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used one of the bullets to imitate the rapid jab of the tattoo needle, complete with a soft tat tat tat sound effect.
    â€œSilver only works as a bullet in the heart,” Animal said. “If it just goes through the heart, you’re screwed. You’re going to get your face torn off by a pissed-off Pack dog.”
    â€œWhatever.” Daggit waved it off. “Where’s the Cub?”
    â€œHe’s sleeping.” Ru gave a safe answer.
    â€œSomeone fucked him over good.” Animal tapped out a cigarette and lit it. “Who is this walking dead man?”
    â€œThe Cub doesn’t remember what happened,” Ru told them; they’d decided against mentioning Ukiah’s real nameto the bikers. Annoying as it might be, they were safest dealing under the Pack’s cover.
    â€œHe lost that mouse, eh?” Daggit ignored Ru’s presence and addressed Atticus instead. “Or hasn’t he taken the mice back yet?”
    â€œThat’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?
    â€œSomeone’s going to get their ass kicked, then.” Animal gave a breathy laugh, eyes going wide with anticipation of such an event.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œLike voodoo,” Animal intoned. “The werewolf curse.”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œNot you?” Atticus asked.
    â€œHell, 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.”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œHell, I’d do it. Like that!” Animal snapped his fingers.
    â€œYeah.” 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.”
    â€œLook.” 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