better bunch than the Finns, once they warmed up to you and decided you weren’t in need of a stabbing at least. Tough climates bred tough temperaments. “Name’s Earl.”
“That’s a fine tradition there, sonny,” nodded the first approvingly, and he held up three fingers for the waiter. “I’m Aino. That’s Henry. Up on Cliff Road, one of the local deputies, Joe Buckley, was in his car, bear came along and pulled him out the window and ate part of him.”
“He was where the Randalls keep their horses,” supplied Henry. “Other side of the hill from the old Quinn Mine. I used to work down there, ya know, back ’fore the big cave-in.”
“Dark day for Copper Lake,” Aino muttered.
Earl didn’t know if the old immigrant was talking about the bear or the mine collapsing. “Did they catch the bear?” he asked, and he had a sneaking suspicion on what the answer would be. Both of the old timers shook their heads in the negative. “I’m a professional hunter by trade. Maybe I could help.”
“Maybe.” Aino scratched his grizzled chin. “They looked for it, didn’t see nothing. Joe Buckley’s a good boy though, so you see any bears, stranger, you do us a favor and pop it dead.”
The waiter came back with three beers. “I got a few rifles in my truck,” Earl responded, and few was an understatement. He took a bottle and tilted it toward the gentlemen. “And I’m a fair shot.”
The waiter snorted derisively and blew the hair away from his eyes. “People like you put guns on our streets.”
Earl looked at the teenager in disbelief. “And people like you put the fries on my plate.” He waved toward the kitchen dismissively. “So hop to it, boy.”
The waiter stomped away. Aino gave him a big grin. That was a new record for Earl befriending a Finn. Apparently living in America took the edge off.
Stark couldn’t believe his eyes, but who should be sitting there at the bar other than the head contractor scumbag himself, Earl Harbinger.
The entire time he’d been eating his chicken-fried steak and talking with Agent Mosher, Stark had kept checking the test vial under the table. Once it turned blue, he’d told Mosher he needed to take a leak, and he’d gotten up with the plan of calling Briarwood to get their butts up here to make them all some cash. Seeing that pain-in-the-ass Harbinger joking and drinking with some old bastards floored him.
MHI is here. Stark let loose with a long string of profanity under his breath. Those jerks would swoop in, kill the werewolves before Briarwood could, steal the PUFF bounty, and, worst of all, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t even pull jurisdiction and toss MHI out, because that required paperwork, and he sure as hell couldn’t justify that if his official story was that the test kit had come back negative.
He hated Harbinger. Not only was he rich and successful beyond any public servant’s wildest imagination-the guy kept senators in his pocket like most people kept change-he was also a balls-out fighter. Rumor in the MCB was that Harbinger had actually kicked the snot out of several members of Director Myers’s strike team and gotten away with it. Which was another example of why Myers needed to be replaced. If Stark was running the show, there was no way that any MCB would ever be disrespected by a filthy werewolf.
That was the crux of it. Harbinger was a werewolf, a disgusting, stinking lycanthrope, no better than the trash that Stark had devoted his life to destroying. All the Special Agents in Charge knew about him. Those yokels were unwittingly sitting there next to a vicious animal, and Stark wasn’t even allowed to do the sensible thing and go pump a silver bullet into the monster’s head. Non-PUFF applicable creatures were out of his jurisdiction unless they went off the reservation and were caught up to no good. Sure, the second somebody like Harbinger screwed up, MCB owned their ass, but in the meantime his hands were tied. Nobody in the MCB knew exactly why Harbinger was declared off-limits, but Stark was sure that it had something to do with Monster Hunter International throwing big bags of money at spineless politicians.
He had to do something and quick. Harbinger would go to talk to the bitten deputy. That’s how he got his new recruits, after all: sweet-talking survivors. Being a werewolf, Harbinger would definitely recognize that the deputy was infected, probably smell it or something, and then MHI would get that bounty instead of him.
Stark made it around the corner to where the bathrooms were without being seen. Luckily for him, the place still had a pay phone installed-good thing that all these backwoods types got bad cell reception-which meant that he didn’t have to use his government-issued cell to call Briarwood. You couldn’t be too careful in this business.
The sultry European sex goddess picked up on the fourth ring. “Briarwood.”
He cut right to the chase. “If your boys can get here in time, you’ve got two bounties. But they had better hurry. There’s been a complication. Some of your competitors are here.”
“Competitors?”
“The boys from Alabama, if you get who I mean. One bounty is at the hospital. He won’t turn until the full moon, but if you get him early, the blood test will justify the PUFF.” Stark neglected to mention that the place was crawling with cops. That was Briarwood’s problem. “The one that bit him is around here somewhere. How soon can you be on-site?”
There was a long pause, like she was covering the phone and asking someone a question. “Our team is almost there.”
Stark glanced at his watch and swore. It was going to be close. “Head straight for the hospital.” He slammed the phone back into the cradle.
When Stark came around the corner from the bathrooms, Harbinger, who didn’t seem surprised in the least, was staring right at him. Stark froze. From across the room, the Hunter actually had the nerve to raise his beer like he was giving Stark a toast. So much for getting out without being seen. Stark walked up to the bar to confront the obnoxious Hunter.
Earl Harbinger didn’t look like anything special up close, just average. But there was something intimidating about the way he watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to eat you or not. But Stark was MCB, and MCB wasn’t easily intimidated, even by a werewolf.
“Hey, Agent Stork. Been a long time,” Harbinger said, sounding friendly as could be. That redneck- confederate-illiterate-goat-molester-country-music accent made Stark even angrier.
“Stark,” he corrected. “What’re you doing here, Harbinger?”
“Vacation. These gentlemen were just telling me about the quality fishing they’ve got in these parts. Damn fine steaks here, by the way. You?”
“Official business. And you better stay out of it.”
Harbinger smiled. “I’d have to take a significant pay cut to make your business worth my time.”
“Screw you,” he said automatically, but then Stark felt a brief touch of panic. Had Harbinger heard him talking to Briarwood? He paused, thinking it through; there was no way he could have, but it was still a sore spot for the agent. “Listen up, asshole. You want to-”
“Whoa there,” interrupted one of the yokels. “What’s your problem?”
“Shut your face, old-timer,” Stark snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Damn, Earl. Who’s this dickhead?” asked the other local.
“Somebody who’s about to get his ass beat,” said the first old bastard in a thick accent. He got off his stool but only came up to about Stark’s neck. “You got a problem, fatso?”
“Easy, Aino,” Harbinger said, putting one hand on the man’s arm. The guy had to be in his sixties, and he was ready to throw down at the perceived insult, but at least the grizzled old man returned to his seat, glaring the whole time. “Me and Stork here have met before. He’s just a little high-strung is all…So, how’s life been since you were released as Franks’s jockstrap carrier?”
Mosher had heard the raised voices and come over. The junior agent had no idea what was going on. Stark pointed one thick finger right between Harbinger’s eyes. “Funny guy, huh? Well, funny guy, one of these days you’ll screw up, and then we own you.”
“Uh-huh…” Harbinger took a long, nonchalant drink. “And when that day comes, I’ll make sure that whatever I did was absolutely worth it.”
Stark may have been angry, but he was smart enough to know that Harbinger was just goading him. Besides, slugging Harbinger’s drunk hillbilly friend in front of witnesses would probably cause him some trouble. “Come on, Mosher. Let’s get out of this dump. Remember, Harbinger, stay out of my way, or you’ll regret it.”
“See ya’ round, Stork.”
“Better keep walking,” said the one with the accent.
