Read Online Lone Wolf by Nigel Findley - Free Book Online Page A

where my nightmares go looking for raw material.
    Predictably, Paco wasn’t hyped to the max to learn that Ranger had put both him and me beyond salvage, and I didn’t even have to voice the idea that the war boss’ useful days were over. But Paco was also smart enough to realize that, satisfying though it might be, marching up to Ranger and putting a bullet in his gut wasn’t the best way to handle the matter. All I had to do was remind the younger ganger that Ranger always rode his big BMW Blitzen super-bike everywhere, and that the war boss seemed sadly negligent when it came to mechanical maintenance. A satanic grin spread across Paco’s face and he told me, “The gumbas a corpse. Count on it.”
    The matter resolved itself nicely the next day. The explosive charge Paco wired into the Blitzen’s ignition was big enough to take care of the immediate problem, but small enough not to cause too much collateral damage. The concussion shook the Ravenna safe house and broke a few windows, with both Paco and I on hand to rush outside with the other shocked gangers and swear vengence against whatever rival outfit had done the dirty deed. Ranger was out of the way, and the last things that went through his mind were his cojones.
    And that, of course, left a nice opening in the Cutters hierarchy. Can't have a gang without a war boss. Not in Seattle, and particularly not in 2054. Blake had to replace Ranger and he had to do it now. No, not now, right now. In an ideal world, I’d have gotten the nod, called up from the ranks to sit on the council of the high and mighty. Yeah, right. I can think of lots of words to describe the world, and “ideal” isn’t one of them.
    Instead, Blake called in a marker from the boss of the Cutters’ Atlanta “chapter,” and within twenty-four hours of Ranger’s last ride, there was a new hoop in Ranger’s chair. Bubba, his nickname was—I drek you not; fragging Bubba —a red-necked Georgia cracker who also happened to be ork. (Considering the way a lot of good ol’ boys view the metaraces, it’s surprising Bubba managed to avoid lynching himself. Or is that too cynical?) To my eternal surprise, I found myself both liking and respecting the newcomer after talking to him for a while. Even though his accent made him sound like his IQ was in the room-temperature range—and yes, we’re talking Celsius here—he turned out to be smart as a whip, aggressive but willing to listen to people more familiar with the scoop going down in Seattle. I could almost get to like him.
    Even though I didn’t get the war boss slot, there must be more of a turnover in the ranks than I thought. Or, at least, that’s the way I interpret it when I get called in to talk to big-boss Blake a couple of days after the explosion.
    Blake’s in his private quarters on the upper floor of the Sea-Tac safe house, the one on South 164th Street. Box the troll is standing watch outside the door, his asymmetrical head ducked forward but still brushing against the ceiling. He doesn’t ask me my business or do the “friend-or-foe” crap; he just reaches behind him and opens the door when he sees me coming down the hall. I jander on past him, flipping him a mock salute, then I’m into one of Blake’s private residences.
    I don’t know what I expected—or if I really expected anything in particular—but I’m still surprised. The place is light, airy-looking—tans and off-whites. I guess you could describe the decor as “pseudo-African”. There’s some strange kind of woven carpet on the floor, a deer pelt—or maybe it’s real antelope—on one wall, and a couple of brutal-looking short thrusting spears on another. Assegai, you’d probably call them. It sounds weird, I know, but none of it’s overdone or artificial. With the few people who ever come up here, the setup can’t possibly be for the purpose of impressing others. I suppose Blake must like it. I find myself wondering again about his background.