* * *
Agent Doug Stark of the Monster Control Bureau of the US Department of Homeland Security answered the ringing phone on his desk. He had already had a busy day, seizing a camera and video files from some teenagers who’d blundered into a Type 2 Unnatural devouring a homeless guy at the bottom of a drainage culvert. Stark didn’t necessarily enjoy the part of his job where he intimidated witnesses and survivors into keeping their stupid mouths shut, but he was extremely good at it. “Agent Stark,” he answered sharply.
“Hello, Doug,” said the voice at the other end, and he recognized it immediately. Washington was calling. Damn it. Washington only called when something was wrong, and he had been hoping to get off early so he could catch his daughter’s trumpet recital. “This is Grant Jefferson.”
Stark didn’t like the new guy—he was too smooth—but Director Myers thought Jefferson walked on water, had taken him under-wing, and had delegated all sorts of responsibilities to the former MHI man. Grooming him for leadership, probably because Myers had come up from the private sector, too.…Just like those contractor bozos to get all the money, glory, and then come into his bureau to take all the promotions. “Mornin’, Grant. What can I do for you today?” he asked with zero sincerity.
“There’s been a potential attack in your region. The profile fits a lycanthrope, but that’s currently unknown. One survivor.”
So much for getting off early. Regulations said they had to check it out as soon as possible. “Bitten?” Stark reached for a pad of paper and took a pen from the pink clay mug labeled “#1 Dad.”
“Probable, but unknown. You should assume the worst. Take a test kit. You may need to eliminate.”
Stark grunted in acknowledgment. Who was this upstart punk to tell him something so obvious? As a rookie MCB agent recruited straight out of the SEALs, Stark had learned how to take care of witnesses from the holy terror himself, Agent Franks. Stark was old-school MCB. Back when he’d run the Phoenix office, he’d once had a family of four get torn apart by reptoids, and he had managed to blame the entire incident on coyotes. Stark was still bitter he’d been given the Chicago SAC job instead of the interim director position that Dwayne Myers had scored. Myers had been Dallas SAC before the promotion, so they’d been equals, the jerk. “Location?”
“Copper Lake, Michigan,” Jefferson said.
“Where the hell is Copper Lake?” He leaned back and studied the laminated US map on the wall. The office chair creaked under his weight. Though no longer in his prime, Stark still loved pumping iron and had biceps as big around as most men’s legs. He took pride in the fact that he could still keep up with agents half his age.
“Up by Lake Superior…I think,” Jefferson said. “Hang on, I’m pulling up Google Earth.” It figured. Not only was he going to have to work today, he was going to have to drive to the damn U.P. and probably freeze his ass off in Yooper country. “Wait a second, Agent Archer is here with me.” There was a pause. “He says that he grew up right down the road in Calumet.…He says to pack a coat.” Grant laughed.
Just like those headquarters assholes to have a laugh at his expense, Stark thought. He’d been doing this for nearly twenty-five years. He knew more about this business than Director Myers did. Who were they to laugh at him? Stark idly wrote down the details as Grant kept on talking, but Stark’s mind was somewhere else. He glanced at the PUFF table tacked to the wall beside the map. Government employees didn’t get to collect PUFF, but those contractors got paid damn good money per lycanthrope…and by the time he said his good-byes, he knew exactly what he was going to do.
Like most things that depended on secrecy, the MCB was a relatively small agency. Even the ICE and FBI staff they shared the building with had no clue what the ultra-secretive MCB did for a living. As Special Agent in Charge, he had six agents working under him in the north-central region, and more that he could pull out of Minneapolis, but he’d keep this one close to the vest. He called for Agent Mosher, gave him the lowdown, and told him to get an SUV ready. Requisitioning a chopper was out of the question. The weather was turning nasty, and besides, the key to keeping a monster attack low profile was keeping a low profile. Land a black helicopter at some rural airfield and the locals got to talking, and since the locals were already calling it a bear, why go and mess that up with a Blackhawk?
“Should I put together a team?” Mosher asked. “If it turns out to be a werewolf, that could be dangerous.” Gaige Mosher was the newest agent in his office. He was a tough kid recruited out of Force Recon, but even tough guys didn’t screw around when it came to shapeshifters.
“Naw,” Stark said. “I need to get out of the office. Just the two of us to talk to the witness. My intuition is telling me that it was probably just an animal,” he lied. “And if it does turn out to be the real deal, we’ve got a few days before the full moon. Myers can send out his strike team, and they can use up their budget.” In truth, he just wanted to do the minimum amount of work needed and then get a little kickback on the side. Extra agents could make that a hassle, and Mosher was so eager to prove himself to the experienced Stark that he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.
Once Mosher was gone, Stark excused himself from the office, supposedly to pick up some snacks for the road trip. He stopped at a pay phone on the way. He didn’t like Briarwood much, certainly didn’t trust them, but a man had to provide for his retirement somehow. His pride wouldn’t let him deal with their competitors. He couldn’t stand those MHI punks, ever since he’d lost a drunken fistfight to that asshole Sam Haven all those years ago at a BUD/S reunion, but MHI wasn’t the only game in town. These new guys were local, hungry, morally flexible, and not above passing him a little cut of the PUFF action under the table.
“Briarwood.” That’s all the receptionist said whenever she picked up. They liked that cool mysterious vibe, like if you didn’t know what they did, then you shouldn’t be calling them.
No names. “It’s me. I’ve got a scoop for you.” Stark glanced around the busy street. This was the kind of thing that could get him fired or worse if somebody like Agent Franks got wind of it. Traditional forms of reprimands kind of went out the window when that guy got involved.
“Your information is always greatly appreciated,” she purred. The Briarwood receptionist had a sultry European accent. Stark had never met her, but he liked to imagine her as a sexy blonde who liked to dress in tight black leather. Stark had always had a thing for European chicks since way back when the Navy had stationed him in Italy.
“My standard finder’s fee applies.”
“But of course,” she said. It was only money, and these private hunters were rolling in the dough. He imagined the hot receptionist working out of some secret posh office on top of some downtown high-rise, all black glass and marble. Twenty percent of the PUFF bounty was nothing to those people, but to a GS-13, it was a few extra mortgage payments. “What and where?”
“Possible lycanthrope. Copper Lake, Michigan. I’ll know tonight for sure. Your boys don’t do shit until I give the word, got it?” Stark hung up before she could respond. It was always good to let those contractor goons know exactly who was calling the shots. Agent Stark then used his cell phone to warn his wife that he would be pulling an overnighter, and he apologized in advance for missing his daughter’s recital.
* * *
The offices of Briarwood Eradication Services were on the second floor of a crumbling brick building in a not-quite-terrible-but-getting-there section of Chicago. The first floor was a pool hall, the third was rented by a company that stuffed coupon mailers, and the fourth was untenanted except for the pigeons.
Ryan Horst stopped cleaning his carbine long enough to listen to Jo Ann take the call. She was still doing that Euro-trash voice, which told him that it was probably a potential job. Jo Ann Schneider was from Wisconsin originally and had the accent to prove it but had been working for a phone-sex line when he’d met her. The woman could sound like just about anyone over the phone, which did manage to add a little mystique to their tiny company. Horst knew that success was all about the marketing.
“Ryan! It was that asshole, Stark,” Jo Ann shouted across the large open space. She yanked off her headset and tossed it on the desk. “We’ve got us a big one!”
“About damn time,” he muttered as he finished tugging the boresnake through the barrel of his FAL. He’d assembled a tough crew, but the boys were getting restless. He’d promised that there was lucrative money in this business, far better than what they were used to making for their particular set of skills. Men that good at hurting people weren’t the kind that he wanted to string along. “What’ve we got?” he asked as he pointed the barrel at the overhead lights and squinted at the rifling. The chrome was perfectly clean and shiny as expected. Horst took meticulous care of his weapons.
“A lycanthrope up in Michigan. I think that means werewolf! You know what one of those is worth?” She was practically squealing.
“Of course I do, babe. I am the expert, remember?” he said. Jo Ann stood off to the side, bouncing up and down eagerly, the aesthetics of which he especially appreciated when she wore a tank top. Horst could almost see the dollar signs flashing in her eyes. Even a brand new werewolf was worth at least forty large. The older they were or the more people they’d killed, the more you could make. The sky was the limit on a lycanthrope. Horst had memorized the PUFF tables before those squeamish pansies in Alabama had booted him out of their training camp.
Sociopath. That’s what that broad, Paxton, had called him right before they’d fired his ass. Well, he didn’t need them. Horst had always been an entrepreneur, and he’d always done best on his own. Sure, most of those business dealings had been of questionable legality, but he’d never gotten busted or served time for any of his many ventures. He was far too smart for that.
Horst had filed the paperwork, borrowed some money from his uncle Mickey, got his own PUFF charter, got the Title 13 FFL for the weapons, and recruited his own team of badass killers. Now that he had his own license to print money, all he needed to do was start collecting some fat monster bounties. Even with Stark taking his normal cut, this trip could pay a few bills. So far Briarwood Eradication Services had only taken down a few small, local monsters. Killing a werewolf, hell, any shapeshifter, would launch him into the big time. Horst took his time putting his gun back together. He worked the charging handle a few times. Smooth as silk.
“Good work, babe. Now do me a favor and call in the boys. We’re gonna bag us a werewolf.”