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

He’s never pushed the Afro-American thing at all. He’s black, but so what? Since goblinization, skin pigmentation doesn’t mean as much as it used to. Does all this drek come from a single African country or is it some kind of pan-African hodgepodge? Got me hangin’, chummer.
    Anyway, there’s Blake himself, sprawled almost bonelessly in a big tan armchair. Sitting on the floor beside him, long legs tucked under her, is an unbelievably gorgeous woman—black as night, with eyes so big and soft you could fall right in and drown. I hardly give her a glance, though, because my attention’s drawn so strongly to Blake, who still hasn’t moved or said a word. (And anyone who knows me understands what that means. Take my attention away from a woman? Come on . . .)
    So, Blake, he’s got this lazy grin on his face, and it makes me think of a sated lion. Satisfied man. I think I can guess why, though I suppose it’s possible I’m wrong.
    Blake raises his eyes and looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but the woman by his side gets the message. She doesn’t so much stand up as flow to her feet. She touches his cheek with a fingertip, then drifts off, out through a door behind Blake, presumably going into the bedroom. As she shuts the door behind her, the room seems darker, as though a major source of light had vanished.
    “Larson.” Blake speaks the name slowly, quietly. I feel a tingle in the back of my neck. “I’ve heard good things about you, Larson,” he goes on after a moment. “You’ve got supporters, people who trust you. Did you know that?”
    I figure playing it chill is the way to go, so I just shrug. I’m suddenly nervous as hell that he’s going to say something about Ranger, and I’m even more nervous that he’ll sense my discomfort and want to know why.
    But if he has any suspicions—or more, than suspicions—he doesn’t seem interested in voicing them ... yet. “I want you on my staff, Larson,” he says after another long moment. “Call it ‘personal aide’.” He chuckles, and it sounds like a big cat purring. “Or call it bodyguard-gofer if you like. Interested?”
    Interested? Interested in becoming a member of the personal Praetorian guard for the boss of the Seattle Cutters? Interested in getting in on just about every fragging meeting of the higher-ups? Interested in knowing just where Blake is all the time—well, most of the time—and what he’s up to? Well, golly gee whizzickers, let me think about it for a few minutes . . .
    I shrug again, and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done to keep stone about it. “Yeah.” I allow. “Yeah, I’m interested.”
    He nods, and there’s a strange glint in his eyes. He knows something, or thinks he knows something. About me? What does he know, or suspect? That I greased Bart and had a hand in Ranger’s departure? Or something else? The more I hang with Blake and the other higher-ups, the more I risk somebody figuring out who and what I am. But if I play it totally safe, I’ll never learn anything worth knowing. How do I strike the balance?
    I’m getting too old for this deep-cover drek.
    * * *
    If Blake does know or suspect I’m Star and he’s just trying to suck me into a trap, he's not in any great rush to trigger it. For the next week I follow the big boss-man around like a good little gofer, sometimes running errands for him, but more often just standing around beside and behind him and looking stone. The big troll called Box is the head of Blake’s Praetorian guard, it turns out. It also turns out I’ve sadly underrated Box all these months. Sure, he talks like he’s got rocks in his mouth and crammed down his throat; sure, like anyone who resembles an escapee from a nightmare factory, he has an uphill battle credibility-wise. But I openly and freely admit that Box isn’t the congenital idiot everyone takes him for, and that his warped and bulbous skull contains a prodigious amount of