Текст книги "Dog Warrior"

Автор книги: Wen Spencer

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Ru gave Atticus a look that said, What am I missing?

Daggit had found Ukiah's mice and crouched to stare into the plastic cage. The black mice lined up to stare back.

"What's up with the mice? They look like Pack . . ." Daggit reached out a hand for the cage, but froze when Ukiah growled.

"Don't touch my mice, Daggit," Ukiah said through clenched teeth.

Daggit grunted, abandoning the mice to study the Dog Warrior. "What do we have here? You don't look like you've got bite behind that growl."

On the other side of the room, providing cover for Ru, Atticus was in the wrong place to stop Daggit as he made a grab for Ukiah.

"Don't touch me!" Ukiah snarled, jerking back out of reach with surprising speed, but at a cost. Atticus felt the pain that flashed through his brother as one of the fragile knits splintered. "You've got Invisible Red on you!"

"I have what?" Daggit glanced at his hand, puzzled.

"Blissfire. Drugs."

Daggit twisted open his beer, frowning at Ukiah. "How do you know that?"

"I can smell it." Ukiah growled, hunching against the pain. "It's all over your skin and clothes."

"No, you can't." Daggit shook his head, took a sip, and explained: "It doesn't have a smell or a color. You can't see it."

"You can't," Ukiah said. "Pack can."

Daggit cocked his head. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Pack's Cub," Ukiah said.

"Aaaaah." Daggit's interest sharpened. "So you're the Cub. Man of mystery. We've heard that you existed but not much more; the Pack won't say squat about you. What are you doing here?"

"I'm eating breakfast." Ukiah tore another mouthful of meat off of the steak and made a show of chewing.

Well, that killed any doubt that Ukiah was one of the Dog Warriors.

Daggit flicked his gaze to Atticus and back. "I didn't know that Pack took brothers."

"We're a special case," Ukiah growled.

Daggit worked his jaw as if it were connected to a massive gear that needed to be turned in order for him to think. "This doesn't feel right. You"—he waggled a finger at Ukiah—"I can buy without a doubt. You've got that wolf feel. Him." Daggit pointed to Atticus. "He's Pack. But this one"—the massive finger settled in Ru's direction—"he's all wrong."

"He's not Pack," Ukiah said before either Ru or Atticus could claim otherwise .

"So who is he?" Daggit asked. "What's he doing here with two Pack dogs?"

"That's Pack business," Ukiah growled softly.

Atticus wondered why Daggit and Ukiah included him as part of the outlaw club. Pack knows Pack.Did that mean that the rest of the members were somehow like him? But how would Daggit know, since he wasn't Pack?

"You come to our turf and set up a buy," Daggit was saying, and Atticus struggled to keep his attention on the leader of the Iron Horses. "You make it our business."

Daggit got only "the look" as an answer from Ukiah.

The biker jerked his head in the direction of the mouse cage. "Show me that you're really Pack."

"No," Ukiah grunted around a mouthful of steak.

"Shit has gone down, and there are Iron Horses dead," Daggit said. "I'm not going to jump through hoops until I know that I can trust the people I'm dealing with."

"Fine. Don't deal," Ukiah said.

Daggit pulled out his pistol and put it to Ukiah's head. "I said show me!"

Triggered by Daggit, the other six bikers pulled guns and leveled them at Atticus and Ru.

"Just take it easy." Atticus kept his hands carefully clear from his gun but shifted sideways, screening Ru.

Ukiah stilled, eyeing Daggit, then glanced to Atticus protecting Ru. "Okay." He broke the silence. "You, Rebar, Animal, Draconis, and Smithy—I know can be trusted. The other three—I've never heard of them; they don't get to see. Get them out."

Daggit lowered his gun. "You heard him. Out."

Licking his fingers, Ukiah stood up, shrugging off the blanket. Half-naked, his borrowed sweatpants threatening to slide down off his slim hips, his torso a patchwork of bruises and bandages, dwarfed by Daggit, Ukiah suddenly seemed battered and vulnerable. A fear for his brother took root in Atticus, yet there was nothing he could do but watch as Ukiah limped around the island to the desk, Daggit looming over him. The mice sensed Ukiah's intent and fought for his attention, all wanting back, to be a part of him again. He opened the lid and plucked one out. A second slipped out. "Nah, nah, back in," Ukiah said gently. "I'll get you later."

The unwanted mouse scurried back into the cage.

The mouse in Ukiah's hand shivered with anticipation, a tiny spark of joy.

Ukiah covered it lightly, screening the true process. The spark faded, lost in the larger presence of his brother. After a moment, Ukiah opened up his hands, showing they were empty. "There. I won't do any more tricks for you."

"Looks like someone had you playing dead." Animal smirked, indicating the bandages.

Ukiah snarled silently in response, like the defiance of a wounded dog.

"Are we still dealing here?" Ru struggled to pull the conversation back on track.

"We're dealing," Daggit said. "How much do you want?"

"A hundred grand, to start," Ru said.

With a large buy, they'd learn better how close the bikers were to the source of the drug; the rest of the quarter million would be held in reserve for follow-up buys.

"A nice even number," Daggit said, without indication that it would be a problem to fill. Then what Lasker reported was true—the bikers had ties to the manufacturer.

"Do you have it?" Ru pressed for an answer.

"Not on us," Daggit said.

Atticus and Ru glanced at each other and came to a silent agreement on how to proceed.

"What is this bullshit?" Ru said. "Time is money. Are we supposed to sit around with our thumbs up our butts without so much as a sample?"

"A sample we can provide." Daggit reached into his back pocket and slipped out a thumb-sized self-sealing plastic bag. "This is a nickel bag." He held it up to glitter in the weak sun.

"It's empty," Ru said.

Atticus shook his head. "There's something in it."

"It's invisible." Daggit tented open the bag. "Well, except to Pack. It has no smell. No taste. You can barely feel it."

Daggit stepped forward, offering to pour it out into Ru's palm. Ru raised his hand to accept it, but Ukiah moved—fluid motion at fast-forward speed—to suddenly be standing beside them, Ru's hand trapped in his own. A growl so low it was nearly subsonic came from his brother.

" If you love Ru, don't let him touch it," Ukiah said, and it wasn't until Atticus started to ask why that he realized that Ukiah hadn't opened his mouth, moved his lips, or spoken aloud. " If one of you must handle it, it should be you– and then don't touch him."

"Hey, don't pull any freaky Pack shit," Daggit snapped. "Talk with your mouths. You want a sample or not?"

"It's okay." Animal seemed reluctant to annoy either Atticus or Ukiah. "This is good shit. It's not going to hurt him."

"Don't be a wuss." Rebar made a noise of disgust. "This is the safest shit to hit the street. It makes Ecstasy look like heroin."

Intervening between Daggit and Ru seemed to have sucked the last of Ukiah's energy out of him—he started to sag. Ru moved to support Ukiah, either as an excuse to occupy his hands or simply to keep him from falling over—Atticus couldn't tell which.

Atticus put out his hand to receive the drug. Daggit shrugged and spilled out the contents into Atticus's palm. The bikers were right—except for an impression of being slightly greasy, even he could barely feel it. He expected something fairly simple like cocaine, but its molecular structure was vastly complex and strange. For a moment it lay on his skin, and then he felt it seep into his flesh and enter his bloodstream like liquid fire. A dozen heartbeats and the drug surged through his entire body, unfolding into a jangling erotic buzz. He became aroused, suddenly aware of the warmth of Ru's body beside him, his heated scent. The chiming went from nearly imperceptible to so loud it threatened to drown out the conversation around him.

Ukiah leaned against Ru, head against his shoulder, arm about his waist. Ru held his brother lightly in return. It was a disturbingly intimate pose.

"Well?" Ru eyed him worriedly. "Atty?"

"It's real." Atticus gasped.

"So, you want to deal?" Daggit asked.

"Okay," Ru said slowly, still watching Atticus. "Let's try this again, but with money and the real shit."

"No go." Daggit made a motion that took in the house and the ocean. "Not out here. Not after what happened in Buffalo. We pick the place."

"Where?" Atticus snapped.

"There's a town closer to Boston, called Hull. We'll be at Hawg Heaven on Nantasket Avenue. Meet us there at seven."

"Fine," Atticus said, anxious to be done. His thoughts kept straying to Ru—and Ukiah was about to drop over completely.

Daggit followed his gaze and smirked. "Well, you three have fun. We'll see you tonight."

Eternity passed before the Iron Horses roared off on their Harleys.

"Why shouldn't Ru handle it?" Atticus snapped as Ru muscled his brother to the couch.

"It's death." Ukiah sagged back onto the cushions.

"They said that it's harmless," Atticus said. "They all use it."

"They're wrong." Ukiah slid sideways so he half lay on the couch, eyes closed, his feet still on the ground as if he were too weary to move them. "They're all dead men."

"How do you know?"

"It's Invisible Red. It's . . . it's . . ." Ukiah mumbled and then made a raspberry. "It's too hard to think. I just know."

"Will it hurt Atty?" Ru swung Ukiah's feet up onto the couch so he was fully lying on it.

"No," Ukiah said. "Not that little, no."

"It has affected me," Atticus said from across the room, keeping his distance from Ukiah and especially Ru.

Ukiah breathed deeply as if asleep for a minute, and then mumbled. "You're a . . . a breeder . . . it will make you want to have sex . . . but it won't hurt you . . . you're a breeder . . . it was made to make you breed." And then he was truly sound asleep.

***

Atticus took a cold shower, scrubbing the last traces of the drug from his skin, but could do nothing to remove what raced through his blood, filling him with artificial desire.

Ru waited outside the shower, towel in hand and a worried look on his face. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just horny." Atticus accepted the towel.

"When are you not?" Ru teased lightly, but his smile didn't reach his eyes; he was worried.

"I'm fine."

"Lasker dropped dead after using it only a couple of times. The autopsy said he died of an aneurysm."

"I come back from the dead." Atticus scrubbed his short hair dry.

"We don't know if you come back if you're poisoned." Ru picked up another towel and wrapped it around Atticus's waist.

It was the barest brush of Ru's fingertips over his hip, the warmth of his touch gliding across skin, that undid Atticus. It was like a large wild animal awoke in him and shoved him aside to use his body for its own pleasure. It pushed Ru roughly against the wall, bruising his mouth with Atticus's lips, tugging impatiently at his clothing with Atticus's hands. Tasting blood, he tried to stop, but his body continued, leaving him mentally crying No, damn it, no! Only after the first, frantic, rough union did he manage to wrestle control back.

"Oh, shit, Ru, I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't you dare think I'm not enjoying this." Ru pulled him back, and he was lost again, but this time he didn't care.

***

Kyle returned with a generator and had it set up before the drug wore off. Atticus caught him up to speed, explaining the Iron Horses, the drug, Ukiah's identification and caution of it, and the buy scheduled later in the day.

Kyle had only one question. "What are we going to do with your brother duringthe buy?"

Atticus jerked to a full halt as every quick answer he thought of fell flat. Take Ukiah with them? They couldn't put him in with Kyle—they needed Kyle to act as backup, not babysitter. Nor could Atticus and Ru take Ukiah with them in the Jaguar—the last thing they needed in the middle of a buy was someone who could read Atticus's thoughts. Even if Ukiah's telepathic ability wasn't that profound, his presence would be like trying to do surgery while someone jiggled his elbow.

Yet leaving Ukiah locked in the basement seemed dangerous. There was a risk that he'd leave or call out or be found—none of which would be good.

Ru guessed the reason for his silence. "We could lock him back in the Jaguar's trunk."

"Don't tempt me," Atticus snapped. "But, he could easily wake up and cause a problem."

"Well," Kyle said, "we could kill him."

"Kyle!"

"He'd get better."

"No, Kyle."

"Well, I could rig some remote alarms. We'd at least know if any of the doors were opened."

"Even with the phones down?"

"Oh, yeah, I'd link them to a hub that could page my PDA if anything got triggered."

"We're going to be over an hour away," Ru said. "We might know something went down, but we're not going to be able to do anything about it."

"We can't take him with us." Atticus wasn't going to endanger Ru and Kyle to keep Ukiah safe. "Can you search on 'Cub'? That's his street name."

Kyle shook his head after several minutes of searching. "No, nothing is coming up under that name. Did you get a last name out of him?"

"No, the Iron Horses showed up before we had a chance to ask. He did make a call on Ru's phone."

"Ah, tricky." Kyle typed on his keyboard to cue up the recorded conversation.

The number had a 412 area code. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It rang seven times before being picked up, and a sleepy male voice grunted into the phone. "Hmm?"

"It's me," Ukiah said with all confidence his voice would be recognized. And it was.

"Ukiah! Oh, thank God."

"I've got a broken arm, broken ribs. I've been shot about five times. I've got a dozen mice on my hands . . . and I'm at the ocean. What the hell happened?"

Who had Ukiah called? Rennie Shaw?

"The cult nailed you yesterday evening. The police called early this morning; they found your jacket on the Mass Pike but there was no sign of you. We've been worried sick that the cult torched your body. Are you still with them, or are you safe someplace?"

"I think I'm safe. I got yanked out of the trunk, dead, by . . ." There was some mysterious grunting on the other end of the line. "Max?"

No, not Shaw.Atticus leaned over Kyle's shoulder, substituted "Max" for "Cub" and hit return.

"Oh, I'm just trying to get my PDA," the mysterious Max said. "It's—damn it—I hate hospitals. There! Give me the number you're at."

Ukiah read off Ru's number. "Is everyone else okay?"

A woman's voice, distant but growing closer said, "Hi, I'm Deb, your physical therapist. I need to clear you on crutches before you can be discharged."

"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.

CHAPTER THREE

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. " Blackdeuces, redfours."

"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 tatsound effect.

"Silver only works as a bullet inthe heart," Animal said. "If it just goes throughthe 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?"

Daggit tried to rise but Atticus kept him pinned, grinding his bleeding nose into the cigarette ashes. Daggit flailed for his pistol, and Atticus caught the hand by the wrist and jerked it up behind Daggit's back.

Ru snatched up the pistol and aimed it at Animal, who was starting to rise. "Easy, easy. Atty?"

It was more the awareness of Ru's exhale, the air warmed by his body and carrying his scent, than Ru's words that made Atticus realize it was the drug pushing him to act.

"What did you tell them?" Atticus managed a calmer tone.

"Fuck off!" Daggit cried. "I'm not telling you nothing about them."