The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

“Oh, you’re awake,” Hollywood said in a cheerful way. “Great. I thought you were dead.”

“Who’s your friend,” V asked as they went over and loomed above the guy.

Clicking now, from the slack mouth. Followed by a cough. Closer up, the human was meatier than V had first thought, and not from being fat. He was also greasier, which V supposed made him a quarter pounder, instead of a single. He had on a t-shirt that had been white probably three hundred and sixty-five days ago, and a pair of jeans that could probably stand on their own without his help.

He was armed, too—well, almost armed. There was a gun about four inches outside of his immediate reach, on a couch cushion that was a sponge for bodily fluids V would just as soon not have to culture. To be sure there weren’t any more bullets flying into soft tissue that wasn’t going to grow back, V confiscated the weapon, took out the clip, and pocketed the components.

Rhage leaned down and tapped the man’s shoulder. “Hello?”

“I don’t think he’s being shy.” V took out a hand-rolled and made sure the wrapper was still tight. “And that’s an observation unrelated to my medical training, given that he’s leaking like a busted fuel pan.”

“We only want to ask you a couple of questions.” Rhage raised his voice as he held a little plastic baggie marked with a cross symbol in front of that going-gray face. “You’re selling this on the streets—hey, don’t worry. We’re not pissed and we’re not your law enforcement. We just want to know where you got it.”

As V patted around for his lighter, dust floated up from his leather jacket. And yeah, there was a hint of rat-vacuation to it.

Right on cue, Rhage sneezed and startled the dying man, but the revival didn’t last long.

“We’re out of time for talk therapy,” V muttered. “I’m going in.”

After he lit his cigarette, he exhaled in a stream and burrowed into the man’s mind—

V cursed. “Damn, son. You gotta chill with the pipe.”

Even on the lip edge of death, the guy’s neurons were so overstimulated, it was impossible to isolate the memory areas, either short- or long-term. And then it didn’t matter. The man gritted his teeth, reared back, and stiffened into a seizure.

V jumped out of that brain quick. “I got nothing. And he’s too far gone for CPR.”

“Dammit.” Rhage looked over at a ragged table strewn with baggies marked with that iron cross malarkey—as well as a lappy and a phone. “I guess we take everything over there and ghost out.”

In the center of the stained wooden square, there was a blue plastic-wrapped block, the corner of which was torn open, like a mouse had eaten into cheese. White powder, fine as the shit you’d brush onto a model’s face, had spilled onto the table.

No wonder the guy’s brain was a sparkler.

“Quite a supply,” V murmured.

“He’s a big dealer.”

“Not anymore.”

Hollywood picked a Target bag up off the floor. Shaking the thing out, he forearm’d what had to be two hundred little packets of white powder into it.

“How’s this asshole hanging here by himself with all this coke?” V headed back to the couch and went face-to-face with the gaping, twitching human. “I’d think he’d have backup. Unless you shot anybody else?”

“Nope, just him,” Rhage said agreeably. “He must have a reputation and a half.”

The dealer’s watery, bloodshot eyes rolled back as he exhaled his last breath. After which he became just like the piece of furniture, another used-up object in the squalor.

“Well, that’s that.” V straightened. “And maybe you and I should do some target practice in the training center during the day, true? You know, perishable skills and all that.”

“I need Zyrtec.” Rhage sneezed. “The problem is my nose, not my aim.”

“We can get that down in the clinic, too. Come on, Hollywood, let’s blow. With the blow.”

As V browed-up a couple of times, the brother shook his head. “Like I said, I liked you better before you got a sense of humor.”

“Why, you jealous I’m good at something else now?”

Down on the ground in the alley where she’d been hit by a car, Rio was trying to rub the pain out of her left leg—and thinking of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Windex. If only she had some Windex.

So maybe she had a concussion, too.

As the Charger had come at her, she’d managed to jump-and-roll just before impact, and her timing had saved her legs from being totally shattered at the shins. But that didn’t mean she didn’t break something or that she wasn’t going to be a quilt of bruises in the morning—because the human body was not supposed to act as a squash ball.

“—have to go for a threesome. Wait, that came out wrong.”

As the male voice registered, she looked to the source.