Bite Me(3)

By: Shelly Laurenston


Vic waited until the panting was right beside him, then . . .

Reaching out, Vic caught hold of his target’s neck and yanked him into the alley.

Feet still running, arms still pumping, his target hadn’t even realized he was no longer touching the ground.

Vic held him like that until the local police charged past. Once he was sure they were gone, he lowered his target to the ground but kept hold of the man’s neck. By now, the target had realized he was no longer running from the police. He briefly seemed relieved by that, until he was forced to drop his head back in order to see Vic’s face.

“Oh . . . Victor. Hello.”

“There are people looking for you, Bohdan.”

“Don’t hand me over to them, Victor,” Bohdan begged while trying to twist out of Vic’s grasp. “You know what they’ll do to me.”

“I don’t know anything. Except that people are looking for you.”

Vic pushed away from the wall, Bohdan still in his hand.

“Wait! Wait! I have information. Information you’ll want.”

“I don’t need any information.”

“What about Whitlan?”

Vic stopped moving, eyes narrowing on Bohdan’s desperate face. “Lying to me won’t help you, little man,” Vic growled in Russian.

“I’m not lying.”

“No?”

Bohdan pointed at Vic’s hand, which was still around Bohdan’s neck. “Little tight.”

“And it can get much tighter. Don’t make me show you how much.”

Bohdan’s eyes widened in panic, which was kind of sad, because Vic really wasn’t putting any effort into what he was doing. If he did, he could pulverize the bones in Bohdan’s neck. These full-humans . . . so breakable.

“Talk, little man.”

“Packages sent in and out of country from Whitlan.”

Vic frowned. “How do you know they were from Whitlan? They could have been from anybody.”

“I saw him. I saw Frankie Whitlan.”

Now Vic smirked. “You? You saw Frankie Whitlan? A man no one has seen in more than two years?”

“No one has seen him in America, maybe. But he is friend to many in Russia, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria . . .”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“No. But I was in warehouse that day. Big boxes he sent out. He wanted to make sure everything perfect. He sent them on boat.”

“Going where?”

“All over. But I know that at least one went to Miami.”

“And who helped him ship these boxes?”

Now Bohdan smirked. “I like my throat without big slash across it, Victor Barinov.”

That was fair enough. Most likely Whitlan had gotten himself involved with mobsters who’d tear someone like Bohdan apart for no other reason than they were bored.

Vic opened his hand and Bohdan dropped to the ground, landing on his knees with a grunt.

“You won’t regret this, Victor Barinov,” Bohdan said, grinning widely and rubbing his throat. “I knew I could help!”

Vic stepped over Bohdan and walked out of the alley. He stopped at the curb, pulling his phone out of his pocket. While he speed-dialed a number, he saw a few of the local police running back toward the alley, still searching for Bohdan.

Vic pointed into the alley and the officers nodded their thanks before charging in and taking Bohdan down. It was a loss of some easy cash for Vic, but the information he’d received about Whitlan was much more important.

“Yeah?” he heard on the other end of the phone. Dee-Ann Smith of the Smith Pack was not what one would call a chatty She-wolf. Or friendly.

“I’ve got information,” he said cryptically, not willing to put too much detail out over the air. But he didn’t need to say Whitlan’s name to Dee-Ann. Frankie Whitlan was the most wanted full-human in shifter history. All three major organizations were trying to track him down and execute him for participating in and running expeditions to hunt shifters. But the man had the uncanny ability to disappear. Or he had some very powerful people protecting him. Whatever it was, the Group—the American shifter protection agency; Katzenhaus Securities—the feline protection organization—also called KZS; and the Bear Preservation Council—the worldwide bear protection organization—also called BPC, simply could not track the man down. All they needed was a location so they could send in either Dee-Ann Smith or KZS’s sharpshooter Cella Malone to take him out. But after several years, they’d been unable to lock on the guy.

“When can you get back here?” she asked.

“I’ll get the first plane out.”

“Good.”