Chapter Twenty-Six

Detective Ramirez tries the ignition key again. This time the engine roars to life; the sound aggravates the wolfhounds surrounding us. They paw and scratch at the sides of the car, the hood, and the trunk. Some of them leap past the windows and onto the roof. They pad around, clawing at the sheet metal. The steady drone of barking and growling increases as more of them bunch around our sedan.

Graybeard is going crazy in the back. He’s foaming at the mouth, snarling, and howling at the wolfhounds outside. His ruthless intensity and gung-ho attitude was more than welcomed when he first joined our little pack, but now it’s just plain annoying. If I were in human form, I’d tell him to “put a cork in it.” Instead, in my current state, being more canine than human, I join in and bark as loud as I can. Barking, like yawning, is contagious to us.

Ramirez steps on the gas, cranks the steering wheel, and makes the car skid around in tight little circles. Wolfhounds fly off the roof, landing in heaps several feet away. There’s a thud-thud-thud as the vehicle strikes several of them. When the mob of wolfhounds is somewhat cleared, Ramirez lets off the gas, straightens out the wheel, and then hits the accelerator again. We slam into more than a few canines as we drive away. I glance through the rear window and see some of them chase after us. Ramirez is doing about sixty, and we leave them in the dust.

“I’m going to go around the block and sneak up behind them. If we’re lucky, they won’t hear us. We can go after the Alphas again.”

Even though I appreciate his enthusiasm, I’m not looking forward to round two. We’ve already faced swarms of killer wolfhounds, taken down several Alphas, and picked up an ally, but the odds of surviving another battle seem stacked against us. Ramirez doesn’t consult me. He doesn’t have to, he’s in charge.

Graybeard has calmed down, but still seems jittery. We make a series of rights around the block and swing in behind the mass of canines who had just surrounded us. Wolfhound carcasses are strewn about the parking lot in willy-nilly fashion.

My thoughts linger on Dixie, on what might have been, but now seems so far out of reach. I force those thoughts away as Ramirez flips off the headlights and cuts the engine. The car rolls forward to a slow and noiseless stop. He reaches back and pops open the rear door. Ivan and Graybeard slip out of the vehicle like ghosts. When Ramirez opens the passenger side door, I jump out and watch Graybeard sprint toward the enemy.

“No!” Ramirez shouts. “Come back.” But Graybeard doesn’t obey, Ramirez is not his Alpha.

The element of surprise is gone. Hundreds of yellow eyes are on us at once.

“Get back in the car.”

But it’s too late. Graybeard charges full speed toward the wolfhounds. Ivan and I exchange a quick glance. It would be suicide to go after Graybeard and try to stop him. I’m not even sure we can stop him if we catch him. He’s hell-bent on confrontation.

Without warning, Ivan takes off in pursuit. Against my better judgment, I do the same idiotic thing—three lone wolfhounds against one hundred. For whatever reason, thoughts of Dixie fill my mind once again. This time, I make no conscious effort to force them out.

Ivan catches up to Graybeard and paws at his hind quarters. This slows him down just enough for me to catch up. The fastest of the oncoming packs are on us. I’m knocked to the ground, but manage to roll and jump right back up. A wolfhound is on me and Ivan lunges at it, sending it to the blacktop. He bites the hound, it yelps, and staggers away. I tear into the flesh of an attacking wolfhound, blood spurts across my snout as the canine drops to the ground. Graybeard brushes past me. Two wolfhounds are latched onto his flesh. He yelps. They chew into him; a violent shaking of their heads sends blood spurting everywhere. His struggle is over. Graybeard is dead.

More wolfhounds arrive. Ivan is, by far, quicker and deadlier than most of our attackers. He dispatches several wolfhounds and keeps them off of me as best he can. Ivan is a true warrior. Although I do my best to keep up, I’m tiring. There’s just too many of them.

My vision is blurry; my eyes are covered with blood. The smell of it permeates the air. As more enemy combatants arrive, I give in to the fact that it’s almost over. We’re horribly outnumbered. It feels like everything is moving in slow motion. I begin to anticipate the fatal bite that will end my life.

Three gunshots blast through the night in rapid succession. Ivan, me, and our attackers freeze in place for a moment. Three more shots. Bullets zip past my head and wolfhounds begin to fall. Detective Ramirez has driven up to us and stands outside the car, firing his pistol into the fray. The passenger’s side door is open.

“Get in!” Ramirez yells as he fires more rounds.

I try to move, but feel the heavy claws of a wolfhound rip into my hind quarters. I fall to the ground and look up behind me. It’s Mikael. His face is covered in blood. He pounces at me, opening his jaws as he goes for my throat. I roll away, and he falls flat on the pavement. A bullet whizzes past his head, followed by my paws tearing into his left ear. If he were human, I’d say the look he gave me was one of shocked-surprise. Since he’s a wolfhound, the look is fear.

Mikael had come to Dixie’s house to kill both me and her. I open my jaws and bite into the fleshy part of his shoulder. He yelps and tries to stand up. He can’t. His neck is exposed and just waiting for my bite. It comes quick. His blood fills my mouth. Mikael lies motionless on the ground, his eyes open, staring at the clouds.

Three large grays tumble to the ground in front of me. Ivan runs past me, a wolfhound right behind him. Ramirez fires at it, but misses. The wolfhound bites Ivan. He yelps.

“C’mon, Adam, get in the car.” Ramirez aims at the wolfhound on Ivan and picks him off with a clean shot.

I bite into the throat of an attacker, hack the blood from my mouth, and scamper to the car. Ivan joins me. He’s bleeding badly. A wolfhound jumps at him, but is brought down quickly by another shot from Ramirez. Our attackers are treading with caution now. They see the danger of a direct assault and scurry around, trying to flank both sides of the vehicle.

“We gotta go, Adam.” Ramirez jumps in behind the wheel and revs the engine.

Ivan lunges at me and I stumble backward, landing half inside the car. I try to stand up and get out, but Ivan presses me into the car. Ramirez grabs me by the scruff of my neck and yanks me fully into the front seat. I nip at his hand, canine instinct.

The sound of helicopters above us fills my ears. Bright lights and bullets rain down from the sky. A few bullets penetrate the roof of the car and bury themselves in the backseat. Dozens of wolfhounds fall dead around us. The rest scatter, fleeing into the shadows of the black desert.

I turn and look for Ivan only to see him being dragged away by two huge wolfhounds. When Ramirez hits the gas, the car door slams shut. We race away as the two wolfhounds tear into my brother’s flesh. His cries of pain fade away fast—my memory of his heroism never will. If he hadn’t prodded me into the car, I would have been ripped apart.

I’m exhausted. It takes me a couple of minutes to fully change back into human form; the process drains any energy I have left. I lay back in the seat, covered in a bloody coat of torn fur.

Neither Ramirez nor I speak.

Finally, he looks at the bite on his hand. “Am I going to become a wolfhound?”

I shake my head. “I’m not a vampire.” I sit up and take a deep breath. “I’m a Giant Irish Wolfhound.” And proud of it.

****

Sonny Russo heard the military helicopters overhead. At least he thought they were military, who the fuck knew? It took him over two hours to make the normally twenty-minute drive from Claremont to The Grotto. The car he’d stolen was a piece of shit Hyundai and the route he chose, staying off The Strip, took him through areas of Vegas he’d never seen before.

Hundreds of people were out in the streets, some looting, some evacuating, and some just out. It was early in the morning—two or three a.m.—and a heavy blanket of rain and heat hung in the air.

The scene in front of The Grotto reminded him of the Chicago riots of the sixties. People milled about, darting across the street, and generally just getting in his way. And the expression on their faces gave him the creeps: they were angry. Angry at being booted from their rooms; they were pissed at the world. He palmed the sweat off his face with one hand and banged on the horn with the other. People who had been happy campers just a few hours earlier—playing nickel slots, taking a dip in the pool, chowing down at the buffet—now banged on the hood of his car, flipping him off, and screaming at him.

“To hell with this.” He stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out. Someone brushed past him, jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove off, hitting several pedestrians. More screams, more panic.

Sonny began to think it might have been a bad move to come back here. Even though his getaway bag lay stashed in the penthouse, how would he ever get away with it? Somebody crashed into him from behind. He turned around and threw a punch at the hapless old man. The old man fell to the ground, his hands on his bloody nose. Nobody came to the man’s rescue, nobody offered assistance—no one said a word.

Under any other circumstance, this would have been the world Sonny preferred: survival of the strongest. Fuck the weak. But things were different now. The world had changed in just a few short hours. With killer wolfhounds and Daemons, he was on the side of the weak—a side he’d never experienced.

He turned and surveyed The Strip. Above and to the south, helicopters flew in formation, lighting up the sky with gunfire. Some of the familiar hotel signs—The Mirage, The Venetian, The Wynn—were dark. And then there was the sound. The sickening roar of humanity—screaming, crying, yelling, shouting. It sounded like the fans at a freaking football game echoing through the canyon of casinos.

He raced into the lobby of The Grotto and another sound assaulted his ears: silence. Not a staff member in sight—no security personnel, no cashiers, not even a bell hop. Garbage was strewn everywhere, including half packed bags discarded near the elevators. Food and clothing dirtied the hallways of his hotel. He wanted to throw another punch at someone, at anyone. This was his hotel, his baby. People were fucking pigs.

Sonny kicked through the trash and stopped at his private elevator. He slammed the call button, an elevator normally guarded by one of his rather large security thugs. An unexpected smile appeared. Forty flights up, forty flights down and he’d be gone. Screw Vegas. Screw The Grotto and screw Gorgeous.

Ding.

The doors slid open and Sonny’s eyes widened. The barrel of a pistol pointed at his forehead. He froze in place.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“FBI. C’mon in, Sonny, I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s take a ride up to your place. The view is amazing.”

“Fuck you, you can’t—”

The hammer of the gun cocked. “Shut up and get in. Oh and slip that pistol out of your belt and throw it behind you, nice and slow.”

Sonny complied with the order and entered the elevator.

“Let’s go.” The FBI agent eased around him into the car. “There’s only one button.”

Sonny pressed the button and the doors closed. He faced the front of the car, hands at his side. “Who are you?”

“Agent Miller.”

“What do you want with me?”

“A friend of yours, Detective Ramirez, asked me to drop by and babysit.”

The high speed elevator whisked them up to the fortieth floor. An express trip, the private car made no other stops.

Ding.

The doors slid open to Sonny’s luxury penthouse. He hesitated before stepping out. The thought of Gorgeous waiting for him played in his mind like a horror flick, looping over and over, since he’d planned his escape from Claremont.

He glanced around the suite. No sound, no movement. It was empty.

Both men stepped off the elevator, and the doors shut behind them.

“Over there on the couch,” Miller said, waving to the white settee. “Have a seat. Ramirez should be here soon.”

“What’s this about, anyway? Why the fuck are you here?”

“Ramirez told me some interesting things about what’s going on out there…and your connection to it.”

“Me? That’s ridiculous, I’m legit. I even offered to help the detective find the Werewolf Killer. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Listen, this whole city is going to hell, and I gotta get outta here before it does. See them choppers over there?” Sonny stood up and pointed out the windows to the south. Helicopters, seven blocks away over The Bellagio, were nearly in line with his finger. “One of them could make a mistake, you know, shoot the wrong way, and we’d be toast. I’m telling you we gotta—”

“Shut up and sit down.” Miller took aim at Sonny’s head. “That’s all you gotta do.”

Sonny complied and eased back into the settee. “Okay, okay, just watch it with that gun, boy.”

Miller cocked his head. “What did you call me?”

“Nothing, sir. I’m from the south, that’s just the way we talk. Don’t mean nothing.”

“You’re from the south all right. South Chicago. I know everything about you, tough guy. What I don’t know is how the gaming control board ever let you set one foot in Las Vegas. Why don’t you tell me who you paid to make that little miracle happen?”

Sonny grinned. “I got myself a guardian angel. I’ve always been lucky that way.”

“Just a lucky guy, huh?”

He had to think of a way to get rid of this G-man. He peered past the agent and out the window again. The helicopters were slowly moving north toward The Grotto. A bright flash appeared from one of the gunships. The nose of the chopper see-sawed up and down. A smile spread across Sonny’s face.

“What are you smiling for?” Miller lowered the gun. “Is there something funny about this situation? If there is, please tell me, ’cause I just don’t get it.”

A helicopter started spinning in the sky, guns blazing. Sonny followed the line of tracers arcing through the air.

“Oh, you’re about to.” He slid off the couch, covered his head, and landed prone on the marble tile.

“What the hell are you—” Miller hit the floor at the first sound.

Glass sprayed everywhere as bullets buried themselves in the walls of the penthouse. A blast of hot air flew into the suite through the gaping remains of the shattered window. The wind knocked over statues and dislodged paintings from the walls. Sonny felt as though he’d been trapped inside a wind tunnel.

The FBI agent lay still on the ground. He no longer held his gun—that was the good news. The bad news: the gun was nowhere in sight. Sonny stood up and kicked the agent’s head. A quiet moan and Sonny knew the man was out. Kicking the agent felt good. So good, in fact, he kicked him again, harder this time.

“You come into my fucking house and hold a gun on me?” He kicked at the agent’s head again, then again. A pool of dark blood oozed across the white marble tile. Sonny brushed glass from his coat sleeves and spit on the agent’s back. Wind churned through his hair and ruffled his suit. He shouted, “Not in my house, boy. I’m Sonny Russo, you fuck, the luckiest man in Vegas.”