The Frenzy Wolves

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Why show me?”

  He handed her a banded stack of cash. “I want you to have your share. Take it. Run now.”

  “I already told you I can’t do that.”

  He gave her another stack of cash. “Find Rhonda. Give this to her. Then run for your life.”

  Karol stood looking at one stack of money in each hand.

  Gabriel took an envelope from the safe and handed it to her. “Take this as well.”

  She stuffed the cash into her coat pockets and took the envelope. “What is it?”

  “The combination to this safe. I have to try to convince Raphael to leave with me, just as you have to convince Rhonda to leave with you. But I have a larger responsibility, and I’m unloading some of it onto you. Once the council members are out of the country, the rest of the pack should be safe here as long as they avoid one another. Many of them will want to leave anyway, and they should. If anything happens to me, I want you to give that combination to someone you trust so he or she can disburse the rest of these funds. Each Wolf should have the option of a fresh beginning.”

  Karol slid the envelope into her coat as well. “You can count on me.”

  “I know I can.”

  “There’s something you need to know. Raphael and Elias were fixated on the records at the task force headquarters. I told them everything I know, but I got the feeling they wanted to see for themselves.”

  “What time does that office close?”

  “One o’clock at the latest but 6:00 pm isn’t out of the question, especially with the hours we’ve been pulling.”

  Gabriel shut the safe and turned the combination dial. “Isn’t there a hotel across the street from that building?”

  “A fleabag joint for hookers and dopers. It’s on the corner, though, not directly across the street. You’re not thinking of checking in there, are you?”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I have ways of getting around unnoticed.”

  Angela and Melissa stood on the porch of the cabin again, this time watching Arick, driving Angela’s truck, lead the two vehicles along the driveway to where cabins waited for them.

  “I want to go back to the city to help Gabriel,” Melissa said.

  Angela put her arm around her sister-in-law. “I know you do, but the answer is no. It’s too dangerous, and you have young ones here.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to him.”

  Angela gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll do what you have to do, what we all have to do, whatever it takes to survive. That’s the way it’s always been for us.”

  “I never believed we’d reach this point. I took my life for granted. We were fools to think we were safe. None of us knew how fragile, how precarious, our existence was. I wonder if anything will ever be the same again.”

  “Let’s go inside. We’ve got a mess to clean up after all those Wolves and another meal to prepare.”

  “I’ll come in a minute.”

  Angela went inside, leaving Melissa to gaze at the wilderness.

  Thirty-Two

  Standing tall, Big Kwamie pumped himself into the woman writhing on her hands and knees on the leather sofa in his office.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the woman said, whimpering.

  He didn’t even know her name. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her toward him while he slammed into her.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” she said.

  He wished she would just shut the hell up.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” he shouted above the woman’s cries.

  “St. Thomas,” a man said.

  “Can’t you hear I’m busy?”

  “Sorry. Bedlam is here.”

  Fuck. “Give me a minute.” He drove himself harder into the woman, then doubled over her and roared. The woman collapsed beneath him, and he grabbed the back of the sofa for balance. He didn’t bother to look at her as he bent over, pulled up his underwear and then his trousers, and fastened his gold belt buckle. He took out his roll from one pocket, peeled off a hundred dollar bill, and tossed it onto her sweaty body. “Get dressed. Playtime is over.”

  The woman dragged herself upright and got dressed.

  Kwamie put on his jacket and arranged his dreadlocks, then opened the door.

  St. Thomas, his right-hand man, entered with Bedlam, who gave the woman an approving look.

  “Let yourself out,” Kwamie said to the woman.

  She left the office.

  Kwamie sat on the sofa with his arms spread wide on its back. “What’s the word?”

  “Those young punks haven’t been seen,” Bedlam said.

  “’Course they ain’t. They scared. With good reason. You know who they are, right?”

  “I know their faces,” Bedlam said.

  “Well, learn their names and smoke ’em out. I don’t care if you have to take out their whole families. I want them gone. Every day they’re still alive makes me look like a chump. A couple of pigs came in here last night trying to push my buttons. Motherfuckers all but laughed in my face. That kind of disrespect requires an answer. You feel me?”

  Bedlam nodded.

  “We got a lot of people looking for them,” St. Thomas said.

  “I want everyone looking for them.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

  “Nobody messes with me,” Kwamie said.

  Two gunshots rang out upstairs, causing all three men to flinch.

  Bedlam drew a nine from his waistband. “What the fuck was that?”

  An agonized scream followed.

  St. Thomas drew a nine of his own. “That’s Big Whitey.”

  They waited for more screams, but none came.

  “You got any product on the premises?” Bedlam said.

  “Hell, no,” Kwamie said.

  “Then we can always call the cops.”

  Kwamie sneered at his lieutenant. Then he strode over to the corner of the room. He pulled a section of the paneled wall out, revealing a hidden compartment, and removed an AK-47. He popped a clip into the weapon and flipped the safety switch. “Let’s take care of business.”

  St. Thomas opened the door and peered out, then stepped into the hallway and motioned them forward. Bedlam followed, with Kwamie bringing up the rear. They passed the restrooms and janitorial closet, the nightclub above silent.

  Kwamie watched his men ascend the wide, carpeted stairs to the club. He tightened his grip on the AK-47. Who the hell would be dumb enough to attack him in his own place? He hadn’t reached his position in the drug trade by being political.

  They emerged onto the dance floor, deserted except for one body: Big Whitey lay in the center of the floor. With their guns raised, the three men formed a triangle around the three-hundred-pound albino. Big Whitey’s throat had been torn out, and his right hand, which still clutched his Glock, had been severed from his wrist.

  “What the Jesus goddamned fuck?” St. Thomas said.

  A shadow glided across the floor.

  Kwamie aimed his AK-47.

  “I don’t like this,” Bedlam said.

  Kwamie activated the custom laser sight on his weapon and aimed the red beam in the darkness. Another shadow scampered behind the bar. All three men turned their guns in that direction. A shadow darted behind a table, claws scrabbling. The men turned in circles.

  “Come on out,” Kwamie said. “We got you covered. There’s no way you’re getting out of here alive. Just show yourselves, and we’ll deal with this like businessmen.”

  A low growl came from the darkness.

  The gun in Kwamie’s hands shook. “What the fuck?”

  A rattling sound came from overhead, and he looked up at the lighting grid suspended from the ceiling. With the lights off, the lamp houses were hard to see against the black ceiling. Something was wrong, though. A few of the lights appeared to be missing . . . or something covered them. He took a step back. Something was up there.

  Three dark shapes
dropped from the grid at the same time. Kwamie saw wide jaws parting to reveal canine teeth.

  St. Thomas jumped back.

  Kwamie brought the barrel of the AK-47 up too late, and the lupine creature landed on top of him, digging its claws into his upper body. The impact forced him to his knees, and he triggered the gun, filling the club with a deafening roar. Bedlam and St. Thomas screamed around him, but neither of them got off a shot. Then he found himself on his back, staring into the eyes of a monster that defied reality. He had heard the stories on the news and had made jokes, but now he knew that werewolves existed, and for some reason he could not fathom, they had come for him.

  Two more creatures tore into Bedlam and St. Thomas, and one ran onto the dance floor. A second monster joined the first on top of Kwamie, and a flurry of bites and slashes opened him up. He tried to fire his weapon again, more as an angry punctuation to his demise than a futile effort to save himself, but his trigger finger would not respond. A second later, he knew why: the first werewolf held his severed hand between its jaws. He kicked, but his legs found only emptiness, and then both of the beasts buried their muzzles in his flesh and went to work on his organs.

  He closed his eyes and prayed for the end to come.

  Rhonda sprang upright and changed to human form, Kwamie’s blood dripping from her naked body. Daniel continued to gnaw on Kwamie’s corpse, and the others feasted on Kwamie’s bodyguards.

  “That’s enough,” she said, her breasts rising and falling.

  Daniel and the others pried themselves away from their victims and assumed their human shapes. They rose one by one, covered in blood.

  “Check their pockets,” Rhonda said.

  Daniel turned out Kwamie’s pockets and held up a roll of cash. The others collected wallets and rolls from the other corpses.

  “Get the clothes,” Rhonda said.

  They rushed into the table area and retrieved the backpacks in which they had stuffed their clothing. First they removed the wet towels they had packed.

  “Just your faces, hands, and hair,” Rhonda said.

  They wiped the blood from their flesh, dressed, and pulled on their socks and sneakers.

  “Bolt,” Rhonda said.

  They sprinted onto the dance floor, giving a wide berth to the pools of blood around the four dead men, and ran straight to the back exit doors. Rhonda threw herself at a panic bar, and one door flew open. They emerged into the fresh air of an alley and stood on the sidewalk.

  “How do you guys feel?” Rhonda said to T-Bone and Lincoln.

  “Fuckin’ A,” T-Bone said.

  “Like new,” Lincoln said.

  She turned to the others. “Go home and wash up good. I’ll see you at Lincoln’s later.”

  Rhonda had gotten half a block away when she heard the first siren.

  Thirty-Three

  When Mace and Norton entered the squad room after eating a late lunch, Landry came over to them. “Mount Pleasant PD reports the homicide of one Savana Silvestri, age eighty, in Valhalla. She was dismembered in her home. Her granddaughter found her. The O’Hearn family’s SUV was parked in the garage, and Silvestri’s Lexus is missing.”

  “So Gomez went to her house the night of his escape and used her car to get into Manhattan,” Mace said.

  All three of them went into his office.

  “I put out an APB for the car. Do you want to send someone out there?”

  Mace sat behind his desk. “Who would we send? Half our team is tied up with Rice’s murder. Did you ever hear from Karol?”

  “No, I’m getting worried.”

  “Don’t be. She’ll turn up.” He wondered if she had already crossed the border.

  A female clerk in khakis knocked on the door. “Excuse me, but Detective Andeli from the Four-Five is on line seven and wants to speak to the captain. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Thank you,” Landry said.

  She exited and Mace answered the call.

  “Captain, we have four DOAs at Kwamie’s Spot in the Bronx.”

  Mace felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. “Is Kwamie one of them?”

  “It’s hard to tell. There isn’t much left of any of them. This is just like the four DOAs the other night in the wrecking yard.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mace hung up and stood. “Back on the road,” he said to Norton. “Ken, tell Hector and Suzie to get to Kwamie’s club in the Bronx, then call Mint and Hollander.”

  Mace took East Houston Street to FDR Drive north. Twenty minutes later, Mace parked behind several emergency response vehicles outside Kwamie’s club. Dozens of people stood behind crime scene tape, and television camera crews were at the ready. He and Norton got out and made their way through the gauntlet.

  “Captain Mace!” a female reporter shouted. “Is this the work of Rodrigo Gomez, or are there other werewolves in the Bronx?”

  “You’re supposed to be investigating the Brotherhood of Torquemada. How do these murders relate to that investigation?” another reporter said.

  “Do you have any comment on Carl Rice’s murder?” a third asked.

  Staring straight ahead with a grim expression, Mace nodded to one of the POs stationed at the front doors and entered the building with Norton at his side.

  “The price of fame,” Norton said.

  At the top of the stairs, Mace opened a door for her, and they entered the club, which seemed larger without any patrons inside. Hector and Suzie were shooting photos while two detectives and two POs watched.

  “It’s like we never left,” Norton said.

  The two detectives joined them.

  “I’m Andeli,” one of them said. “This is my partner, Martin. I hope you’re here to take this off our hands.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the case. We’re shorthanded, and you’re already here. You’re the primaries.” Mace moved closer to Hector. “Gomez?” he said in a low voice.

  “Only if he’s got friends.” Hector pointed at bloody paw prints all over the floor. “It’s kind of hard to tell how many there were. Did they walk on two legs or four? It looks to me like all four guys went down at the same time, and they weren’t exactly harmless. There were three Glocks and one AK-47 between them.”

  Norton’s cell phone rang, and she took it out. “This is Norton . . . Yes, sir.” She hung up and turned to Mace. “That was Hollander. As soon as we’re done we need to report to FBI New York.”

  Mace looked at Hector. “I think we’re done.”

  “Do you ever feel like quitting?” Norton said as Mace drove back to Manhattan.

  “All the time. You?”

  “No, I’m too career-oriented. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I had a normal life.”

  “I’d like to get out of the city, go someplace with grass and trees.”

  “You want to mow the lawn and shovel snow?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It sounds like you’re just having a midlife crisis.”

  “I’ve been having it for two years, then. I’ve been in the city all my life, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s natural for us to be living on top of each other like this. I want to raise my daughter someplace where she can experience nature other than on TV. I’d like to walk on a lawn barefoot and feel the grass between my toes.”

  They drove through the concrete canyons surrounding Foley Square. The Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza provided a home to several government agencies including the FBI’s New York City field office and the Department of Homeland Security. Norton directed Mace where to park, and they walked a quarter of a mile to the tallest federal building in the country. Lawyers and federal employees crossed the sidewalks.

  Inside the massive lobby, they showed their IDs and weapons to armed security and walked to the elevators. They took an elevator to the twenty-third floor, where they entered the FBI field office and signed in at the reception counter.

  A black woman working behind the cou
nter smiled at Norton. “Hi, Kathy. Hollander’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks, Bonnie. This is Captain Mace from NYPD.”

  Bonnie held out her hand. “I recognize you from TV.”

  Mace shook her hand. “Hello.”

  Bonnie picked up a phone. “Special Agent Norton and Captain Mace are here.” She waited. “Yes, sir.” She hung up. “Go right in.”

  Norton led Mace through wide corridors lined with spacious offices and conference rooms. They rounded two corners before she stopped at a door with Hollander’s name on it. She knocked and opened the door. Hollander and three other men in suits standing around his desk looked up.

  “Wait here,” Hollander said to the men. He crossed the carpeted office to Norton and Mace. “Come with me.”

  Hollander led Norton and Mace down the corridor to a room with a panoramic view of the city. All three of them sat down.

  “Here it is,” Hollander said. “We’ve obviously failed to contain this situation. No one blames either of you for that failure.”

  Big of you, Mace thought.

  “As we speak, the powerful brokers in D.C. are forming a joint agency to deal with the Class L menace.”

  “Excuse me,” Mace said, “but if we’re operating on the belief that there’s a secret society of these creatures, one rogue Class L doesn’t constitute a national threat.”

  Hollander gave him a perfunctory smile that resembled a muscle twitch. “The formation of this joint agency, which doesn’t have a name yet, began the minute we took custody of the carcasses of the Class Ls killed by the Brotherhood of Torquemada. The events of the last few days necessitated the process to be expedited. Your team held down the fort while we assembled the foundation for this agency. You did a good job with limited manpower.”

  “We’d have done better with the detectives promised us,” Mace said.

  Norton gave his ankle a gentle kick.

  “I understand your ire, Captain, but decisions on national threats are made at a higher level than you’re used to,” Hollander said.