"Where?" Tony didn't have to elaborate.
"This was taken in Atlanta, two days ago."
"What the f**k are they doing back in Atlanta?" Tony got up and paced angrily.
"We've gone through several scenarios," the spy replied. "Not that any one of them might be determined more likely than the others."
"Do you have hard copy?"
"I do." The spy pulled a folder from his briefcase and handed it over. "But that doesn't explain why they've been tracked in France, Belgium, Germany, Great Britain and now Atlanta. There hasn't been anything bombed in any of those places."
"Yet they've hit Israel, Spain, Italy, Los Angeles and made an attempt here in D.C." Tony flipped the folder open and then closed it again. "I'll take this with me and read it later. There are things I need to take care of now."
"Not a problem, we've got copies at the office. We're still going over it ourselves."
"Let me know if you come up with anything." Tony grabbed his suit coat and headed for the door. The spy followed and they left Tony's office together.
* * *
"Trajan, are you sure you're willing to do this?" Winkler studied the tall werewolf. Trajan was a basketball star in high school, but turned down an athletic scholarship to a Texas college—he was too afraid of being on the road during a full moon and getting caught as wolf. Winkler paid his college tuition instead and now Trajan worked as a sports writer for a Dallas newspaper. If Trajan went down, it would be difficult to explain his disappearance.
"I'm willing," Trajan growled a little. Trajan was handsome, with black hair that curled slightly, dark brown eyes, a well-shaped jaw and mouth—he could have his pick of any number of eligible human females but only dated casually for the most part. He was still young—barely thirty-eight in human years. Too young to settle down as a werewolf.
"Fine. Let's go." Winkler walked out of his study with Trajan; Davis was waiting for them, just outside Winkler's study. Davis fell in behind Winkler as the three werewolves made their way through the side door into the garage. If Trajan died, Winkler and Davis would likely follow him quickly.
Davis held no illusions that Karl Johnson would allow any of them to live. He sighed a little—Lissa was already dead or they'd have heard from her. Tony Hancock was still looking for her—that's what he'd told Winkler, anyway.
The drive to the Wilburn Ranch would take twenty minutes, provided traffic wasn't heavy. Kellee was holed up in her bedroom at the Denton mansion, unwilling to attend the challenge. She and Winkler had such a blowup after the wedding that they no longer looked at one another, let alone considered going to bed together. Weldon and Thomas Williams had already left for the Wilburn Ranch; Randall Wilburn invited the Grand Master and the Sacramento Packmaster to dinner before the challenge, which was scheduled at midnight.
"Is that his car?" Davis examined the rented Cadillac in the Wilburn's driveway. It was bright red with a white interior, as flashy as the one who'd rented it. Davis didn't look forward to making nice with Karl Johnson and his chosen Second. None of them knew who it might be, not even Weldon. It wasn’t required by werewolf law or tradition. Consequently, Karl didn't know who was fighting for Winkler, either.
Randall Wilburn's human wife answered the door and invited Winkler, Trajan and Davis inside her sprawling ranch house. She and Randall had been married for thirty years; Randall was close to one hundred years of age and had lived in the Denton area for fifty of those years. The silver in his hair was dye—his hair was as dark as it had ever been. His wife, Shelly, looked much older and the gray in her hair was authentic.
"I trust you all can behave yourselves during introductions," Randall said, offering Winkler and his two escorts something to drink. Trajan and Davis only accepted water; Winkler took a beer but didn't drink much of it. Two werewolves, introduced as R.J. and P.J. Pitt, werewolf brothers, accompanied Karl Johnson and stood at his side as introductions were made. Winkler didn't blink when he was given their names. He'd heard of the brothers, however. Many in the werewolf community had. Their father was the Cleveland Packmaster and owned a Dojo there, teaching Martial Arts and Kendo. The f**kers intended to slice somebody to death with swords. P.J., eldest of the brothers, had already offered his services to several in the werewolf community, taking down at least six Packmasters. Weldon suspected he'd taken payment to act as temporary Second, but no proof could be provided. And if a challenge was issued outside a full moon, the combatants fought in their human shapes. That's why Winkler had asked for Lissa. Now, Lissa was dead because of that. No matter, Winkler sighed. He was about to follow her, anyway.
"It's after eleven," Randall announced. "I have carts to take us to the site if you want a ride." Many of his ranch employees used golf carts and four wheelers to drive through pastures and check on the brood mares and yearlings.
"I'll get myself there," Winkler growled. Davis and Trajan followed his lead. Winkler wanted to turn to wolf one last time before he died. The others loaded into three golf carts, but Shelly Wilburn refused to go. She had no desire to see anyone die. She'd gone in the beginning and had even watched Winkler take down his father. After that, she'd stayed at home, begging her husband never to make a challenge while she lived. He'd honored her request.
Winkler turned first, followed by Davis and then Trajan. Three large wolves trotted over newly mown grass, following the wake created by the Grand Master's golf cart.
* * *
Tony Hancock had provided Thomas Williams with a button camera, delivered by an agent outside Winkler's mansion. It would supply a video and sound feed directly to Tony's laptop. He was going to watch the challenge, since Winkler was his contact and technical support for the recognition software his department employed. If Winkler went down, Tony would definitely need to know.
Thomas and Weldon watched dispassionately as P.J. Pitt lifted a leather case from the back of a golf cart and then proceeded to pull two very sharp swords from the covering. He checked the edges on both blades before handing them off to his brother. He then removed his shirt and stretched. P.J. was broad across the shoulders; evidence that he'd trained long and hard with the swords he'd brought with him. Muscles rippled as he limbered up. Time was ticking downward and P.J. knew he had the upper hand; neither of the werewolves accompanying Winkler stood a chance against him. He was his father's Second and had fought off three challenges against his father so far, in addition to helping select others take Packs away from legitimate Packmasters. Karl was paying P.J. handsomely to make him Packmaster of the Dallas Pack. Outside a full moon, hand-to-hand combat was permitted, along with any weapon that allowed combatants to face one another. It wasn't unusual for knives, fists and clubs to be employed. The only weapons not allowed were guns.