Read Online Wolf Hunt (Book 2) by Jeff Strand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeff Strand
Tags: Urban Fantasy
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rounds into the windshield of the truck, missing the guy with no hat, who ducked beneath the dashboard.
He spun around, gun arm extended, but saw no sign of Red Hat.
He spun back around, accidentally bashing Black Hat in the nose with the revolver. Blood squirted from his nostrils.
Though George had already wasted two rounds, now was not the time to conserve the rest of them. He squeezed the trigger, firing point-blank into Black Hat's face, directly under his right eye.
The thug dropped to the ground, instantly creating a pool of red snow. His hat was ruined.
George was surprised that he hadn't already been shot at, so he wasted no time in pressing himself against the side of the van. He still couldn't see Red Hat, so he must've been crouched down beneath the windows.
A shot rang out and a bullet zipped past George's foot.
He cursed and hurriedly put a tire between himself and Red Hat. He glanced back at the truck. No sign of the occupant. Hopefully that meant he was a complete chickenshit, although guys like Mr. Dewey and Mr. Reith typically didn't employ people who were complete chickenshits.
Honestly, this would be a pretty good time for Ally to wake up and transform into a werewolf again. George could use a distraction.
Movement. George caught a flash of Red Hat's jacket around the corner.
He fired.
Missed.
It had only been Red Hat's jacket that was exposed, not the man himself. Dammit. He'd made George waste another round with an obvious trick. He might as well have just waved a red cape and let George charge at him.
The worst part was that his back was starting to hurt from all of this ducking to stay under the van windows. He really was getting old.
He thought he heard the truck door open.
"Any chance you guys want to cut a deal?" George asked. "I've got a buyer for the werewolf. Two hundred grand. Three-way split."
Neither of the men responded.
"I'm serious!" George insisted. "Nobody will know. You'll get chewed out by your boss, but you'll walk away sixty-six grand richer!"
"You believe in werewolves?" asked Red Hat, who had returned to the opposite side of the van. "What the hell's the matter with you?"
"Well, no, I don't," said George. "But you work for somebody who does, right?"
"No."
"Oh. Who do you work for?"
"We work for Desmond Reith."
"Okay, see, he believes in werewolves."
"No, he doesn't."
"Fine. Maybe he doesn't. The point is that I know somebody who does believe, and he's willing to pay us a lot of money to deliver what he thinks is a werewolf girl to him, however stupid and deranged that might be, and you're throwing away your share if you kill me."
"No deal. Sorry."
Red Hat's voice sounded like he was crouched down beneath window level, but not all the way to the ground. George risked a peek under the van. No visible feet. Red Hat was using the same "stay behind a tire" trick.
No, wait, now he saw feet. Not Red Hat's feet, though. Running feet.
The hatless man leaned around the front corner of the van. George noticed a lot of things about him at once (he was pudgier than his partners, was underdressed for the weather, and put too much product in his hair, which probably explained his reluctance to wear a hat) but the most noteworthy element was that he was carrying a submachine gun.
It looked like a Tommy Gun, the kind used by Prohibition-era gangsters. George got the hell out of there as the hatless man opened fire.
Over the noise of the gun George could hear the bullets clanging against the side of the van, and the hiss of a tire deflating. George fled around the back of the vehicle, unable to believe that this psycho would be shooting off dozens of rounds so close to the werewolf.
George rounded the corner to see Red Hat only about three feet away, pointing his own gun at him. The hatless man stopped firing, perhaps to avoid accidentally mowing down his own partner.
George held up his hands in surrender.
"She needs meds," he said.
"Drop your gun," said Red Hat.
He spun around, gun arm extended, but saw no sign of Red Hat.
He spun back around, accidentally bashing Black Hat in the nose with the revolver. Blood squirted from his nostrils.
Though George had already wasted two rounds, now was not the time to conserve the rest of them. He squeezed the trigger, firing point-blank into Black Hat's face, directly under his right eye.
The thug dropped to the ground, instantly creating a pool of red snow. His hat was ruined.
George was surprised that he hadn't already been shot at, so he wasted no time in pressing himself against the side of the van. He still couldn't see Red Hat, so he must've been crouched down beneath the windows.
A shot rang out and a bullet zipped past George's foot.
He cursed and hurriedly put a tire between himself and Red Hat. He glanced back at the truck. No sign of the occupant. Hopefully that meant he was a complete chickenshit, although guys like Mr. Dewey and Mr. Reith typically didn't employ people who were complete chickenshits.
Honestly, this would be a pretty good time for Ally to wake up and transform into a werewolf again. George could use a distraction.
Movement. George caught a flash of Red Hat's jacket around the corner.
He fired.
Missed.
It had only been Red Hat's jacket that was exposed, not the man himself. Dammit. He'd made George waste another round with an obvious trick. He might as well have just waved a red cape and let George charge at him.
The worst part was that his back was starting to hurt from all of this ducking to stay under the van windows. He really was getting old.
He thought he heard the truck door open.
"Any chance you guys want to cut a deal?" George asked. "I've got a buyer for the werewolf. Two hundred grand. Three-way split."
Neither of the men responded.
"I'm serious!" George insisted. "Nobody will know. You'll get chewed out by your boss, but you'll walk away sixty-six grand richer!"
"You believe in werewolves?" asked Red Hat, who had returned to the opposite side of the van. "What the hell's the matter with you?"
"Well, no, I don't," said George. "But you work for somebody who does, right?"
"No."
"Oh. Who do you work for?"
"We work for Desmond Reith."
"Okay, see, he believes in werewolves."
"No, he doesn't."
"Fine. Maybe he doesn't. The point is that I know somebody who does believe, and he's willing to pay us a lot of money to deliver what he thinks is a werewolf girl to him, however stupid and deranged that might be, and you're throwing away your share if you kill me."
"No deal. Sorry."
Red Hat's voice sounded like he was crouched down beneath window level, but not all the way to the ground. George risked a peek under the van. No visible feet. Red Hat was using the same "stay behind a tire" trick.
No, wait, now he saw feet. Not Red Hat's feet, though. Running feet.
The hatless man leaned around the front corner of the van. George noticed a lot of things about him at once (he was pudgier than his partners, was underdressed for the weather, and put too much product in his hair, which probably explained his reluctance to wear a hat) but the most noteworthy element was that he was carrying a submachine gun.
It looked like a Tommy Gun, the kind used by Prohibition-era gangsters. George got the hell out of there as the hatless man opened fire.
Over the noise of the gun George could hear the bullets clanging against the side of the van, and the hiss of a tire deflating. George fled around the back of the vehicle, unable to believe that this psycho would be shooting off dozens of rounds so close to the werewolf.
George rounded the corner to see Red Hat only about three feet away, pointing his own gun at him. The hatless man stopped firing, perhaps to avoid accidentally mowing down his own partner.
George held up his hands in surrender.
"She needs meds," he said.
"Drop your gun," said Red Hat.
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