Monster Hunter Alpha-ARC (15 page)

“I’m listening,” Horst answered. He knew that Stark was dirty, completely untrustworthy, and if it wasn’t for the extremity of their circumstances he would have assumed that this was some kind of elaborate setup. It was doubtful that Stark was wearing a wire.

“Do you know what the PUFF would be for a werewolf over a hundred years old?”

The Perpetual Unearthly Forces Fund bounty tables cut off way before that. The amount would be astronomical. “Is that a joke?”

“What if I told you there was a century-old werewolf here in Copper Lake, right this minute?”

Horst played it cool. Stark had gone mad. “If I was talking to anyone other than a respected senior MCB agent…”
I’d call you a liar and curb stomp your head in.
“I’d say you might be exaggerating.”

Stark smiled. “You think I’m full of it, huh? Understandable. I had the same reaction the first time I heard about him. He’s only alive because he’s been granted PUFF immunity for some top-secret reason.”

“If he’s got immunity, then where do I come in?” Horst folded his arms. This sounded like a load of garbage. He’d pulled sharper cons before he’d hit puberty.

“He’s only immune if he obeys the rules, which means acting like a regular human and no crazy werewolf shit. But I’m afraid that our werewolf has gone on a rampage. He’s the cause of tonight’s troubles. He created another werewolf, and who knows how many others. He attacked me and escaped before I could apprehend him. If I could get word to the rest of the MCB they’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. We’ve been itching to get the green light to take him out forever, but our hands have been tied.…If somebody were to take him while I was unable to get hold of the MCB, they’d be heroes.”

There was no such thing as hundred-year-old werewolves. That was ridiculous. Werewolves were just too crazy and violent to live a fraction of that time. They didn’t exactly have a lifestyle well suited to longevity. “Well, why don’t you just point me at this super werewolf, and we’ll take care of him for you?”

Stark paused, fidgeting, as if he was scared to continue. His beady eyes shifted nervously in his jowly face. Finally he blurted, “I want half!”

This whole trip had been a waste. Stark was an idiot. At best, he was looking at a normal werewolf, at worst a new one or a barely infected, and there was no way he was going to split that fifty-fifty. “Forget about it.”

“But the PUFF would be in the millions!” Stark insisted. “There would be plenty to go around.”

Putting his hand on the doorknob to leave, Horst addressed Stark as politely as his growing temper would allow. “Millions, assuming that this superwolf actually exists. If that were the case, you’d get half. Regular creature, regular cut.”

“Trust me. He exists.” Stark reached out and grabbed Horst’s coat sleeve, pulling him conspiratorially close. “His name is Earl Harbinger.”

Harbinger…
Horst froze. He knew that name all too well. “Chain-smoking redneck, sounds like he should’ve been in
Deliverance
?”

“So you’ve met.”

“Oh, we’ve met. Hang on. You’re trying to tell me the leader of Monster Hunter International is a
werewolf
?”

Stark nodded. “Yes, and he’s here.”

“Dude…” Horst trailed off, but it made a certain kind of sense. Harbinger’s exploits were legendary. Even the seasoned MHI members he’d met had talked about Harbinger like he was some sort of supernatural monster-smashing demigod. Some of the things they’d attributed to him had sounded far-fetched, like the kind of BS stories guys from the old neighborhood had spread about themselves to build street cred, but the MHI bunch had seemed too jaded to believe tall tales.

The stories of impossible battles would be a little more plausible if he was a werewolf. Plus, Harbinger had stood by Paxton’s decision to kick Horst out of training, just because Horst had the balls to do what needed to be done. Harbinger had been a right smug bastard when he’d called Horst into his office that last time. They only talked a big game about their
flexible
minds, but when it came down to it, they were just as weak as any other regular mark.

Come to think of it, if Briarwood took down the baddest Hunter ever, what did that make Briarwood? He’d be a legend, able to write his own ticket. Why hire those fags at MHI when you could hire Briarwood, the company that smoked MHI’s top gun like a cheap cigar? Buckets of money, plus the satisfaction of seeing the look on Harbinger’s mug when one of his former Newbies took him out?
Perfect
.

“He’s the oldest known werewolf in the world. It’s like winning the lottery. I’ll handle the MCB. They’ll know that it was a legit kill. You get PUFF. Everybody wins.”

“Except Earl Harbinger.” Horst felt the beginnings of a honest grin form on his frozen face. This was going to be righteous. “You’ve got a deal, Stark.”

* * *

Horst returned to the Caddy and briefed his team on the new mission parameters, telling them about the new primary target but leaving out the part about Harbinger supposedly being over a hundred. First off, Horst had no idea if that was even possible, and secondly, if it was, there was no reason he needed to share that kind of ridiculous bounty with his crew. An adult werewolf with a mess of kills was still worth a considerable sum, so they’d still get paid more than expected. The infected redhead cop chick was a bonus. Stark said that he didn’t even care about getting his regular cut on that one, just as long as she died.

They were eager. Kelley and Lins were in this for the money, and this was more cash than either of them had ever come close to earning in their lives of violent crime. Jo Ann was a danger junkie, and as long as Horst kept buying her shiny things and nice clothes in addition to letting her kill things, she was happy. Everyone except for Loco was pumped. The big man just sat there, quiet as always, as he seemed to mull the new information over. Loco was so quiet that sometimes Horst wondered if he was all right in the head. He knew that after Loco had gotten out of prison, he’d gotten his skull caved in during some super-illegal pit fight. That was the same fight that had cost Loco his eye, and considering how scary Loco was, Horst couldn’t even imagine what the other behemoth must’ve looked like. But it didn’t matter if the guy that had broken Loco’s skull had given him braindamage, too. Horst had hired Loco for his brawn.

Stark had somehow gotten the idea that silver might not work on some of this town’s werewolves. Personally, Horst thought that sounded like more paranoid nonsense, as even the MHI people had sworn up and down in their fancy classes that silver
always
worked on lycanthropes, but he shared it with his crew anyway. If only he had MHI’s budget, he’d have some of those fancy flamethrowers and flaming chemical grenades on hand. Briarwood would someday, but right now they’d have to improvise. Buying a single case of a thousand composite silver 5.56 rounds that an MCB agent had “misplaced” had already cost him an arm and a leg.

“So, our silver bullets might not work, but you said that Stark burned one to death in there?” Kelley asked.

“Sure did. Place smelled like burnt hair,” Horst said. “Sounds like you got an idea.”

Kelley’s face lit up like it was Christmas. “There was a little convenience store back that way. Lots of glass bottles, and we can siphon gas out of some of the cars, if you get my drift.”

“Way to go, firebug,” Horst answered, having forgotten that Kelley had once made his living as an arsonist, terrorizing Boston industrial sites that didn’t pay their protection money. “Good thinking—” The front passenger door opened, letting in a sudden blast of freezing air. Loco got out. His hulking form headed straight for the fire truck.

“What’s that moron doing?” Jo Ann asked. “Close the door! I’m freezing.”

Loco was quickly covered in snow and took on the appearance of a yeti. He rummaged around the back of the fire truck and returned a moment later, the wicked fire ax looking comparatively tiny in his massive hands. His eyes were too small for his big round head, but he met Horst’s gaze squarely. Horst gave the ax one look and nodded in approval. The big man got back in the Caddy.

Old Earl Harbinger would never even know what hit him.

Chapter 10

There are a few psychological changes that go hand in hand with the physical change of becoming a lycanthrope. Unfortunately for most of us, one of those changes is that it will turn even the most saintly personality into a bloodthirsty killer. Maybe it was because I was such an effective killer already that I was able to keep those instincts in better check than most. For me, the desire to kill wasn’t really anything new. I had killed my first monster when I was ten years old, and had just kept on ever since. I took a break from monster killing for a few years when I’d volunteered to fight in the Great War, as we called it then. Though I did manage to squeeze in some monster killing in France when General Pershing found out that he had someone in the ranks who knew how to smoke out the ghouls that were attracted to the mass graves.

After the war I’d gone back to Hunting. It was all I had ever known. All I’d ever been good at, and I was really good at it. For most folks, the new super-honed predatory instinct of the lycanthrope pushes them into straight-up bug-nuts crazy territory. For me, it was a natural fit. It was like putting brass knuckles on a boxer.

The other immediately noticeable change is a drastic increase to your survival instincts. Werewolves are survivors. Usually by the time someone realizes what they’ve become, by then it is nearly impossible to find the will to end the curse yourself. The urge to live overcomes everything else.

You feel stronger, faster, smarter, healthier, tougher, sexier, everything. Basically, it feels good to be a werewolf. But at the same time, there is always this glimmer of smugness, a dangerous feeling of being better than humans. You exist with them, but separate. It is real easy to start gloating in your superiority, and from there it’s a real short trip for most of us to start looking at them as objects instead of people, weak things to be used for our amusement…as food, as prey.

Combine unbelievable physical power with a new sense of ruthless superiority and a burning, insatiable desire to hunt and kill and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

The key is being greater than your urges. I spent the next few years living on that little island in the Caribbean learning to understand and control my new nature. Rocky took many of those days away from me—the quiet reflection and meditation, watching sunsets, swimming in the ocean, sleeping on the sand, hours of reflection and study. But Rocky had planned on eating my most painful and brutal memories last, and had been stopped before he could finish his meal. So my most important lessons remained.

Santiago had given me hope.

* * *

The sheriff’s department was quiet. The lights were off here as well, and Earl could barely see the squat little concrete building from the street. This was the source of the blood scent. Though it wasn’t the only one in the air tonight, just the closest.

“This ain’t gonna end well,” he muttered to himself. The power, the communications, and apparently the authorities, all neutralized simultaneously. This wasn’t following the pattern of a leadership challenge; this was more like a coordinated attack. Nikolai was more than capable of that. Earl had seen that up close and personal across Southeast Asia, but it made no sense to do it here. The only thing a werewolf gained through this kind of action was attention, and attention brought Hunters.

Like any good Boy Scout or Monster Hunter, Earl had come prepared. He’d stopped long enough to change out of his wet clothes into his MHI-issued body armor. Milo had just gotten him a new suit, since the last one had been ruined by the acid saliva from a nasty flock of helicopter-spiders they’d found in Albuquerque. As always, the brilliant Milo had listened to Earl’s feedback and made improvements. Earl’s personal kit was a little less bulky than the standard suit, utilizing material that wasn’t quite as loud when he moved. Earl reasoned that he valued speed, mobility, and stealth a bit more than the average Hunter and could afford to sacrifice some protection.

Plus, Milo had thought ahead and put some quick-release buckles on the side so that Earl wouldn’t inadvertently ruin anything should he change in a hurry. Milo said he was tired of ordering replacements, and Owen kept bugging him about
budgets
. Even the boots had a zipper down the side so he could kick them off in a hurry, though he found himself regretting that neat feature as cold slush leaked through onto his socks. The new armor material was a mottled gray, which Earl had to admit he found aesthetically pleasing.

The snow was past his ankles as he trudged toward the front door. The drifts to the side were already far taller. His breath came out in clouds of steam, freezing his lips, before it was ripped away by the howling wind. It had crossed the point of discomfort, and for the first time in many years, Earl was actually cold.

Pausing at the entrance, he cupped his gloved hands over his eyes and peered through the glass. The place was still. He had a seventy-year-old Thompson submachine gun in hand and a few grenades wrapped in silver-wire on his vest and other assorted goodies in pouches. If there were any more cops in here, they might be a touch jumpy about seeing someone so heavily armed looking in the window, but the blood and viscera smell he kept catching on the wind suggested that wouldn’t be an issue. The stencil on the door told him that it was past regular business hours and to dial 911 if there was an emergency. Luckily the door was unlocked.

He kept the Thompson at his shoulder as he entered. It was an antique, weighed a ton, and some of the younger Hunters gave him crap for choosing something so archaic, but he’d first shot one clear back when that jerk Woodrow Wilson was president, and the .45 caliber M1 Thompson ran like the proverbial sewing machine. Hunting monsters was hard on guns, but Earl was in no danger of running out of spares despite the fact they hadn’t built any new ones in decades. In 1946, he’d found a navy chief petty officer who owed him a favor, charged with disposing of surplus war weapons by pushing them overboard into the Atlantic. Several pallets of weapons had been pushed overboard all right, onto the deck of a boat chartered by MHI. Earl had always hated government waste.