The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(117)

If Butch were here, that cop from Southie would have driven him nuts as they waited, rambling on with sports scores and twitchy, impatient shifts in the seat. The bastard had been the worst at stakeouts. He was an action man.

Had been.

And soon José would be in the past tense, too. Well, in terms of being on the force.

God, he wished his old partner were here. Butch would know how to handle this—actually, no. Butch would just walk up to the chief, shove the guy up against the wall, and start counting down to a beating.

Fuck protocol and all that—

The rear door to the station house opened, and a lone silhouette stepped out. The chief had a reserved space right next to the exit, and Stan looked around before he got into the sedan. The guy always parked ass in, so as he started the engine, his headlights came on, flaring across the mostly empty lot.

José ducked down even though he was all the way across the street in a pocket of shadow.

Stan’s car cut across the empty lines, and at the kiosk, which was also unmanned at this hour of night, he stopped and swiped his card. For a brief instant, security lights pierced the windshield and illuminated his face.

He looked death-knell grim.

Hanging a louie, he started down Muhammad Ali Blvd. And after a lead of maybe five car lengths . . .

José left his spot and oiled along after the chief of police, keeping his own lights off.

How had he known the man had to go back to the office tonight? Because someone who was disorganized and forgetful enough to leave all the doors unlocked in his suite after hours . . . was still going to have enough self-protective instincts to remember the mistake he’d made.

And return to get the evidence that connected him to not one, but two, homicides.





In the glare of the Monte Carlo’s headlights, Lucan put his hands up, in a move that was like the universal sign for choking when someone couldn’t breathe: When you had a gun in your face, you got those palms high and away from your body. Especially if you were armed yourself and didn’t want to get popped for a sudden movement.

Meanwhile, the woman who was staring down the muzzle of her gun . . . had just put two and two together—and come up with what in her tradition would be called werewolf.

Not exactly news that made somebody feel calm and relaxed.

And to that point, Rio was shaking so badly, he had a thought that she was liable to pull the trigger by mistake—and deadly was deadly, whether you meant to or not.

“Rio.”

He meant to go on from there. But what could he say?

“What are you,” she repeated. This time with a cold levelness to her tone.

“I am . . . what I am.”

“That’s no fucking answer.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. You know what’s going on—”

“No, I do not! I don’t understand anything. What the hell is that—what the hell are you?”

“I’m not any different than I ever was—”

“You’re not human!” she cried out.

“And haven’t been all along.”

She seemed to lose her voice. Or maybe she was worried it was her mind.

“I didn’t know it.” She emphasized the point with the muzzle of her gun. “It was a helluva detail to leave out.”

“And what would you have done. Seriously, think about it. I walk up to you on the streets of Caldwell and tell you, ‘Hey, I’m a half-breed wolven, pleased to meet you, how ’bout we do fifty million dollars in drug trade over the next two months together. Great. Sign here.’” He leaned forward. “That would have gone just great, right? Smooth as fucking glass.”

As his temper started to get away from him, he turned from her and walked up and back on the dirt lane. If she wanted to shoot him? Fucking fine. Good luck getting his bastard, no-good, double-crossing cousin out from under the Monte Carlo—

“This is your cousin?”

While her words cut through his internal—or supposedly internal—monologue, he snapped into focus and realized he’d said all that out loud.

Fine. Whatever.

He wheeled around and marched right up to her. “Okay, you want to know everything.” He jabbed a finger over her shoulder. “That was a fucking prison you were in back there. And there isn’t a goddamn human in it. The drug trade is so we can survive and have the bare minimum for food, water, and health care.” Now he poked his finger at the dead man-like form wedged under the car. “And that male, along with a couple of others, were who put me in this hell back in the eighties. So there. You know all my story.”

As her eyes went back and forth between him and the dead body, he snapped, “If you shoot me now, you’re going to have to move both of us out of your way before you can hit the gas. I’d recommend you have me get him off to the side first before you do me like you did the Executioner.”

There was a tense moment. And then she slowly lowered the weapon.

“I don’t understand any of this,” she mumbled.

“Your understanding is not required. Reality really doesn’t give a shit about rational and reasonable. Trust me, if I’ve learned nothing else during the last—”

“What’s the other half,” she interrupted. “What’s your . . . other part.”