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.He finished with the rabbit, tossed the clean-picked bones aside and walked back to the van.His brothers and the bitch all crowded in to lick his bloody fingers, and he left them to it.It would whet their appetite for what was coming.The final target lived near Elmwood Park in Omaha, a few blocks from the College of St.Mary.Cruising in his Dodge Ram cargo van, the leader of the pack watched street signs, checking them from time to time against the map he had draped across the shotgun seat.His eyes were keen enough to chart a course without the dome light, following the trail that he had marked out with a yellow felt pen on the map when he was laying out the hit.The others huddled close behind him, bright eyes peering through the van's bug-speckled windshield as he drove.This was the last one.When this night's work was completed, he could go back home, rejoin the rest of his pack and recuperate for a while from the stress of being on the road.The balance of his money would be paid as usual, delivered by a pair of jumpy shooters who would drop the satchel at a designated point and speed away to minimize their risk of meeting the recipient.So far, the system had worked well enough.If he was lucky, there might even be some roadkill waiting for him on the highway near the drop.He found the street he wanted, signaled for the turn and held the van a mile or two below the posted speed limit.No cops in sight, but it could be a problem if he met one.There was bound to be a hassle, and he couldn't guarantee that his reaction would be swift enough to drop the officer before he reached his weapon, much less handle two of them if they were traveling in pairs.That would mean shooting, and while he wasn't concerned about the bullets on his own behalf, the noise alone would cancel any hope of taking his appointed quarry by surprise.This one was Cajun, like the last three, and he might know things.A trick or two for dealing with a loup-garou, perhaps.The leader of the pack had no desire to take that chance, if he could help it.It was better all around if he could catch his prey asleep, or at the very least distracted, tied up with the mundane chores of life when death dropped in to pay a call.The house was dark, as he had hoped it would be.Likewise with the neighbors, at this hour of the night.Nebraskans came from farm stock, as he understood it, early to bed and early to rise.His target was a working man, as well, some kind of minigolf amusement park where children gathered, chasing little balls on artificial grass.The leader of the pack had hoped he wouldn't have to take his prey at work, where there were witnesses.It would be so much cleaner this way, better for all concerned.He drove past the house and found a vacant house four doors down.There was a realtor's sign out front, and the carport was empty.He killed his headlights as he nosed the Dodge in off the street.His brothers and sister, handpicked by him from the pack for this arduous journey, were obedient.They would wait for him, as always, while he checked the house.It made them restless, but they understood the rules and didn't challenge him.He left the van and closed the driver's door behind him softly, pressing gently till the latch engaged.It was a challenge, keeping to the shadows with a light directly opposite, but he was good at tracking, stalking prey.A little dog was yapping at him from a yard across the street, but it was no real threat.He worried more about the mongrel's owner waking, glancing out and spotting him, but he was almost at his destination now.A few more yards.He slipped into the target's backyard through a side gate.The grass was several inches long, in need of mowing.It was obvious the man he came to kill was not a conscientious gardener.He left weeds in the flower beds and didn't trim the shrubs that grew close in against his house.Not that it mattered Page 24ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlnow.A few more minutes, and his worries would be over for all time.He kept an eye out for security devices, spotting none.He was surprised from time to time that those he hunted made no greater effort to protect themselves.Not that a burglar alarm would have prevented him from doing what he came to do, but still, his quarry could have made the hunt more challenging.He found the back door, reached out with his thick, dark fingers.He tried the knob, gently, and was startled when it turned.Unlocked? He crouched and sniffed around the door, suspecting something in the nature of a trap, and drew back without noting any kind of threat.Should he go in without the others? They would never let him hear the end of it if he deprived them of a feast, but he could always scout the territory first, make sure the way was clear before he fetched them from the van.The kill itself was less important to the pack than feeding, after all.He took the chance.There was no word for protocol in his vocabulary, but he understood that he was stepping out of line.It was a small thing, but he told himself the others wouldn't mind.They would forgive him when they saw the kill and tasted blood.And if they didn't, well, it would be too damn bad.But there was something wrong.He knew it when he crossed the threshold, entering a little claustrophobic place that some would call the mud room, but was more a skimpy corridor than any kind of room at all [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]