The Werewolf Chasers (Book 3): Wolf Hunt 3

  WOLF HUNT 3

  A novel by Jeff Strand

  Wolf Hunt 3 copyright 2019 by Jeff Strand

  Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansenArt.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

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  CHAPTER ONE

  A Stern Warning

  Eddie "Comb-Over" Williams, who disliked his nickname, answered the front door. He'd been prepared to amuse himself by telling the religious guy that Eddie had already promised his soul to Satan (not true) but in the time between looking at him through the peephole and opening the door, the man had taken out a pistol.

  "Step back," the man told him. He had movie star looks and physique, like he could be the lead in one of those superhero movies. "Don't make a sound."

  Eddie took several steps back into his living room.

  The man glanced to the left and whistled. As he walked into Eddie's home, a much younger guy followed. He was maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, with pale skin that looked like it rarely encountered direct sunlight, and he had a thick collar around his neck from which dangled a long metal chain. He seemed scared.

  "What the hell is this?" asked Eddie.

  "Sit down," the man with the pistol told him.

  "I asked you a question."

  "And I gave you an order."

  Eddie sat down in his recliner. He had a couple of guns stashed around the house, yet none in the living room. The kid with the collar and chain shut the door and stood there, staring at the floor.

  The man with the pistol let out a deep, long sigh. "As you've probably guessed, Eddie, I'm here to do something very bad to you."

  "I don't even know who you are."

  "Oh, sorry. I'm J.P."

  "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

  "Nah." J.P. sat down on the couch across from the recliner, keeping the pistol pointed at Eddie's face. "You know Duncan Maven, right?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, he's dead now."

  "Okay."

  "A few weeks ago Duncan came home to find the severed heads of his wife and his twin sons on his living room floor. The rest of their bodies were laid out in pieces in front of the heads, and it was all extremely messy and unpleasant. You were made aware of this, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. So when poor Duncan found this ghoulish scene, he received a phone call with what I thought was a pretty clear message. You know the message, right? I'm sure it got passed around your scumbag world."

  Eddie shrugged. "I guess so."

  "It was very strongly worded. I told him that nobody was to seek retribution against George Orton. You know George, right? Reportedly killed a few werewolves, if you believe in that sort of thing. Also killed your boss Jonathan Dewey. Used to have a partner named Lou."

  "Yeah, I know him."

  "When Duncan Maven came home to find his family dead, I kind of assumed that would be the end of the 'payback against George' thing. So imagine my surprise when I heard rumors that some of you haven't let it drop. They say consumers need to hear a marketing message seven times before they buy the product; maybe the same is true for slaughtering people's families."

  "You're talking to the wrong person," said Eddie. "I have no authority to go after him. I don't know anything about anybody still wanting Orton dead. That's above my pay grade."

  J.P. stood up. "Maybe. But I need George alive. Right now he's perfectly safe, but when I send him back out into the world, it's very important to me that unsavory individuals like you don't go after him. I'm no psychopath. When I ordered the murder of an innocent wife and her two sons, I didn't do it lightly. I lost sleep over it. And that should have been the end of it."

  "It's the end of it," Eddie insisted. "I'll make some calls. Nothing will happen to George. I'll call right now."

  J.P. shook his head. "No. I trust you when you say it's not your decision to make. Tell me, Eddie, do you believe in werewolves?"

  "Not really."

  "Why not?"

  "I've never seen one. And the bodies are always conveniently gone from the scene."

  "Healthy skepticism. I like that. And I'm looking forward to curing you of it." J.P. whistled to the kid, who was still staring at the floor. "I need something sturdy," J.P. told Eddie. "Something I can wrap a chain around that won't break."

  "I have more influence than I let on," said Eddie. "One call and I can—"

  "We're not talking about that anymore. We're talking about where I can chain up my student." J.P. glanced around the room. "I don't see anything here that will hold. Where's your bedroom?"

  "Please, I—"

  "Where's your bedroom?"

  "Down the hall. First door on the right."

  "Thanks." J.P. gestured to the kid. "Check it out."

  The kid walked down the hall, letting the chain drag behind him.

  "I can pay you," said Eddie.

  "Not interested. Don't mention it again."

  "We can work something out."

  "No, actually we can't. You're going to be a cautionary tale. As is your little girl when she gets home after school in about half an hour. As is your wife when she gets home from work twenty minutes after that."

  "I'll kill you if you so much as touch them."

  "Oh, you will not and you know it."

  "It works!" the kid called out from the hallway.

  J.P. waved the pistol at Eddie. "Get up. Don't make me shoot you in the knee."

  Eddie stood up. Then he walked ahead of J.P. down the hallway and into the bedroom. The kid had already slid the mattress partway off the bed and wrapped the chain around the metal mattress frame.

  "All locked up?" J.P. asked.

  The kid nodded.

  "Perfect. So, Eddie, I have the honor of informing you that werewolves are one hundred percent real. Though some of them have total control over the transformation and even retain their human thoughts while in wolf form, that takes a lot of practice. Most of them, like Wesley here, let the animal completely take over. I have a tranquilizer gun in case things get out of control, but being chained to the bed should do it. He'll drag the bed around but I don't think he'll be able to yank it so hard that it breaks right through the doorway."

  Eddie said nothing.

  "Do you have any questions about what's going to happen, or is it pretty obvious by this point?" asked J.P.

  "Are you asking me if I believe that the kid is going to turn into a wolf? Because, no, I don't, so I'm wondering what kind of bullshit you have planned. Are you just gonna have him bite me on the hand and make me worry about the next full moon?"

  J.P. laughed. "Though you do turn into a werewolf by getting bit by one, it's not guaranteed. It's sort of like the way a woman gets pregnant from having sex, but it doesn't mean the egg will get fertilized every time. Quite a few people misunderstand how it works. In your case, you definitely will not become a werewolf, because there has to be some flesh left on your bones for that to happen."

  "This is a bunch of crap," said Eddie. "Let's work something out."

  "Let's not. You may be wonde
ring how we're going to make the magic happen, if young Wesley here can't control his lycanthropy. Well, this is a very exciting invention." He reached into his pocket and took out a small whistle. "Accidental discovery, like penicillin. The sound is irritating to normal humans but triggers whatever part of the werewolf's brain controls the transformation. I blow this whistle, and I've got myself a really angry wolf."

  "If you're telling the truth, why would I just stand here and wait for him to change?"

  "Because if you don't, I'll shoot you."

  "Better to get shot than devoured by an animal."

  "I'll shoot you in the knee. I said that earlier. Try to keep up."

  "I've never even met George Orton."

  "That doesn't mean you aren't part of the discussion about having him killed. And now you'll be an even bigger part of it. I want you to know that your death is purely to send a message. If I were a sadist, I'd make you watch your wife and daughter suffer, but you'll be dead before either of them get home. That's my gift to you."

  J.P. blew the whistle, which emitted a low-volume but grating squeak. Wesley immediately cried out and doubled over. Thick black hair began to sprout on his arms.

  Eddie had no time to wrestle with his newfound knowledge of the existence of supernatural beasts in the world. He tried to push his way out of the bedroom, but J.P. shot him in the right knee with his silenced pistol. Eddie fell to the floor, clutching his wound.

  The transformation didn't take long.

  J.P. stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He didn't enjoy watching that sort of thing.

  A couple of minutes later, the screaming stopped.

  Eddie probably thought that having a lot of land and a home far from snooping neighbors was a good thing, but it's why he was selected to die. That, and the fact that his ten-year-old daughter was positively adorable, and even those who thought Eddie was a worthless piece of crap would be saddened by her demise. It was good for your enemies to know that you didn't have boundaries.

  She'd be home soon. J.P. would be ready to greet her.

  * * *

  Wesley sat on the floor, drenched in blood, weeping.

  He'd done his job well. The bedroom looked like the Williams family had exploded in there. The message of "You need to take our threat more seriously" would be nicely conveyed.

  J.P. wanted to place a reassuring hand on Wesley's shoulder, yet he didn't want to get his palm all bloody. "You did good," he said.

  Wesley sniffled. "She was only in fifth grade. She was so scared."

  "Yes, it was an ugly thing, a terrible thing, and I wish it never had to happen. But you killed her for a noble purpose. Because of you, countless other little girls will get to live."

  "Why couldn't it have just been him? The mom and daughter didn't do anything."

  "We discussed this."

  "I know."

  "We need them to leave George alone. He won't be able to do his job if he has lowlife thugs trying to assassinate him. If this doesn't scare them, I don't know what will."

  "What if it makes them even madder?"

  "Then we will tear apart every drug-dealing goon that ever had any association with Jonathan Dewey. At some point, we'll run out of people who want revenge for his death."

  "What if George refuses to do the job?" Wesley ran his index finger over the scar across his left wrist. He didn't seem to realize that he was doing this.

  J.P. smiled. "Now you're worrying about things that don't concern you. That would be my problem, not yours."

  Wesley tilted his head forward and began to sob.

  "Let it out," said J.P. "I understand how difficult this is for you. We're not in any rush. Just let it out."

  A few minutes later, Wesley was done crying. J.P. sent him into the bathroom to get cleaned up and into the fresh change of clothes they'd brought to replace the bloody and shredded ones. After he'd fully composed himself, they'd leave the house, and then J.P. would make a couple of anonymous calls. He wanted the right people to see the carnage.

  Wesley emerged from the bathroom, all cleaned up.

  "Feeling better?" J.P. asked.

  "Not really."

  "Sorry to hear that. But you'll feel better when we get back to the compound. There's going to be birthday cake!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Birthday Bash

  George was surprised to see forty-five candles on his birthday cake. It had been at least twenty years since somebody put the corresponding number of candles on his cake, rather than just using, say, candles shaped like a "4" and a "5." He took a deep breath, made a stupid wish, and then blew.

  Everybody applauded as he blew them all out. Though he felt way older than forty-five, he still had his lungpower.

  J.P. began to cut the chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Ally and Eugene were there, all smiles, along with the twenty other people who lived in the small compound with them. There was also ice cream.

  George couldn't deny it: he didn't hate it here. This came as a surprise to him. He'd hated it when he and Lou hid out in Costa Rica for a while, and he'd hated it when he and Lou hid out in Northern Ontario in the middle of the frickin' winter, but his new accommodations—somewhere in Georgia—didn't make him want to bellow with frustration. This despite the fact that he wasn't allowed to leave the compound grounds, and only got one hour of outdoor time in the fenced-in yard a day, like being in prison.

  It was for his own protection. George had, during his escapades a few weeks ago, shot a crime lord by the name of Mr. Jonathan Dewey in the forehead. It was not cold-blooded murder by any stretch of the imagination, but the chaotic circumstances were irrelevant. Mr. Dewey was a very bad person to kill if you preferred not to have others hunting you down to avenge their boss.

  Still, George felt safe here, which was probably why he wasn't going stir-crazy the way he had in Mexico and Canada. J.P. assured him that they were practicing "an abundance of caution" and that he'd heard no chatter about anybody trying to discover George's current whereabouts.

  His room in the compound was small yet decent enough in a "college dorm room" sort of way. Much of the area was off-limits to him, and J.P. didn't share many details about what they were actually doing, but George's entire career was based on doing bad things for bad people without asking too many questions, so he could handle this. He spent much of his time in the kitchen, rediscovering a long-dormant love of gourmet cooking.

  He missed the hell out of Lou. They'd worked together for ten years. Saved each other's lives on multiple occasions. Yet George couldn't save him that last time.

  So though he liked it here, he did spend a fair amount of time feeling bummed out about his loss. But right now, there was cake and ice cream.

  * * *

  The next morning, not too early, somebody knocked on his bedroom door.

  "Yeah?"

  "It's me," said Eugene.

  George opened the door. Somebody meeting Eugene for the first time might be startled by his appearance, but he looked infinitely better than he had when George first encountered him. Eugene had been a deranged hobby for Jonathan Dewey; basically, Dewey kept himself entertained by performing various surgeries on Eugene to turn him into this weird-ass wolfman sort of thing. This was after Dewey had ordered the murder of Eugene's family, of course.

  But Eugene, though still thin, was no longer emaciated. The patches of hair grafted to his body had been removed, as had the wolf teeth that were stuck to his chin, shoulders, and back. He was missing his left hand, one of his ears, and his nose, but at least the wolf paw, ear, and snout that had been sewn on in place of those body parts were gone. The cuts and burns all over his body had healed. He did have scars where the word "WOLF" had been carved in several places on his flesh, including his forehead, and the pentagram was still on his palm. That said, he was significantly less disturbing to look at than when he'd been chained to the wall.

  He was definitely not the sanest person George knew. Yet he was doing pre
tty damn well, all things considered.

  "I brought you a bagel," said Eugene, holding out a small plate.

  "Hey, thanks, buddy!"

  "Lightly toasted. Veggie cream cheese."

  "You are a superb human being." George took the plate from him. "Come on in. Have a seat."

  Eugene sat on the edge of George's bed, while George sat at his desk to enjoy his breakfast.

  "How's everything going?" George asked.

  Eugene shrugged. "All right. We tried the new nose but it looked creepier than not having a nose at all."

  "Once we get out of here, we'll take you to a real surgeon. They can do amazing stuff."

  "Yeah. I don't mind my appearance that much. Of course, it's not like we go out in public for people to stare at me. I might feel differently when I start scaring little kids."

  "Body modification is all the rage now. They'll probably assume you did it on purpose."

  "I'm ahead of the curve on the hot new 'chopping off your nose' fad. Can you believe that I wouldn't let my daughter get her ears pierced? I'm such a hypocrite." The joke didn't reach Eugene's eyes.

  George took a giant bite of his delicious bagel.

  "So," said Eugene, "I had a bagel for Ally, too, but she's in isolation again."

  George frowned, then nodded. "She made it a week. That's pretty good. Has she changed back yet?"

  "She hadn't when I left. She might have now."

  George pushed back his chair. "I'll see if she wants company for breakfast."

  * * *

  George and Ally sat on the cement floor of the tiny room, eating their bagels.

  Ally was one of the most terrifying creatures that George could imagine: a teenaged girl. She'd turned fifteen their second day in the compound, but everybody was still recovering from their injuries and there hadn't been much of a celebration.

  Her mother had been murdered right in front of her. That was more than enough trauma for a teenager to deal with, but she'd also found out that her father was a werewolf. A murderous psychopath of a werewolf, though he had not actually been the one to kill her mother. That had been her father's murderous psychopath werewolf of a girlfriend. They were both dead now.