Lone Wolves - Aaron Solomon (popular books of all time TXT) 📗

Lone Wolves

Prologue

“We’re here.” Said Winston prodding me with a paw. Winston Sykes was my new group supervisor and handler for my first day aboard the DEA’s Task Force 1. They had sent us to Columbia, Some city 1000 miles or so from the border. Our target, Victor Steele, leader of one of the most sinister and vicious coyote drug cartels on the entire eastern seaboard. As the chopper hovered over the favela, I cocked my M4A1 rifle and hooked up to slowly rappel down to the patch of pure brown earth. Our orders were to bring in the target alive and conscious, but I was taking absolutely no chances. I would do whatever was necessary to preserve the lives of those on my team and make sure that every single one of us made it back safe and sound. All was quiet in the village on the east side of the city. We received a few glares from some of the villagers, but no real trouble. I radioed in to my fellow agent and longtime friend, Norman Hutch who was leading a group of officers of the local Columbian Police Force on the other side of town. “Delta-three-two, report.” “Three-two. Go ahead.” “We’re at the east end of the village. No sign of activity.” “Roger, one-three. Work your way towards me and head with your team upwind into the plume.” “Roger that. We’re moving out now. Out.” We continued walking until we came up on a small café somewhere in the village square. Inside, a gruff male voice was barking out orders in Spanish to someone behind the counter. We slowly began to stack up on either side of the door and prepared to enter. Winston kicked it in and we quickly stormed inside. The coyotes sitting at the tables threw up their paws in confusion and surprise. I looked around. There was a small room in the back, probably where the restrooms were located. I cautiously approached the door and peeked inside. Empty. Suddenly, there was a small click-click from behind me. I turned around, only to be met with a silver 50 caliber desert eagle pistol aimed right at my head. A large, heavyset coyote was smirking at me like a chessie cat. His teeth were crooked razor blades and a long, jagged scar plagued the right side of his face. I stared deep into his piercing pale blue eyes. His voice was cold and maniacal as he spoke. “No sir, your eyes don’t deceive you. Unfortunately, I am the last thing you will ever see.” He pulled the trigger. To mine and his surprise however, the bullet never came. Instead, there was another small click. Somehow, the bullet had jammed itself in the chamber. Now was my chance. I cocked my paw back and belted him with one good right hook square in his jaw. That really pissed him off. I could almost see the flames in his eyes as he took a step forward and tried to swing back at me. I grabbed his fist with a quick paw and returned with another hard punch which sent him crashing to the floor. He staggered to his feet and was just about to make a break for the exit when I tackled him hard to the pavement outside. “Show’s over, dickwad!” I growled, snapping on the paw cuffs. Hutch and the Columbian police were just now coming around the corner. I called it in. “Command, this is Delta-one-three. Package is secure. We’re code 4. Over.” “Roger, one-three. The skies are clear for extraction. That’s one for the books eh rook?” I smiled. “Easy day, command. Solomon out.” We hauled our catch to his feet and made our way to the chopper, all of us still in one piece. My training day was complete. Or so it seemed.

1 year later,

May 31, 2020

Springfield, Virginia

1

The clock buzzed me awake like an angry hornet. I sat up, focused on the bold red digits. 6:40 AM. I groaned and made my way to the wardrobe across the room. Slipping on a black leather jacket and some pressed jeans, I retrieved my Sig Sauer P226 pistol from my footlocker and grabbed my badge off the nightstand. I laced up my black dress boots and headed out the back door to my silver Infinite, Pearle who welcomed me as I hopped in for the short drive to headquarters, located just downtown. I arrived at 7:04 AM right on the dot. However to my surprise, the place was quiet, damn near empty. There was a small scrap of paper on the door. On it, a note read, “Arty’s Bar at 8:15. Bring your best street clothes.” I got back in my car and gingerly drove down Old Keene Road. I arrived minutes later, about a minute and a half early. After ditching Pearle in the lot, I put on my jacket and casually stroll inside. Hutch motioned me over to a table in the back corner of the room. I took a seat next to him and in front of Winston in the booth. “So, Devil Dog, how ya holdin up?” He asked in greeting. “I’m holding my end just fine.” I replied. “Gotta say, you look pretty good yourself.” “Devil Dog” was my new nickname guys around the agency now called me after the previous endeavor in Columbia. I had earned this title because I was always putting my life on the line as the team’s “Point man” and willing to sacrifice any and all for my squad mates. They also said it was because I actually looked more dog than wolf. My fur was all light brown, almost red and really the only wolf feature that stood out were my pair of golden brown eyes that glistened like the setting sun when I looked in a mirror. Two minutes later, the waitress finally arrived with our drinks. I ordered just a coke with a small shot of brandy. I wasn’t really much of a heavy drinker so I always went soft. We held our glasses in the air and brought them together with a light cling. “To Devil Dog.” Said Winston. “To Devil Dog.” The both repeated in unison. I beamed with pride. I had never before felt so welcomed.

2

I got home around 4:13 PM after a long day of celebrating. It was now time to wind down and catch a few hours of rest for both the day and night. Soon enough, that all was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. I snatched it up and answered, “Yeah?” A deep malevolent voice came over the other end who I recognized almost instantly. “Is this agent Solomon’s residence?” The voice asked. “How the hell did you get this number, Steele?! And most importantly, how are you out?” I said in a firm tone, reaching for my gun. Steele chuckled maniacally. “I have my secrets.” “What do you want?” “To talk.” He said. “Tell me, how are your lovely friends holding up?” I snarled. “You come anywhere near them and I swear to god…” He hung up. I sat down, trying desperately to calm my nerves. Victor Steele? Out of prison? This can’t be real. I thought before I drifted into sleep. But it was. The hunt for Steele was on yet again.

3

The phone rang. This time at 6:30 AM, Hutch’s cheery voice came over the other end. “Hey DD. What’s up?” “Nothing much really. You?” I replied. “Same.” He said. “Wanna grab a bite to eat?” “Sounds good.” I answered. “See ya soon.” We both hung up. Hutch and I almost always hung out on the weekends. The one thing about him though, he was the kind of wolf you could go to with anything under the sun and always be a shoulder to cry on when you need one. No matter what the issue, he always had some way of making you smile every time in the end. After clipping on and concealing my gun and badge, I slipped on a denim jacket and headed outside to Pearle. It was a hot and muggy June day. The sun made Pearle’s door handle feel like hot charcoals on my paw. I arrived at 7:30. Hutch was sitting on the steps of his apartment when I pulled up. “So, what’s been goin on lately?” He asked when he got in. I scoffed. “Besides biddy boo getting out of the pen?” “What?! How?” He asked shocked. “Don’t know. Called me last night. Sounded real urgent.” “Yeah, no shit.” Hutch replied. “For all we know, we could be dealing with a cop killer here.” We pulled up at someplace called Sweet’s Bar and Grill and parked Pearle in front before walking inside. The bar was quiet for the most part. Nothing more than a lonely stereo playing 2000s songs somewhere in the corner. We sat down in a booth in the back corner and looked around. There were plenty of girls around. Most had mates that looked like Arnold Swartznegger’s bodyguards. Suddenly, the front door opened and everyone turned their heads as a group of coyotes dressed in all black swaggered in. Just then, my mind flashed back to the café in Columbia. My paw hovered instantly over my gun. I looked up just in time to see the lead coyote reaching for something. “Get down!” I yelled, grabbing Hutch. We dived quickly behind the booth as bullets bounced like Mexican jumping beans off the walls and tables in front of us. A dozen screams rang out. Gun drawn, I cautiously peeked out from behind the booth and blindly fired back four shots at the coyotes. One of them must have made its mark because I could hear him cry out in pain and the rest scattered like ants to a brown Cadillac outside. We darted to my car and immediately gave chase. Hutch took the wheel and I unholstered my weapon, took aim at the Cadillac’s rear tire and gently squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded into a shower of sparks and the car fishtailed and careened into a telephone pole in a nearby alley. The driver got out slowly with his paws in the air. I raised my weapon and ordered him to drop to his knees. He was uttering something in foreign language I couldn’t understand. He then reached for something in his pocket. I shouted at him to freeze but it was no use. He had pulled out a 38 snub and fired a single shot. Hutch dropped to the pavement. “No!” I cried. I took him down with four well aimed shots to the body and rushed over to Hutch. He began to rise slowly to his feet with a paw over his stomach. He tossed the in lodged bullet onto the group and I had completely forgotten he had been wearing his vest. He winced. “Damn. That’s gonna leave a mark.” He grumbled. I chuckled. “You sound like my grandpa.” I teased and began to search the body of the coyote, hoping to find something that would lead us a step closer to Steele. Just then, Hutch called me over to the Cadillac and in the trunk were two large shipments of weapons including a Russian AK-47. I was surprised. It could only mean one thing. The La Famila wouldn’t have gotten their paws on this type of weaponry for a simple run and gun. The gang lieutenant wouldn’t have brought his crew of henchmen to the bar just to play cops and robbers. Somebody wanted us dead.

4

The next morning was pretty quiet for the most part. Maybe we had caught a break. Maybe the La Famila had finally fallen back without retaliation. Everything was normal back at headquarters. I was nearly half asleep by the time