The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

V leaned back against the club. As the music was really bumping, the vibrations coming through the cement walls were like a massage chair.

“What did you dream about, Vishous,” came the question he dreaded.

He shook his head. “You don’t know me.”

“The hell I don’t. What did you see.” When there was no reply, the brother said, “Who died.”

“Who said anybody died?”

“You don’t get visions about happy shit, V. Like never once have you told me you’ve had a dream about a bag of Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion. Or Doritos. Hell, some Snyder’s of Hanover pretzel nubs would do nicely.”

“Nubs?”

“Yeah, with peanut butter in them. They’re awesome.” Rhage shrugged. “I mean, I’m assuming you’d mention it if you’ve seen any of these snack foods in my future. Like, have you?”

“Let me get this straight. You’re putting nubs in your mouth, but you’re worried what’s doing with my ass?”

“Don’t hate the pretzel. And let’s get back to the issue at hand.”

“Right. We’re trying to find the missing female officer posing as a dealer, and this is where we saw her last.”

“What the hell did you see over day.”

Okay, this was the problem with Rhage. The brother was a tenacious motherfucker—and he actually had spot-on instincts.

Oh, and then there was the ass-slapping fact that V kinda wanted to talk about it. Hey, Rhage’s shellan was a therapist, right? That was halfway to goal.

Not that he was looking to get his head shrunk.

The words came out of his mouth fast: “I dreamt that José de la Cruz’s head got blown off his shoulders.”

The brother rubbed his eyes like they stung. “Butch’s former partner.”

“No, another human with that name in Caldwell—” V put his hand out. “Sorry. I’m being bitchy.”

“It’s okay. You must be freaking out. I mean, what do you do with information like that?”

“And no timeline. None. It could be ten years from now. Or tomorrow night.”

“Or tonight—”

“Holy shit,” V cut in. “It’s that guy.”

Rhage wheeled around and squinted through the darkness. “You’re right. From that thing.”

V stepped around Hollywood and shitkickered his way across the street, falling into the wake of a human male who was six feet tall, but only about a hundred twenty pounds. The addict was in the same clothes as he’d been in the other night, when that undercover cop had walked him to the Holy Mother of Salvatory Stuff a couple streets over.

“My guy,” V called out. “Hey.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, got one look at the two pieces of trained killer on his tail—and took off at a surprisingly fast bolt. Then again, maybe he’d had training in these kinds of sprints.

V just loped along in his trail, knowing damn well that that body didn’t have a marathon in it. Sure enough, three blocks down toward the river, there was a sudden drop in forward motion. And as the classic respiration triangle manifested—the guy bracing his arms on his knees and making plenty of torso space for his labored breathing—Vishous and Rhage pulled up alongside.

Flash Gordon looked up from his panting. “I dint—I—dint—do—it—”

“Take your time,” V muttered. “We’ll wait.”

Palming his tin of hand-rolleds, he popped the top and put the offering in the human’s face—and like the cigs were the hookup to a ventilator, or at the very least an oxygen mask, the guy reached for the nicotine with quaking fingers.

“Here, I’ll get you one.” V did the job with his gloved hand. “Only tobacco. But it’s Turkish. The best.”

“Th-th-thanks, man.”

The cigarette went in between thin lips, and then the man kicked his head forward for the Bic that was offered. As he puffed up, the habit kicked in and calmed the hyperventilating.

Three inhales later, and the guy said, “I dint do it. Really.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” V thumbed over his shoulder. “Neither is my brother.”

Eyes that would have been considered rheumatic in an eighty-year-old went back and forth.

“We’re not related by blood,” V explained.

“Oh.”

“Listen, I know you’ve got to be somewhere.” V motioned around in a circle, indicating all of downtown. “So I’m not going to waste your time.”

“Okay.”

“I want to know about a woman you were with the other night. She’s about this high.” V put his hand out flat at about five feet, nine inches tall. “Short dark hair. Had a leather jacket on. She helped you over to that dry-out tank—”

“Resource facility,” Rhage cut in with a glare. “And hey, pound me for getting some help. That takes courage. Good luck with your recovery.”

As Hollywood put out his toaster-oven-sized fist, the human put his open palm over the knuckles in confusion. And then when Rhage clapped the man on the shoulder, V had to catch Flash Gordon before he eggshelled onto the sidewalk.

“You know the woman I’m talking about?” V prompted. “You need her description again?”

“I, ah . . . yeah, I know her.”