Wolf Hunt

WOLF HUNT

By Jeff Strand

Wolf Hunt copyright 2010
by Jeff Strand

Smashwords edition

Cover design by Lynne Hansen
http://www.LynneHansen.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author,
visit
http://www.JeffStrand.com

CHAPTER ONE

Meet George and Lou

"Okay, it says here that you stole..." George
Orton glanced down at his notebook, then flipped through a few
pages. "Where did I write that down? Bear with me for a
second...yeah, here it is. Sixty-three thousand dollars." He
whistled. "Wow. That's a lot of skimming off the top."

The old man's eyes glistened. "I have a
family. I have five grandkids. Please don't hurt me."

"Hurt you? For sixty-three
thousand you should be begging me not to
kill
you, right?"

"Please don't kill me," said the old man,
Douglas, in a whisper. "I'll double whatever he's paying you."

"Hmmmm. Let me check my notes." George
glanced down at his notebook again. "Ah, here we go. 'If he tries
to bribe you, break an extra finger.' Look at that, you just
created more work for me."

"Please--"

"Not to mention that you
probably intended to pay that bribe out of the money you stole, so
in a few hours I'd have men at my house wanting to break
my
thumbs. Don't get me
wrong, I like the idea of getting double pay for this job, but
you're asking me to put future earning potential at risk. That's an
unfair thing to ask of somebody you've just met."

Douglas' voice cracked. "There has to be a
way we can work this out."

"There's really nothing to work out. Were we
sent here to break your thumbs? Yes. Will your thumbs be broken
when we leave? Yes indeed. Does it have to be the worst experience
of your life? Not necessarily."

"I'm sure that--"

"Discussion over. I want you to
understand, Doug, that I'm no sadist. I'm here to do a job like any
other working man. If it were up to me, there would be no snapping
of bones in the next few minutes. But it's not up to me. So now
that we've established what is most definitely going to happen,
let's see if we can work together to make it go as smoothly as
possible."

Douglas looked over at George's partner, Lou
Flynn, as if for help. Lou shrugged and leaned back in the
recliner, the briefcase of recovered cash resting in his lap. The
old man had been skimming for the past few months but hadn't spent
a cent, which made things a lot easier for everybody.

Really, the old man should've felt lucky that
it was George's turn to handle the uncomfortable part of the
business. Lou was pretty good with knives, but he cringed at the
act of breaking bones, which meant that he didn't always get it
done on the first try. Yeah, Lou was doing an excellent job of
presenting a casual front, pretending to be sitting there all cold
and emotionless, but George knew that he was feeling sick to his
stomach.

Apparently realizing that no help was
forthcoming, Douglas looked back at George. A tear trickled down
his cheek. "Yes, sir."

"Good to hear. Do you have a cover
story?"

"Excuse me?"

"For your family. You're not going to tell
them that a couple of hired thugs came over and broke your thumbs
for stealing from a drug lord, are you?"

"I guess not."

"Are you clumsy?"

"I...I can be."

"So, theoretically, you could have tripped,
put out your hands to break your fall, hit the floor, and snapped
your thumbs, correct?"

"I'm not sure."

George sighed. "Work with me, Doug. This is
for your benefit. I'm trying to protect your marriage. You want
your grandkids to know that you're a scumbag sleazeball criminal?
You're way too old to start your life from scratch, so you need to
commit to the story, make it believable. Let's practice."

"I fell...and, uh, hit the floor..."

"That's total crap. You need conviction, and
you also need a sheepish demeanor. Look me in the eye and start it
off with something like 'You'll never believe this,' and then hold
up your thumbs. That'll make it seem like you aren't trying to hide
anything. It's kind of a ridiculous story, so your performance
needs to be spot-on."

Douglas cleared his throat. "You'll never
believe this...but I was walking through the living room..."

"Hold up your thumbs."

Douglas held up his thumbs. "I was walking
through the living room, and I tripped on a dog bone--"

"Chew toy sounds better."

"A chew toy. I fell and tried to break my
fall, and I hurt my thumbs."

"Nobody's going to punish the dog for making
you trip, right?"

"No."

"Good." The Yorkshire terrier had been shut
in the bedroom after George and Lou arrived. "Let's hear it a few
more times."

The old man recited his story five more
times, refining it upon George's suggestions. "You'd buy that,
wouldn't you?" George asked Lou.

Lou shrugged. "I suppose so."

"That'll have to do." Douglas seemed like a
decent enough guy, and he'd clearly learned his lesson, so George
didn't want to see him lose his family over this whole mess. "So,
Doug, are you ready?"

"Isn't there a way out of this?"

"Oh, come on now, we were doing so well. Why
would you want to backtrack like that? Give me your hand."

Douglas hesitated for several seconds. "Which
one?"

"Doesn't matter. We're doing them both."

After a few more seconds of hesitation,
Douglas held out his left hand. George took it gently in his own,
then wrapped his right fist around Douglas' thumb.

"Just close your eyes and breathe deeply.
Think about something else. Do you like skiing?"

"No, sir."

"Fishing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Imagine that you're fishing. Picture
yourself on the bank of a calm lake, sitting in your favorite lawn
chair, watching a bobber float. You've got a cold beer in your
hand. It tastes good, doesn't it? Ahhhh, nothing better than a nice
cold frosty beer. Do you taste it?"

Douglas' shoulders trembled and he was on the
verge of sobbing.

"Nod if you taste it."

Douglas nodded. In one
sudden motion, George jerked his thumb backwards until there was a
loud
snap
.

The old man screamed in pain. George grabbed
his other hand and quickly broke his right thumb as well. Douglas'
scream intensified, becoming so high-pitched that George might have
almost found it amusing were this not a serious, professional
matter.

George waited patiently for
a couple of minutes until Douglas stopped shrieking and thrashing.
"It's all over now," he said. "I know it hurt. But, hey, in another
time and place they would've chopped your hand off for stealing a
loaf of bread, so a pair of broken thumbs for sixty-three thousand
dollars isn't a bad deal. A better deal if you'd actually got
to
keep
the money,
but you know what I mean. So are you cool with your cover
story?"

Douglas nodded and wept.

"Technically, I'm supposed to break another
finger for your attempt to bribe me, but I like you and I'm going
to pretend it didn't happen. You should feel lucky--I'm not always
this nice. We won't tell if you don't. We'll get out of your hair
now. Please don't take any more drug money that doesn't belong to
you, okay?"

* * *

"Jeez, I hate that sound," said Lou as they
pulled out of Douglas' driveway. "I'd almost rather have his
fingers get cut off, know what I mean?"

"I don't think he'd agree with you."

Lou shivered. "It's just disturbing."

"I thought he took it pretty well."

"They usually do, when it's your turn. Maybe
we should stick with that dynamic. I kinda like being the quiet
creepy one."

George chuckled. "Nice dynamic. You supervise
and I do the manual labor. Screw that."

"I'm not saying I
won't
ever
rough
them up. You're just a better communicator is all." He shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. "I hate this car."

"Me too." George and Lou were both big guys,
and the car wasn't designed for big guys. George stood six-five,
and though he wasn't quite the all-muscle physical specimen at age
forty-three that he'd been at age twenty, he was still in fine
shape. Lou stood an inch taller and had let himself go a little
bit, but even with a potbelly, he was one intimidating son of a
bitch.

They both had black hair. George wore a
neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, while Lou favored a full beard,
which he was in the process of re-growing out like a mountain man,
since he'd reluctantly trimmed it before a classy job a couple of
weeks ago. Normally they wore black suits, but it was too damn hot
and muggy down here in Florida, and so they wore only their white
dress shirts. Red tie for George, no tie for Lou, sweat stains for
both.

George's cell phone rang. "It's Ricky," he
said.

"Tell that scrawny punk to get us a bigger
goddamn car next time."

George pressed the "talk" button and put the
phone to his ear. "Get us a bigger goddamn car next time, scrawny
punk."

"I love you too, George," said Ricky. He made
a kissy sound into the phone. "So did the old guy cry like a
baby?"

"There were tears."

"Oh, yeah, I bet there were, I bet there
were. Did you leave his fingers at a freakish angle?"

"Why'd you call, Ricky?"

"I pulled some strings and got you a
top-notch assignment."

In Ricky-speak, that
translated to
I've got a crap job that
nobody else wants.
"What is it?"

"I can't talk about it over the phone. Let's
just say that I hope you've got some silver bullets handy."

"What are we doing, killing a werewolf?"

There was a long pause on the other end.
"Look, George, pretend to be surprised, okay? I wasn't supposed to
give the werewolf part away."

"You're serious? Some whack-nut really wants
us to kill a werewolf?"

"What werewolf?" Lou asked. George waved at
him to shut up.

"It's an easy job," Ricky insisted. "There
ain't no such thing as werewolves, I know you know that, but this
guy Bateman, he swears he's got one in captivity, and he needs you
to drive it up to this other guy Dewey."

"Dewey. Like the decimal system?"

"Yeah. And you should make that joke
when you see him. Guys in his position, they get a real big kick
out of people making fun of their names."

"I wasn't making fun of it. I was clarifying
it."

"Anyway, it's not even a half-day job. You'll
be on the red-eye back to New York tonight."

"Are we seriously expected to drive with a
wolf in the car?"

"Nah, he's in human form. And it'll be a van.
Lots of legroom. But I'm not supposed to be telling you this, so
act surprised."

"So it's some crazy guy
who
thinks
he's a
werewolf? I'm not so keen on sharing a van with the mentally ill.
He's not going to be howling and crap like that, is he?"

"Just forget I said anything," said Ricky.
"I'll text you the address. Be there in an hour." Ricky hung up
before George could protest.

"What werewolf?" Lou asked.

"I don't know. I think Ricky's screwing with
us."

"Remember a few months ago when we had to
lean on that guy who wore the dog collar around his neck because he
thought his head was gonna fall off?"

George scowled. "Don't remind me. What a joke
that was. Maybe we need to treat Ricky with a little more respect
so we can get a higher class of assignments."

"Respect would just confuse him. He enjoys
our suffering."

"He's going to be doing a lot of suffering of
his own if he was lying about this being a quick job. I'm
serious--I'll pop his nose like a water balloon. I've gotta get out
of this state."