Sleeping dogs, p.21
Sleeping Dogs, page 21
The wolf was maybe ten feet away from me—about the same as the man, but to the left.
A deadly triangle.
Who to shoot first?
If I took out the wolf, the man would have a chance to turn, his rifle already up. I might be able to hit him before he got a shot off. I know my skills. The problem was, I didn’t know his. Plus, I knew how dangerous the wolf was. I wouldn’t feel comfortable without putting at least two rounds into him … and I’d prefer three … maybe four … maybe a lot more. Every shot would take time, giving the man more chances to put sharp, pointed pieces of copper-jacketed lead into me.
The other side of the coin was just as dangerous. If I took out the man, it would give the wolf its opportunity to attack. As fast as I knew I was, I doubted I was quick enough to shoot the man and get a bullet into the wolf before he got to me. I’d already gone a round with him, and frankly, I didn’t want another hand-to-fang rematch.
I’d rather just shoot him.
A decision was required. But truth be told, it really wasn’t that hard. The wolf had killed Max, so no matter what, he had to die.
I moved the sights to the wolf and pulled the trigger.
But the wolf was already attacking, and I hadn’t even seen him move.
Marco turned slowly, first his head and then his body, his rifle pointing, ready to fire. But he was too late. The wolf hit him full force in the chest, knocking the rifle from his hands. The strap kept it close to him, but the creature’s fangs ripping into his jaw and throat made him completely forget he had it.
Somewhere in the melee, his ears registered a gunshot, but it seemed to be coming from another world.
Pain was an old companion. He’d been shot three times, suffered shrapnel wounds from a grenade, taken a machete strike to the ribs and a host of minor punctures and slashes and strikes and punches and kicks and tumbles.
But this pain was different. He couldn’t say exactly why; maybe it was the eyes staring into his as the terrible teeth sank into his flesh. Or perhaps it was the hot breath pushing against his face as the intense pressure closed in on him. Maybe it was the combined jolt of the impact to his core, like getting hit by a speeding car—an unimaginable shock to his system—along with the horror of a living animal trying to eat him alive. Whatever it was, it was different—worse than the bullets or the shrapnel or even the machete.
As an adult man, Marco had never screamed due to pain or fear.
But this time, he did.
He screamed.
Fear overrode his training.
It overrode his courage.
It overrode his entire thought process.
On his person was a knife, a pistol, a rifle.
He had mastered them all.
He thought of none of them.
He was no longer thinking at all.
He was operating on primal instinct alone. Flight or fight had kicked on in full force, and even though in the past, fight had always taken over, it wasn’t to be this time. Because this truly was different. His brain had shunted from the frontal lobe, back to survival, and survival demanded that he flee, forgoing all defense, knowing only that he was being devoured and that he had to get away.
He tried to run, but the waist-high snow held him in place as the wolf crushed down.
Marco screamed a second time, his hands flailing helplessly, grabbing at handfuls of fur.
His knees unhinged, and he flopped onto his back, the wolf on top. The wolf’s mouth came away. Blood—Marco’s blood—rained from its teeth and lips, falling into Marco’s eyes.
Blinking it away, he saw the giant head striking down.
Death.
Coming for him at last.
It happened so fast I didn’t even see it. The wolf was there … and then he wasn’t. My bullet struck the snow where he had been. I heard a scream and swiveled back to the man. He was on his back in the snow, the wolf on top of him.
Impossible.
Too fast to be believed.
I heard the man scream again and put my rifle on them.
I would just shoot them both.
The wolf watched both men, and then the one he had fought before turned ever so slightly toward him, triggering his survival instincts. Before the turn was complete, he exploded into the other man, hitting him full in the chest and biting him in the face. They fell back into the snow, and the man tried to put his hands up in defense, but the wolf was not to be stopped. He ducked under and ripped into the man’s chest, tasting the blood and the fear.
The man screamed.
The wolf released and launched at the man he had fought before.
Aiming at his throat.
I took aim, my finger pulling back on the trigger. But then something about the scream registered.
Marco?
That moment of hesitation both saved Marco’s life and almost ended mine. As my rifle lowered, the wolf launched into me. I tried to get the muzzle into his chest, but he was too fast. His teeth rushed for my throat as I continued the upward swing of the rifle, thrusting the metal flash suppressor up into his lower jaw, effectively jamming his mouth shut. I heard his teeth snap like a bear trap, slicing right through my rifle sling, and felt the impact as his snout and chest crashed into me. The AR went spinning out of my hands, disappearing somewhere in the night. I grabbed the wolf by the jowls on both sides of his neck and head and let the momentum of the impact carry us over and to the side, throwing in a little hip and performing a near-perfect Judo throw.
It was what we in the K9 community call an alpha roll. We use it when a canine attacks the handler for whatever reason. It’s tricky, dangerous, and often painful. But when it works … it works.
However, I’d never tried it on a giant feral wolf before.
I landed on top of him, his neck twisting and his teeth snapping. He writhed and tried to flip while at the same time trying to catch my wrist, forearms, and fingers. His legs flailed, his claws—I don’t say nails because they were literally the claws of a werewolf—raked at me, shredding my coat and pants and bringing blood to my thighs and arms.
But I held on, thanking the good Lord that I’d kept up with my physical fitness. It took every bit of my strength to hold him down. The snow, slowly compacting beneath his head, shoulders, and back, helped by hindering his thrashing.
The usual steps in an alpha roll are the grab, the toss, and the mount, followed by screaming into the dog’s face, “NO” or “NEIN” (German for no) or “PHOOY.” We shake the animal’s head up and down until it tucks its tail between its legs and it rolls its eyes away, showing subservience.
I was at the shaking and screaming stage of the movement but somehow didn’t think that part was going to work.
Not with this creature.
No. This animal was the apex predator of these woods, and only in death would he relinquish his alpha position.
So, in effect, I wasn’t actually performing an alpha roll—it was more of a survival roll. And the finishing point would be to put a bullet through its giant skull.
I couldn’t afford to release a hand and go for a gun, so I did the next best thing.
I screamed for help.
“Marco!”
Two Fingers and his men had been blundering through the blizzard blindly. They hadn’t heard or seen the man they were chasing for nearly ten minutes, and he was afraid they’d lost him, but then a rifle shot sounded from below, making him grin. He sent three soldiers on up ahead, the rest of his men and himself following.
It was time to finish this.
The snow and the wind disturbed sounds just as they did scents. Max was moving as fast as he dared. He didn’t want to overshoot them again. But the gunfire had stopped, and the wind was so powerful he hadn’t been able to pick up any odor.
Genetic instinct and survival hunting had taught him that quartering in circles was the best bet in these situations. But the pitch of the slope, combined with chest-deep snow, made that technique extremely difficult and used up an incredible amount of energy.
The cold was becoming a real danger. He should seek shelter, but of course, that was not going to happen.
As he turned, a gust of wind pushed him nearly off his feet so that he had to stagger against the side of the mountain to keep from losing his footing. A slight hollow had been carved in the cliffside, not enough to be called a cave, but enough to catch and hold odor. Max breathed deep and caught the familiar scent again.
Not the Great Gray Wolf this time.
And not the army of enemies either.
It was the Alpha.
Max moved carefully along the wall, sucking in the scents, trailing their movements until they broke from cover and pointed in a direction before scattering in the wind.
He was just about to start when the gunshot broke through the banshee wail of the storm.
And it came from the direction the scent had led.
Max bolted, racing through the snow.
44
Marco turned to his belly and pushed up. Black streams poured from his face to the snow, and after a few seconds, he realized what the black streams were.
Blood.
His blood.
Why was he still alive?
He remembered the men chasing him, the wolf hitting him, the gunshot, pain, and fear.
I should be dead, he thought, but then he heard someone screaming his name, and he saw someone kneeling in the snow. He scrambled for his pistol.
“Marco!” he heard through the storm. It was the American. “Get over here and kill this thing!”
Marco stood. It took great effort, and the world tilted, but he made it. He took a step, then another, and now he could see that the American was on top of something—something fighting—something that wasn’t a man.
The wolf.
He ran the rest of the way, pointing the gun.
As he made it to Gil’s side, he saw the thrashing monster pinned under him, nearly buried in the snow.
Extending his arms, he took careful aim.
“Don’t miss! Don’t hit me,” said the American.
“No,” said Marco, thinking of what might happen to him if the monster got away again. “I won’t miss.”
My forearms, wrists, and fingers were burning. The wolf’s strength and ferocity were unmatchable. Of course, I’d once thought that of Max. But Max was gone now, and this creature was responsible.
Marco made it to my side. I almost didn’t want him to shoot it. I wanted to choke the life out of it. I wanted to feel it die beneath my fingers.
But that was stupid.
I was almost done … nearly spent.
If the wolf got out of my grip, it would be bad—messy. I’d still kill it. Nothing was going to stop me from avenging Max, but I’d probably have to go for my buckle knife instead of my Smith & Wesson due to distance and the wolf’s speed, and the buckle knife was short. The wolf would hurt me, maybe kill me, but it would die too. I’d make sure of that.
And that was all that mattered.
So, instead of telling Marco to let me finish it, I told him not to miss.
He pointed the gun at the wolf’s face.
I tried to hold it as still as possible, but it was a brute, and the wind and the snow were blinding. Marco was pretty messed up, but I’d seen Marco in action, so I trusted him.
I gripped with all my strength … and hoped he wouldn’t take off a finger.
Two Fingers had his men spread out through the trees, holding at about five meters apart to avoid losing contact in the storm. He tried to keep them in ranks, staying as even as possible, but they were not real soldiers in a real army, practicing drill movements every day. And those that had been in the military at one time had forgotten what little drill they’d learned. Added to that were the depth of the snow and the bashing of the elements.
They could barely hear Two Fingers’ orders, even with the radios. So, they wavered, and they moved, and their line curved and swayed across the slope and between the trees.
Later, Two Fingers would think that they could have taken them alive if only he had kept the line even. They would have captured both men and obliterated the wolf. Instead, Two Fingers’ first man to see them was nearly fifteen meters from the next.
Two Fingers had ordered his men not to shoot until contacting him, but a break in the snow gave the man a shot.
And he took it.
Marco felt the bullet take him in the upper right thigh just one instant before he could pull the trigger. The impact threw him off balance preventing him from taking the shot—the American was too close.
Not only did the bullet throw him off balance—it hurt—a lot.
Jerking back in the direction of the sound of the shot, he sprayed the trees until he saw a muzzle flash and felt something wicked move past his face. Sighting in, he cranked off five quick shots. A man screamed and, through the slashing snow, Marco thought he saw something fall by a tree. He put three more bullets into what he hoped was the shooter and turned back to Gil and the wolf.
But he was too late.
The wolf reacted in fear—something he had never done before—but he found himself pinned to the ground on his back, his jaws and teeth powerless, kept in check by mere hands that were capable of holding him in place.
He scrambled with his paws, scratching, clawing, and tearing, but the man would not release him. Another human came running up, pointing a rifle at his face, but then, a shot sounded, and the man stumbled back and out of the wolf’s line of sight.
The man holding him was weakening.
The wolf could feel it in the trembling hands and forearms.
This was his chance.
The wolf jerked, first to one side, then to the other, and the man’s grip lessened.
He twisted again, this time to the opposite side, and one hand slid off.
The wolf went for the wrist of the hand that still held him and clamped down, just as something sharp ripped into his ribs. He crushed down with his teeth, felt a knife pull free from his body, and then stab back into his shoulder.
Letting go of the wrist, he spun and bolted, surging out of the snow hole. Pivoting, he faced the man.
Rage flooded the wolf. He wanted to attack, to kill, to utterly destroy the human who had dared to trap him—to hurt him. But then he heard the soldiers approaching, and there was still the other man.
The human with the knife advanced.
Instinct demanded he run now and return later to attack from cover when the odds were in his favor. His entire life experience told him this was the thing to do.
But the man raised the stubby knife, and the wolf saw his own blood on the blade.
Instinct and experience gave place to rage.
My hand slipped, and suddenly the monster had my wrist in his mouth. My coat helped—saved me, really—but the pain was mind-numbing. I’ve been dog-bit before in my career, and not just a few times, but the pressure the wolf inflicted was something else. I felt my bones compress, threatening to snap.
The buckle knife slid free, and I thrust it into his ribs. It was only a couple of inches long—too short to reach his heart or organs—but it had width. Surely it would hurt almost as bad as he was hurting me.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Max leap into the air as the wolf seized him and then ripped out his throat.
I pulled out the knife and shoved it at the wolf’s chest, but he moved, and I missed, stabbing him in the shoulder instead.
And suddenly he was gone.
I don’t know how it happened.
I was on him, my wrist in his mouth and my knife in his shoulder, and then he just wasn’t.
The hole in the snow was empty.
Spooky.
Reminded me of Max.
That made me mad.
And there was the wolf, standing in front of me.
I had time. I could reach back and pull out my Smith & Wesson 4506, shoot him dead. I could do it. I should do it.
But, like I said, I was mad. I kept seeing Max. I kept seeing him lying there. Dead.
So, instead of doing what I should have done, I took a step and raised the knife so the wolf would see it.
He saw it.
Only it didn’t end the way I’d planned.
Max ignored the snow now. He ignored the heaving in his chest as his lungs combated both exhaustion and the cold. He ignored the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the wind and the ice in his face.
A massive flurry of gunfire ahead spurred him to ignore all but finding the Alpha. And as he raced through the wind, moving ever closer, another scent registered. A scent that intermixed with the Alpha’s—the Great Gray Wolf.
Max ran faster.
Two Fingers smashed hard against a tree. He’d slipped and almost gone down, but with the help of the tree, he maintained his balance. The storm was extraordinarily intense, even for these mountains and this time of year. He pulled his goggles up, hoping it would help, but it only made things worse. His ski goggles were the blue-blocking type that helped with both the dark and the snow. Sliding them back in place, he caught movement down below. An instant later, gunfire ratcheted the woods, and splinters of bark pelted him. At first, he thought he’d been hit, but it was just the wood. He heard a man scream five trees away, almost parallel to him. The man dropped to the ground, and two more shots rang out.
“I’m throwing a flare,” he said into the radio. “As soon as it lands, concentrate your fire on anything that moves down there.”
He popped a flare and threw it fast toward where he’d heard the shots.
Blazing red light cut through the raging snow and landed next to a man, outlining him in the scarlet glow.
“FIRE!” yelled Two Fingers.
Four rifles roared in unison.
The landscape lit up, bloody red, and I saw the wolf’s eyes glowing back at me like a demon from the pit. I saw his muscles bunching, his shoulders and haunches knotting and writhing, preparing to launch toward me. I’d witnessed his speed and strength and knew I was about to be hurt, maybe killed, but I was good with it …
