by Ben Reeder
“It’s an exchange,” I said, my voice deeper and rumbling. “There’s the buyer,” I pointed to an approaching van. It was white, with magnetic signs on the side for a bogus plumbing company. I recognized the name on the sign as one of my father’s old fences, KeShawn “White Glove” White, a hyper little dude who specialized in white collar items. Coins, bullion, bearer bonds, high end jewelry and other things that didn’t include getting his hands dirty. He turned the van so the back end was facing his potential customers and put it in reverse, pulling up until he was a few yards away. When he stopped, he waited a few seconds, then opened the door and got out, his movements steady and slow. KeShawn was good at what he did, and used to dealing with ‘twitchy’ clients. He wore a pair of white leather gloves, his namesake, and he kept his hands away from his body, easily visible and non-threatening. I could hear him speak from the rooftop, almost as clearly as if I was next to him. His voice was a little higher pitched, and he greeted the man across from him with a smile, waiting for the other guy to offer his hand. When he did, KeShawn put his out and let the other guy control the handshake.
“So, Mr. Green,” he said, “Let’s do business.”
“Idiot,” Alpha said. “Using names.”
“He calls all of his clients Mr. Green,” I said. That earned me a frown and a half snarl.
“You know this scumbag?”
“My father did business with him while I worked for Dulka.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Tonight, you will turn your back on that past. Now that both of them are here, we strike, and we take from them what they took from others.”
“We’re robbing them,” I said in a monotone. “White Glove just confirmed that he has the money, and Mr. Green’s about to bring out his product. If we’re going to fuck up someone’s day, now’s the time. What’s the plan?”
“We take out the security and the bosses, move the money into the truck and haul it all out.”
“Good plan, but we take the van, not the truck.” I put a hand up and caught Alpha’s fist as it came at me. “Listen, asshole,” I growled before he could whammy me with his will. “The truck is probably Lo-Jakked, but I know White Glove doesn’t put a tracker on his ride. He’s professional grade, he doesn’t advertise where he goes.” The pressure against my arms let up, and Alpha looked down at the exchange about to take place.
“Then we wait until they have the product loaded before we strike. But no killing. Robbing thugs and lowlifes won’t get reported, but kill one of them, and the police have to get involved.”
“Last thing I ever expected to come out of your mouth,” I said. We waited, and I listened.
“Damn it’s like a B’n’B here,” KeShawn said from the back of the Subarban. “Bullion and bearer bonds.”
“Market value,” ‘Mr. Green’ said, his voice tight with tension.
“The deal doesn’t change in the middle,” KeShawn said, suddenly dropping the street from his voice and bringing out his MBA and law degree. “If you think you’re going to get more than I offered, pack your shit up and go. I offered you a fair price and you accepted. And don’t even think about having your goons shoot my ass. Anything happens to me, and you’re gonna be some Aryan Brother’s bitch for the rest of your fuckin’ life.” Mr. Green scowled, then nodded, and KeSawn went back to his van and grabbed a golf bag.
“You don’t mind if I check, do you?” Mr. Green asked. KeShawn scoffed and gestured for him to go on and do it. After a few seconds of peering down into the bag, Green nodded to his men, and they started hauling boxes over to the van.
“Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure doing business to you,” KeShawn said. Whatever else he had in mind was lost when Alpha and I landed on the nearer sedan. The hood crumpled under my feet and glass exploded as Alpha cratered the roof. Before the guy closest to me could get his little gun pointed at me, I was on him, and introducing his jaw to my furry fist. He went down like a rock, and I vaulted over the Suburban’s hood with one hand. Bullets zipped past me while I did a one handed handstand for a split second, then my feet were planted in his chest, and I was riding him to the ground like a surfboard.
A line of fire walked up my torso as the two guys at the back of the other sedan found their range on me. With a roar of rage, I shook my head and walked up on them while they changed magazines. The first one got his gun reloaded and pulled the bolt back, but that was as far as I let him get. I grabbed his arm and yanked hard. There was a pop as his arm came out of the socket, then a crunch when he flew through the truck’s big back window. I smelled blood and turned on his friend, who had his gun up and pointed in my direction.
Time slowed. I watched his finger start to compress on the trigger, but I was already moving to one side. The gun roared, hammering my ears with both sound and pressure. Tired of the firearm, I hit him in the chest with a flat palm. Hard. The gun flew up and the guy flew back. When the SMG came back down, I caught it and found myself face to face with ‘Mr. Green.” He had his personal Sasquatch with him, and the dude was pointing a damn howitzer at me. The client turned and ran for the driver’s side door, so I tossed the SMG at his legs, then bounded toward Sasquatch. His gun boomed, then a freight train of a bullet caught me in the shoulder and knocked me to the ground. Bigfoot in a suit walked over to me with a smile on his face that promised that nothing was going to end well for me. When I stood up, though, his grin lost a little bit of its power.
It lost a lot more when I grabbed the hand holding the miniature cannon and squeezed. Bones snapped under my hand, and I pulled my lips back from my teeth in a lupine grin. With his hand in my grip, it was nothing to reach out and break his arm. He screamed and fell to his knees, clutching his ruined right arm to his body when I let go. He let the pistol go, and I took it by the barrel. The sound of the drivers side door opening caught my attention, and I let fly with the revolver in my hand, knocking Mr. Green unconscious with the butt against his head. Then I turned back to Sasquatch, Jr. Of all the men here, he was the one who seemed to enjoy this the most. If there was anyone the police wouldn’t care was dead, he was the one. I could rip his throat out, and he’d never be missed. I could taste the blood, rend his flesh and unleash my full strength on him. I drew back my arm, and felt a band of steel wrap around my wrist.
“No,” Alpha said. I turned and snarled at him, but he hit me again with his will, and I found myself standing still, the bloodlust drained from me. “We have what we want.”
I shook my head, suddenly a little disoriented, and followed him back toward the van. KeShawn was laid out behind it, his eye swollen shut, and a compact pistol bent into a U shape beside him. I reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, then grabbed his keys from the clip on his belt.
“Now we have what we want,” I said. The golf bag was in the back, and I closed the rear doors of the van, then stripped the magnetic signs off.
“You drive,” Alpha said.
“I need my human form to do that,” I said.
“Draw the wolf in,” Alpha replied. “I only let him out a little way. You must pull him back all the way. Find him in you and control him.”
My eyes closed and I searched my thoughts, and suddenly, once I was looking for him, my wolf was right there. Just as Alpha had described him, he was halfway free, almost as if I was watching him emerge from my body. I was sure Lucas would have a movie reference. The thought of Lucas and Monica, of Wanda, Mom and Dee, brought my focus into even greater clarity. Suddenly, the wolf was docile, but not tame. With a deep breath, I reached for him, and when I exhaled, I imagined him retreating back into me. The next moment, it was like catching smoke as my wolf faded into my thoughts, and I was human again.
“It only hurts when it’s forced,” Alpha said.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
“Dumbass,” he retorted. I went and stripped one of the black clad guards for something to wear, but left him his underwear. I’d go commando before I’d share tighty whiteys
. Fifteen minutes later, we were unloading the van into a stolen truck and heading in a different direction. I shook my head when I realized we weren’t turning far out of our way, that we were going pretty much straight toward our destination. I chose out of the way streets to avoid being seen.
“You nearly killed that man back there,” Alpha said as we took empty side roads. “This is why you need my guidance. And you still haven't mastered even a single aspect of your form. This is why alphas lead lesser wolves. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have ruined the whole operation.” I growled at him, but I couldn’t argue with what he said. I tried to find a good response all the way back, but I never came up with one.
We pulled into an old factory that made something big and heavy back in the day. I smelled familiar scents as we got out of the stolen truck, and lights came on around us.
“Behold,” Alpha said, “The bounty of the pack!” He dumped one of the boxes, dropping gold bars onto the bed of the truck. The other six guys came forward, their eyes bright with the shine of gold. Alpha grabbed six of the bars and handed one to each of them.
“Whoa,” one of them said, hefting his. “That’s a kilo bar! That’s gotta be worth twenty grand!”
“Try forty,” another one said.
“Spot price today was just under eighteen hundred,” a third guy chimed in, looking at his phone. “So it’s closer to thirty seven thousand.”
“What’s our share?” the first guy asked.
“You’re holding it,” Alpha said from the bed of the truck. He was setting bars into two piles, one considerably larger than the other.
“There’s a lot more there,” one of the chubby guys said. “Shouldn’t there be equal shares or something?” Alpha stood and came to the edge of the truck bed, looking down at the half circle gathered around it.
“You think I’m not being fair?” he asked. “How many of you dodged bullets tonight?” I raised my hand. “How many got shot? How many fought for this? How many of you put yourselves in any danger?” My hand stayed up through all of it, and it wasn’t joined by any others. “Only Chance and myself. None of you. We did the real work. All you did was show up and demand meat from our kill. Be grateful for what I gave you, and pray I don’t decide you’re not worthy of even that.”
“Why is he worthy of even being chosen?” the big kid with the ponytail and the knee-high leather boots asked. “I know who he is, that’s Chance Fortunato. He’s a goddamned white knight. Why is a candy assed SJW like him your beta instead of one of us?”
“White knight,” Alpha said slowly. He walked to the end of the bed and hopped down. “Social Justice Warrior. Troll. Cucks, libtards, trolls, Nazis, fascists, antifa. Internet terms, used by keyboard commandos to describe other men who oppose them...all words used in bloodless debates by idiots who align themselves along a human spectrum. Conservative, liberal, centrist. All of them human terms. Mortal limitations. I’m not some champion for your little cause. I’m not some men’s rights champion or feminist shill. I am not part of human politics or petty squabbles over philosophies. I am beyond those things.” He reached out and grabbed the long haired doubter by the neck and lifted him into the air. “Do you think you’re more of a man than he is?” He tossed the offending supplicant to the floor and stood glaring at him.
“Goddamn straight I am,” he said, trying to get back to his feet. Alpha strode up to him and slapped him, knocking him back down.
“How many men have you killed?” he demanded, punctuating the question with another slap. “How many bones have you broken?” Another slap. “How many times have you bled in battle?” Slap. “How many times have you fought for your very life? How many scars do you bear?” Two more slaps. “Zero. You've never faced true hardship, true fear.”
“But…” the wannabe warrior stammered.
“But nothing. Whatever trauma you think you’ve suffered is nothing compared to what he’s faced, what he’s done. You stand in the presence of a blooded warrior. He’s killed more than once. He’s bled often...and he has won. None of you can say the same. If you’re going to become worthy to bear the wolf, you have to be ready for all that comes with it. Pain, fear, death. The hunt. The kill, the feast. These are the burden of the wolf you hope to bear.” He turned and addressed the rest of the group before he turned back to the wannabe. “And when you question Chance’s worthiness to be my beta, you question me!” He slapped the guy harder, nearly knocking him out. “And you do not question your alpha.”
I came up beside him, looking down at the wanna-be. Hearing Alpha describe me the way he did rang true with something inside me. I’d earned my stripes, both when I served Dulka and afterward. I was a damn warrior among boys, far more powerful than this collection of testosterone addled dude-bros. They had only been able to kick me when I was already beaten. It was time to remind them of what I really was.
“Anyone else want to question my place in the pack?” I asked, turning my attention to the other five guys. I squatted down next to the wanna-be. “How about you? Are you man enough to make me prove my strength?” He glared at me, and I smiled back. My fist caught him in the breadbasket, and he doubled over, retching.
“What the hell, man?” one of the kids wearing a supervillain shirt demanded.
“No mercy,” I said, standing to face him. “Remember that lesson?” I backhanded him, sending him sprawling, then turned to another guy. “An alpha isn’t ruled by the weakness of others. Just like I’m not ruled by your weakness.” I lunged to one side and slapped another one, a skinny dude dressed in black. He fell, my handprint red on his cheek. The biggest of the bunch came at me, and I dropped and spun with one leg out, sweeping his feet. The fourth one moved forward, trying to kick me while I was off my feet. I put one hand over the other and caught the kick, pushing back hard enough to send him staggering back. Before he could catch his balance, I was on my feet and planting an open palm against his breastbone, knocking him to the floor hard enough that he skidded a few feet. The fifth guy came at me in a football rush, and I caught him in a hip toss. Instead of using his momentum to keep him moving forward, though, I directed it downward. The air went out of him and he lay there, gasping.
My hearing caught the lead wanna-be coming up behind me. I stepped to one side and his overhand hammer blow met nothing but air. While he tried to regain his balance, I dropped into one of the fighting stances Kim’s memories had taught me. A combination of styles, it was a weird mix of drunken weaving, mantis like hand positioning, but serpent style looseness of arm, with the hands held in what Kim dubbed a feather-fist. Hands half open, ready to close into a hard fist, open into a knife hand or curl into a knuckles-first strike. It was extremely ineffective unless you had kitsune-like reflexes and speed, and better than human strength. Which I did.
“You fail to grasp the art of Beat Dude Lo. Approach me that you might see,” I said, imitating one of Dr. Corwin’s favorite comedy routines.
Dude-bro number one came skipping at me with a haymaker loaded up, his fist cocked back behind his ear, bouncing with each step. I held my ground until he tried to unleash it. His right hand seemed to move in slow motion, and I had all the time in the world to weave just outside of it, push his arm to one side with my left hand while I reached out with my right, slid my hand under his punch…and flicked my finger across the tip of his nose.
“Observe, losers, that you might learn.” He turned to face me, then came at me again, more cautious this time. “Boot to the head,” I said. The spin kick brought my foot around behind me, over his right shoulder so that the flat of my foot slapped across his cheek. I stopped the blow just at the point of impact instead of following through, so I didn’t take his head clean off his shoulders. It was still enough to knock him to the floor, but not quite enough to knock him out.
“Few students experience so much of the art so soon,” I said to him while he struggled to his feet. I slid to one side as another dude tried to attack from behind.
“You
missed,” I said, straightening and pointing at him. “Boot to the head.” To his credit, he tried to dodge the kick, but instead of a roundhouse style shot, I just leaned back and brought my foot up, waited until he stopped moving and laid the side of my foot against his ear. “Does anyone else wish to be honored with this wisdom?”
The remaining four came at me, and I found myself remembering one of Dr. C’s lessons: Never fight the crowd. Fight the people in it. I bounced right, putting the other three behind the guy on the end, forcing them to change direction while I dealt with him.
“Boot to the head,” I said, planting my foot against the back of his skull. While he staggered forward, I went wide around him and closed with the guy right behind him, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head, then grabbing his belt as an anchor while I dropped my body low and sent my foot high to slap against the face of the guy behind him.
“Boot to the head,” I said again. The fourth guy started toward me, so I grabbed elastic and gave dude number two a monster wedgie while I shoved him into the path of number four. They stumbled a little, until I took a long step and shoved Captain Wedgie aside.
“You, too, shall be honored,” I said, trying to sound serene.
“Shit,” he managed before I raised my right knee.
“Boot to the head.” My foot landed just above his temple, and he hit the floor. “Now, we will review. An alpha shows no mercy.” I kicked one of the moaning group. “An alpha does not ask. He demands, and he takes.” Another dude, another kick to the ribs. “The strong rule.” Kick. “An alpha is not ruled by the weakness of others.” Kick. “Do not question Alpha.” Kick. “And finally, don’t fuck with me. Now, are we feeling wiser?” Heads bobbed up and down amid the moans. “Good.” I walked over to Alpha, feeling some small satisfaction at turning the tables this time. He gave me a slow nod.