The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1) Page 4

  "Like hell I'm lying." Clover hoped the blood she tasted made her bared teeth seem more menacing.

  Montgomery released her neck, moving his hands to the floor on either side of her, steadying himself and by extension her knife, but he never looked away from her. Even with the throbbing in her head, she recognized the intensity in his eyes. She had him, but only tentatively. Because she knew that, she also knew she couldn’t let him go, and with her head pounding and spinning the way it was, she accepted that she had only one choice. Quickly, before he could pull away, she moved the crook of her elbow to the back of Montgomery’s neck, pressing the knife into him until he winced.

  "Now help me stand up."

  Her stomach turned when he put a hand against her lower back to lift her, but she saw the same disgust mirrored in the green eyes that were locked with hers, and somehow that made it a little better. Once on her feet, she blinked her eyes back into focus, caught her breath, then spoke quietly to keep her head from pounding more than it already was.

  "I know who you are, Montgomery," she said, her words still a little slurred. "And I've just turned you into a werewolf." She felt his chest still heaving from their fray. "Unless you want to stay a werewolf, you're going to do everything I tell you. Understand?"

  "You're lying." A hand moved to grab her upper arm, only the bulk of her sweater keeping his fingers from encompassing it completely. "If you've really changed me, then I have no reason to listen to you. There isn’t a cure."

  Clover scoffed in his face, hoping to sound believable. It was a risky lie. Montgomery was right, of course. There was no cure once a person had been changed, but the Bureau had focused their efforts so entirely on eradicating werewolves that they spent little to no understanding them. She hoped he wouldn't know any better. Of course, the lie was even deeper, considering he'd not actually been infected at all. It seemed that another of Clover's gambles had paid off. His body was shaking. It was subtle, but she could feel it where her arm draped over his shoulders.

  "You think you know more about werewolves than we do? Don't insult me."

  Finally overcome by his body heat, she unwound her arm from his neck and shoved him toward the wall, her own legs barely keeping her up. She could still feel the places their bodies had touched and felt the urge to clean herself. He was the worst type of human, and now she could smell him on herself.

  "Turn around," she demanded, yanking on his shoulder until he complied.

  "I'm going to turn you in for this," he said, at the same time doing as he was told.

  "Yeah, you do that." Clover pulled a zip-tie from her back pocket. At least she’d had that much in her satchel "And when they come to get me, they can take you too.”

  Yanking both of his hands behind his back, she wrapped the zip-tie around his thumbs and pulled it tight. A rush of excitement flooded her as she looked at his bound hands. She had him. He was trapped and he was hers, but she knew she had to keep that fear in him fresh to control him.

  "You don't really think they'd make an exception for you, do you?” she asked when he failed to respond. "Please." Her mind started to clear as she shoved him toward the stairs. "Your own father would put a bullet in your brain if he knew you were a wolf. Now go upstairs and find your phone. We have a call to make."

  "Just because monsters like you don't value life—"

  "Shut up!" Clover jabbed the tip of her knife against his side as a warning. "Call me a monster again and see what happens.”

  The sense of power Clover felt made her previous worries seem insignificant as she forced this man, who in any other circumstance could overpower her, into his own bedroom. With this obstacle out of her way, the rest of her mission seemed so clear. She'd passed her point of no return and she was okay. Once in the bedroom, her new prisoner made his way to the side table where his phone sat charging. Clover gave him a shove, forcing him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

  "You're gonna be skipping work tomorrow," Clover informed him, holding the knife close to his chin as she snagged his phone with her free hand. “Who do you need to call to make that happen?"

  Montgomery didn't retaliate, but sat brooding as he watched her flip through his contacts. She could tell he was torn between his options, glaring at his scrawny captor and gauging his chances of overpowering her while she was armed with a knife. Seeming to come to the conclusion that he would not be able to win in his current state, he conceded.

  "My father," he mumbled, rolling his injured shoulder as blood wicked into his shirt.

  "You're gonna tell him you won't be in. And you're gonna come up with an excuse he'll believe, you got it?"

  Her prisoner's sharp eyes watched her defiantly, and with her head still power-swollen she jabbed the butt of her knife into the bite wound she'd left on his shoulder, making him grunt and jerk away.

  "You got it?" Her words sounded hateful, even in her own ears.

  "Yes," was all he forced through his teeth.

  Clover, like many of her pack-mates, had stolen her fair share of cell phones throughout the years. They were easy to sell. Her mother—a talented pick pocket—used to let her play with them for a while before pawning them. She was glad she’d learned to use them now as she located Montgomery Senior's number in the contacts, listed under "Dad," and started the call. Holding the phone to her prisoner's ear with one hand she kept the edge of the knife resting at his Adam's apple with the other.

  The room was silent, the air around them heavy with the oppressive hatred they shared for each other. It was a relief when she heard the quiet sound of someone picking up on the other end of the line. With her head still pounding she wasn’t able to make out the voice on the other end.

  "Dad, it's Elliot." Montgomery’s voice was steady and conversational, but his stare stayed furiously trained on Clover. "Yeah, I know it's late," he continued. "I wanted to see if I could take off tomorrow."

  There was a pause while the voice on the other end seemed to scold him. The idea of her hostage, who she now knew went by his middle name, disappointing his father satisfied her.

  "Yeah, Dad, I know," Elliot continued, "but I need to make a trip to the hospital tomorrow. No, I'm fine." Then his eyes were smiling at her. "I had a run in with a stray dog on my way home and was bitten," Elliot said, putting emphasis on the word ''dog,' seeming to know it would get under his captor's skin. "The bite's not bad, but the dog was filthy. It looked like it had mange or something. I want to get checked out to make sure I didn't catch anything."

  Clover felt the heat of anger rise in her face, and she could tell by Elliot's smug expression that he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he was enjoying himself.

  "Alright, yeah, I'm sorry. Okay, goodnight."

  Once the call ended, Clover caught her captive’s brow with the cell phone, using it as a bludgeon. He toppled back onto the mattress, then his leg hooked her behind her knees, sweeping her feet out from under her. Before she could orient herself, he'd thrown his body down on top of hers. He was heavy, and she could feel her breath being squeezed from her chest. While her legs were useless, her arms were free, and a moment later she had a fistful of his hair and the tip of her knife broke skin at his side.

  "Get the hell off me." She twisted the blade to make her point.

  He jerked away, shouting, and Clover was on her feet immediately, enraged and embarrassed. Using his hair as a handle, she forced him to his feet and dragged him to the bathroom where she pushed him unceremoniously into the tub.

  While he was busy thrashing in an attempt to right himself, she stripped the small room of anything that wasn't bolted to the ground. Then she stood over him.

  "You’ll be staying in here tonight." She'd never heard herself sounding so authoritative. "Since werewolves are animals, according to you, you can get used to sleeping like one." Clover turned to leave, then paused at the toilet, lifting the seat up. "In case you have to take a leak" Something that must have been pure hatred glowed behind the green of his eyes
and a thrill of excitement washed over her. "Sweet dreams, dog."

  - 07 -

  The jolt that woke Clover left her feeling prickly and chilled all over. She sat slouched in one of the cushioned chairs in the downstairs sitting room, a bag of chips spilling over her lap. She’d fallen asleep with one still in her hand. Before her head had fully cleared she was out of her chair—the chips scattering over the expensive carpet. She ran to the front door. It was locked, and through the colored glass she saw that even the sidewalk was quiet. Next she checked the back door. Save for the broken window, it was secure. The chair she’d used to jam the bathroom door was also in place when she got upstairs.

  In the light of a new morning, and with the high of adrenaline out of her system, Clover realized her tenuous position. She'd walked away from the safety-net of her pack, had the son of the most powerful man in the Bureau tied up in his own bathroom, was making deals with Fisher, a known fugitive, and to make matters worse, hadn't found anything to pay said fugitive off with. She'd effectively caught the snake by the head, but was now stuck holding onto it, not sure where to put it, and too afraid to let it go.

  After securing the house, which consisted of compulsively rechecking each entrance and window, she set to work finding loot. For all the opulence inside Elliot's home, she had very little luck. The furniture was nice, but it would've been stupid to drag a sofa across town, and she doubted Fisher would be interested in interior design anyway. Upstairs, in a drawer full of ties, she found a collection of fancy-looking watches. Most were gold, and while she couldn't tell whether they were genuine or not, there were others with bands made of real leather, which were always good for a few bucks. Others had beveled, crystal faces or were studded with little stones she thought might be diamonds. She hoped they were as expensive as they looked.

  Before she left, she thought to check in on Elliot. The small room had been silent all morning—it made her nervous. Holding her ear to the door, she hoped to hear something, any sound that meant she'd not killed him by accident. Had she cut him more deeply than she meant to? Had he bled out? Had she given him a concussion when she’d pushed him into the tub? Of course, he could be faking it. She decided it would be best if he didn't know she was leaving the house. She figured if he was a corpse, she'd cross that bridge when she got back.

  With her hands full of watches, she forced herself away from the bathroom door, only pausing when she crossed the path of the dressing room mirror that hung on the back of the open door. Many of her pack-mates kept small hand mirrors, but being able to see herself so fully reminded her why she didn't. She was used to not bathing regularly, but now, on the backdrop of the neat home she looked particularly filthy. Her clothes were ill fitting and looked as bad as they smelled. In her maze of freight cars, the stink of too many bodies and dirty laundry was so pervasive that her senses omitted the sour odor. But here, with the clean linens and circulated air, she could smell herself.

  Noticing a spot on her cheek, she stepped closer to the mirror. The warm, brown tone of her skin looked blotchy for a moment, then she realized that Elliot’s blood had dried there. A wave of disgust shocked her system and she scrubbed at it with her hand, licking her fingers in an attempt to clean it off. She really did look like a monster standing in that room.

  With her face clean she used her fingers to try and detangle the mess her hair had become, then gave up when she realized she was preening. Who was she trying to impress?

  Downstairs, she found a leather case by the front door. When a peek inside revealed a sleek laptop, she dumped the watches in next to it and brought it along, knowing electronics were easy to sell.

  Clover had gotten her fill of public places, and was anxious before she’d even arrived to her meeting with Fisher. She wasn't new to the subway system, but only ever went for the easy pick-pocketing. She wasn’t stupid enough to ever get on the train. She didn’t like the subway, but Fisher never gave out his personal address, so meeting at his rendezvous location was Clover’s only choice.

  She knew that if she took too long, all she would find was an empty bench, and she didn't have time for rescheduling just because she was nervous. Vaguely, she remembered being taken into a cramped apartment when she was little, before her younger siblings had been born. Fisher had been there and, sometimes, she wondered if her parents hadn't been closer to the man than she realized. The idea that her parents had been in the secret home of a man she knew specialized in forgery, along with a slew of other illegal practices, was strangely thrilling.

  The streets were quiet as she made her way toward the tall buildings of downtown. It was Tuesday and still mid-morning, meaning people were stuck in their offices. She wondered if he'd chosen that particular station because it was located in the middle of a business district, which meant less traffic from shoppers. Still, she hoped their meeting would be quick—there would be a surge of traffic during lunch hours and she didn’t want to risk the extra eyes after her close call with Rainer and his Bureau agents.

  The streets were quiet, and she dipped down alleys to avoid cameras. Everything ran smoothly but her heart still fluttered. She was nervous—scared, even. And as she caught sight of the station entrance, she felt her body seize. All at once her skin was damp, her fingers and knees shaking. It was hardly noticeable at first—the soft, tinny scraping of Bureau-issued boot tread that had been burned into her brain. Her mind raced faster than her heart, wondering if she should run or wait to talk her way out, but the sound was getting louder. It was a strange, uneven gate, but he was fast, running, and she knew that agents only ran when they were on your scent. She swallowed the urge to throw up, but then the agent was just behind her. She spun, her arms swinging wide, prepared to fight the agent off—the agent that she knew was going to be Rainer with his steel eyes and inexhaustible physique.

  It was an empty soda can the wind was blowing along the curb. No one was following her.

  Inside the subway, she tried to recover from her scare on the street. She was embarrassed, and now that her footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty stairwell, she thought a crowd might be comforting for a change. The long, straight stairway that was often packed wall-to-wall with commuters was eerie now that it was empty.

  After sliding over the turnstile, afraid of her landing feet making too much noise, she made her way onto the main platform and realized that Fisher's choice made more sense than she’d given him credit for. On this lower level there were a few commuters, but after an uninterested glance they paid little attention to her, and she understood why.

  Homeless men and women lined the walls on either side of the platform, no doubt using the underground space to fend off the cold wind that still blew outside. The established lean-tos and tents gave the impression that this was a well-known refuge. That also meant the Bureau likely made rounds in the area, testing the squatters to be sure they were human.

  Ignored, she made her way down the platform, scanning the haggard faces, wondering where she should settle to wait for Fisher. How had she missed them when she was last there? Had the sea of people blocked the tiny refugee camp with so little effort? Several of the more delirious individuals sat alone, but most huddled together, sharing food and body heat. From the center of one group, a woman nursing a dirty-looking baby caught Clover's eye and she realized how like her pack they were. She wondered if they hated werewolves humans in better circumstances did.

  "Psst," a white haired man sat hissing at her as she pulled her attention away from the mother and child.

  It was Fisher, but it was Fisher with a believable beard glued to his chin and cheeks. She had the inappropriate urge to laugh at him. He certainly looked the part he was playing, and she thought this must be how he'd avoided capture for so many years.

  "You look cold," he said, making his voice older than usual, "Wanna come warm yourself with a lonely old man like me?"

  Clover stared at him a second, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her, then sat down besid
e him. "You better be careful," she murmured, "you sound like a sketchy pervert when you say it like that."

  "I hate to break it to you, kid, but I am a sketchy pervert." Fisher’s voice was less shaky now that their conversation was private. "I'd be lying if I said I'd never taken questionable favors as payment before, and if that scares you, then you're in the wrong business."

  Clover was silent. She wasn't sure what to say to this man who suddenly seemed too close to her. She felt her palms begin to sweat where she was holding the stiff strap of the attaché case.

  "Don't look so worried," Fisher said with a sigh, propping his forearms on his bent knees. “I'd go to Hell tomorrow if I laid an ill-mannered hand on Wes and Laurel's daughter."

  "Ew," was the first thing Clover thought to say, then, "Did you bring them?"

  "I did," the older man answered, seeming unbothered by Clover's disgust, "but we still need to talk about payment."

  It wasn't surprising that Fisher was more worried about his payment than he was about helping the child of his missing friend, if that was even what they had been. She understood that even pack bonds had narrow limits, and that this man had no real obligation to help her. He was human, after all. Pulling the case into her lap, she started removing the watches, some of which were still in velvet boxes. She'd counted ten in all by the time she'd emptied her haul into Fisher's lap. One at a time, the watches were surveyed with dirty, wrinkled hands. He seemed to be looking for branding. He also didn't seem very impressed.

  "I also have a laptop," Clover interrupted his inspection, "and this bag if it’s worth anything. I'm sure it's real leather."

  "Hm," was all her informant said as he took the bag from her, pulling out the lap top and turning it over in his hands. “It works?"