The Wolves of Third Clan Read online

  Chapter 2

  “Okay” I managed to utter while realizing the foolishness of hiding behind a one-inch piece of copper-plated tin but as I was reaching for the doorknob I heard footsteps walking down the hallway.

  “Hold up” she ordered and I instinctively complied as to the lunatic with a weapon.

  “Peter! Are you okay in there?” a man asked and a bullet flew past my head in reply.

  “Jesus…!” I think I said but once again I can’t be sure because it’s hard to remember when you’re trying desperately not to urinate.

  “Open the door.”

  This time I didn’t hear any footsteps so I turned the knob and opened the door to reveal a very large but very dead security guard on the floor.

  “Move.”

  “Okay, don’t shoot me” I said.

  “I won’t if you do what I say.”

  Sounded fair to me so I did what she said and moved down the hall toward the reception area where the pretty secretary with the bedroom eyes first met us. There was no one there; just me and crazy, dumb, beautiful Melissa who didn’t seem as unintelligent as she’d been letting on.

  “Press the ‘up’ button.”

  “The ‘up’ button?”

  “Don’t question me.”

  Okay the ‘up’ button it is. You don’t need to tell me twice, not when you’ve got a loaded pistol in your hand. Now, I’m thinking you might be getting the wrong impression of my courageousness or lack thereof but you’re wrong. I’ve talked to many people and they’ve all said the same thing; bullets hurt. I don’t particularly like pain. Maybe it’s only me but I never fully buy into the scene where the hero turns around and disarms the bad guy with such amazing skill the villain is left mystified at their reversal of fortunes. Why didn’t he just pull the trigger?

  I WOULD.

  Me too. I know it’d end the movie sooner but at least it’d be more believable than an otherwise ruthless outlaw having such poor finger-flexing ability.

  TRUE.

  So anyway, there I was riding in an elevator with a crazy person and I’ve got to admit it was a strange experience. I mean, what do you say at a time like that?

  I DON’T KNOW?

  I’ll tell you.

  “What floor?”

  “Top floor.”

  “Top floor it is.”

  That’s what you say when you find yourself riding in an elevator with a crazy person.

  So we took the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor, got out, and Melissa indicated with her gun I should move east toward the stairway entrance. We got in the stairwell, walked up to the last landing and were met by locked door.

  “Wait.”

  I did, and she moved right up behind me, took aim, and shot three times into the handle. After nearly fainting I realized she’d used me as a shield in case the bullets ricocheted off the door which I guess was smart but she’d better never ask me for a reference if she wants to pursue another job in the sales and marketing sector. Luckily the lock was mostly for show, probably a last ditch attempt to stop someone from using the roof as a smoking lounge or suicide takeoff spot. We stepped out on the roof where she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cellphone.

  “Now! Hurry!” she yelled into the mouthpiece.

  She hung up and looked directly into my eyes as I stood still. I got the impression she was considering shooting me there on the spot. What for? I could only guess. But having witnessed her kill four people was probably near the top. I was seriously considering begging for my life when I heard a dull hum in the air which grew louder until suddenly a helicopter exploded into view on the west side of the tower. I’d never seen a helicopter up close and it was pretty cool, what with all the rushing air and everything. Now, I might’ve been influenced by the fact Melissa seemed to change her mind about killing me which could’ve had something to do with my amazement at the sight of the ten-ton metal flying contraption but that’s not really important.

  “Let’s go! Move it!” she yelled while taking off like an Olympic sprinter and I obeyed as fast as I could which was nowhere near quick enough because from behind me came the sound of the roof-access door exploding outward followed by gunfire.

  I don’t know if it was the sound or the fact I was becoming an expert at having bullets whiz by my head but I did the correct thing; I hit the ground so hard I gave myself a bloody nose. I looked up to see the helicopter leaping away from the rooftop and Melissa in the copilot’s seat taking dead aim at me with her pistol and I again did the only thing which seemed appropriate at the time; I slammed my face back down. I sensed a bullet zing by my head, heard more gunfire from behind and waited for the resulting pain of searing metal to enter my body but instead I felt nothing. I don’t know how long I lay there but when I raised my head to see if the helicopter was gone I felt a knee slam in my back and some guy’s voice yelling “Don’t move!” which was kind of redundant if you think about it.

  I was blindfolded and my hands were tied behind my back as I was led down the stairwell by what I think was one guard onto what I guess was the twenty-sixth floor since I don’t believe we went down more than one landing but I could be wrong.

  “Look, I’m the victim here” I said and received no response as I stumbled along like a drunken brother-in-law at an open-bar wedding reception.

  If you ever watch a movie where the hero, victim or heroine is blindfolded and the person doesn’t completely freak out you need to turn the thing off. I once heard we were a visually oriented species and I’m here to verify whoever said it is the most spot-on correct person ever. The world goes black and every sensory organ you’ve got decides it’s time to give false and misleading information about whatever’s around you. The ground feels uneven, sounds come from every direction and your nose is useless; like a fork with chicken broth or male nipples.

  “Stop” the guy said as I heard the jingling of keys and the sound of a door opening.

  “Okay, look I think we’ve got a slight mix-up here. I’m just a sales rep who was…” I began.

  “Shut up” he said.

  And I silently named him Captain Kindness.

  So I shut my mouth and stood there waiting for my senses to compensate for the lack of sight… and waited… and waited…. If I’m ever struck blind you might as well kill me because, I swear, my other senses are not coming to my aid no matter how hard you ask them.

  I’m not sure how long I waited because whatever internal organ I have in charge of detecting time is also defective. It felt like forever; like Sunday mass during football season.

  “Who is it?” I heard Commander Compassion ask someone in the hallway.

  “It’s me” was the reply.

  “You surprised me. How’s that possible?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s find out” the woman’s voice said.

  The door opened, I was grabbed by the front of my shirt collar and jerked out the room.

  “Un-blindfold him” the woman ordered.

  When it was removed I found myself looking into the face of an angel. She was five-foot-six inches tall with blond hair, blue-eyes and the prettiest set of lips you’ve ever seen.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Johnny Johnson.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Industrial Products.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m just a sales rep.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “10005 Riverside Drive, Apartment 305…”

  “What’s the name of the assassin?”

  “Who?”

  And then she slapped me.

  “What’s the name of the woman who jumped into the helicopter?”

  “Melissa! Jesus, lady, you didn’t have to hit me! I’m just an innocent bystander.”

  “Then why are you still alive?”

  “I don’t have any idea!”

  And she slapped me again. I’m kind of old fashioned and where I come from you don�
��t hit women but, I’ve got to tell you, everything changes when you get slapped while your hands are tied behind your back; it’s not sporting and stings like the dickens. Now, my hands were tied but I wasn’t completely helpless, heck no, I had a complete arsenal at my command and I lit into her with everything I had.

  “Ouch! Stop it!”

  My arsenal was then depleted.

  “Once again, why are you still alive?’” she screamed.

  “I don’t know! Maybe she needed a human shield or something? How should I know?”

  Then she stood there and stared into my eyes. I don’t know what she was trying to determine but the sense of déjà vu was surreal. It was the same deep and penetrating stare Melissa gave me on the rooftop. The more I think about it; it was the same stare Melissa gave Peter North before she shot him. The more I further think about it; it was eerily similar to the stare Peter North gave Melissa before she gave it back to him with five bullets.

  “Lock the door and keep watch” she ordered.

  Mr. Personality did and I found myself back inside the unfurnished office with my hands bound and the uncomfortable feeling I was both in a lot of trouble and in need of peeing.

  “Hey! I need to use the bathroom!” I yelled, waited, and felt my need grow further.

  “Hey! Seriously, I’ve really got to go!” which got me more silence.

  I was at quite the crossroad there. One; I needed to pee. Two; my hands were tied behind my back. Three… okay, I guess one and two covered it.

  “I swear to God if you don’t open this door and let me use the restroom I’m going to…” I began before thinking…

  ‘What? What am I going to do? Pee on their floor?’

  Yep, I was going to threaten them with peeing on their floor. I vowed to myself then and there when I got out of the situation I was going straight down to the contortionist’s office and learn to dislocate shoulders, move hands from back to front, and wriggle free of handcuffs, slip-ties, or whatever else a person uses for bondage. Uh-huh, but first I had to pee, really bad, the kind of bad where you catch yourself hopping up and down in order to stop it from involuntarily happening. What kind of a coping mechanism is that anyway?

  WHAT, JUMPING UP AND DOWN?

  Yes. Do you think God never thought we’d evolve long enough to make public urination a frowned upon event?

  “Hey, God?”

  “Yes, my son?”

  “Those humans you created…”

  “Go on, my son.”

  “Well, they outlawed outdoor peeing and they’re running into a bit of trouble abiding by their decision.”

  “Huh?”

  “They can’t seem to hold it.”

  “Hmm… Tell them to jump around a bit.”

  “Wow! Ok, great, I’ll go ahead and pass that bit of wisdom along.”

  Some sort of warning device would’ve been better, you know what I mean?

  UH-HUH.

  Maybe a little color coded strip on your finger which warns you when you’ve waited a bit too long to do the nasty deed. As it is, I figure we get our first hint about five minutes before we get our second which comes about thirty seconds before we find ourselves hopping around like some deranged Easter bunny which is where I found myself; jumping up and down, screaming at the top of my lungs “I’ve got to go! I’ve got to go! I’ve got to go!” when all of a sudden the door opened and I wet my pants.

  YOU WET YOUR PANTS?

  Yes, I did, because the person I saw before me was a hallucination. He had to be for the last time I’d laid eyes on the individual was thirty minutes before when he had a hole in the middle of his forehead where the crazy red-head shot him. It was the security guard who was much bigger upright than prone and he didn’t seem to take kindly to my watering of the tiles but, thankfully, he also didn’t relish walking on my self-made man-lake so he kindly shut the door but not before uttering…

  “Yes Mistress, it’s him.”

  So I thought…

  ‘Mistress? Who calls people Mistress anymore? More importantly, how high up the corporate ladder does one go before getting the title? And who’s he calling Mistress? Surely not the gorgeous blonde because she‘s way too young for the title except in some off-color movie produced in a shady back-lot studio employing people named Ginger, Spice, and Dominique.’

  While pondering the ‘Mistress’ thing I found myself getting more upset at the absurdity of it all. What was going on? Why was I, an innocent victim, locked up in some makeshift holding cell? What right did they have?’

  The door opened and Corporal Comfort entered followed by previously deceased Security-Guard-Guy and finally Little-Miss-Blond-Screams-a-Lot.

  “I want to see my lawyer!” I yelled, finally coming to my senses and demanding my God-given Constitutional right in this glorious country of ours.

  “Shut up” was the reply.

  Okay, I didn’t have a good response. It’s one thing to know your rights, it’s quite another to get them implemented, so I stood there like a doofus with bound hands, wet pants and the evidence of how they came to be on the floor between us.

  “Get someone to clean this up and bring him a dry set of clothes” Blonde Lady said to Security-Guard-Guy.

  “I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Johnson, we’re obviously a little uptight after what happened” she said.

  “It’s okay” I replied.

  I can’t say why I said it because it most assuredly was not okay. As I look back I suppose I did so because I was ready to forgive them anything so long as it got me out of there. It didn’t mean I wasn’t going to sue their butts off. Lord no, as soon as I was out I was going to find the meanest lawyer in the state and get what was coming to me; a seven-figure check deposited in some off-shore account earning enough interest to keep me in Bermuda shorts sipping Mai-tai’s on a Caribbean island where locals have cool accents and no one’s ever heard of industrial cleaning supplies.

  “My name is Vivian LeTorque, I’m the head of our central office and this is George” she indicated General Graciousness “he’s head of security.”

  George nodded which I assume was his way of accepting responsibility for imprisoning me against my will but I can’t be certain because he wasn’t forthcoming with his feelings.

  “We need some information, Mr. Johnson.”

  “You need information? Lady, you locked me in this broom closet with my hands tied behind my back after I was shot at and nearly killed on your rooftop! Your head of security almost broke my back and you send the dead security guard’s twin brother to scare the crap out of me! And for what? I don’t know anything. Like I said, I’m just a sales rep who…”

  “Shut up” said George.

  And I shut up again. I don’t know why I complied so readily but his sheer size was probably part of the reason; the man was simply large. Not fat, just large. If he were a woman we’d call him big-boned. He was one of those guys who don’t look good in a suit and tie; too restricting. His neck was about the same size as my thigh and his thigh was probably the same size as my… well, I actually don’t have any body parts large enough to give a good comparison so let’s say the man probably outweighed me by a ton.

  “Mr. Johnson, we’re not here to interrogate you, we’re trying to find out why one of your sales team would come into our office and commit multiple murders.”

  “How should I know? And could you please untie my hands? They’re starting to tingle.”

  “No” said George and I was beginning to wonder if the man had a thing for one syllable words.

  “No? What, are you afraid I might attack?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not for our protection; it’s for yours” said Vivian.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “George is the head of security which means he’s in charge of my personal well-being. He’s like a trained attack-dog who can’t stop his natural inclination to eliminate any threat to its master.”

  “So?”


  “So, if I untie your hands and you accidently twitch, stumble or make any movement towards me George would kill you before I could stop him.”

  “Oh.”

  I believed her. I know I should’ve been offended by her lack of belief I might’ve been able to defend myself but then took another look at George and laughed at the comical scene playing out in my imagination; you know, of George and me fighting. I’m not lying when I say he could twist my head off like an old-fashioned bottle cap. Literally twist it off with his hands. I like my head so I said nothing, mumbled the lame ‘Oh’ and nodded like I was in on the decision.

  “Now, I can leave the room and George will loosen your binds but I must ask some questions so they’d need to be retied. I’m assuming you’d like to leave as soon as possible but if they’re bothering you so much…”

  “No, it’s all right. I can take it a little while longer.”

  “Good. Now, do you have any idea why Mrs. …?”

  “Melissa.”

  “… why Melissa would kill Mr. North?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “I thought I did but now I’m not sure. I think she’s been putting on an act.”

  “An act?”

  “Yeah, I think she was playing a part or something because the person I knew wasn’t capable of pulling a gun and shooting people. Heck, the person I knew wasn’t smart enough to set her alarm clock let alone go on a shooting spree with an escape plan.”

  “I see.”

  “No I don’t think you do. It was like night and day in there. One minute I’m standing next to a life-sized Barbie doll and the next I’m being herded by a gun-toting vigilante to the roof where a helicopter’s waiting to whisk her away. Do you know how much a helicopter costs? I’ll tell you… well, I actually don’t know, but I guarantee it’s a lot.”

  “Mr. Johnson…”

  “And what’s with her staring at the guy? You know, I think she might’ve known him because they were eyeballing each other for a good minute before she went gun-barrel city on him.”

  “Mr. Johnson…”

  “And why kill Bob and Steve? They weren’t doing anything. Heck, they helped her. You know, I can’t believe I’m still alive! She’s got to realize I’m talking to the police when they arrive. By the way, where are the police?”

  “Mr. Johnson!”

  “Yes.”

  “Who hired you and Melissa?”

  “Bob Simpson.”

  “Not Industrial Products?”

  “No. Well, kind of… You see, we’re actually sort of independent contractors for the company. They give us the brochures and we try to whip up some business. It’s a pretty shrewd business model if you think about it. You don’t have any overhead, you don’t have to pay any medical, shoot, you don’t really have any skins in the game at all because you’re just sitting back and sipping Margaritas while others are out there busting their butts …”

  “Mr. Johnson!”

  “What? Oh, sorry, sometimes I ramble when I’m nervous.”

  “Are you nervous right now?”

  “Nervous? Me? What do I have to be nervous about? I was only shot at, tied up, locked up and threatened with death if I happen to hiccup in your direction but, hey, that’s just an average day for me. Nervous? Hah, I laugh at nervous. Why just the other day…”

  “Mr. Johnson!”

  “What?!”

  And then I heard a low growl coming from George. It was quite terrifying and I was somewhat relieved I’d, uh, relieved myself earlier because I believe I might’ve done so again.

  “Please calm down, you’re making George nervous.”

  “Him nervous? Oh, okay. Sorry, George.”

  I got another nod from Mr. Talks-a-lot and felt my anxiety ease a fraction but I’ve got to tell you it’s pretty hard to remain calm when a human pit-bull’s staring at you like you’re about to steal his bowl of kibble.

  “You said Bob Simpson, not Industrial Products, hired the two of you?”

  “The three of us.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes, me, Melissa, and Steve; the other dead guy.”

  “Okay, so Bob Simpson hired the three of you to work with him as independent contractors for Industrial Products. Is that right?

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Then you don’t technically work for Industrial Products?”

  “No, I guess not. We’re more like hired hands. Hired hands who only get paid after they sell the goods.”

  “Would Industrial Products even know about you, Steve, or Melissa?”

  “Probably not. They dealt with Bob and he dealt with us. Why?”

  “Then, as far as Industrial Products is concerned, the only salesperson they knew who had an appointment with us was Bob Simpson.”

  I didn’t like the way that line of questioning was going.

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe. By the way, shouldn’t the cops be here by now?”

  She glanced at George and I swear there was some weird communication going on then she looked back at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, tossed her blonde hair and smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. It was like the smile I imagine a cat gives a mouse before torturing the rodent for the pleasure of it.

  “I think we can stop pretending the police are going to arrive, Mr. Johnson, because they’re not. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re not going to make it. You see, sometimes life’s a little unfair and, unfortunately for you, sometimes it’s downright cruel.”

  She nodded at George and before I could blink the man was on me; flipping me to the ground where I once again smashed my nose and placing his knee on the base of my neck so I couldn’t move.

  “Ugh!” was my response.

  So there I was, lying face down on the urine- soaked floor, spitting obscenities and pleading for the head of security to do his job and arrest himself when I felt a sharp, stabbing pain on the left side of my neck.

  “Ow!” was my manly reply.

  I couldn’t see much and when I tried to turn my head old Georgie-boy decided to re-smash my nose into the tile floor.

  “Oomph! You son of a…!”

  “Just lay still, Mr. Johnson” Miss Screamy said.

  I was starting to get a little light-headed and becoming increasingly afraid it wasn’t due to some Neanderthal kneeling on my neck when I heard pounding.

  “Open the door!” a female voice yelled.

  More pounding.

  “Vivian, open this door right this second!”

  I felt another twang on my neck exactly where the first one had occurred. Suddenly, the knee holding me down was removed and I was hauled up by the scruff of my collar to stand face to face with George who stared at me as though I’d committed some great sin upon his family and whispered…

  “Don’t say a word.”

  I thought…

  ‘Okay, hey, no problem. I’ll just stand off to the side over here and mind my own business while you open the door… yep… just like so and…’

  Then screamed…

  “Help! These lunatics are trying to kill me!”

  I was a little surprised at a couple of things which transpired after my little outburst not the least of which was the reaction I got from the first person to enter the room; Dead-Security-Guard-Guy. He walked over to me, turned my head slightly to the right and stared at my neck where I’d felt the sharp stings. I believe I said something like…

  “They did it!”

  … but my recollection’s hazy because right then he punched me in the gut and all I could think was what an awful Public Relation’s Department the company must have.

  My second surprise was who entered next; the pretty receptionist with the seductive peepers. I wondered if I’d developed a weird eye fetish because it seemed every woman I’d seen had a remarkable pair of them.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Vivian?”

  “Feeding.”

  What?
What did she just say?

  “Well forget about it, he’s not to be touched.”

  Thank God! You tell her Pretty-Secretary-Lady.

  “Why not?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t argue with the woman.

  “Because I think he’s a Cloak.”

  “A Cloak? You can’t be serious, they don’t exist anymore” said mean Vivian.

  “Then explain why we couldn’t sense her” said gorgeous administrative assistant.

  “Maybe she wasn’t one of us?” said the evil little blonde vixen.

  “She killed Peter, how could she not be?” said the best secretary of all time.

  It was then they all turned and looked at me like I was a sea-creature on display at the city aquarium. The two girls had probing, tender eyes but the two guys didn’t. They had eyes for sizing people up and I could tell by their looks of contempt they found me wanting. Wanting for what? I had no idea, but definitely wanting. Or lacking. I’m not sure where the difference lies between the two but I think I’d rather be wanting than lacking. One sounds like you’ve got, at least, the possibility of getting something; the other hints you definitely don’t have what it takes.

  “Untie him and give him your knife” Pretty-Secretary-Lady said to Security-Guard-Guy.

  “Are you sure?” said Vivian.

  “I’m sure.”

  Now, this is where it got weirder because I distinctly remembered George had a slight anxiety problem with people around Vivian who had proper use of their hands, let alone hands with a knife. It’s an odd feeling when someone offers to free your upper extremities and you’re not sure you want the favor but there wasn’t much I could do considering it was four against one and I’m not sure I’d bet on myself to beat Pretty-Secretary-Lady in an arm-wrestling contest; those people had something about them which shouted ‘Physical Prowess!’. So, Security-Guard-Guy whipped out a knife, spun me around, sliced the ties binding my hands, gave me the blade and we all waited. Uh-huh, we just stood there waiting to see if George got the overwhelming urge to strangle me or not.

  DID HE?

  Did he what?

  DID HE STRANGLE YOU?

  Did he strangle me? Are you seriously asking if the guy strangled me?

  OH, YEAH, YOU WOULDN’T BE HERE THEN WOULD YOU?

  No I wouldn’t. That’s generally the way strangulation works; you get strangled and you don’t have future conversations.

  “Should I do something?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

  “Move toward Vivian” said Pretty-Secretary-Lady and I complied because, obviously, I’m a moron.

  So I moved slowly towards Vivian and…

  “Well I’ll be…”

  “Huh, who’d of thought…?”

  “I can’t believe…”

  … nothing.

  They all seemed surprised I could get near little Miss-Shrieks-for-Fun without Gorilla-man losing his senses and ripping me to shreds. They were standing there admiring George’s willpower when I took the opportunity to bolt like a frightened rabbit out the opened door no one had remembered to close. Yep, I might not be strong or possess amazing martial arts abilities but I do have one thing in my DNA which has always proved useful; when confronted with physical harm I can flee with the best of them. Now, I’m not saying I’m fast but I remember the old adage when two people are running from a bear you don’t need to be faster than the bear, only faster than the other guy. If it’s you and me and we’re running from a bear you better tighten your laces because I’m not getting eaten by a dang bear. I know the adage doesn’t work in this case because I didn’t have anyone I could sacrifice in my place; I just like the saying and it goes to the point if I’m running for my life you’d be wise to get out of my way. So I hauled down the hallway to the stairwell entrance and did the exact opposite of what crazy, red-headed Melissa did; I sprinted down the stairs toward street level where sane and rational people resided. Unfortunately, I didn’t consider how difficult it was to run down twenty or so flights of stairs after getting shot at, imprisoned and prepped as an entrée so when I got ten floors down I stopped to catch my breath. I stood there for a second but didn’t hear anyone coming so I regained my composure and sprinted, once again, down the stairs to the safety of Dallas’ blistering-hot streets, reached the bottom, pushed through the stairwell door, jumped over the lobby furniture and raced out to the street where I met… George and Security-Guard-Guy looking at me like I was a complete imbecile.

  “Help!”

  Was all I got out before I was knocked unconscious by the retractable club Security-Guard-Guy carried in case unruly salespeople attempted avoiding digestion.