Werewolf Single Dad 3, page 25
Though, I guessed they didn’t have much choice, really. They were probably told by their leader to make sure the driver of the truck got me to wherever he was taking me, so they were effectively on guard duty.
Or I wondered if maybe they were hoping whatever happened to the other riders was due to them being irresponsible, or from an owl flying into their path or something, and that I was sitting down and strapped into my vehicle, being totally compliant with my capture.
Wishful thinking, if they were, though.
I felt like the guy driving the pickup truck might have bore witness to my destruction of his crew, because we seemed to be traveling even faster now, and I was absolutely sure he was throwing in a few more sharp turns and swerves than before.
But I had my sea legs ready now, and I was on a mission. No amount of rough sailing was going to stop me from getting myself out of this mess.
However, by taking my shoes off, that did now mean my paw pads were exposed, and stepping on a piece of Lego hurt like a motherfucker whatever species you were.
I yelped as the rounded teeth of the little blue brick bore into my soft flesh, and I cursed Lego’s infernal name as I flicked the plastic piece out the open driver’s side window.
There was so much fucking trash on the floor of this van. It was like the kids had been using it as a portable toy chest.
But wait a second. That gave me an idea.
I had an entire arsenal of trip-hazards at my disposal, and if I couldn’t walk on them, there was no way a group of four motorcycles could ride over them.
I was incredibly proud of my springshot, and it would get its moment in the sun again soon, but this time, we were going old-fashioned.
I leaned over and disabled the child lock from the control panel on the back driver’s side door, and I laughed with delight as a golf ball rolling under my foot demonstrated what was going to happen to the riders.
Why was there even a golf ball in here? Neither Trent nor I played golf.
I didn’t know why, but god bless Archie’s kleptomania.
This one was going to be simple, but it was going to be glorious.
I pushed the button that pulled the back window on the right-hand side all the way down, and I practically flew into the backseat, where I unclipped the second car seat and put them both at the back with the fold-up chairs.
Then, with one clawed hand hooked around the outside of the minivan, and the other acting as a great big scoop and paddle, I littered the road with my children’s toys, and I laughed with maniacal glee at the absolute circus that unfolded in front of my eyes.
Beloved Barbie dolls, well-loved stuffed animals, and all manner of educational toys covered the highway, and four five-hundred-pound bikes and their owners were sent skidding and jumping along the surface of the road like skimming stones. There were even fireworks to finish as a couple of the bikes exploded.
That was way too fucking easy.
Now, the coast was finally clear for me to jump ship.
Since I was already shifted most of the way, I knew I’d definitely be able to clear the jump from the hood of my minivan to the truck bed.
I knew how I was going to get to the truck, and I knew what I was going to do when I stuck the landing, I just didn’t fully know what I was going to use once I got there.
Shifters were fast healers, but I still didn’t want to kick a window in with my bare foot if I could help it, so I decided to stick to one of my original musings and jump with the hobby horse in hand and use the wooden pole to break the window down. But I definitely wouldn’t fit through that little back window panel, which meant I needed something with a lot of movement so I could put the truck driver out of action.
Enter: Walky duck.
With Dionne’s heavy duck on a string, the possibilities were endless. I could swing the toy around the tight driver’s cabin and make sure to catch the driver in the face multiple times with the business end of my wooden duck, or I could even give the old loop-de-loop a go and see if I could strangle the guy. I couldn’t wait a moment longer to see what adventures my little duck and me were going to have, so I wound the red cord around my hand and held the duck close while I picked up my trusty hobby horse in the other.
And without further ado, it was time to take the leap of faith.
I got myself back into the driver’s seat and leaned out the window, and when I was absolutely certain no cars were coming, I flung myself out the window and onto the hood with my horsey and my ducky in hand. Then I propelled myself as hard as I could against the velocity of the fast-traveling air that was pushing me back, and I stuck the landing as I belly-flopped onto the truck bed.
The driver clearly shit his pants when he felt me tailgating him, because he suddenly put his pedal to the metal, and the pickup truck roared into overdrive.
I was shielded from the wind by the driver’s cabin, but nothing could stop the violent shuddering of the truck bed as I rode it.
I was so close to ending this fucking death trip. I just had to immobilize this asshole, and then I could drive home until the next time someone saw fit to spring a surprise abduction on me.
Which was happening surprisingly often at this stage in my life, I was finding.
Like a surfer about to take on the biggest wave of his life, I got onto my knees, and I pulled my elbow back with the hobby horse handle in hand. Then I thrust the wheeled base of it through the back window and smashed the glass into crumbling smithereens.
The driver had absolutely no idea what to do now, and he yelled and cursed at me to stop, but it sadly fell on deaf ears.
The windowpane had broken almost completely out from the metal frame, and I was able to get my arm inside and sweep it round. I shoved the hobby horse through the empty window panel like it was a giant mail slot, and I reached for the driver’s head, where I grappled onto his face with my clawed hand.
I’d mastered walking the dog with a yoyo in the nineties, but now it was time to try walking the duck.
With my other hand-- the hand that had the shoelace of a certain wooden duck binding said wooden duck to my palm-- I smashed the driver’s face in with the toy, and the repeated collision with the guy’s thick skull loosened the wound rope from my hand. Then I let go of the guy’s face and the hobby horse at the same time in order to pass the wooden duck into my other palm, all while keeping tight hold of the end of its red cord leash.
Now, from this cute little children’s toy, I’d created the perfect implement to garrote this motherfucker like we were in the motherfucking Spanish Inquisition.
And no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.
I leaned forward and stretched my arms deeper into the cabin, and I wrapped the little red cord around the driver’s throat. He took his hands off the wheel as he gasped, and he desperately wheezed and clawed at my clawed hands.
“Die, you motherfucker,” I snarled as I pulled the cord tighter.
I was so invested in the sounds of the driver’s breathless rasping that I totally forgot we were in a moving vehicle, and the sudden ear-splitting crunch and crash as the vehicle slammed into a metal post made me jump.
As did the sudden jolt of the truck bed, which made me lose my grip on the duck’s leash and slammed me hard against the truck’s cabin.
I scrambled back to my hands and knees and went to finish what I’d started with the asshole who towed me, but a sudden muffled announcement over a megaphone stopped me in my tracks.
“We have you surrounded. Get on your knees and put your hands up.”
I looked around me, and I saw I was indeed in the junkyard where I fought Jackal. And that voice wasn’t fucking with me, I really was surrounded. There was something like two hundred werewolves all shifted, all staring at me, all ready to strike.
Ah, nuts.
I fucking hated being ambushed.
And I fucking hated being forced to comply, but on this occasion, I felt like it was in my best interest.
So, I did as the lady said.
Chapter 14
“Aw, now there’s a good boy,” the woman’s voice mocked over the megaphone. “Yes he is, ah-yes he is.”
The gang of two hundred-strong shifters all snickered, and I wished more than anything I could have punched the lights out of the lot of them.
But I was a lone wolf against this pack of lawless junkyard dogs, I knew my authority meant nothing here.
Whoever this woman was-- and wherever she was-- it was immediately clear she was in charge.
I scanned through the sea of werewolves, and though I could pick out a lot of women, I couldn’t see anyone with a megaphone.
“Someone gonna tell me what this is all about?” I asked loudly.
“Well, shoot!” the female laughed. “I’m surprised you don’t already know, Mister Big Monster.”
Again, the pack of yes-men laughed.
“This is because I had a fight in your junkyard?” I scoffed. “Yeah, sorry, I only took down Chicago’s most notorious criminal since Al Capone.”
“Oh, you did!” the Southern-twanged voice in the megaphone replied. “And you did it very well, we all saw it. I reckon you was even bigger than Jackal himself. Reckon you did all a Chicagy a favor.”
“Sooooo, if you’re not mad at me for killing Jackal, why am I here?” I raised one eyebrow as I slowly turned my head to search for the voice. “Did I destroy some of your valuable trash in the process? Are you mad I let bears in? Did I step on a rat you were friends with?”
The audience of shifters hooted with laughter, along with their still-unseen leader.
“Ooh, you’re a funny one, mister!” The voice seemed to be getting louder. “None of the above, I’m afraid.”
“Then why have you brought me here?” I snarled.
“Because you cost me a lot of money.”
My brain faltered on the woman’s response for only a moment, but I suddenly realized exactly who I was dealing with.
Get the job done or this will cost us both greatly…
This was P.L.
I was surprised “Pack Leader” was a woman since that was practically unheard of in werewolf hierarchy, but she’d certainly lived up to her name if my assumptions had been correct that that’s what P.L. stood for.
But where the fuck was she?
I wasn’t left in suspense for long. The shifters who had gathered closest to the pickup truck parted like the Red Sea did for Moses, and they made way for a little black-haired woman-- no taller than about five feet-- to step out in front of the vehicle.
She looked to be in her forties, but she could have easily passed for late thirties. Her black hair was cut into choppy, feathered layers, and she had a little part at the back held up in a claw clip that spurted out like a little black firework. She was quite pretty in the face-- at least what I could see of her face, since it was completely smothered in dirt and grease-- though I could see she was quite heavily made-up, and she was wearing a grease-covered pair of beige overalls that looked like they’d been taken in at the waist by a professional tailor.
She kind of reminded me of Dolly Parton, but she was more like the anti-Dolly.
And like Dolly, though she be but little, this lady was seriously well-endowed.
The pretty-faced, grease-covered older woman smiled a real devilish smile, which flashed the little gap between her two front teeth.
I wasn’t really expecting a hint of arousal to mix in with the hint of fear I was feeling, but that’s where we were.
“So. You gonna pay me my money, or…?” The anti-Dolly ran a finger across her throat to symbolize death, but that seemed to ignite something in her memory, and she suddenly lurched toward the pickup truck and yanked the driver’s door open. “Oh, shoot. You alright, Gary?”
“Ughhh,” the driver I’d garroted just moments ago groaned and jumped out of his cabin, and he gently pushed P.L. aside as he retrieved something from the passenger side footwell. “Get him off. I’m unhitching this thing.”
P.L. gave her driver a worried frown, before turning the daggers at me.
“Get down,” she barked. “And don’t try anything funny because they’ll kill you. Come on. Git!”
The lady drove a hard bargain, so I did what she said, and I jumped down from the truck bed.
Our size difference when I stood in front of the little lady was comical, and had I not been so intrigued as to where this was going-- and surrounded by a pack of two hundred killer mongrels who were at her beck and call-- I might have just wanted to scoop her under my arm and take her home.
And I could tell the devilish P.L. had a similar thought, because she let out a very low gasp, and her eyes twinkled as they scanned my muscular body.
“My, my…” The pack leader bit her lip. “I didn’t realize you were quite so… big up close.”
I suddenly felt all-masculine and all-powerful next to the little cougar, and though I didn’t know what money I supposedly owed her, I wondered if she was going to propose we settle our debts in a different way.
And I would have been more than willing to accept such a gracious offer.
But, as the pint-sized leader drank in my macho charms, I kinda realized it was weird she didn’t realize I was so big, when moments ago, she claimed I was possibly bigger than Jackal-- she’d literally named me “Mister Big Monster.”
Then I felt a cool breeze caress my inner thigh, and I realized exactly what P.L. was talking about.
I hadn’t put on any WereWear clothes today, and like I said, I was feeling strangely aroused at this unexpected turn of events.
It was a good thing I’d only partially shifted during my most recent face-off…
“Down, boy!” P.L. grinned as she feigned batting her hand at my crotch. “Woof! Woof!”
The audience laughed, and I could see a few women leaning around their male friends and/or partners to get a closer look.
Strangely, I was enjoying being the center of attention, not to mention the object of all these women’s desires.
My love life was shaping up to be pretty full, but there were some cuties in the audience tonight. I was sure I could make the time to pleasure a few of these lassies.
“Alright, alright.” P.L. flapped her hands behind her to quiet her pack. “Playtime’s over. Mercy, you’ll shoot yer eye out with that thing. Now. About my money, honey.”
“I don’t owe you any money.” I raised my eyebrow, and my ears pricked to the sound of Gary the mechanic untethering our vehicles.
“Oh, but you do.” Still with the megaphone in her hand, P.L. folded her arms, and she cocked her head at me the way a school teacher might do at a naughty pupil.
And I liked that a lot.
“You see, you killed Jackal in this very junkyard, didn’t ya?”
“I did,” I confessed.
“Well, you see, this here’s my junkyard,” the firecracker in the tight-fitting overalls continued. “I own it.”
“And what? There’s a fine for killing murderous psycho werewolves in it?” I snorted.
“Merciful heavens, no! Happens all the time!” P.L. laughed before re-adopting her menacing glare. “But you see, I’m a gamblin’ woman, Mister Big Monster, and a lot of these folks is gamblin’ people. And when we saw you and that other big lug tusslin’, we figured we might put a little wager on it.”
“So, you’re mad at me because you bet on Jackal winning and lost?”
“Oh, ye of little faith!” P.L. smirked. “I know a winner when I see one, honey. I put all my money on you. And the best horse won, didn’t it? Made me a very rich woman.”
“Okay, so why do I now supposedly owe you money?” I really wasn’t following this.
“Because I made a further wager,” P.L. said. “Although I did have faith in you, I bet my friend Terrence McLean that it was a fluke. You lured Jackal into your elaborate scheme, and you upended him because of that. Now, don’t get me wrong, as you may have gathered, I’m a big fan of that kind of set-up. It’s in the same vein of why you’re standing here with us right now, ain’t it? But I bet my friend Terrence that you’d be dead within the month thereafter, and I don’t like to be made to look a fool, sir. And I especially don’t like being cheated out of my money.”
“Whoa, wait a second.” I scowled. “You’re telling me you’re angry at me because I beat Jackal, but then didn’t die? What kind of moonshine were you drinking when you made that second bet?”
“The best kind-- cloudberry!” P.L. looked expectantly at her pack for a laugh, before turning her steely gaze back to me. “But I can handle my moonshine, thank you very much. What I can’t handle is some new guy who comes rollickin’ into Chicagy outta nowhere, beats up the biggest bad we ever had since ol’ Caponey, and then goes about his days like he ain’t due an almighty smitin’ from Karma herself! Now, you’re a big strong fella, but I’m a gambler, and I know the odds. A victory like that had to have been the extent of your good fortune. Hell, I figured someone was gonna come and cut you down the very next night. But I had faith somebody would. Folks don’t take too kindly to a new Alpha struttin’ around in these parts. I figured I could wait. But then with the bet window about to elapse and ten big ones on the line, I figured Karma might have forgotten about you, and I had to send one of my boys in to cut you down to size. Poor ol’ Rudy. He was one of the best. Never missed a shot in his natural-born life. Now, he’s dead. Fiery diaper, weren’t it? I had someone keeping a close eye on that, too. That was clever, I’ll give you that. You’re a lean mean killin’ machine. And I don’t take too kindly to no killin’ machine who puts me outta pocket.”
Every word P.L. said just got crazier and crazier, and I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
“Alright, so what now?” I asked. “I cheated death to the tune of a ten thousand dollar loss to you, and now you want me to reimburse your offensively poor judgment of my survival skills?”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.” P.L.’s smile was saccharine-sweet. “With interest, of course.”
