Jennifer Ashley: Wild Wolf

“No one’s inside,” the lead cop said. He had black hair buzzed short, a flat face with acne scars, and a big nose. He held his Beretta steadily, still pointing it at Graham. “Place is torn up.”

“But her truck’s here.” Graham pointed at the black pickup sitting quietly in a space a little way from the cops. “She was here. Where is she now?” His fears mounted as he spoke. He couldn’t stop the growl in his throat, couldn’t stop the sparks on his Collar.

“This is a crime scene,” the lead cop said. “You don’t need to be here, Shifter.”

“No? This store belongs to my friend . My friend might be in trouble. I don’t see you doing anything about it.”

The pistol didn’t waver. “Why don’t you go back to Shiftertown so we can do our jobs?”

“Why don’t I go on in there so I can look around? Maybe figure out where she is?”

“Turano, call Shifter Division,” the lead cop said. “We need to contain one.”

Graham stared at him and then moved his gaze to the one called Turano, who was reaching for his radio.

“Aw, screw this shit.”

The cops tensed, expecting him to charge through them, but Graham turned his back and walked away, making for his motorcycle. He made a show of starting his bike, giving the cops a collective dirty look, before he pulled out of the parking lot.

Graham rode down the street and around the corner, then took the delivery entrance into the alley behind the shops. There was one cop car back there, and one cop. Graham roared up, dismounted his bike, and headed for the back door.

“Hey!”

When Graham didn’t stop, the cop drew. Graham whirled around and had the pistol out of the man’s hand and broken into two pieces before the man could react.

When the cop opened his mouth to yell, Graham punched him, once in the face, then once in the temple. The cop folded up, and Graham lowered him gently to rest against the wall.

“Sweet dreams.” Graham stepped around the cop and through the door, which led to the back office and storage.

The thick steel door hadn’t been forced, which meant it had been opened from the inside. Probably by whoever had broken in taking the back way out. A glance into the shop revealed a mess: flowers, glass, and water all over the place. A dripper that ran constantly inside the refrigerated section had broken open, turning the refrigerator into a lake. The water wasn’t gushing anymore, which meant someone had been smart enough to turn it off.

Graham stayed out of sight of the cops picking their way through the scene at the front door. He didn’t have to go all the way into the shop though. He smelled Misty’s blood, along with the scents of four—no, five—humans. Humans who smoked heavily, hadn’t bathed in a couple of days, and one who’d been partaking of weed.

Graham got all that from a few long sniffs. He also scented that they’d taken Misty out back and loaded her into a vehicle. He growled, his blood heating with rage, and went back outside.

The day was already warm, August in southern Nevada. Heat made scents brighter. Graham smelled motorcycles and a car or truck, and these had taken Misty away. Too bad scent couldn’t tell him the make and models of the vehicles and where they’d been heading. Graham only knew they’d taken Misty.

He stepped over the unconscious cop, started up his bike, and rode out. A mile down the road, he pulled into another empty parking lot, took out his cell phone, and made a call.

“Hey,” he said to the Shifter who answered. “I’m gonna need some backup.”

Misty half woke when she was carried from the truck and into a house. Outside it was bright and hot, the day warming to its usual late summer temps. The men hadn’t bothered to blindfold her, but Misty had no idea where she was. Somewhere in Las Vegas, but it was a big city. Her vision was still blurry from the blows to her face and from the long, hot ride stuffed in the back of the truck’s cab, and looking around at the generic buildings didn’t tell her much.

The house was cooler than outside, though it smelled of damp garbage. Stale cigarette smells overlaid those scents, ashtrays overflowing.

The man who carried Misty dumped her on a couch that was strewn with clothes. The couch’s springs were broken, the cushions made of scratchy material, stuffing coming out the edges.

The leader sat down beside her. “Do you know who I am, Misty?”

“Sam Flores.” The words stuck on her tongue. She needed water.

“That’s right. Do you know why I’m looking for your brother?”

Misty licked her lips, tasting salt and dryness. “You were with him in prison.”

“Right again. And he screwed me royally. I just want to see him. To have a little talk.”

“To kill him, you mean.”

“Maybe.”

Misty drew a breath, trying not to gag on the living room’s odors. “He could have reported you. You’d still be in there if he had, maybe even in maximum security.”

“Oh, yeah, Paul was a little angel.” Flores put his face close to Misty’s. “But I had a good thing going, until he screwed it up for me. He didn’t think I’d get my parole, did he? Well, I have a good lawyer, who does what I want.”

Probably in exchange for the money Flores got for coke. Misty didn’t know the whole story, because Paul still wasn’t coherent about it, but apparently Sam had been good at drug dealing inside prison. Paul, whether he’d meant to or not, had helped an even meaner drug guy take away Sam’s business. Paul hadn’t explained very carefully, only that he’d had to choose between two evils. The second guy had promised to keep Flores away from Paul—Flores and his boys had beaten Paul every day before that.

“You’ll probably need that lawyer again,” Misty said, her voice a croak.

“No, because no one’s going to find you for a very long time, or your brother either.” Flores held up a cell phone. “Now, I was so pissed off I crushed your phone before I thought about it, and now, I’m going to need Paul’s number. So tell me what it is without making a big deal, and I might go easy on you.”

“I’m not about to tell Paul to come running over here so you can kill him,” Misty said hotly. “He’s my brother. Would you do that to your brother?”

“Yeah.” Flores grinned. “My brother’s an asshole.” He leaned closer. “You have a choice, pretty thing. If you give me Paul’s phone number, I won’t hurt you so bad. If you don’t, I’ll just kill you now and take your body out to the desert. All right?”

Misty wet her lips again. She needed water, but thirst was the least of her worries. If Sam stabbed her or shot her, a dry mouth wouldn’t matter.

She decided to gamble. What did she have to lose? “All right,” she said in a near whisper. “But give him a chance to explain. He had no choice.”

“Everyone has a choice. Even you, sweetheart, and you made the right one. What is it?”

Misty closed her eyes, repeated the number, and started to pray. She heard the little beeps as Flores punched in the digits, then the phone rang on the other end. In a few seconds, a harsh voice said, “What?”

She opened her eyes as Flores jerked. “Who the hell is this? Where’s Paul?”

Silence. Then the voice said. “He’s in the bathroom. What do you want?”

“Tell him to get his ass on the phone.”

“Shit.” More silence. Then another voice. Not Paul, Misty knew, but one doing a close approximation of him. “Yeah?”

“If you want to see your sister again, you’ll get out to where I might give her back to you.” Flores gave directions down a highway then to a turnoff, way out of town, some remote place in the desert. “I’m not going to wait long.” He clicked off.