Swane cracked his knuckles. Not a problem. But after the bastard got his wish, Swane would grab the half-a-mil coming to him and quietly disappear into a third-world country. Maybe he‘d take his own pet pussy. Rip her claws out—and teeth too—and she‘d do anything he wanted. He hardened and had to stop and adjust himself.
Avoiding the pools of light, Swane worked his way over to where the ‗extras‘ from the town waited for their cue. Looked like most of the people in Cold Creek. They‘d practiced their part several times last night until the director let them go, and tonight would be the take. According to the skit, when the villain started shooting at the hero, the panicking mob would flee through several streets. The very dark streets.
Nerves on edge, he watched for any mountain lion shapes and shadows as he walked to his position.
After the rehearsals last night, he knew his target‘s route. This time, as the small group of fleeing extras came past him, he‘d trank her and toss her in the car. The trunk was already open.
He‘d stop on the road and administer a longer-acting dose, and be at the farmhouse shortly after.
He might even leave her sedated long enough to…enjoy himself before getting down to work.
Fuck yes. There was nothing like the young ones with their high screams and terrified eyes.
The sound of a pistol split the night air, then several more shots. Screaming. Yelling. The filming had begun. The people scattered into the various streets. They‘d been told to keep running since filming would continue here and there.
No camera was set up on this street. Vidal had been clear about his requirements with the director.
Swane listened, and a second later, the kid appeared out of the darkness. She ran toward him, trying to look afraid, not very effectively. That would change. A few more steps and then…she stopped dead. Sniffing and looking around. What the fuck?
Whatever. She was close enough. He aimed and heard a growl. Before he could turn, jaws closed over his hand. His skin ripped, his fingers breaking with little snapping sounds. He screamed and struck at the animal. Another huge, monstrous dog sprang on him.
Swane landed hard on his back. As he tried to rise, teeth snapped close to his neck. He froze, barely breathing. Spittle hit him in the face as the dog‘s fangs hovered an inch from his throat.
They weren‘t dogs. Wolves. Werewolves. The monsters weren‘t just mountain lions.
Swane‘s bladder released.
From the sidewalk, the girl watched him, then looked past him.
Too terrified to move, Swane rolled his eyes in that direction. Two men were crossing the street. The cop. The girl‘s father.
Fuck.
*
Vic didn‘t slow her pace, but her heart hammered like a ‗ma deuce‘ machine gun. Wells!
Here in her town. The thrill of seeing him had lasted one whole second before turning to worry.
And dread. After some hard calculation, she straightened her shoulders and followed him into Angie‘s Diner. I can do this.
Supper rush had ended, and only two men in overalls and work boots occupied stools at the counter. Wells had taken a table near the corner, and he motioned for her to join him. Her footsteps on the old wooden floors sounded like a drum roll of doom as she walked into the room.
"Vicki, dear!" The owner, Angie O‘Neal, came out from behind the long counter, hands outstretched in greeting. "I didn‘t get a chance to tell you how pleased we are for you and the men. You‘ve been good for them, and for little Jamie."
Oh, this was so not the time for this. Vic forced a smile and let the woman squeeze her hands. "Thank you, Angie. That‘s sweet of you."
"What can I get you? The special tonight is meat loaf and mashed potatoes."
"Just coffee, thanks. I‘m meeting a friend," Vic added, nodding toward Wells.
He stood as she walked up to the table, politely pulling out a chair for her. Attired in jeans, T-shirt and a dark brown corduroy jacket, he‘d dressed to fit in. They waited until Angie had set two cups and a pot of coffee on their table and returned to her counter.
Face impassive, he studied her with clear blue eyes, then nodded. "You‘re looking well, Sergeant. Very healthy, in fact."
"Thank you, sir."
"I was in the area and had a notion to see how you‘re doing. Have you adapted to civilian life?"
In the area? Sure, you were. She summoned a smile. "I think so. It‘s been harder than I thought in some ways." There was something wrong here. His expression and body language were...off.
"I‘m not surprised." He changed subjects. "As you requested, I investigated the ex-marine named Swane."
"I—I told you that the locals took care of it." She realized her mistake immediately.
His eyes turned cold. "But they didn‘t, Morgan. The homeless crimes are unsolved, and Swane isn‘t in custody. In fact, they don‘t have his name at all in conjunction with the case."
Oh shit, she was screwed.
"Your Swane is an ‗enforcer‘ who works for a Tony Vidal. So I checked out Vidal. Typical mobster with some odd interests."
She kept her eyes down, pretending to watch her coffee. Pupil dilation, eye movements—
Wells could read the smallest flicker. "Really." How much did the spymaster know?
"He‘s investigating rumors of people transforming into mountain lions."
Worse and worse. She turned her shock into amusement. "Excuse me? Mountain lions?"
"Odd isn‘t it? But about two months ago, he captured a young man…who transformed into a mountain lion when tortured. Vidal wants to know how to create more monsters. That is where using the homeless as specimens came into play."
"Are you serious?" Please, don"t take this story seriously. Laugh, dammit. She saw her coffee lapping at the sides of the cup—her hands were shaking. Moving her hands back, she exhaled the anxiety out, inhaled calmness.
"Oh yes.
