post. He leaped the last three steps to land on size twelve sneakers. He joined Winnie on the couch and reached for a slice of pizza. She slapped his hand. “Did you clean up before you came down?” she demanded.

  The boy hesitated. “I closed the tins and put the roller in a bag, Ma,” he said.

  “Go wash your hands, Jacob,” Jools said firmly.

  Jacob grimaced but he jumped up immediately, “Leave some for me,” he said as he made for the kitchen.

  Hannah sighed happily and took a sip of her wine. “I really appreciate the trips helping out,” she said.

  Winnie snorted. “You’re paying them,” she said. “Besides you’re family. Gabby and Art have promised to turn up on Saturday and Sunday, and Caleb and Gwen should be free too. We’ll get it all done this weekend.”

  “Cool,” said Hannah. “But only if they want to. The trips have spent every evening after work painting this week. I really appreciate it, but they must have other plans. The bedrooms look great, the bathroom is nearly finished and Caleb made a start on the hallway before he went to soccer practice.”

  Jacob came back into the room carrying a glass of pop. He flung himself down on the couch and the pop lurched about in his glass. Winnie put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Have some pizza, son,” she said in her deep, calm voice.

  “I can finish the hall tomorrow,” Jacob said reaching for the pizza. “You sure you don’t want us to paint the master bedroom too?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I’m going to leave it white to go with my stuff.”

  Jools frowned slightly and her plump, pleasant features looked disapproving for a moment. “I think you should paint it the same color as the rest of the house. You’d get better flow,” she advised. She left unsaid that replicating Hannah’s condo bedroom would undo the good of selling it and moving to Bothell.

  Winnie had no such qualms. She shook her grizzled head, “Paint it a nice warm color,” she said. “Sell that froufrou white stuff and hang some drapes that don’t have memories woven right in.” She looked around with approval at the mellow amber woodwork of the highly varnished baseboards and doors. “You can get a bed to go with this couch.” She patted the cushions approvingly.

  Hannah looked a little sheepish. “But my bedroom was the only thing I liked about my old place,” she protested.

  Jacob laughed. “The Moms are right,” he said around a mouthful of pizza. “Your bedroom’s all wrong for a bear. You’re not going to catch a mate with that pink and white look. You need some more of this Malcom tartan. And a big, sturdy bed.”

  “Jacob Morris Malcom,” said Jools sternly to the fifteen year old. “Watch your mouth.”

  “What?” asked Jacob. “Hannah doesn’t know she needs a mate? Or she didn’t know this couch was Malcom tartan?”

  Hannah laughed uncertainly. “I appreciate the advice,” she told Jacob, “But for now I will just stick to getting settled in the house. There’s a lot to do in an old house.”

  “Anything in particular?” asked Winnie.

  “I was thinking that now that I have a gigantic kitchen I can get a humongous table and lots of chairs. I can pay you back and have the Malcom Thanksgiving here,” she offered.

  “No,” said Winnie and Jools with one voice and one expression. Their twenty year relationship was suddenly engraved on their very different faces.

  Jools smiled kindly at Hannah’s hurt face. “You can have us all to dinner when you find a nice table,” she said, “As often as you like. But all holidays are at the Mama Bears’ house. For the foreseeable future you get to bring pie and your garlic mashed potatoes and do the dishes afterwards.”

  Hannah’s brown eyes filled with tears. She sniffed. “How’d I get so lucky to find you, guys?” she asked.

  Jacob smirked. “They found you bear naked in the woods. Can I h
ave this last piece?”

  Hannah threw a cushion at him.

  * * *

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” Hannah said. “You’re always telling me that I need a mate and to get out there and look.”

  “We didn’t mean join the mating frenzy at the Sanctuary,” said Jools crossly. “We meant, let us set you up with a nice bear from a good family. Or join bearmate.com.”

  “And I’ve been on half a dozen blind dates and none of them have worked. I’ve tried, you know I have. But nothing. I want a family,” she said pleadingly. “I figured if my heat is as intense as you say it will be, maybe I’ll find a mate at the Sanctuary.”

  Winnie and Jools looked at each other and Winnie moved to sit beside Hannah. She put one long arm around the younger woman. “Honey you know we love you. You are the daughter of our hearts, and we want you to be happy.

  “Sure, shifters meet at the Sanctuary and get mated and live happily ever after. But mostly it’s like Spring Break, lots of hook ups, not a lot of commitment. We don’t want to see you hurt again, honey.

  “It’s only natural to want to start a family. It’s innate in your bear. But you’re only twenty-eight, you have lots of time.”

  “It’s not the easiest thing in the world to be a single parent,” Jools chipped in severely. “And it’s not easier with twins or trips. Singletons are mighty rare amongst shifters. You wait until you’ve got a mate.”

  “You’re the ones who told me I had to prepare to come into season,” protested Hannah.

  “We didn’t mean go flaunt your heat in front of every low down bachelor boar in the Northwest,” Winnie said in her deepest Mama Bear growl.

  “Well, it isn’t even a certainty that I’ll go into heat this year,” Hannah said placatingly. “I didn’t last year.”