“Coke,” said George.
“Diet,” said Lou.
The waitress gave them a look of mild disgust, as if they’d announced their intention to simultaneously urinate on the floor, then rolled her eyes and walked away.
“If you end up dying today, you’ll wish you at least had a regular Coke,” said George.
“If I live, I’m getting back in shape.”
“Fair enough.”
Right after their drinks arrived, Ivan walked into the bar. He looked confident. Fearless. Arrogant. Like a complete prick.
He walked through the bar and sat down at their booth, then gestured to their drinks. “Didn’t you order me anything?”
“No,” said George. “Order your own drink.”
“Did you bring the money?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it.”
Lou took the briefcase off his lap and set it on the table. He kept it close, as if worried that Ivan might make a sudden grab for it.
Ivan nodded. “Open it.”
Lou popped open the lid. He held the briefcase open just long enough to give Ivan a glimpse of the cash inside, then closed it back up.
“Thank you,” said Ivan. “Now burn it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Take out a lighter and set the money on fire. Right now.”
“We really aren’t in the mood for any more of your games,” George said, leaning across the table in what he hoped was a threatening manner. “Now are you here for the cash, or are you here to waste our time?”
“Well, I’m definitely not here to waste your time, George. And we all know that this could never be as simple as you bribing me to go away, because I’ve already proven that I’m not a man of my word. Remember when I kept insisting that I wasn’t a werewolf? Good times.”
“So what’s it going to take for us to make a deal?”
“Oh, there won’t be a deal. Just a massacre.” Ivan looked around the bar. “How many people do you think are in here? Twenty-five? Thirty?”
“About that.”
“How many do you think I can kill? I think I can get eight before this place completely clears out. What’s your guess? Higher or lower?”
“We’re not playing around, Ivan.”
“You’re not? Then why are you here? You actually think you’re going to stop me?”
“We might.”
“Okay, I’ll make you another deal. Both of you take your drinks and slowly pour them on your heads, and I’ll surrender.”
“I’m not kidding,” said George. “We’re done with the games.”
“We’ve barely even started the games. What have we done so far that qualifies as a game? You chased me around that neighborhood, but that wasn’t really a game, that was just a chase. Doesn’t count. There weren’t any games played at poor Diane’s house--personally, I consider that cold-blooded murder. If you thought it was a fun game, well, you’re just not a very nice person. Are you two playing games without me?”
George gently kicked Lou under the table. They did not have an elaborate plan to trap Ivan. They’d tried to come up with one, but all of their ideas seemed like plans that could go terribly wrong. So they’d settled for the following scheme: if they decided that they had no other choice, George would give Lou the signal by gently kicking him under the table, at which point they would pull out their guns and pump several rounds into Ivan’s face. Hopefully that would surprise and weaken him enough for them to throw the blanket with the silver rings over his head and drag him out to the cage. If he got a chance, Lou would also try to stab him.
It was far from subtle, and it wasn’t something they really wanted to do in front of a tavern full of witnesses, but they didn’t have much of a choice at this point.
They pulled out their guns.
Moving faster than George would have ever expected possible in his human form, Ivan slid below the table. He was an arrogant prick, but apparently not such an arrogant prick that he hadn’t anticipated that he might be in physical danger. As he disappeared from sight, George and Lou shoved their guns underneath the table and squeezed the triggers. They were blind shots but almost point-blank ones.
The table went flying into the air, sailing across the bar and crashing into the dancing couple, knocking them to the ground with what looked like a spatter of blood, though George caught this only in his peripheral vision and couldn’t be sure.
He and Lou opened fire on the fully transformed wolfman, pumping bullets into his face and chest. The “shoot and shoot and shoot” portion of their plan was working nicely.
Blood sprayed and Ivan recoiled with each shot, throwing up his clawed hands to defend himself. One shot got him directly under the left eye. Another broke off most of a talon. At least three got him in the heart.
In the background--the faint, distant background--George heard people screaming. Lots of commotion.
Lou’s gun ran out of ammunition a couple of seconds before George’s did. They both kept pulling the trigger for a few clicks after bullets stopped firing, staring at the blood-soaked monster that stood before them.
Ivan let out a howl of animalistic fury.
No way were they going to get the blanket on him. George didn’t even make a move for it. Better not to let Ivan know they had it.
Lou, who’d taken out the silver cross so quickly that George didn’t even see him do it, put their emergency backup plan into action: he lunged forward with the weapon, thrusting it toward Ivan’s heart.
Ivan swiped at Lou’s hand, striking it with such force that George thought he might have snapped Lou’s wrist. The cross flew across the bar, striking the wall and falling to the floor. Lou was lucky that the same thing didn’t happen to his hand.
Though Lou cried out in pain, it didn’t slow him down. He punched Ivan in the chest, hitting him hard enough to create a shower of crimson from Ivan’s blood-soaked fur.
George threw his own punch, aiming for Ivan’s neck but hitting him in the shoulder. The bastard was solid as hell, and George felt as if his knuckles burst inside his skin. Both George and Lou could throw mean punches, but though their blows clearly hurt Ivan, they didn’t knock him down.
God, he wished they’d had silver bullets. What kind of irresponsible scumbag would send you on a trip with a werewolf and not provide silver bullets?
Ivan balled his hand into a fist and punched Lou in the face, sending the big guy crashing into the bench, against the wall, and onto the floor. At least Ivan hadn’t tried to kill him--had he used his claws, Lou’s face would be splattered across the bar next to the silver cross.
The werewolf slammed its hands against George’s arms, pinning them to his sides. He tried to knee Ivan in the groin but though his knee connected with its target it was just a glancing blow that seemed to have no effect. Ivan squeezed George’s arms, just until it hurt, and then he...well, he didn’t quite throw George, but George definitely didn’t hurtle across the room of his own volition.
He struck a table, knocking it over and sending a couple of beers flying. He grabbed for a chair to stop his fall, but it toppled along with him and he crashed to the floor, a leg of the chair bashing into his kidney, hard.
The pain was unbelievable. He’d be pissing blood for sure.
He blinked away the wave of dizziness, and took a half-second to survey his surroundings. People were screaming and running for the exit in a mad panic, with at least two of them on the floor being trampled.
The twenty-one year-old knelt on the floor, wailing and cradling her older dance partner in her lap. Blood gushed from a laceration in his forehead and his neck was bent at a hideous angle.
A man behind the bar cocked a shotgun.
Lou, dazed and confused, was trying to get back up.
George wanted to get up as well, but he needed just a few seconds for the worst of the agony to fade before he’d be of any use to anybody. Just a few. Not long.
The man behind the bar pointed the shotgun at Ivan, but Ivan was at the counter before he could shoot. Ivan knocked the barrel of the gun upward just as the man squeezed the trigger, firing into the ceiling, creating a cloud of plaster, and eliciting a scream of pain from above.