Wolver's Reward (5 page)

"I'm sorry," she said in a voice that sounded
like heaven. "I really am."

He started to tell her it was all right. He
understood she had no choice. He never got the chance. She was
holding a baseball bat by her leg. Before he could stop her, she
swung it in a wide arc over her head, crashing it into his. River
fell to his knees. Shaking his head to clear it, he started to
rise. She hit him again.

A woman started to speak, coughed and choked,
and started again. "For heaven's sake, you didn't have to hit him
so hard."

"He meant to kill you, Darla."

"Nah, I don't think so. If he meant to, he
would have. And speaking of killing, you need to be careful with
that bat, honey. You could kill somebody with that thing."

"I did what needed to be done," the much
younger voice sniffed. "We need to get him in the van and hurry. We
have to get to the preserve."

"Listen, kiddo, we don't have to do this. Are
you sure you're doing the right thing?"

"Right or wrong, it has to be done. Hurry. We
can't afford to be late."

These were the things River heard as he faded
away, or thought he heard anyway. It might have been a dream, but
when he opened his eyes to the darkened interior of the van with
his hands and feet tied loosely with cord, he was pretty sure it
was real. He lay still for a moment and took stock of his
surroundings. No voices or movement inside or out. No sound except
drip, drip, drip. The rain had lessened to a drizzle.

Outside, the rain had masked and washed away
the scent, giving him no warning of who or what he was dealing
with. Inside the van, he picked up six distinct scents; four
females, two male. He would remember those scents, one in
particular.

He sat up and groaned as the throbbing in his
head threatened to split his skull in two. He was surprised the
little bitch hadn't done it in the first place. The dainty looking
thing had the voice of an angel and a swing that would make Babe
Ruth blush with shame.

He had to wait until the nausea subsided
before he used his teeth to untie the knot at his wrists. His feet
were next. He kicked the doors open not because he had to, but
because he wanted to. He didn't care how much the sudden movement
hurt his head. Once he had them open, he wanted to rip them from
their hinges. His truck was gone along with everything in it.

Of course it was. That was the purpose of the
whole ruse and he, like a fucking asshole, had fallen for it. Put a
helpless looking little female at the side of the road appearing
stranded and alone, and wait for the mark. If there was too much
traffic or the mark's shit didn't look worth it, or he wasn't
alone, she'd say her father or brother was on the way with a tow
truck. Thanks for stopping. Good-bye.

If the goods looked worth it, someone leapt
out, usually when the guy was bent over the hood or changing the
tire. You didn't have to kill him, though the bastards who taught
River the game didn't much care one way or the other. The point was
to take what you needed; cash, credit cards, or vehicle, mostly all
three.

The question here was why they had left their
vehicle behind. That wasn't normally part of the game. Leave
nothing behind that could be traced. That was the rule. A quick
check under the hood and then beneath the van showed him the
reason. They'd thrown a piston rod. Oil was everywhere. The rod had
shot right through the pan.

The scenario was starting to make sense. This
wasn't the group's usual MO. That's why they seemed so clumsy.
Their attacks were random, not coordinated in any way. Yeah, they
were probably surprised by his being a wolver, too, but that was
the point. It didn't take four wolvers to take down a human, five
if you counted the one flapping her hands. They either didn't know
what they were doing or they were stupid. If it hadn't been for the
little bitch with the baseball bat, they would have lost the
game.

River snarled. They weren't the only ones who
could be labeled stupid. That she was all of a hundred and twenty
willowy pounds made him feel twice the fool.

He rolled up the cords they tied him with and
stuck them in his pocket. Next, he rifled through the glove box and
console. Among the wads of napkins, candy wrappers, packages of
beef jerky, and two bottles of water, he found the vehicle
registration. The address was two states and four hundred miles
away. He stuffed that in his pocket, too.

More interesting than the address, was a map
which he had thrown aside during his initial search. It was a road
map, stained with coffee, crumpled with use, and folded oddly.
River sat back into the driver's seat and shifted his body to more
comfortably accommodate the bulge in his back pocket. His wallet
was still chained to his belt.

He pulled it out and checked the contents.
Everything was there including a couple of hundred in cash and a
credit card. The card wasn't his, though his name was on it. It
belonged to Wolf's Head and he only used it when he was sent for
supplies the pack would need. He wondered if anyone had thought to
take his name off the account. He'd soon find out. Let them foot
the bill for whatever he needed. It was their fault he was here in
the first place.

He was going to get his bike back and his
truck, even if he had to rent a car and return to the address on
the registration to do it. He'd wait for their return and when they
did, he was going to make them pay. He was going to show them what
a real rogue looked like. He was born one. It wasn't that long ago
that Wolf's Head pack had taken him from that life and showed him
something different. Fate had turned that to shit, too. He'd
consider this journey a return to his roots.

Tearing the top from a package of jerky and
chewing on the contents, he opened the map and spread it across the
steering wheel. No route was marked, but someone had made small
checks along the way with a pen as if marking their progress. The
marks ended at a town he'd seen on an exit sign before he left the
Interstate. The only other mark was an area circled in red, a
national wildlife preserve. That was it. That was where they were
headed. It had to be.

Using the scale on the map, River figured it
to be about a hundred and fifty miles. They had a head start and it
would only take them a few hours to make the trip. It would take
him longer, but once there, he would find them and he would make
them pay.

He used a few of the napkins to clean his
hands and face. The others he used to dry his head after using
bottled water to rinse the blood from his hair. The two cuts where
his scalp was split by the bat were already closed and beginning to
heal. The two tender lumps beneath them would take a little more
time.

Ryker always said River was a hardheaded
sonofabitch and River guessed his old boss was right. She could
have killed him with that bat. He loped along the road, the
pounding in his head matching that of his booted feet, until he saw
the sign for an on-ramp to the Interstate where he'd be more likely
to catch a ride. He stuck out his thumb each time a car passed, but
traffic was light and there was no one willing to risk picking up a
dark haired stranger dressed in black.

"It's the cute ones in shorts and orange
sneakers you need to watch out for. Not me," he muttered as yet
another driver passed, studiously avoiding eye contact.

River started to run, only slowing at the
sound of an approaching vehicle. He'd run every mile if he had to.
If it took every last ounce of strength he had, he was going to
find that pretty little bitch and get his motorcycle back. And then
he'd make her pay.

Chapter 4

River slid his back down the trunk to the
base of the big maple. He sat, one leg cocked at the knee, the
other stretched straight. He pulled out his last bottle of water
and chugged it down. He was tired, but he didn't have much time to
rest. He'd give himself five minutes, no more. The trip had taken
him longer than expected. He'd only managed to hitch three rides,
but they were good ones.

A trucker carried him almost fifty miles. He
was a good guy who didn't say much more than, "I can take you as
far as Carlisle."

A carload of teenaged girls carried him
another thirty. They would have taken him further, but he asked
them to let him off at Exit 62. It wasn't the exit he needed, but
their squealing giggles at everything he said gave him a headache
that came damn near close to the one he got from the baseball bat.
Waving his hand over his head, he walked away from the car, but
only until he was sure they were on their way back onto the
highway. He then made his way back to the entrance and began the
hitch hiking process all over again; run, turn at the sound of an
approaching car and, walking backward, hold his arm out, fingers
clenched, thumb extended.

It was another hour before his next ride came
along. A forty year old Cadillac Fleetwood pulled off onto the
shoulder ahead of him. The car was in mint condition; no rust, no
dents, and chrome that shone like mirrors. It was perfect except
for the black and foul smelling smoke that poured from the
exhaust.

"Get in and be quick about it. You're letting
in the stink," was all the woman behind the wheel said when he
reached the passenger door.

River didn't hesitate. He was in and had the
door closed before she could change her mind. His first thought was
that this would be an easy theft. He could take her car and her
money. His second was that with the chugging engine and billowing
smoke, the car would be easily noticed. His third was that it
didn't feel right to steal money from old ladies and if she was
driving this beater, she probably didn't have money to spare.

The driver was ancient and the makeup she
wore couldn't hide it. Her face was covered in powdery stuff that
settled into the creases and made them hard to ignore. Bright spots
of pink formed perfect circles on her cheeks. Thin arcs of brown
over surprisingly bright blue eyes created eyebrows where there was
no evidence of natural ones and her lips were carefully lined with
red.

The inside of the car showed a little more
wear, but not much. The seats sagged with long use and the color
had worn away on the steering wheel where the same hands had
gripped it for years. She looked like a nice old lady and he
suddenly had the urge to warn her against picking up hitch hikers,
but it wasn't his problem.

"Thanks for stopping, ma'am."

"I usually don't, but I was thinking of
somebody else and there you were looking like he looked, tall and
lanky with a head of dark auburn hair that always looked in need of
a trim. Call it a senior moment. You won't make me sorry for it,
will you?"

"No, ma'am. I'm harmless."

She snorted a laugh at that. "Would you tell
me if you weren't?"

Unlike the trucker who asked no questions, or
the girls who asked too many stupid ones, the old woman eyed him up
and down and asked where he was headed.

He told her and she laughed.

"Why in hell would you want to go there? And
don't tell me you plan on camping. I'm old, and in spite of that
senior moment, not generally stupid. You've got no gear and you
aren't dressed for it. Those aren't hiking boots you're
wearing."

They weren't running shoes, either, and he
had the blisters to prove it, he thought angrily, and he supposed
it was the anger that made him answer honestly.

"A girl stole my shit. That's where she's
going and I'm going to get it back."

"I was right," she said with a satisfied
smile. "The way you were moving, you looked like a man on a
mission. Girlfriend?"

"No. I never saw her before." And if he had a
choice, he'd never see her again, the little bitch, and maybe he
wouldn't have to. His spare keys were in the wallet, too.

The wrinkled skin around her mouth stretched
into taut smoothness as she held her lips together over her open
mouth. She was either holding back her words or another laugh.

Turned out she was doing both. "Pretty was
she?"

"That has nothing to do with it," he answered
bitterly, because it had everything to do with it. He'd been so
busy thinking of her looks, he'd forgotten to be cautious.

"Ha! Sounds like it has everything to do with
it." She fished a pack of gum out of her purse, offered him a
stick, and then took one for herself. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Oh, come on." She held out her hand for his
wrapper and stuck it back in the purse. "Surely the ride is worth
the story. At my age, the only adventures I have left belong to
other people."

"Nothing to tell," he said stubbornly. "The
bitch stole my shit and I'm going to get it back."

"Young or old?" she asked. "The bitch, as you
call her, was she young or old?"

"Young," he said sadly, and when he realized
that his voice was tinged with the remembrance of Forest, he
hardened it. "But don't let that fool you. She was the
ringleader."

"Ringleader?" The woman's painted on eyebrows
rose to points at their centers. "So she wasn't alone?"

"Of course she wasn't alone," he said,
offended that she thought the skinny little thing had taken him
down alone.

The old woman nodded. "Of course. Big, strong
fellow like you. What was I thinking?" Her smile turned sly. "So,
how many did it take to give you those two big lumps on the back of
your head."

River's hand went to spots. Yep, they were
still there, tender, but not throbbing. He smiled sheepishly.
"Okay, she did, but only after four others jumped me."

"Ah." She nodded sagely. "My mistake. I
figured she showed you a good time and when you were all tuckered
out..." She left the sentence hanging, but implied the finish with
a shrug. "That's usually what happened to Harry, my first husband.
He had a thing for fast women and cheap motels. He got himself
rolled more than once, though I'm pretty sure it was always by a
woman alone."