Wanted: Undead or Alive

Go Ask Drake

On a normal day, Mx. Landry sounded like a bullfrog with laryngitis. That day, they sounded even worse. "It's been a rough stretch. We're behind on everything. I've got six files."

They shoved a stack of folders through the drawer. Moose grabbed them and handed the three on top to me without looking at them. Then he stalked back over to the elevator and disappeared.

"Have you ever met his husband?"

Mx. Landry sat down and started typing. "Nope."

Okay, then. "I need—"

They reached for a key fob without looking and passed it through. Once I got back to the garage, I found that it operated a brand spanking new Ford Bronco. When I had it started, the odometer read fifty-seven. Nice. I don't think I'd ever driven a car that new before. I took a moment to familiarize myself and get some Andrey Avkhimovich playing to set the mood, and then I opened the first folder.

The photo showed a man with curly brown hair and a thick mustache. He had a round face, a thick neck, and plenty of padding in the midsection. Opposite that were his basic facts: Waylon Ickman, age thirty-one, werewolf. He was charged with self-prioritized hunting within a pack zone, and he failed to show up at his trial. He lived in a neighborhood full of low-rent apartments and chain stores. Last known employer was a gas station in walking distance of his home.

I put the Bronco in gear and peeled out of the parking garage.

***

The werewolf's apartment was in a huge complex that must have included at least three hundred units. The parking lot circled the exterior of the buildings in a layout that forced residents and visitors to follow labyrinthine paths of cracked concrete to their homes. At least two thirds of the lamps alongside the walkways were burned out.

With my gun in hand and pointed at the ground, I meandered through the maze until I found building C, climbed the stairs, and stood outside of apartment 327. I banged on the door half a dozen times as hard as I could with my closed fist.

Silence.

I banged again.

The resident of 329 yanked her door open. "It's five o'clock in the fucking morning, bitch."

I turned toward her just enough for her to see my gun. "You know where Waylon is?"

She held her hands up in the air. "I don't even know who Waylon is. Sorry I got in your business." She shut her door.

I banged one more time and yelled, "Bond enforcement! I'm breaking the door down in ten seconds if you don't open it."

In the near distance, there was a muffled thump and a low grown, a rustling of shrubbery.

Hot damn. Asshole picked the wrong day to run from me. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, Waylon's short, wide shadow was darting around the corner. "Bond enforcement! Stop or I'll shoot."

Half a dozen lights came on in the nearby apartments.

Waylon was directly ahead of me, thick legs pumping hard. I stopped, braced my feet, fired three rounds at the concrete behind him. He hit the dirt and rolled, covering his head with his arms. "Jesus Christ, lady! What the hell is wrong with you?"

I jogged up to him, dropped down with one knee on his lower back, and jammed the gun against the back of his head. "I heard you help yourself to the bloody buffet while your pack goes hungry."

The acrid odor of urine filled the air.

"I just wanted a snack." One side of his face was pressed into the ground. The other eye peered up at me, wide and tearful. "I was going to turn myself in. Honest. But it's my girl's birthday in three days and I thought we could celebrate first."