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I’m skipping over a lot of stuff from last week, including a quick one-sided phone call to a certain police sergeant named Kyle, with whom our boy Tom and Turner have some history. She’ll be be arriving soon.
The silver-trussed werewolf who was dumb enough to attack our hero to send a message to Tom’s brother Bryan, has continued to put his foot in it—even with a couple of perforated kneecaps—by telling Tom that his boss considered him an easier target than his sister, Jackie.
Tom wouldn’t argue with that, unless Jackie was listening—but he has bigger worries than his pride.
Like what else this guy knows about Tom’s family . . .
“Just me?” I asked. If the person holding this guy’s leash knew about Jackie, they might know about our folks. Jackie and Dad could take care of themselves, and Mom, but no one would send a single wolf against either of them.
“I was told just you.” His expression said he’d be glad to throw in Turner for free.
“Was I supposed to live through it?” I asked, because I was always happy to add another nightmare to my repertoire, as long as it satisfied my curiosity.
He looked at me, then at the Glock.
“Right,” I muttered.
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Still working out the kind of gun a former Army grunt with limited funds would carry—my gun guy sent me a list, but I don’t want to go back and edit right now—so the Glock is a placeholder. Plus, it’s fun to say.
The way I’m trying to work this world, the existence of Weres isn’t common knowledge, but some places are more Aware (see what I did there?) than others. Talbot City’s police department, for example, has a squad equipped to quell riots of all species, though the general public might not realize that those two, huge, bear-like drunks fighting outside the sports bar are more bear than drunk.
Hey, it worked for Sunnydale . . .
Earful of Cider 