The Werewolf Whisperer (The Werewolf Whisperer Series Book 1) (38 page)

"Driving!"
Lucy reminded her. "What is it?"

"Miguel."

"Read
it to me." Lucy adjusted the mirror and looked back toward Kai. "How's
about you send up the sandwiches Gerri packed?"

Kai
started digging through the cooler as if looking for buried treasure.

"Los
Lobos Luchadores," Xochitl read out loud.

"The
wolf...mmm...?" Lucy tried to piece together the Spanish.

"The
Fighting Wolves." Xochitl took two sandwiches from Kai, handing her phone
to Lucy as she undid the wax paper wrappers. "Address look familiar?"

Lucy's
eyes went to the prominent banner of Miguel's Werewolf Fight Club site. "Shit,
that place! Are you okay going back?" Lucy asked, exchanging Xochitl's
phone for the unwrapped bacon and avocado sandwich.

"Oh
sure. You know, hell sweet home." Xochitl grimaced.

As
they hit the open road, Lucy realized she'd never gotten her piece of blueberry
pie.

Chapter 30

The Federal
Werebeast Defense Mandate (FWDM) recognizes today's unique challenges as
regarding the defense of citizens in a post Kyon Virus (KV) world. In an effort
to improve the quality and length of life for all, the FWDM establishes federal
policy to provide best available measures based on current science and,
utilizing an holistic approach, allows individual states the ability to
strengthen citizen enforcement up to and including termination with extreme
prejudice on a case by case basis. Guidelines should be regularly updated to
focus on the identification and reduction of the greatest risks. The federal
mandate holds state and local law enforcement accountable for accurate
processing and execution.

-excerpt from The Federal Werebeast Defense Mandate

20 months ago

The
crisp night air felt good on Xochitl's skin as she sat on the steps and leaned
against the wood railing of her uncle Vern's cabin. Stars filled the sky like
diamonds, and Xochitl couldn't remember ever seeing so many in all her life
— surely not in Los Angeles where the always-illuminated city lights
overpowered even the brightest of constellations. It had been three weeks since
the team had brought Miguel to Lake Arrowhead, and she felt like she'd barely
spent three minutes with him.

The
first few days Xochitl had hardly slept, keeping a constant vigil by Miguel's
side. Vern had run an IV through Miguel's arm to keep him hydrated, and Xochitl
had wiped him down with a wet cloth to keep him from getting bedsores. Miguel
had tossed and turned and groaned most of the time, but the chemicals —
or
whatever those pinche pound scientists dosed him with —
had kept him
sedated.

Then
Miguel had woken up, and all hell had broken loose. He had ripped off his
restraints, his IV dragging behind him as he'd clawed his way past Xochitl when
she had tried to calm him. It had taken Bob, Vern and Prez to hold him down
before Mick had been able to safely shoot morphine into Miguel's IV. Each time
Miguel had come to, Xochitl had seen the terror in his eyes. He'd fly into a
rage, almost transforming until Vern or Bob would sedate him again. Xochi didn't
know what Miguel saw when he looked at her, but she knew he was in agony. And
she didn't know how to help him.

Xochitl
sighed and grabbed the beer she'd rested on the stoop behind her. She took a
long swig of the Belgian ale. The cool beverage tasted slightly bitter but was
nonetheless smooth and satisfying.

"Ah."
Xochitl wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Through the screen door, she could see
Vern and Bob in the dining room going over the pictures Vern had taken at the
pound.

Despite
losing the computer, Vern had collected a great deal of intel from Dr. Weisman's
office. Among the data found were formulas for a serum the pound scientists had
been administering to their captives. Neither Vern nor Bob could make heads or
tails of the experiments. Bob had decided he was going to take the information
to some of his people later in the week when he returned to "civilization,"
as he'd called it.

Bob
had made a fortune in the "private sector" of security —
a
merc, but a good merc
. Not at all the outdoorsy type, Bob preferred running
his very successful security firm from a lofty office in Beverly Hills and letting
his men do the dirty work.

"What
can I say, I'm a Four Seasons kind of guy," Bob had confessed one night
after several scotches. Xochitl agreed. She liked the cabin and didn't mind
fishing on occasion, but she was a city girl at heart.

The
most helpful information they had gleaned from Weisman's files was the chip she
and her cohorts had embedded just under the left scapula of each of their "subjects."
That was the word that had stuck with Xochitl.

S
ubject.
That's all Miguel was to these monsters.

Xochi
had nearly gone out of her mind the night they'd removed Miguel's chip. Mick
hadn't given Miguel enough morphine to keep him sedated, and he had come to
just as Bob had been prying the chip out. Miguel, lying on his stomach, arms
and legs strapped to the legs of the table, had reared his head up and roared
in pain, nearly knocking the dining room table over. In what had seemed like a
brief moment of clarity, he'd stared at Xochitl and asked, "Why?"
then passed out again.

Lefty
had been studying the chip since that night. He'd learned it was the secondary
trigger that had tripped the alarm at the pound. Each chip had been encoded
with an alphanumeric designation and held detailed biological information down
to DNA sequencing specific to the subject. In her notations, Dr. Weisman had
called these subjects "Homo-Canis." All the chips had been linked
directly to an unknown auxiliary server.

This
new information had troubled Vern. When Xochitl had asked why the second server
mattered, Lefty had explained that the server could be anywhere. Without Ames'
missing computer and the information he'd downloaded to it from Weisman's
laptop, Lefty had no way of tracking the secondary server's location. Any
additional data on Weisman and the purpose for her experiments on Miguel would
remain unknown to them.

Miguel's
chip was engraved with the designation
HCXY151
.

Xochitl
downed the rest of her beer.

Out
of the corner of her eye, she saw Lefty round the side of the cabin with Prez
and Mick following close behind. She turned toward the men as they approached
the base of the stairs.

"¡Vamos,
chica!" Lefty threw a denim jacket up to Xochitl who caught it just before
it landed at her feet.

"What's
up?" Xochitl eyed them suspiciously.

"We
are taking you out for some sur-vaay-saass," Mick drawled. His arm nearly
healed, the normally laconic man was in better spirits.

"It's
cer...ve...za, gringo." Xochitl raised her empty beer bottle. "And I'm
good."

"That's
swill," Prez chimed in. "Plus we need to get the hell out of here
before we all go crazy."

Prez
and Mick turned and headed for the parked vehicles at the end of Vern's
driveway.

"Come
on." Lefty trotted up the steps, took the jacket from her and deftly placed
it around her shoulders.

Not bad for a one-armed man.

"Your
chariot awaits, my lady." He bowed low and with a grand gesture, threw out
his hand.

"Pendejo."
Xochitl grinned, shoving Lefty lightly.

"Hey,
loverboy, let's go!" Prez shouted from El Gallo.

"Wait,
we're taking my car?" Xochi asked.

"¡Órale!
That ride's badass!" Lefty dangled the giant rooster key chain in front of
Xochitl before jogging off toward Mick and Prez.

"Fine. But only I drive El Gallo!"
Xochitl hurried to catch up to her new drinking buddies.

Xochitl, Prez
and Mick stood at the counter of a particularly divey bar Prez had somehow
found while driving around the Arrowhead area — lost.

The
tension was palpable — a lot was riding on this moment. Xochitl eyed her opposition.
Her heart thumped in her chest, and her hand tapped nervously on the counter.
She pulsated like a stallion waiting to be let out of the gate.

"One.
Two. Three. Go." Lefty pounded his hand on the bar.

With
lightning speed, Xochitl downed the shot glass of tequila, slammed it on the
bar counter, licked the salt on her hand and then picked up the slice of lime,
squeezing it between her teeth. "Done!" She yelled, tossing the
juiced lime on the bar and raising her hands in the air victoriously.

"Damn,
girl." Prez winced at the tartness of the lime. "You can pound 'em
back."

"That's
because she's Mexican," Mick chimed in as he finished off his lime and
signaled the tattooed bartender for another round.

"And
Polish," Xochitl added. "It's in the genes."

"A
Polish Mexican? Never heard of such a thing," Prez joked. "You're
Molish."

"Or
Plexican," Mick said, sliding three tequila shooters toward them.

Xochi
shook her head at Mick. "So what are you? Besides the white boy in a sling,
buying the drinks?"

"Gunnar
Mickelson, descendent of the great Viking people." Mick beat his chest
with his good fist.

Prez,
Lefty and Xochitl burst out laughing.

"What
are you laughing at, Thomas Jefferson?" Mick shot back at Prez.

"No
way!" Xochitl looked at Prez.

"What?
He was a great president." Prez grabbed his shot.

"Oh,
Prez." Lefty looked as if a lightbulb just went on over his head. "I
get it."

"Sweet
kid." Xochitl slapped Lefty on the back. "To President Thomas
Jefferson." She raised her shot glass in salute.

"To
Thomas Jefferson." Prez, Mick and Lefty raised their shot glasses in
reply.

All
four downed their tequila shots and slammed the empty glasses on the counter.

"Whoo!
That's good!" Prez hollered.

"Hey!"
The barkeep, whose elaborately painted arms took the place of shirtsleeves,

 
gave them a disapproving look.

"I
like your ink." Xochi winked at the drink slinger.

Xochitl
turned away from the bar counter. "Well, Viking Mick, don't forget the
beers." She felt the tequila buzz hit her. "I need to sit down."

She
collapsed in a chair at nearest table. Her fingers found
Styx '89
crudely
carved into the wood.

¡Híjole!
That's old school.

"How
the hell do you find these places?" Xochitl yelled over her shoulder to
Prez.

"It's
a gift," Prez replied.

Her
gaze followed the three men as they took their seats. Prez and Mick, each
carrying four bottles of beer, set them awkwardly on the table. But amazingly
using only his left arm, Lefty adroitly balanced a serving tray with four beers
and a bowl of pretzels. With ease, he placed the tray on the tabletop.

"You're
pretty good at that for a one armed man." Xochitl took a swig from her
bottle.

"You
have no idea." Lefty suavely raised his eyebrow in Xochi's direction,
causing her to spit up some beer.

"No
he didn't," Prez said.

"Nice,
kid," Mick added.

Lefty
sat in his chair, looking very pleased with himself.

Xochitl
grabbed a handful of pretzels and popped one in her mouth. The taste of stale
hard bread coated her tongue. With nothing to spit mushed pretzel out in, she
had no choice but to wash the salty glob down with more beer. "Yuck."
She tossed the remaining snacks in her hand back into the bowl.

Relaxing
into her chair, she smiled fondly at her companions as they drank and joked
with each other. Over the past couple of weeks, she'd gotten to know these guys
well. They worked together. Trained together. Ate together. The men had seen
her at her worst and had stood by her. They were cocky smartasses. But they
were also fine men, good soldiers — real brothers to one another.

"So
you all served with Bob?" Xochitl asked.

"Prez
did," Mick replied, tossing a stale pretzel in his gob. "I was a
sharpshooter in Iraq. Did my tours. Rotated out. Bob's security firm recruited
me. Been working for him ever since."

"He
was my CO in Desert Storm," Prez said.

"Wait.
That'd make you around forty." Xochitl was shocked. She thought Prez didn't
look a day over thirty.

"Forty-two
actually," Prez said with pride. "Black don't crack."

"And
brown don't frown," Lefty chimed in, looking a bit glassy-eyed. He raised
his bottle to Prez before taking another drink.

The
group howled with laughter.

¡Híjole! I'm drunk.

"What
about you, Lefty?" Xochitl slurred and propped her chin on her hand. "Were
you recruited by Bob too?"

"Sort
of." Lefty cast his eyes to his beer.

"Xochi,
you are looking at the 2008 Junior Golden Gloves runner up," Prez proudly
announced and slapped Lefty on the shoulder. "Bob was his coach."

"Your
coach?" Xochitl asked.

Lefty shrugged but didn't elaborate.

"See," Prez continued. "Pedro
here was on his way to the Big Time."

"Could have made it too, if the fool
kid didn't go and enlist," Mick added.

"Is
that true?" Xochitl put her hand on Lefty's. "You gave up boxing for
the Marines?"

Lefty
pulled his hand away and grabbed another beer. "Bob saved my life. He used
to volunteer. Trained kids to box at the local Y. I was a street kid and he
trained me. I didn't win the title. I thought I'd let him down. So I enlisted.
I thought I could fight for the Marines and make him proud. I boxed a bit for
the Corps before..." Lefty's hand seemed to involuntarily go to his
non-existent right arm before he pulled it back.

Xochitl
fought the urge to reach out to Lefty and cradle him like a mother would her
child.