The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

She clearly had passed out again at that point. Because the next thing she remembered was Luke releasing her from all the ties.

“You took the clothes of the attacker,” she said. “Back when you saved me . . . you needed something to wear, and that’s why everything was too small on you.”

Luke looked over. And so did the guard—who, she realized abruptly, was in flannel pajama bottoms and a SUNY Caldwell t-shirt.

“Yeah,” Luke said with a nod. “And I didn’t want you to know what I was.”

On that note, they arrived at the mansion’s rear flank. There was a terrace that ran all the way down the back of the house, but there was no outdoor furniture on it. Obviously, things had been put away for the winter.

And inside, everything had been shut down for the night: All the rooms were dark, no lights on in the lower level. Up on the second floor, however, there was a bank of fixtures still glowing.

“Where are we going?” Luke said to the guard. “How are we getting in.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah, you can.”

The guard threw out his proverbial anchor. “You’re going to have to kill me now. Because if I let you into his house? He’s going to do so much worse to me. Just . . . fucking shoot me.”

Well, Rio thought, at least they knew they were in the right place.

In a split second that lasted an eternity, José saw the gun of his old friend coming up in his peripheral vision, but it was too late to catch the weapon. And yes, it turned out that the old wives’ stories were true: Your life did flash before your eyes right before you died. In a quick series of heart-wrenching images, he saw himself and his wife on their wedding day, and at the births of their children. He visualized holidays and weekends, and Christmases and Fourths of July.

It was everything that Stan didn’t have and had decided he’d been cheated of, as if some robber had come into his life and taken at gunpoint all of the stuff he’d been due solely by reason of him being alive, character and responsibility and commitment having nothing to do with any of that end result.

God, José didn’t want it all to be over. And not like this.

Knowing he was fucked, José winced and got ready for pain. Or maybe it would happen so quick, he would feel nothing.

He’d been so close to getting out of the CPD alive—

The discharge was so loud because it was right by his ear, and he felt heat, a flash of heat, right by his cheek—

Ping!

The metallic ring was a surprise until he realized it was the lead slug passing through his brain and going into the car’s steel panel. And now came the collapse. He’d seen enough gunshot victims in the immediate aftermath of impact to know that he was going to do what Stan had just done: Slump to the side. Probably knock into the car, too. Then maybe he’d land on Stan’s legs.

After that, lack of consciousness. Followed by death.

And finally, the pearly gates, hopefully—thanks to all those novenas and Hail Marys—

José’s eyes flipped wide—and he fell backward onto his ass, but not because he was dead: A tremendous man dressed in black leather, with black hair, icy white eyes, and a goatee, was standing next to Stan . . . and holding Stan’s gun.

Somehow, the harsh-looking savior had come out of nowhere and taken control of Stan’s gun just in the nick of time, diverting the discharge into the car.

Instead of into José’s head.

José lifted his hands and felt around himself for injury. Opened his jacket wide. Pushed at his neck, his cheeks. Ran fingers through his hair, down to his scalp.

Then he focused on the strange man, a cold wash of awareness going through him.

“I know you,” José breathed.

“Yeah, you do, but only in your dreams.”

Stan made a clicking sound and a groan—and the man with the goatee transferred his attention to the guy who was actually dying. There was a split second of pause . . . and then that menace in black leather crouched down, bared his enormous teeth—Jesus, were those fangs?—and hissed at Stan.

Who promptly seized up in terror and started grabbing for his chest, like he was having a heart attack. A mortal struggle went on for a moment or two, and then . . . Stan Carmichael breathed his last breath.

The man in leather chuckled a little and relaxed his mouth, his upper lip lowering to cover those tremendous teeth.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve been accused of scaring people to death before. Now I’ve actually done it. I’m so adding this to my résumé.”

Those icy eyes swung back around, and José noticed that there were tattoos at one of his temples. Also noted that there were weapons around his waist, and undoubtedly inside the jacket given all the bulges.