Chapter Twenty-Five: The Wolf
Nick shivered.
He was cold, and so was the trail.
The line of sporadic blood drips had dried up well over an hour ago. Now, he was just roaming the dark desert at random. Even if there was more blood on the ground, Nick probably wouldn't be able to see it. He could barely see three feet in front of him. His flashlight was back in the trunk of his car, and the moon was very inconveniently absent.
Every three seconds or so, Nick's ghostly breath misted the air in front of him, making visibility even worse.
His teeth clenched, fighting not to chatter.
He jammed his free hand in his pocket and marched onward.
After a while, he thought he saw something up ahead. Something big.
Nick froze. He held his breath, and squinted in the pale starlight.
It was tall. About the size and shape of a man, standing upright. A man with something small huddled near his feet…
Nick crept forward, his heart quick and eager. He raised his gun, aiming it directly at…
…The top of a giant, oblong boulder.
Nick sighed and let the gun fall back to his side. Already, he'd been fooled by a pair of oddly-shaped cacti. And now a rock?
The small object near its base turned out to be a spikey clump of knee-high vegetation. A Spanish Dagger plant. Nick kicked at it, brutally crunching several long, pointed leaves.
He took another step, and almost fell right on his face thanks to an untied shoelace.
Growling, Nick sank to the ground and set about retying the shoe. He tugged at the slippery laces fiercely, reminding himself why he could not give up yet.
If the witnesses identified him, he would have to cross the border.
If Brody's attacker got away, it wouldn't matter how many borders Nick crossed.
Someone, some way, had to pay for the death of the boss's son. If the real killer couldn't be punished, Nick might just be the next best thing. Technically, Brody's death had happened on Nick's watch…
Nick sighed again, hating his dead partner more than ever. He plucked his gun off the dirt and stood back up, bones creaking with cold.
He wondered how much time he had before this whole desert was twinkling with a hundred flashlight beams, or (if Blowtorch happened to be a really important guy) whitewashed with spotlights from helicopters.
A search party was inevitable. If Nick hadn't found the witnesses by then, his best chance was to blend in with the searchers.
It wouldn't be easy, considering what he was wearing right now.
Cops didn't wear Armani suits. Especially not while searching the desert.
Nick would need to look like the other officers. He'd have to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. And for that, he'd need a sheep…
Somewhere off in the distance, somewhere behind him, a faint sound stirred the night.
Nick turned. He cocked his head, listening intently.
It came again – a human voice calling out, its words indistinct.
A small white light winked on the dark horizon. Like a star, only earthbound.
Flashlight.
Nick swore silently and darted back to the boulder. He crouched behind it, waiting.
The voice wandered closer. Garbled syllables became clear words:
"Mr. Jane? Can you hear me? Mr. Jane!"
Only one voice, Nick realized. And he recognized it.
Moving stealthily, Nick put his gun away, and drew instead the long bowie knife strapped to his calf.
A bright beam skimmed across the ground. It hit the boulder, and paused. Light streamed past the rock on either side of Nick's shadowy hiding spot.
The young officer trotted forward, his footsteps crunching in the dirt.
"Mr. Jane…?"
Nick's fingers tightened around the hilt. He smiled into the night.
Hello, little lamb…