“I’ll leave it on just in case you get carried away and I have to cover my butt,” he said, still scratching the object of his discourse, “but you can come back and steal it from me.” He pointed at an old-fashioned VCR player under the counter. The kid might be stoned but he was still thinking. He gave me a receipt on a hotel letterhead, which had been photocopied on a machine in desperate need of toner. His signature was illegible and I was guessing it wasn’t his, not that I cared. I’d be turning it over to Leo for reimbursement and to my accountant. A partial lie, another sin to add to my growing burden of them. I dropped an extra twenty on the counter to sweeten the pot. He said, “Business doing nice with you,” and laughed as if he thought it was really funny. Stoner humor had always escaped me.
I walked to Bitsa, took out three handguns and belted two into a special holster at the small of my back. I checked the loads on them all, chambering silver shot rounds. I slid two knives into my waistband. I could have called for backup—either Derek Lee or the cops. I didn’t. Rick’s scent was fading. So I’d check the place out first. I did slide a pair of brass knuckles over my right fingers. I had never used brass knuckles, but right now, they felt good. I probably needed my leathers for protection, but I wasn’t going back home to change.
I took a breath, studying the door locks. Settled my grip on the H&K 9 mil in my left fist, though I was a far better shot with my right. I’d be up close. Aiming wasn’t essential. I’d need the power behind my right hook; I wanted to wound, not kill. I strode up to 114. Drawing up Beast, letting her flood my system. Unleashing just a bit of the fury boiling inside me.
I swiveled around and forward. Weight perfectly balanced with momentum. Lashed out, transferring power through torso, hip, thigh, knee, leg, foot. And kicked the door, my boot hitting just under the lock. The door jamb splintered. The door slammed open. Broke the security chain. Wood slivers and lock parts flew, catching the morning light. The door hit the back wall. The smell of werewolf hit me. I was inside before the two wolves in human form were half awake.
One went down at the foot of his bed with my boot heel imprinted on his jaw. The other one tried for a gun that I slapped away. Punched him in the face. I was pretty sure I broke his jaw and a few teeth. He was out cold, his remaining teeth not aligned right anymore. I looked at my fist. It didn’t even hurt. Dang. Brass knuckles are cool!
Four seconds after I kicked in the door I was in the next room. Pivoted, weapon ready to fire at either door or window if needed. It was empty. It reeked of werewolf bitch, sickness, and sex. A lot of sex. Under that was the taint of Rick’s blood. I broke into a hot sweat, but forced myself to stand and observe, taking everything in, with all my senses. Overlapping impressions bombarded me, visual and olfactory, the taste and texture of the air on my exposed skin.
The room was trashed, as if a pack of rabid dogs had torn it apart, dissecting the furniture into its component pieces, with only the bed still standing, though it was severely wounded. From the stink, the wolf-bitch had routinely bedded down and mated with all of the male weres in the nest of torn sheets and mattress stuffing. And with Rick, a lot.
Wolves mate for life, Beast thought at me. Sick bitch.
I scented old beef blood and saw a bowl filled with water in the corner, a bloody place on the carpet and a scrap of rancid meat against the wall where a were had eaten in wolf form.
The stink of were-bitch had a sickly smell, even to my human nose, as if I could sniff out the virus or bacteria that was making her crazy. It smelled stronger and more virulent than that running in the male werewolves’ veins. The were-cats hadn’t smelled like this. Sabina’s old Roman scholar’s info was starting to smell real likely.
The closet doors were missing. Female clothing hung on several hangers, the rest rumpled on the floor beneath the rod. The bathroom was neater than the rest of the place, maybe because it hadn’t been used much. There were girl toiletries everywhere, spilled, dumped, half empty. The toilet lid was up, and an image of the were-bitch drinking from it made my lips curl with savage humor. A blond wig was half hidden under the counter.
Rick had been wooing a redhead in the photos, a girl I’d assumed was Safia. But by the stink of sex, he’d been with more than one were. If there was one wig there might be two. I turned slowly. Spotted a red wig, long tresses matted with crusted stuff I didn’t want to examine. Fake prepackaged change of identity. I pulled it out with a toe and flipped it over to expose the mesh underside. A brunette hair was curled inside. I leaned in and took a whiff. Yeah. Were-bitch. At some point in his undercover investigation, Rick found the wolves. And ended up . . . their prisoner?
Air moved through the open window on the back wall, and I went to it, unsurprised to see it broken out, blood on the shattered shards. I sniffed, parsing the pheromones. Rick’s blood, by the smell; I could almost taste his fear. He’d tried to get away. He had gone undercover and found trouble. Rick was a prisoner, or had been. Beast growled deep inside me.
I went back to the bed. Rick’s wallet and badge were under a pillow, on an undamaged spot of mattress. His blood was on the bed too. Rick wasn’t undercover anymore.
Rage boiled through me, building pressure, needing an outlet it wasn’t going to get. I needed to be analytical, methodical, not a raging maniac. But it was hard to breathe, my body felt clammy and cold in spite of the heat. I shoved down my reactions to the blood and semen and were-bitch scent, tamping the edges with cold, hard purpose.