Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

Two Fingers gave him another kick to the ribs and The Huge Man punched him again in the face. But Max would not let go, he would die trying to rip the kneecap from the leg of the man. The man punched him hard, sending white flashes sparking behind his eyes. A fury burst within the heart of the dog and he crushed down so hard the man screamed. Two Fingers kicked Max in the neck.

Max ignored him.

Two Fingers pulled out a knife, dropped the stick and raised his hand up over his head preparing to strike.

Max smelled the man at the same time he saw him. It was the man that killed the bear and he was standing behind Two Fingers. He grabbed Two Fingers from behind, bending his arm back and down, striking the forearm against his knee. The knife fell to the snow and the man threw Two Fingers into the side of the building.

The Bear Killer spun, swinging at The Huge Man who Max still held by the knee. There was a meaty smack and The Huge Man sagged to the snow.

Max gave The Huge Man’s knee another shake, released him and fell flat, his strength gone. From where he lay he saw Two Fingers pull out a gun and point it at the Bear Killer. But the Bear Killer was faster. There was a flash, a loud crack, and a hole appeared in Two Fingers’ coat at the shoulder. He fell back — a shocked look stamped on his face — and slumped against the smoking wood of the building.

A darkness blacker than the smoke smothered Max. The last thing he saw was the Bear Killer looking down into his eyes. Max looked up at him. He would have bit him in the face, but the darkness was too thick and it carried him into unconsciousness.

Sleep

Max awoke from the dream of his past as the Alpha opened the front door of the car. He remembered Two Fingers and The Huge Man, and he knew the Alpha was different from these men.

Max didn’t want to kill the Alpha; he just wanted to be the Alpha.

17

Gil

I took an Uber back to my car. Max was asleep in the backseat. He looked up at me, yawned and stared out the rear window. I drove to my office. On the way I contemplated Mr. Spock and his black suited friends. What kind of thugs drove around in a limo and suits? Who did these guys think they were… Ocean’s Eleven?

Hmm. That did give me an idea. Mr. Spock said his employers were very dangerous and had a far reach. Usually when bad guys talk like that they’re talking organization. As in The Mob, The Mafia, The God Father, The Sopranos, the notorious Black Hand of Italy. He couldn’t be serious.

On the other hand there was certainly organized crime still going on. Lots of it. There was the Russian Mafia, the Chinese Mafia, even the Mexican Mafia. Not to mention gangs like MS-13, the Crips and Bloods and the Latin Kings. Biker gangs, Aryan Nation, KKK. But Italian Mafia? Here in Colorado? I just couldn’t get my head around that. What could Shane Franklin possibly have done to get involved with something this big?

The price of office space in downtown Denver is nearly as astronomical as that of the housing market. I could go smaller and cheaper, but I like the place, so I stay. Besides, Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, Batman his Bat Cave, President Trump his Tower. Me, I have 20th and Blake.

Max took the stairs with me at a perfect heel and we entered Sheepdog Detective Agency at exactly the same time.

“Hi, Boss,” said Yolanda. She’s a sweet little thing, all of five feet tall, with long, jet-black hair, glasses, fifty-two years old and blessed with the spicy disposition of a habanero pepper.

She knows I hate to be called boss.

“Hi, Yo-Yo.” She loves it when I call her that.

She said something to me in Spanish I didn’t understand. I hate bi-lingual people.

I said, “What?”

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I said something to her in German.

She said, “What?”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. She gave me a look that would shred tungsten. No courage problem with Yolanda.

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

“The President called. He wants you to assume command of the CIA.”

She’s funny like that. “I took on a new case today.”

“You’re working nine cases already. You don’t have time for another one.”

“Most of those are pretty much wrapped up, and I’m waiting on results from CBI on the others.”

Yolanda started going through papers. She looked at me over her glasses. “So what is it?”

“Missing teenager.”

“Oh great.”

I took a deep breath — let it out. “Yeah.”

She raised one eyebrow. I love it when she does that.

“I remember the last one,” she said.

I nodded. “Yeah, so do I.”

“Tell them no. You’re too busy. Send them to another agency.”

I sighed. I hate sighing, but it seemed appropriate. “I can’t. It’s too late.”

Suit yourself. It’s your funeral. But don’t come crying to me when you start pulling your hair out and croak from a massive coronary because of the stress.”

She wagged a finger at me. “You think being all healthy and in good shape will save you. Pah! Stress doesn’t care about shape. It gets you from the inside. You think you’re big — muscle bound. Means nothing. My uncle Carlos was a mountain of a man, two — maybe three of you. With arms like that Terminator Governor of California. Waist like a ballerina. But his wife, my aunt Lucinda, was a she-devil.” She curved her hand into a mouth shape moving the fingers up and down rapidly against her thumb. “Nag-nag-nag, all day and night.” She went back to her papers. “Dead at thirty. Stress.”

I started to say something, but she interrupted by looking over her glasses again. “And you’re no spring chicken.”

I thought about