The Werewolf and the Money – 5


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It’s a bullshit cliché: bad guy gets the drop on the good guy. Bad guy takes a few moments to savor his victory, maybe even ties up the hero so he can gloat how his victory is complete. Hero then finds a way to escape. Or his backup arrives in the nick of time. See almost any James Bond movie.

I have to admit, when the men in black told us to stop, and then told us to turn around, there was a moment when I really thought some deus-ex-machina would swoop in and save us. A plane flying in from Houston, its lights ablaze, blinds the bad guys. The security guard from earlier turns out to be a retired mercenary who had a hunch we were in danger. Something.

But none of that happened. They told us to turn around. We did. And then the fellow with the H&K shot me twice in the chest.

I saw the flash from the gun muzzle, and I felt something punch me in the chest, but I didn’t realize I’d been shot, not right away. I didn’t even know that I fell on my back; I thought that the rest of the world had tilted up on its side.

Then I coughed, and saw blood spray up, and I figured it out. Stabbing pressure in my chest. Felt like an elephant wearing stilettos was walking on me. Tracy was screaming something.

My head was near a crawfish mound. I smelled mud and the little decapod. I closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry!” Tracy screamed. “I’m sorry he got killed, but I did not turn him in, I swear to God I didn’t!”

“Coincidence then, that the day after you disappeared he got pulled over making his run?” said the gunless guy. “Pulled over for what, going five over the speed limit? Who doesn’t do that?”

“I’m sorry–”

“Shut up, bitch, okay?”

Here’s the thing about being a werewolf: if a normal human being has a chance of surviving something, even if it’s only a two percent chance, my odds of survival are at eighty percent. If a normal human being is mortally wounded, but manages to cling to life for a bit, my chances of survival are still pretty good. It’s the freaky fast healing ability. I don’t think I could come back from a decapitation (what immediately kills a human would more than likely immediately kill a werewolf . . . I guess), but two 9-millimeter rounds to the chest?

I got that. Especially if the second shot was a bit low.

Especially if it’s dark and the bad guys want to torture the idiot sidekick.

“You stupid bitch,” the gunless wonder said, because apparently that was the best he could come up with. “Drop the bag. I don’t want blood on the money.”

Tracy sobbed. She clung to the bag anyway, hugging it to her chest.

“Hey,” said the gunman. “Where’s the other one?”

She’s behind you.

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