“Neither. I have returned to Leo. I will tell him the truth. I will make my peace with him, and his blood will grow sweet again, his and his Mithrans’. They will suffer no more, and the Mercy Blade will abide with them once again.
“For me, you will put Magnolia out of her misery, like an injured wolf too damaged to survive. You will be . . . the Mercy Blade for the cursed. And I will be in your debt.”
“Then, when I bring out Rick, I’ll bring him to you.”
“I will do what I can, little goddess.” The call ended. And I was left, sitting on Bitsa in the heat, eyes gritty with fatigue, waiting for backup, to see that the sentence for breaking the most important were-law was carried out, according to their people’s justice system. And to save Rick LaFleur. If I could. I thought of the photos of Rick and the redhead. It was Maggie Sweets, wigged, in a saner moment, seducing Rick. Who may have already been infected and not thinking like himself. Rick, undercover, using his charm to go after the females. I blinked away tears.
Moments later, Derek Lee and his small army of mercenaries braked their panel van. The side panel door slid open and Derek grinned at me from the dark confines. I glanced over their gear and decided they had enough to win the small war I planned. Derek said, “Sit rep.”
The situation report was brief. “Twelve foot chain link fence, only two exits, one on the front and one into the bar. Ten to fifteen werewolves still survive, if my count is right, likely in human form, likely hungover, and likely still asleep, in tents and a small cabin.”
Derek handed me a pad and I sketched the site. “Bounty is ten thousand a head. Literally. PAW wants the heads. Rick LaFleur, an undercover cop, is with them, but may be infected with the were-taint, not thinking like himself. Him, we want alive. No children seen, no pets, no collateral damage permitted.”
“Not good recon, Legs,” Angel’s Tit said.
“If I’d gone in closer, they would have smelled me.”
“There is that,” Vodka Sunrise said. “Noses on wolves gotta be better than bloodhound.”
I wanted to argue that point, but it seemed silly.
Derek handed the sketch to the guys. “Rock and roll, Legs.” The panel slid shut.
CHAPTER 24
Pick a Target. Aim. Shoot.
The Vodka boys parked a mile away and—except for the driver, V. Chi Chi, who was working a compact little device: com equipment, to coordinate the action—the soldiers filtered into the trees. I dropped my helmet into the van with a hollow thud and shook out my braids. Knotted them into a single queue. Pulled on fingerless gloves meant for firing. I was going to be the diversion that let them inside the compound. “Semper fi,” Chi Chi said to me. I chuckled, and the sound came out like a growl. After that he didn’t speak, but he shifted in his seat so he could watch me. Smart man.
At the appointed time, Chi Chi pointed a finger at me. I kick-started the bike and sat, feet on the earth. Revved her a few times, letting her snarl and Beast’s scream merge, pound into my blood stream. The daylight grew crisp, sharp. The smells of the heated earth grew stronger, complex. Chi Chi said, “Go.” And I gunned the engine. Shot forward. Head down, into the wind. I roared toward Booger’s Scoot.
I drew Beast up, harder, stronger into my eyes, into my bloodstream, my reflexes. My heartbeat like war drums in my head. Racing to battle.
Booger’s came into sight, bright in the morning sun. Bikes parked out front and inside the fenced compound. I downshifted in the parking lot and slewed to a sudden, sliding stop. White shells flew, catching the sun. Tumbling in the air. Time slowed, a gelatinous, thick constraint on the rest of the world, shackles I moved through like dark lightning.
I dropped Bitsa. Pulling the M4 and a silvered blade meant for throwing. Strode to the front door. Kicked. It slammed open. Splintered wood flying, hanging in the air, the door banging into the wall. Inside, the chain walls were already being lowered. Humans screamed and raced into corners like rats. I screamed the challenge of the Puma concolor.
And smelled Rick’s blood. My eyes tracked the scent to a wolfman sitting at a table, trying to stand. Drawing a huge weapon. A .44 Magnum. I threw the blade. It pinwheeled slowly once. Hit him midchest. Just below the sternum. I pulled the H&K, raised it to the ceiling and fired.
After that everything was a jumble of death and blood as I moved through the bar, emptying the clip. Making my noisy distraction. Outside, in the compound, the sunlight was too bright, too glaring. The Vodka boys were already inside the fence, the wolf hunt and execution being carried out with military precision, methodical, precise, orderly. I had a vision of each of them, almost an overview. Behind cover. Pick a target. Aim. Shoot. Advance to cover. Pick a target. Aim. Shoot. Firing, taking down wolves and wolfmen. Mouth open, I scented for Rick.
I saw Booger fall, trying to shift into wolf. He died trying. Roul fell, his lovely hair flying. I saw Tyler fall, firing his small machine pistol, holes opening across his bare chest. The concussive sounds were deafening.
I followed my nose. Across the mat of sod. To the cabin in the center of the grassy yard.
Derek was at my left side when I reached it. My foot hitting the door so hard it splintered apart, sharp fragments flying. He was inside first, shouting “Clear!”
Rick lay on a cot, bound and gagged. Naked. Bloody. Half dead. And the were-bitch lay beside him, on the floor. Her throat freshly ripped out by three claw marks. I could smell the faint stench of fish beneath the smell of blood and feces. Fishy-smelling bayou water pooled at the bedside, mixing with the blood. The grindy had gotten to her first. The grindy had carried out were-law, first on his mistress, Safia, for biting Rick, and now on Safia’s friend for the same crime. Nonhuman footprints, wet with water and blood, led out through a broken window. I was too shocked to even care. I knelt over Rick, my back to the room as Derek took Magnolia’s head.