“If we get shot, I won’t be able to say the same.”

They got out of the car. The man, who looked about fifty and sported a brown handlebar mustache, whistled in amazement. “The wolf did that to you?”

“Most of it, yeah,” said George. “Some of mine came from dogs.”

“You should’ve been more cautious.”

“Yeah, we figured that out once we started bleeding all over the place. I’m George, and this is Lou.”

“I’ve got a question for you, George.”

“Sure.”

“Do you think it’s better use of our time to get in the van and get moving, or to stand out here introducing ourselves?”

What a dick. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

The man slid open the side door, revealing a woman in a similar tan jumpsuit. She was in her thirties, had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and would have been extremely attractive if she didn’t have such a sour expression. She held a crossbow on her lap.

George nodded at her politely and they got in the van. The man slid the door closed behind them, almost slamming it shut on Lou’s foot.

There were two rows of seats. Out of consideration for Lou’s more extensive injuries, George climbed into the back seat. Lou sat down next to the woman, eyeing her crossbow nervously. There was no room in this van for the cage even if Ivan hadn’t stole it; Ricky could just suck it.

The driver, who looked like a college kid, turned around and gave them a salute that seemed more than a little condescending. Just stay polite, George told himself. You need these people. It’ll all be okay.

The handlebar mustache guy got into the front passenger seat. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, sir.”

The van sped out of the parking lot fast enough to make George momentarily lose his balance. He fastened the seatbelt.

“Now is the appropriate time for introductions,” said the handlebar mustache guy. “I’m Prescott.”

“Angie,” said the woman.

“Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” said George. “Is it okay that we’re getting blood all over your van?”

Prescott shrugged. “It’s had worse.”

“So you’re the mighty werewolf hunters?”

“We hunt what needs to be hunted.”

“But have you specifically hunted a werewolf before?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I asked.”

Prescott gave him a look of pure contempt, as if George were the stupidest human being ever to reside on the planet. “Of course we haven’t.”

George snickered. “Ah. I get it. You don’t quite believe in what you’re hunting yet. That’s where we were not too long ago. You’ll learn.”

“I’m sure we will. Why don’t you start the education process by answering some questions?”

“What do you want to know?”

“What are its capabilities?”

“Well, first of all, he’s a human being who can instantly change into a wolf-creature. That’s a pretty big capability.”

“Please don’t editorialize. Just the facts.”

Dick. “Fact: my partner and I shot him several times, close range, in the frickin’ head, and it didn’t kill him.”

“Did it injure him?”

“Not a lot.”

“But it did injure him?”

“He bled and reacted with pain, yes.”

“What kind of bullets did you use?”

“Regular old lead bullets. I don’t suppose you guys have silver ones, do you?”

“No. They’re not something you can get quickly, even with our connections. Not a lot of call for silver bullets in the real world. We’d have to make them ourselves. We’ve got somebody on that, but it won’t happen today.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Are there any other weaknesses we should know about?”

“Possibly.”

Angie, who had been glaring at him the entire time, tightened her grip on the crossbow. “I’d hate to think that you were trying to withhold information to make yourselves indispensable.” Her voice sounded like she’d been a chain smoker her entire life. No, worse than that, it sounded like she extinguished cigarettes on the back of her throat.

“Would I do something like that?”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

“Relax,” said Prescott. “We wouldn’t take you out even if we wanted to.”

“Good to know.”

“After all, we may need bait.”

Serving as bait didn’t sound like much fun, but George would take it over an execution any day. Prescott looked as if he really wanted to watch George cringe at that idea, so George made sure to maintain a casual front. “Sounds fine. Happy to help.”

“What are his other weaknesses?”

“Pretty much just silver, as far as we can see. And he’s an arrogant son of a bitch. Now can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How exactly are you going to catch him? Because all I can think of is to follow a trail of corpses.”

“We’re quite a bit more sophisticated than that.” Prescott pulled what George had thought was a GPS from its mounting on the dashboard. “Ivan Spinner had a chip implanted into his arm while he was in custody. We know exactly where he is.”

“Holy crap! Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s fantastic! That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I mean, sure, pretty much all of the news I’ve heard today has sucked shit, but still, that’s great news! Did you hear that, Lou?”

“Where is he?” Lou asked.

“You’re on a need-to-know basis.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like you very much and don’t feel like sharing.”

“Can we at least have some weapons?” George asked.

“Bait doesn’t need weapons.”

“So are you catching him or killing him?”

“As of right now, the plan is still to capture him. If that changes, you’ll know by the dead werewolf at your feet.”

“Will he be tortured after we get him?”

“That’s not for us to decide.”

“If I get a vote, I hope he is. One last question: if you guys are so fantastic, why didn’t they have you do this job in the first place? Why hire us?”

“Because we’re expensive as hell.”

“Are you worth it?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trackers

“He hasn’t moved for the past few minutes,” said Prescott. “He’s probably resting, licking his wounds.”

Or he’s dead, thought George. Now that they had the professionals on their side, the thought of Ivan’s death wasn’t as appealing. Much better to get him tranquilized, back in custody, and over to Dewey where he belonged.

“He heals quick,” said George.

“Did he expel the bullets?”

George shook his head. “Nah, not that I saw. As far as I know, he still has a bunch of bullets rattling around in his skull and ribcage. How do you think he gets them out?”

“Hopefully through an extremely painful process of manual extraction. But his body may just reject them and squeeze them out like a splinter.”

George had an amusing mental image of bullets popping out of Ivan’s head like zits. Then he had an even more amusing image of Ivan’s entire head popping like a zit. Actually, any mental image that involved harm coming to the werewolf provided George with at least a small level of entertainment.

“How’s it going?” he asked Lou.

Lou held up another one of the bloody antiseptic wipes for George’s inspection. He’d made a pile of about a dozen of them now. Lou was clearly doing his best not to wince and show weakness while he disinfected his wounds, but his jaw was clenched tight and it was definitely not a pleasant process.

“You’ll need to get bandaged up quickly,” Angie told him. “Looks like we’re almost there.” She didn’t offer to help.

Lou ripped open the front of the left leg of his pants. He unwrapped a large bandage and pressed it against a six-inch-long cut that ran lengthwise above his knee.

“So what’s the big elaborate plan?” George asked as Sam took an exit off the highway that promised gas, food, and camping.

“It’s not elaborate,” said Prescott. “We will park a safe distance from where he’s resting, and either you or your partner will walk out there and make your presence known. The way your partner looks right now, I think it should be you.”