The Wolves of Third Clan

By M. C. Rogers

The Heavens are real and at war with Hell since initiation. Using Earth as a laboratory, breeding ultimate warriors; advanced species with perfected genes known to Humans as Werewolves and Vampires. Johnny Johnson is a Cloak; unique individual possessing ability to remain hidden from others. Possessing blood which camouflages scent and impedes discovery, Superiors bounded share his gift, but there's a catch; he's forbidden to exist. The LeTorque are a family employed under Third Clan's banner, maneuvering to fulfill final purpose and govern all. When a Wolf is killed, midsentence sales-pitch, Johnny is captured and true nature identified. As preparations for war begin, he learns the truth of mankind's existence, the untarnished version of Nature's fury, and something else, something much more dangerous; impending invasion of the Hellion Hoard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. C. Rogers
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301455232

M. C. Rogers

Born mid-March, latter-half, last century in Pasadena, Texas. Reared a military brat with privilege: Father, Coast-Guard pilot; Mother, willing accompliss. Began writing while failing at the following endeavors; dishwashing, dry-cleaning, personal training, paramedicing, bartending, welding, and sales. Currently exploring the culinary world with curiosity, astonishment, and grumbling tummy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

START FROM THE BEGINNING.

The beginning?

YES.

Okay, I guess a good place to start is when Bob Simpson entered the lobby and said…

My God, it’s hot outside!

For some reason the man enjoyed stating the obvious.

Is everyone ready? he said.

Of course we were ready, we were standing in the lobby with briefcases in hand. Did he think, suddenly we wouldn’t be ready? If confronted with a question, we’d clam up and forget how to answer?

Johnny, you’ve got the acquisition estimates? he asked.

Right here, boss I said.

Steve, you’ve got the contracts?

Yes, sir.

Steve was one of my co-workers. Relatively smart, a good dresser, and hired to do the same job as me, so naturally I abhorred the man.

Melissa, did you bring the brochures?

Uh-huh, Mr. Simpson, they’re right here.

Melissa was a beauty with an hourglass figure and the IQ of lettuce. It didn’t slow her occupational opportunities though, because we were in Dallas…

DALLAS, TEXAS?

… yep, a city governed by men who came from businesses run by men which appreciated the qualities a runway model with limited grey matter could bring to the table; a great smell and the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen.

WHY DALLAS?

It’s where the economics of the game dictated.

Okay, everyone, get your hands in here Bob said.

When did they start doing that?

START DOING WHAT?

When did managers or team leaders or whatever title they give themselves start performing the embarrassing act of imitating a pre-game pep rally? Whoever came up with the idea should be tar and feathered. Hey, was that ever really done?

TAR AND FEATHERING?

Yes, did we really tar and feather people in the old days?

I’M NOT SURE.

It seems like a strange form of punishment.

On three Bob said.

Now, it’d been on three for over three months so I was thinking of throwing a curveball; you know, saying Three? Let’s do four but I didn’t, because while I may be sarcastic, it’s the cowardly kind I employ.

One, two, three…

… Team!

Yay.

Elevators are weird.

WEIRD?

Yes, you push a button and wait. Someone else comes along and pushes the same lit button you previously pushed because, I guess, they thought you did it wrong. You then stand there in silence playing some mental guessing game as to which elevator will arrive first and when it does you get directly in front of the doors so when they open the people exiting will be met with your wall of humanity. They want to get out and you want to get in, but we haven’t been trained for that kind of situation, have we?

NO?

No, we’ve been trained to pass on the left or the right but there is no left or right, only a bunch of people standing between you and your elevator which was programmed with some sort of electronic-impatience device and outfitted with menacing automatic doors you need to take a leap of faith won’t crush your arm as you thrust it between them in order to stop the infernal machine from leaving you stranded and looking like a person who couldn’t push a button properly.

Is everyone ready? he actually said again as we arrived at our floor.

Yes, Boss.

Yes, Sir.

Yes, Mr. Simpson.

The elevator door opened and we were greeted with the view of another hallway devoid of anyone so we didn’t do the human-tango with other elevator commuters on exit. The entire floor belonged to the company we were calling on, Commercial Property Management Incorporated, a mega-landlord which did everything from hiring security to greasing the palms of local chiefs to stay in compliance with insanely out-of-date fire codes. The hallway was two-hundred feet long, painted light blue, and at the far end were two frosted-glass doors guarded by a man the size of a rhinoceros who asked our names, checked his clipboard, and let us in. No one thought for a second of cracking a joke with the guy.

The walls were adorned with paintings which cost more than my old car and the floor was covered in beige carpet so clean a maid must’ve vacuumed hourly. There were four blue sofas with glass coffee tables in front of each and at the far wall was a four-foot high reception desk with a gorgeous secretary welcoming us with a friendly smile and eager-to-please eyes.

Hello, can I help you? she purred.

Yes, we’re from Industrial Products and we’re here to see Mr. North Bob replied.

AND YOU WERE…?

Cleaning-supplies salespeople.

Let me see if he’s available. If you’ll have a seat I’m sure he’ll be right with you she responded and lifted the telephone.

We turned and made our way to the sofas on the right side of the room, Mr. Simpson and Melissa shared one, leaving me and Steve the other. While sitting I noticed we’d left our shoe imprints on the carpet indicating the maid must’ve literally been the last person to walk on the thing before us. If we were Hansel and Gretel we could’ve easily found our way out of the Witch’s forest.

Okay, before I go any further, I’m assuming you’re wondering why there were four of us schlepping our wares instead of the traditional lone salesman. It’s because the economy took a nose dive a few years back leaving a bunch of otherwise intelligent people at the mercy of anyone or anything who would put a couple of dollars in their bank account. In our case it was Industrial Products who decided to try a whole new approach with a show of force. You send one sales guy, they’ll send two. You want to raise them and send three?

SOUNDS LIKE A GOOD IDEA.

Fine, they’ll send four. It didn’t matter to them because they paid their people on commission. You don’t sell, they don’t pay. Uh-huh, the economy really gave us a nice wedgie there. You see, if there’s, say, forty people applying for one job, then the employer’s got quite the upper hand in the bargaining department. Now, multiply forty by ten and you’re at the point where employers not only have the upper hand, they’ve got the rule book and begin rewriting it anyway they see fit. For salespeople it meant no base-salary plus commission; only commission. Sell and get a percentage of the cut; don’t sell and they’ll fill your shoes with one of the thousands of other schmo’s who were desperately hoping you’d fail so they could get a shot at some financial relief. Where was the government?

ON VACATION?

They were busy on their hands and knees praying you’d keep a job and pay your taxes so they could quit printing money to pay their own people. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming companies or corporations for using the cards they were dealt, I probably would too, I’m only saying it’s not exactly ideal for employee morale.

Did you watch the game this weekend? Steve asked me.

Yeah, what a disaster.

We should fire the coach he said.

Now, it was quite ironic because it came from a man who until recently, was out of work himself. Humans seem to be a species which does best at wishing the worst upon others. The coach he was talking about had a history of going to the playoffs three years in a row, bringing relief and distraction to the millions of fans whose only chance of playing was on video cassette.

Yeah, what was with the time outs? I said because I was one of those gamers.

Tell me about it he replied.

I was about to reveal what an intelligent coach would’ve done, thus impressing him with my incredible sports knowledge when I was interrupted by the pretty secretary with the afore-mentioned, come-hither eyes.

Mr. North will see you now.

Mr. North’s office was strangely, on the south side of the corridor. If I bug you with my directional acumen, I’m sorry, but I was in Dallas and after driving their freeways I’ve found keeping track of oneself according to compass nomenclature is the only way to figure out where those confounding roadways are heading. A case in point; one time I found myself driving south on the North Tollway merging onto Interstate 35 East, still going south mind you, which I stayed on until I saw a sign indicating Interstate 35 West heading north. What if I were a tourist from Canada?

HUH?

Do you think I might come away with the impression, Texans don’t use compass headings for navigation? Oh, and check this out. They also give one freeway two separate names. The previously mentioned Interstate 35 East is also called the Stemmons Freeway.

WHY?

How should I know? Maybe the Stemmons person invented something good, but that’s not the point.

WHAT IS THE POINT?

It’s confusing. Who names those dysfunctional freeways, some descendant from the Donner Party?

WHO WERE THE DONNER PARTY?

People who lost their way.

OH.

Really? All this time and you’ve never thought about expanding your horizons, maybe read a book or two?

I’VE BEEN BUSY.

With what?

WORLD DOMINATION.

Oh, yeah.

Hello, I’m Peter North the man said while standing and, to my shock, revealing himself to be an even larger rhino than the guard at the front gate.

Hi, I’m Bob Simpson and this is Steve, Melissa, and Johnny.

He shook Bob and Steve’s hands, barely glanced at me, and virtually devoured Melissa with his eyes.

What can I do for you?

We’re from Industrial Products and we’d like to see if we could be of any use to your company Bob responded.

Let’s see what you’ve got the enormous Peter North said.

Okay, this is where it got a little weird, because it was here Melissa was to furnish our brochure so Peter North could follow along with Bob as he impressed upon him the great advantage of our products and services over the vast array of other products and services which did the exact same thing. We had it down to an art form, everyone had a role to play, and we’d rehearsed so many times, I could repeat my lines in my sleep. Therefore, I was a bit surprised when it went off script.

Melissa? Bob asked

Now! she yelled.

I was stunned as the two salesmen from Industrial Products leapt in unison at our potential client. What happened next left me even more dumbstruck. Peter North moved with a speed I didn’t know existed, one second looking at Melissa with what, I thought, was bemusement at her strange behavior and the next with a look of contempt as he held the throats of Bob and Steve whom he’d caught in midair. As they struggled I saw Peter look at me, smile, then glance at Melissa and un-smile, for in her hands was a pistol with silencer and before I could comprehend what was happening, Peter North’s head snapped back like jet-pilot’s on takeoff.

What the…?

Is what I believe I said, but I can’t be certain because after the initial shock of the pistol’s whispered retort, I was learning how I’d respond to a sudden, life-threatening situation. I found out, I’d stand stock-still for a second, shout something incoherent, and scatter as far away as possible from the red-head with the firearm. For her part, Melissa was acting strangely serene and composed; walking up to the previously living Peter North, aiming directly at his unmoving head, and firing four more silent rounds into it. I’d heard the term ‘overkill’ before but never knew its proper place. So there I was, bravely sheltering behind a five-foot tall floor lamp when she turned and shot Bob Simpson in the heart before doing the same to Steve, both remaining immobile as she did it, leaving me as the last sane, living person in the room. I recall the events which transpired next because it became very surreal for a moment with Melissa walking over to a painting and removing it from the wall to reveal a safe which she began unlocking by dialing a combination.

Get the door she said after removing the piece of paper.

PROOF OF THE DEED?

Yep… it’s all she needed.

Chapter 2

Okay I managed to utter while realizing the foolishness of hiding behind a one-inch piece of copper-plated tin, but as I was reaching for the doorknob I heard footsteps walking down the hallway.

Hold up she ordered and I instinctively complied to the lunatic with a weapon.

Peter! Are you okay in there? a man asked and a bullet flew past my head in reply.

Jesus…! I think I said, but once again I can’t be sure because it’s hard to remember when you’re trying desperately not to urinate.

Open the door.

At the time I didn’t hear any footsteps so I turned the knob and opened the door to reveal a very large, very dead security guard on the floor.

Move.

Okay, don’t shoot me I said.

I won’t if you do what I say.

Sounded fair to me, so I did what she said and moved down the hall toward the reception area where the pretty secretary with the bedroom eyes first met us. There was no one there, just me and crazy, dumb, beautiful Melissa who didn’t seem as unintelligent as she’d been letting on.

Press the ‘up’ button.

The ‘up’ button?

Don’t question me.

Okay the ‘up’ button it was. You don’t need to tell me twice, not when you’ve got a loaded pistol in your hand. Now, I’m thinking you might be getting the wrong impression of my courageousness or lack thereof but you’re wrong. I’ve talked to many people and they’ve all said the same thing; bullets hurt. I don’t particularly like pain. Maybe it’s only me but I never fully buy into the scene where the hero turns around and disarms the bad guy with such amazing skill the villain is left mystified at their reversal of fortunes. Why didn’t he just pull the trigger?

I WOULD.

Me too. I know it’d end the movie sooner but at least it’d be more believable than an otherwise ruthless outlaw having such poor finger-flexing ability.

TRUE.

So anyway, there I was riding in an elevator with a crazy person and I’ve got to admit, it was a strange experience. I mean, what do you say at a time like that?

I DON’T KNOW?

I’ll tell you.

What floor?

Top floor.

Top floor it is.

That’s what you say when you find yourself riding in an elevator with a crazy person.

So we took the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor, got out, and Melissa indicated with her gun I should move east toward the stairway entrance. We got in the stairwell, walked up to the last landing, and were met by locked door.

Wait.

I did and she moved right up behind me, took aim, and shot three times into the handle. After nearly fainting I realized she’d used me as a shield in case the bullets ricocheted off the door which I guess was smart but she’d better not ask me for a reference if she wants to pursue another job in the sales and marketing sector. Luckily, the lock was mostly for show, probably a last ditch attempt to stop someone from using the roof as a smoking lounge or suicide takeoff spot. We stepped out on the roof where she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cellphone.

Now! Hurry! she yelled into the mouthpiece.

She hung up and looked directly into my eyes as I stood still. I got the impression she was considering shooting me there on the spot. What for? I could only guess. But having witnessed her kill four people was probably near the top. I was seriously considering begging for my life when I heard a dull hum in the air which grew louder until suddenly a helicopter exploded into view on the west side of the tower. I’d never seen a helicopter up close so high, and it was pretty cool, what with all the rushing air and everything. Now, I might’ve been influenced by the fact Melissa seemed to change her mind about killing me which could’ve had something to do with my amazement at the sight of the ten-ton metal flying contraption but that’s not really important.

Let’s go! Move it! she yelled while taking off like an Olympic sprinter and I obeyed as fast as I could which was nowhere near quick enough because from behind me came the sound of the roof-access door exploding outward followed by gunfire.

I don’t know if it was the sound or the fact I was becoming an expert at having bullets whiz by my head but I did the correct thing; I hit the ground so hard I gave myself a bloody nose. I looked up to see the helicopter leaping away from the rooftop and Melissa in the copilot’s seat taking dead aim at me with her pistol and I again did the only thing which seemed appropriate at the time; I slammed my face back down. I sensed a bullet zing by my head, heard more gunfire from behind, and waited for the resulting pain of searing metal to enter my body but instead I felt nothing. I don’t know how long I lay there but when I raised my head to see if the helicopter was gone I felt a knee slam in my back and some guy’s voice yelling Don’t move! which was kind of redundant if you think about it.

I was blindfolded and my hands were tied behind my back as I was led down the stairwell by what I think was one guard onto what I guess was the twenty-sixth floor since I don’t believe we went down more than one landing but I could be wrong.

Look, I’m the victim here I said and received no response as I stumbled along like a drunken brother-in-law at an open-bar wedding reception.

If you ever watch a movie where the hero, victim, or heroine is blindfolded and the person doesn’t completely freak out, you need to turn the thing off. I once heard we were a visually oriented species and I’m here to verify, whoever said it is the most spot-on, correct person ever. The world goes black and every sensory organ you’ve got decides it’s time to give false and misleading information about whatever’s around you. The ground feels uneven, sounds come from every direction, and your nose is useless; like a fork with chicken broth or male nipples.

Stop the guy said as I heard the jingling of keys and the sound of a door opening.

Okay, look I think we’ve got a slight mix-up here. I’m just a sales rep who was… I began.

Shut up he said.

And I silently named him Captain Kindness.

So I shut my mouth and stood there waiting for my senses to compensate for the lack of sight… and waited… and waited…. If I’m ever struck blind you might as well kill me because I swear, my other senses are not coming to my aid no matter how hard you ask them.

I’m not sure how long I waited because whatever internal organ I have in charge of detecting time is also defective. It felt like forever; like Sunday mass during football season.

Who is it? I heard Commander Compassion ask someone in the hallway.

It’s me was the reply.

You surprised me. How’s that possible?

I don’t know. Let’s find out the woman’s voice said.

The door opened, I was grabbed by the front of my shirt collar and jerked out the room.

Un-blindfold him the woman ordered.

When it was removed I found myself looking into the face of an angel. She was five-foot-six inches tall with blond hair, blue-eyes and the prettiest set of lips you’ve ever seen.

What’s your name? she asked.

Johnny Johnson.

Who do you work for?

Industrial Products.

What do you do?

I’m just a sales rep.

Where do you live?

10005 Riverside Drive, Apartment 305…

What’s the name of the assassin?

Who?

And then she slapped me.

What’s the name of the woman who jumped into the helicopter?

Melissa! Jesus, lady, you didn’t have to hit me! I’m just an innocent bystander.

Then why are you still alive?

I don’t have any idea!

And she slapped me again. I’m kind of old fashioned and where I come from you don’t hit women but I’ve got to tell you, everything changes when you get slapped while your hands are tied behind your back; it’s not sporting and stings like the dickens. Now, my hands were tied but I wasn’t completely helpless, heck no, I had a complete arsenal at my command and I lit into her with everything I had.

Ouch! Stop it!

My arsenal was then depleted.

Once again, why are you still alive?’ she screamed.

I don’t know! Maybe she needed a human shield or something? How should I know?

Then she stood there and stared into my eyes. I don’t know what she was trying to determine but the sense of déjà vu was surreal. It was the same deep and penetrating stare Melissa gave me on the rooftop. The more I think about it, it was the same stare Melissa gave Peter North before she shot him. The more I further think about it, it was eerily similar to the stare Peter North gave Melissa before she gave it back to him with five bullets.

Lock the door and keep watch she ordered.

Mr. Personality did and I found myself back inside the unfurnished office with my hands bound and the uncomfortable feeling I was both in a lot of trouble and in need of peeing.

Hey! I need to use the bathroom! I yelled, waited, and felt my need grow further.

Hey! Seriously, I’ve really got to go! which got me more silence.

I was at quite the crossroad there. One, I needed to pee. Two, my hands were tied behind my back. Three… okay, I guess one and two covers it.

I swear to God if you don’t open this door and let me use the restroom I’m going to… I began before thinking…

‘What? What am I going to do? Pee on their floor?’

Yep, I was going to threaten them with peeing on their floor. I vowed to myself then and there when I got out of the situation I was going straight down to the contortionist’s office and learn to dislocate shoulders, move hands from back to front, and wriggle free of handcuffs, slip-ties, or whatever else a person uses for bondage. Uh-huh, but first I had to pee, really bad, the kind of bad where you catch yourself hopping up and down in order to stop it from involuntarily happening. What kind of a coping mechanism is that anyway?

WHAT, JUMPING UP AND DOWN?

Yes. Do you think God never thought we’d evolve long enough to make public urination a frowned upon event?

Hey, God?

Yes, my son?

Those humans you created…

Go on, my son.

Well, they outlawed outdoor peeing and they’re running into a bit of trouble abiding by their decision.

Huh?

They can’t seem to hold it.

Hmm… Tell them to jump around a bit.

Wow! Ok, great, I’ll go ahead and pass that bit of wisdom along.

Some sort of warning device would’ve been better, you know what I mean?

UH-HUH.

Maybe a little color coded strip on your finger which warns you when you’ve waited a bit too long to do the nasty deed. As it is, I figure we get our first hint about five minutes before we get our second which comes about thirty seconds before we find ourselves hopping around like some deranged Easter bunny which is where I found myself, jumping up and down, screaming at the top of my lungs I’ve got to go! I’ve got to go! I’ve got to go! when all of a sudden the door opened and I wet my pants.

YOU WET YOUR PANTS?

Yes, I did, because the person I saw before me was a hallucination. He had to be for the last time I’d laid eyes on the individual was thirty minutes before when he had a hole in the middle of his forehead where the crazy red-head shot him. It was the security guard who was much bigger upright than prone and he didn’t seem to take kindly to my watering of the tiles but thankfully, he also didn’t relish walking on my self-made man-lake so he kindly shut the door but not before uttering…

Yes Mistress, it’s him.

So I thought…

‘Mistress? Who calls people Mistress anymore? More importantly, how high up the corporate ladder does one go before getting the title? And ‘who’s’ he calling Mistress? Surely not the gorgeous blonde because she‘s way too young for the title except in some off-color movie produced in a shady back-lot studio employing people named Ginger, Spice, and Dominique.’

While pondering the ‘Mistress’ thing I found myself getting more upset at the absurdity of it all. What was going on? Why was I, an innocent victim, locked up in some makeshift holding cell? What right did they have?’

The door opened and Corporal Comfort entered followed by previously deceased Security-Guard-Guy and finally Little-Miss-Blond-Screams-a-Lot.

I want to see my lawyer! I yelled, finally coming to my senses and demanding my God-given Constitutional right in this glorious country of ours.

Shut up was the reply.

Okay, I didn’t have a good response. It’s one thing to know your rights, it’s quite another to get them implemented, so I stood there like a doofus with bound hands, wet pants, and the evidence of how they came to be on the floor between us.

Get someone to clean this up and bring him a dry set of clothes Blonde Lady said to Security-Guard-Guy.

I’m sorry for the confusion Mr. Johnson, we’re obviously a little uptight after what happened she said.

It’s okay I replied.

I can’t say why I said it because it most assuredly was not okay. As I look back I suppose I did so because I was ready to forgive them anything so long as it got me out of there. It didn’t mean I wasn’t going to sue their butts off. Lord no, as soon as I was out I was going to find the meanest lawyer in the state and get what was coming to me; a seven-figure check deposited in some off-shore account earning enough interest to keep me in Bermuda shorts sipping Mai-tai’s on a Caribbean island where locals have cool accents and no one’s ever heard of industrial cleaning supplies.

My name is Vivian LeTorque, I’m the head of our central office and this is George she indicated General Graciousness, he’s head of security.

George nodded which I assume was his way of accepting responsibility for imprisoning me against my will but I can’t be certain because he wasn’t forthcoming with his feelings.

We need some information, Mr. Johnson.

You need information? Lady, you locked me in this broom closet with my hands tied behind my back after I was shot at and nearly killed on your rooftop! Your head of security almost broke my back and you send the dead security guard’s twin brother to scare the crap out of me! And for what? I don’t know anything. Like I said, I’m just a sales rep who…

Shut up said George.

And I shut up again. I don’t know why I complied so readily but his sheer size was probably part of the reason; the man was simply large. Not fat, just large. If he were a woman we’d call him big-boned. He was one of those guys who don’t look good in a suit and tie; too restricting. His neck was about the same size as my thigh and his thigh was probably the same size as my… well, I actually don’t have any body parts large enough to give a good comparison so let’s say the man probably outweighed me by a ton.

Mr. Johnson, we’re not here to interrogate you, we’re trying to find out why one of your sales team would come into our office and commit multiple murders.

How should I know? And could you please untie my hands? They’re starting to tingle.

No said George and I was beginning to wonder if the man had a thing for one syllable words.

No? What, are you afraid I might attack?

I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not for our protection; it’s for yours said Vivian.

What are you talking about?

George is the head of security which means he’s in charge of my personal well-being. He’s like a trained attack-dog who can’t stop his natural inclination to eliminate any threat to its master.

So?

So, if I untie your hands and you accidently twitch, stumble, or make any movement towards me George would kill you before I could stop him.

Oh.

I believed her. I know I should’ve been offended by her lack of belief I might’ve been able to defend myself but then took another look at George and laughed at the comical scene playing out in my imagination; you know, of George and me fighting. I’m not lying when I say he could twist my head off like an old-fashioned bottle cap. Literally twist it off with his hands. I like my head so I said nothing, mumbled the lame ‘Oh’, and nodded like I was in on the decision.

Now, I can leave the room and George will loosen your binds but I must ask some questions so they’d need to be retied. I’m assuming you’d like to leave as soon as possible but if they’re bothering you so much…

No, it’s all right. I can take it a little while longer.

Good. Now, do you have any idea why Mrs. …?

Melissa.

… why Melissa would kill Mr. North?

No.

Did you know her well?

I thought I did but now I’m not sure. I think she’s been putting on an act.

An act?

Yeah, I think she was playing a part or something because the person I knew wasn’t capable of pulling a gun and shooting people. Heck, the person I knew wasn’t smart enough to set her alarm clock let alone go on a shooting spree with an escape plan.

I see.

No I don’t think you do. It was like night and day in there. One minute I’m standing next to a life-sized Barbie doll and the next I’m being herded by a gun-toting vigilante to the roof where a helicopter’s waiting to whisk her away. Do you know how much a helicopter costs? I’ll tell you… well, I actually don’t know but I guarantee it’s a lot.

Mr. Johnson…

And what’s with her staring at the guy? You know, I think she might’ve known him because they were eyeballing each other for a good minute before she went gun-barrel city on him.

Mr. Johnson…

And why kill Bob and Steve? They weren’t doing anything. Heck, they helped her. You know, I can’t believe I’m still alive! She’s got to realize I’m talking to the police when they arrive. By the way, where are the police?

Mr. Johnson!

Yes.

Who hired you and Melissa?

Bob Simpson.

Not Industrial Products?

No. Well, kind of… You see, we’re actually sort of independent contractors for the company. They give us the brochures and we try to whip up some business. It’s a pretty shrewd business model if you think about it. You don’t have any overhead, you don’t have to pay any medical, shoot, you don’t really have any skins in the game at all because you’re just sitting back and sipping Margaritas while others are out there busting their butts …

Mr. Johnson!

What? Oh, sorry, sometimes I ramble when I’m nervous.

Are you nervous right now?

Nervous? Me? What do I have to be nervous about? I was only shot at, tied up, locked up, and threatened with death if I happen to hiccup in your direction but, hey, that’s just an average day for me. Nervous? Hah, I laugh at nervous. Why just the other day…

Mr. Johnson!

What?!

And then I heard a low growl coming from George. It was quite terrifying and I was somewhat relieved I’d, uh, relieved myself earlier because I believe I might’ve done so again.

Please calm down, you’re making George nervous.

Him nervous? Oh, okay. Sorry, George.

I got another nod from Mr. Talks-not-a-lot and felt my anxiety ease a fraction but I’ve got to tell you it’s pretty hard to remain calm when a human pit-bull’s staring at you like you’re about to steal his bowl of kibble.

You said, Bob Simpson, not Industrial Products, hired the two of you?

The three of us.

Three?

Yes, me, Melissa, and Steve; the other dead guy.

"Okay, so Bob Simpson hired the three of you to work with him as independent contractors for Industrial Products. Is that right?

Yeah, that’s right.

Then you don’t technically work for Industrial Products?

No, I guess not. We’re more like hired hands. Hired hands who only get paid after they sell the goods.

Would Industrial Products even know about you, Steve, or Melissa?

Probably not. They dealt with Bob and he dealt with us. Why?

Then, as far as Industrial Products is concerned, the only salesperson they knew who had an appointment with us was Bob Simpson.

I didn’t like the way that line of questioning was going.

Well, I don’t know, maybe. By the way, shouldn’t the cops be here by now?

She glanced at George and I swear there was some weird communication going on then she looked back at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, tossed her blonde hair, and smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. It was like the smile I imagine a cat gives a mouse before torturing the rodent for the pleasure of it.

I think we can stop pretending the police are going to arrive, Mr. Johnson, because they’re not. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re not going to make it. You see, sometimes life’s a little unfair and unfortunately for you, sometimes it’s downright cruel.

She nodded at George and before I could blink the man was on me, flipping me to the ground where I once again smashed my nose, and placing his knee on the base of my neck so I couldn’t move.

Ugh! was my response.

So there I was, lying face down on the urine- soaked floor, spitting obscenities, and pleading for the head of security to do his job and arrest himself when I felt a sharp, stabbing pain on the left side of my neck.

Ow! was my manly reply.

I couldn’t see much and when I tried to turn my head old Georgie-boy decided to re-smash my nose into the tile floor.

Oomph! You son of a…!

Just lay still, Mr. Johnson Miss Screamy said.

I was starting to get a little light-headed and becoming increasingly afraid it wasn’t due to some Neanderthal kneeling on my neck when I heard pounding.

Open the door! a female voice yelled.

More pounding.

Vivian, open this door right this second!

I felt another twang on my neck exactly where the first one had occurred. Suddenly, the