No Such Thing As Werewolves (2 page)

The Russian trotted toward the pyramid, bringing the stock of his rifle to his shoulder as he scanned the pregnant darkness that so neatly blended with the structure’s dark surface. Carter trotted a little ways behind, replacing his bulky black box with a smaller green gizmo. Jordan was good with technology, but he had no idea what either device did. He doubted anyone other than Carter could tell him. The tech was always tinkering, and the gadgets were both things he’d cobbled together in his spare time.

The pair disappeared into the darkness, though Jordan could still make out their shapes. They stopped perhaps ten feet into the strange tunnel, a perfect square that could have been bored with a laser. Jordan shaded his eyes, watching as Yuri leaned a shoulder into the massive stone door and shoved. To the Russian’s apparent surprise, it gave easily, spilling him to the ground as the door slid soundlessly open. Damn. That kind of engineering could barely be accomplished today. How many tons did that door weigh?

Jordan began to pace, his right hand settling on the grip of his pistol. Ten minutes. Such a short span of time, but it crept by. What was happening inside? Something echoed from within. Gunshots. He resisted the urge to order another pair inside, instead gesturing at both sides of the entrance. The squad moved to flank it, each soldier leveling an M4 at the opening. Long seconds passed.

At nine minutes, sixteen seconds they heard the slaps of booted feet on stone as something approached. Yuri’s form emerged first, bent low, arms pumping as he hauled ass back into the sunlight. There was no sign of his rifle. Carter’s form trailed behind, the lanky tech clutching his side as if he had a cramp. Only it wasn’t a cramp. His black uniform was soaked with blood, and his face was ashen as he limped forward.
 

“Jewel, get the medical kit,” Jordan bellowed, jerking the stock of his rifle to his shoulder as he scanned the darkness. The rest of the squad did the same, including Jewel. The weapon suited the tiny blond, despite the fact that it was nearly as large as she was. She lowered it reluctantly, trotting back toward the helicopter. She was the closest they had to a medic.

Carter stumbled, sprawling to the ground just past the thick shadow provided by the tunnel. Yuri didn’t even stop to help. What the hell had spooked him so badly he didn’t stop to help a wounded squad mate?

A third figure moved in the darkness. It was tall. Too tall. Maybe seven or eight feet, if the glittering amber eyes served as indicators. Then it stepped into the thinner shadow near the end of the tunnel, providing Jordan with far more detail than he’d ever wanted to see.

The creature looked like some sort of dark-furred Egyptian god, with a head that clearly belonged on a wolf. Sharp white fangs bared over black gums, and the long claws on one massive hand still dripped blood—Carter’s blood. The creature wore some sort of golden necklace, a torque, Jordan thought it was called. Its clothing was cut from shimmering white cloth, something like a Roman toga.

“End that thing,” Jordan roared, aligning the crosshairs in his goggles with the thing’s chest. He squeezed off three rounds, the gun bucking in his hands as it belched gouts of flame. Echoing fire came from all around him as the squad reacted instantly, every last member a veteran of one war or another.

The thing didn’t move. In one moment, it was standing in the center of the corridor. In the next, it stood next to Carter. The rounds they’d fired found nothing but stone, ricocheting down the tunnel. The beast knelt, savaging the back of Carter’s neck with those wicked teeth.

Jordan adjusted his aim, firing again. So did the others. This time the thing jerked backward, raising a hand to its shoulder. Its amber gaze touched Jordan’s for an instant; then the beast disappeared.

“Behind us,” Jewel roared. Jordan spun to see her drop the med kit. She jerked her rifle up, but it was too late. The beast raked its claws across her throat, showering the dusty earth with her blood.

“No,” Jordan roared, sprinting toward the downed soldier as he squeezed off several rounds. None hit, but they did draw the beast’s attention. It blurred across the space between them, looming over Jordan like a linebacker over a toddler. Its claws descended, death’s embrace plummeting toward Jordan’s face with impossible speed. Jordan dropped to his back, bringing his rifle into alignment with the thing’s midsection. He didn’t take time to aim, just squeezed the trigger.

The beast stumbled backward under a withering hail of fire, face twisting into an all-too-human expression of frustration. Then it simply vanished. Jordan scrambled to his feet, spinning around as he scanned for a target. Nothing. How did it move so swiftly? It defied reason. Yuri approached, offering Jordan a hand. The big Russian helped him to his feet.

“Is crazy. Not paid enough to fight fucking werewolves,” Yuri said, shaking his head. He was staring at Carter’s corpse. There was no way the tech had survived.

Jordan wanted to correct him. There was no such thing as werewolves. But he’d just seen one. How the hell was he going to explain this to Mohn? Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Perhaps this is exactly what they’d expected.

Chapter 1- A Bigger Bullet

Commander Jordan eyed the hangar thoughtfully. The silver dome was out of place, nicer than either of its neighbors. That didn’t fit Mohn’s low profile imperative, so who’d authorized this place? He’d never met the woman in charge of the Panama facility, though he’d seen her at a distance when he deployed to Cajamarca just a few weeks ago.

Taxis and buses flowed down the road behind him, ferrying passengers to one of the busiest airports in Central America. He slipped through the gap in the fence, walking briskly to the door near the south corner. Jordan withdrew his cell phone, speed dialing the Director. The phone clicked several times and then rang once before it was picked up. He recognized the commanding voice immediately.

“Have you arrived?”
 

“Yes, sir,” Jordan replied. Director Phillips was all protocol, and even though they weren’t officially military they wore the same trappings.

“Good. Review the weaponry and ensure that it will meet your needs,” the voice on the other end said. The words were clipped, efficient.

“With respect, sir, I don’t know what our needs are. That thing took everything we had to throw and kept on coming,” Jordan said. He didn’t want to be insubordinate, but command needed to know what they were facing.

“I realize that, Commander, but your own reports said that you hurt it. That was with more conventional ordnance. The weapons we’ve prepared should be considerably more effective,” the Director said.

Jordan watched traffic rumble by, so damn normal.
 

“Sir, we’re fighting a god-damned werewolf that crawled out of a pyramid with no right to exist. We don’t know
what
will be effective. I’ll take the added firepower, but what I really need is more men. That thing carved through my squad like a Thanksgiving turkey,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the heat from his voice.

“That takes time, and you damned well know it,” the Director snapped. Jordan was shocked. He’d never heard the Director lose his composure before. “We’re working on replacements, but they’ve only had two weeks training. If I send them in now, I’m as good as pulling the trigger myself.”

“What about mercs, sir? There has to be an off-the-books option,” he offered. Mohn Corp. had ties with a number of black ops organizations that specialized in wet work.
 

“That could bring unwanted attention,” the Director said, sighing heavily. “I just got off a call with the Peruvian president. They want to know what the hell we’re doing up there and why we’re bringing in so much hardware. I can’t afford any more scrutiny, and that’s exactly what sending in cowboy mercs will do. You’re just going to have to make do with the personnel you have. Review the weapons and get your ass back to Peru.”

“Yes, si—“ Jordan began, but the phone beeped as the call ended.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, this place was hot. Such a contrast to the frigid Andes. He resisted the urge to see if anyone was watching, and instead pounded the hangar’s door three times with his fist. The hollow booms were swallowed by the road noise, but the door opened almost immediately. A hard-eyed man in full Kevlar opened the door. He carried an unfamiliar rifle, front hand resting on the underside of the barrel, with the other over the trigger guard. In one fluid motion he could snap it to his shoulder to fire. His face screamed drill sergeant, though he bore no insignia except Mohn’s standard green triangle on his shoulder. The guy could have been R. Lee Ermey’s shorter, angrier brother.

“Jordan?” he barked, leathery face set in what Jordan guessed must have been a permanent scowl. “Get your ass inside. This isn’t the goddamn shopping mall.”

He opened the door just wide enough for Jordan to slip through, slamming it behind them the instant they were clear. The place was pitch black except for a pair of stand lamps overlooking narrow tables lined with weapons. Behind them stood a skinny, nerdy-looking guy with a thick mustache and small tinted glasses. He wore a flannel shirt under a polyester vest, not exactly standard-issue gear. The guy reminded him of Carter, summoning a memory of the dead tech’s lifeless eyes. Jordan had seen a lot in his time, but that memory was one of the worst.

“You’re here to get some real firepower,” Sarge said. A made-up name helped because it was the only one Jordan was likely to get. Mohn ops were anonymous. You never knew more than you had to about the people you were working with.

Sarge walked over to the tables, gesturing at one of the rifles. “Your last op used the M4, right?”

“Yeah. Lacked stopping power though,” Jordan replied, crossing to stand next to the table.
 

“The M4 is great,” the skinny guy broke in. Jordan decided to call him Lester, after a character from a video game he’d played back in the 90s. “Um, it’s one of the most ubiquitous military firearms on the modern battlefield. Definitely the most familiar rifle to your mercs…er…soldiers.”

“A lot of
operatives
,” Sarge corrected. “Use the Russkies’ AK. Cheaper than the M4.”

“Yeah, uh, operatives. Anyway, the AK’s great too, but I like the M4, and that’s what we’ve got here, a typical M4,” Lester said, patting the stock lovingly. “The locking bolt gives a more stable ballistic chamber and, thus, a more accurate shot than an AK.” He picked up the rifle, thumbing the switch near the trigger to full-auto. “Even fully automatic, your first three or four shots are dead on.”

“Yeah, and that’s why we love it,” Jordan agreed. He knew the rifle’s internals intimately. “But, like I said, it didn’t have enough stopping power. The 5.56 round just isn’t enough.” He picked up a long brass bullet from the table to illustrate.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Lester said, grin spreading. “The round is only twenty-two caliber, even if it is high velocity. You’ll core soft targets, but it doesn’t do squat against anything with armor. Even a car windshield will stop a round. The bullet just punches through your target without much expansion. That’s why it lacks the stopping power you’re after.”

Jordan folded his arms. “I didn’t come here to talk about what didn’t work. I came here to get something that will. If we’re going to take down my target, I’m going to need…”

“…A bigger bullet,” Sarge and Lester finished in unison.
 

“Not just any bigger bullet. Something special I invented,” Lester said. Jordan hadn’t thought the kid could get anymore perky, but somehow he did. He patted a sleek black rifle a little larger than the M4. “I modified the M4 to fire a thirty-caliber Blackout AAC. You keep the same shell base, thus same bolt carrier group, magazine, etc. All that is needed is a barrel and chamber change, and viol
à
: stopping power and penetration of a heavier bullet without changing the familiarity of your weapon. I call it the XN8.”

“That might give us the edge we need. How many can I have, and when will they be ready?” Jordan asked.
 

“We have a demonstration ready and—”

“That’s not necessary. You’ve explained how the gun and the round work. This is what I need. Can I leave here with a case? I need to get back on-site for my op,” Jordan replied, cutting Lester off. The kid clearly wanted to say more but gave a heavy sigh instead.

“All right. We can skip the demo. I guess the pig would appreciate that, if no one else,” Lester said, offering Jordan the XN8. “You can take this one with you now. I’ve got another crate of eight I can have loaded on your departing flight. Was there anything else you needed?”
 

“Yeah, some luck,” Jordan replied, accepting the rifle. He set it gently in the rectangular case, settling the weapon into the foam before snapping the case shut. “Thanks, guys. These weapons are going to save lives.”

Jordan hoped that was true. He’d never seen anything like the monster in Peru. M4s hadn’t even slowed it down, though they had driven the creature off. That meant it feared pain and could probably be killed through conventional means. Guess Jordan was about to find out, assuming the thing came back to the pyramid. He walked back to the door, case in hand.
 

Jordan withdrew his smartphone and called the Director. “It’s done.”

Chapter 2- Prehistoric Aliens my Ass

2,600 BCE. Blair wrote the words out laboriously, fingers cramping around the tiny nub of chalk. He underlined the date, turning to face rows of disengaged freshmen. Santa Rosa JC’s finest. The back rows shot clandestine gazes at smartphones under their desks, either not knowing or not caring that Blair could see. If today’s lesson didn’t grab them, they’d be the ones who dropped.