Dog Warrior (7 page)

“Ummm, I'll talk to you later about that. My physical therapist is here.” Obviously this Max didn't want to discuss murder and mayhem in front of hospital personnel.

“Max, was anyone hurt?”

“Don't worry, kid. They took you down in Ohio with the Dogs.”

“If you want to be released today,” Deb said impatiently, “you're going to have to get off the phone.”

“Hang tight, kid. And be careful. You're too vulnerable right now to believe anything that anyone tells you. These loons specialize at getting people to trust them. If you were”—a pause as the word “dead” was caught before being said aloud—“if you've got that many mice, your ‘rescue' might not be what it seems. I'll call you back as soon as I'm done here.”

“Okay.”

The line went dead.

Well, that explained why Ukiah had come back from the phone call sullen. The conversation only raised more questions. The search for Pack members with the name of Max had come back empty. So who was this? What was his relationship with Ukiah? Why was he in the hospital? If the “Dogs” were the Dog Warriors, why had the cult attacked them? When did religious groups start wars with biker gangs?

“The number was a private room at Mercy Hospital in Pittsburgh,” Kyle complained. “I'll have to hack their database to find out who was in the room.”

Ru read the call log off the computer screen. “This Max has called back a dozen times since Ukiah called him.” He kept his phone on silent mode; it must have vibrated unnoticed. “If we leave Ukiah here, he might disappear back to Pittsburgh, or wherever he came from.”

“We can't take him with us,” Atticus repeated.

Ru glanced at his watch. “He'll probably wake up soon after we leave.”

“If we get him to take back all his mice, he'll be asleep the rest of the day.”

“You think he'll be safe?” Ru asked.

“The only ones who know he's here are the Iron Horses—and they seemed fairly respectful. He should be safe here. We can't take him with us.”

By the looks on Ru's and Kyle's faces, the one he was trying hardest to convince was himself.

Hawg Heaven, Hull, Massachusetts
Monday, September 20, 2004

The town of Hull sat on a narrow dogleg of land that jutted out into the Atlantic Ocean. On the way to it, they passed signs for “World's End,” which seemed appropriate as they drove down Nantasket Avenue, water flanking either side of the road. To their left, the water was nearly pond still, fringed with trees dressed in fall colors. On their right ran an empty parking lot, a sandy beach, and the ocean. Seasonal businesses were closed up, and no one was out on the rainy cold afternoon.

They scouted the area in the drizzling rain before dusk started to set in, not that there was much to be learned. The bar sat on a lump of land in the middle of the narrow peninsula, between the mainland and the bulk of the town on the bulbous tip. Nantasket Avenue split around the bar and its parking lot, with traffic going out to the land's end running in front of the bar, and the lanes heading for the mainland lying behind it. Motorcycles already sat in the bar's parking lot, so they had no chance to scout the inside before the buy.

When it came time, they parked the Jaguar where Kyle could keep watch on both it and the bar and yet stay out of direct sight. They had the money in a backpack on the theory it would draw less notice than a briefcase. Atticus slung
it onto his back, made sure it didn't interfere with drawing his pistol, and then led the way into the bar.

Steppenwolf leaked out around the door, wailing about heavy metal thunder. Atticus opened the door and the music flooded out on a wave of warm air, thick with cigarette smoke, beer, and hot grease. Obviously the bar was the refuge of men who had nothing better to do than sit around and abuse themselves with diluted poisons. Atticus stepped in far enough to give Ru room to enter, and paused, letting all the little details sink in. Once the bar became known, his senses would work on automatic, acting like a “spider sense,” alerting him to danger as long as he didn't get too deep into focus on something.

“Born to be Wild” beat against his skin. The banks of smoke came from Winston, Old Gold, and Marlboro cigarettes. Off to the right was the clack of billiards, the table screened by bodies. The beer on tap was Samuel Adams and the whiskey of choice seemed to be Jack Daniel's. Unlike other bars he'd been in, this one was heavy with cured leather and blue jeans embedded with the exhaust and engine oil of motorcycles. After the bars and raves of the Beltway, the men were shaggier, dirtier, and more heavily armed. He picked out knives—and in lesser numbers pistols—hidden in boots, in pockets, and under clothing.

It was a WASP blue-collar bar. He and Ru had dressed down in blue jeans and T-shirts and leather jackets, but everything from the shape of their eyes to the color of their skin set them apart.

One of Daggit's Iron Horse peons, Draconis, leaned against the bar, looking up when they came through the door. Recognizing them, he ground out his cigarette, picked up his beer, and sauntered across to greet them.

“Daggit is waiting for you in the back room.” Draconis gave a jerk of his head to indicate a doorway behind him. After getting a nod from Atticus—interestingly Ru didn't
rate attention—Draconis led the way down a long narrow hall past restrooms reeking of urine to a back room.

The walls muted the music, the bass thumping like the heartbeat of a giant beast.

Five of the Iron Horses sat around a poker table; a single shaded light hung down, throwing harsh shadows on their faces. Crushed cigarette packs, overflowing ashtrays, guns, and crumpled bills littered the table.

Animal was dealing out cards, making them flash across the table in easy, well-practiced throws. He had a pile of bills in front of him, while the others wore surly looks. “Seven-card stud, black deuces and red fours are wild.”

A groan went up from the players.

“If you're going to do wild cards, j-just make it one or the other,” Rebar cried as the first card landed in front of him. His complaint came too late; his first showing card was a two of diamonds. “Crap. This isn't poker; it's a kid's game.”

“They're here,” Draconis announced.

Daggit's showing cards were a five of clubs and a nine of hearts. He glanced at his hole cards, frowned, and shoved them back toward Animal without revealing them. “Game's over. Everybody clear out.”

“Ahh, I had two queens,” one complained, flipping over his hole cards.

“I had three kings,” another said, showing a king of hearts, the two of hearts, and the four of spades.

Animal laughed, flashing his gold tooth. “
Black
deuces,
red
fours.”

“But last time—”

“Was last time, and this time is this time.” Animal tucked away the bills in a wallet already fat with hundred-dollar bills.

The sheared lambs fled, leaving the wolves behind to deal a different type of game.

Atticus gave the opening bid, playing the heavy. “Could
you've picked a place more public? We'll do this deal, but next time we pick the place.”

“This is how I do business. My turf. My rules.” Daggit took out a revolver and laid it on the table and then produced bullets with dramatic flair. They were self-loaded shells with silvery tips. “I know about Pack and I'm ready for you.”

Only confused by the odd display, Atticus glanced to Ru. There was laughter dancing in his partner's eyes.

“Silver bullets?” Ru guessed.

“Damn right!” Daggit loaded the bullets into the revolver. “The only way to deal with werewolves.”

“Werewolves?” The word slipped out before Atticus could stop himself.

“Do you think we're stupid?” Daggit ticked factoids off with his fingers. “The Pack. Dog Warriors. Demon Curs. Hell Hounds. Growling like a rabid dog anytime you're pissed off. Howling at the full moon? Jesus, you might as well have it tattooed on your arm: werewolf.”

Howling?
Atticus had never felt the urge to howl.

“They can't do tattoos, dickhead.” Animal snickered. “Their bodies reject the ink and heal over. They don't fucking scar.”

That's true
, Atticus thought.

“They could use silver ink.” Daggit used one of the bullets to imitate the rapid jab of the tattoo needle, complete with a soft
tat tat tat
sound effect.

“Silver only works as a bullet
in
the heart,” Animal said. “If it just goes
through
the heart, you're screwed. You're going to get your face torn off by a pissed-off Pack dog.”

“Whatever.” Daggit waved it off. “Where's the Cub?”

“He's sleeping.” Ru gave a safe answer.

“Someone fucked him over good.” Animal tapped out a cigarette and lit it. “Who is this walking dead man?”

“The Cub doesn't remember what happened,” Ru told them; they'd decided against mentioning Ukiah's real name
to the bikers. Annoying as it might be, they were safest dealing under the Pack's cover.

“He lost that mouse, eh?” Daggit ignored Ru's presence and addressed Atticus instead. “Or hasn't he taken the mice back yet?”

“That's why he's sleeping. He took them all back.” Actually, they had released the mice into bed with Ukiah. Nature would take its course, keeping his brother asleep longer than any drug would. Still, it was startling that the bikers knew things Atticus thought were secret. Was what they were telling him about werewolves true?

“Someone's going to get their ass kicked, then.” Animal gave a breathy laugh, eyes going wide with anticipation of such an event.

“You're Pack too, aren't you?” Daggit finished loading his revolver and gave the cylinder a spin. “You have that look.”

Atticus glanced towards Ru—he didn't like talking during these things. Normally he stood in the corner, looking menacing while Ru closed the deal. Because of his Pack connection, though, the Iron Horses seemed to want to talk only to him. Ru glanced upward in an abbreviated roll of his eyes, meaning that they had little choice but to reverse their roles. “I didn't know we had a look.”

“You're lean and mean.” Daggit patted his paunch. “You never see a beer gut on Pack. Six-pack abs. It's all part of the magic.”

“Like voodoo,” Animal intoned. “The werewolf curse.”

“It's one of the reasons that these dipshits are all drooling over the idea of being Pack.” Daggit shook his head as if not understanding it. “Ask any one of them if they were willing to run the risk to be Pack, and they'd sign up for a mauling in a second.”

“Not you?” Atticus asked.

“Hell, no.” Daggit borrowed Animal's cigarettes and tapped one out for himself. “Any retard can do the numbers.
A couple dozen can take the walk in the woods with the Pack, maybe one will come back out
changed
, one of them.”

“A Get,” Animal said with reverence.

Daggit shot Animal a disgusted look, and then continued. “These dipshits see one of their brothers go all toned without lifting a weight, able to throw a bike around with one hand, and take any amount of shit and get back up, and think, ‘That's so cool; I want that too.' They can smell the power, without thinking it all through.”

“Hell, I'd do it. Like that!” Animal snapped his fingers.

“Yeah.” Daggit lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew out a column of smoke. “And if you do come back, there's a stranger looking out through your eyes.”

“Look.” Animal pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it to pull out a photo. “Look at this.”

Daggit took the photo and studied it a moment. “So?”

Atticus intercepted it before Daggit could hand it back. Unlike the blurry photograph on the FBI Web site, this was a clean shot of Rennie Shaw and a young Animal with a Mohawk haircut. The nomad faced the camera while the Dog Warrior was focused on something else. On the back was written,
Mike “Animal” Ross, Rennie Shaw, 1984 Gather.

“I was seventeen in that picture. Look at Shaw. The fuck hasn't aged a day. He still looks like he's in his mid-twenties. They live forever, Daggit. Shaw was in the fucking Civil War, man.”

“Come on; that's all bullshit. Urban legend.”

“And the chicks,” Animal went on, undeterred. “Prime babes. Not an ounce of fat on them, and that sexy wild-thing look. They only spread for Pack dogs.”

If the conversation had sunk down to sex, then they weren't going to get more useful information—if you wanted to call the werewolf theory useful—out of the bikers.

“Let's do this.” Atticus unslung the backpack and thumped it down on the table. “Show us the goods.”

Animal reached under the table to pull out a black leather duffel bag. He unzipped it and lifted out resealable plastic bags, the contents shifting like invisible sand. Empty, the inside of the duffel bag glittered faintly from a dusting of the drug, meaning that the plastic bags were probably coated too. Atticus warned Ru off with a look and reluctantly examined the bags. The chiming in his ears had started the moment Animal opened the bag, releasing tainted air. As Atticus handled the bags, the chiming grew louder.

Ru unloaded the backpack, stacking up the bills. He gave Atticus one worried look and then kept his focus on the bikers. The bikers, in turn, thumbed through the stacks of twenties, examining the bills to see if they were real, and even checking for sequential numbers.

Animal produced a scale and they weighed out the bags. Normally Atticus would open the bags and check the contents—his system shrugged off most drugs—but there was no way he was going to do that now, not if he wanted to stay in control. As the drug burned through him, all his senses took on a
sharpness
, making irritating little cuts into his patience. It was like wading through sawgrass. He packed the plastic bags hurriedly into the backpack, trying to handle them as little as possible.

“We're going to want more,” Ru said. “Double this. How soon can you get it?”

“More?” Animal looked to Daggit, who shrugged. “You'll have to give us a couple days.”

“This is Monday. By Thursday?” Ru asked.

“Saturday,” Daggit said.

“If the Pack are werewolves,” Ru, seemingly causal, asked, “does it mean that pixies literally make this shit? Do you hold them upside down and shake hard?”

The bikers laughed, showing teeth yellow from cigarettes, filled with silver.

“Just about,” Animal said. “The Temple are all fucking fairies.”

Temple of New Reason? The religious cult that murdered Ukiah was their source? Suddenly Ukiah's hate of the drug became clear. The police reports, detailing out bodies being hacked apart with an axe and cremated, flashed into Atticus's all too perfect memory. He felt sudden dread; the bikers knew where Ukiah slept alone at the isolated beach house. “Did you talk to them after you left us?”

“That's none of your business,” Daggit sneered. “The middleman stands in the middle, you don't go around him. Pack or not, you're not cutting us out.”

Atticus lashed out, grabbed Daggit by the hair, and slammed his head face-first into the table. Everything littering the table leapt up, as if startled by the violence. The smell of blood blossomed into the room. “What did you tell them about us?”