He dug around in the wound some more.
“You can’t beat me,” he whispered. “Not a chance.”
He’d have to try the other arm.
He slapped at the mosquitoes.
Other arm. Same spot. That’s where they’d hide the chip.
He transformed his left index finger, then slit his other arm, wishing that he could just shut off all sensation. Scrape his arms down to the bone.
He probably wouldn’t heal from that.
He wasn’t entirely sure where the limits of his healing power ended. He’d certainly tested that over the years, but never to the point of skeletonizing a limb to find a hidden tracking chip.
He worked his finger through the wound, blinking back tears.
What was that?
He’d definitely felt something odd.
He poked around in there, arm twitching, the pain more intense than anything he’d ever experienced in a lifetime of pain. He could do this. He was strong.
I think the word is “insane.”
Was he touching bone?
He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his finger out, then kneeled back down in the water and washed off his hands.
What was he going to do?
Maybe the chip wasn’t in his arms. Maybe they’d implanted it in his heart. Or maybe it was microscopic, and it was right there on the tip of his nose but he couldn’t see it.
Pull it together...
What a horrible way to end this conflict. Sitting here in a bug-filled pool practicing self-mutilation. Oh, George and Lou would get a great big laugh at that. They’d point and take pictures. Look at the formerly amazing werewolf, reduced to a filthy animal hurting himself.
He picked up his pants--well, the pants formerly belonging to the guy who he’d killed--and slipped them back on. He needed to do that. The pain brought clarity.
He’d get the chip out before too long. He knew a “doctor” in Atlanta who could X-ray him, find exactly where it was, and cut it out. No problem.
No reason to panic. And no shame in panicking. Everybody did it.
They could follow him, but they couldn’t catch him.
Not a chance.
Ivan transformed back into a wolfman, let out a howl, and then resumed racing across the swamp.
* * *
When he emerged onto a two-lane paved road, he kept running.
A couple of minutes later, he saw a car.
There was no time for jokes. No time to mentally torment his prey before he ripped them apart. No time for fun. He needed that car, and he needed it now.
He leapt onto the front hood, opening his jaws as wide as he could. The woman shrieked and drove off the road.
He opened the door, dragged her out of the vehicle, and snapped her neck.
He checked her pockets for money, found none, and tossed her body off to the side. Somebody would find it quickly, unless an alligator dragged it away for an evening meal, but that didn’t matter. Ivan would be long gone.
He got in the car and sped off.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hot Pursuit
“Are you absolutely positive you’re not going to bleed to death?” George asked.
“Look, I promise that if I get ready to bleed to death, I’ll give you a five minute warning, okay? How are your legs?”
“They hurt.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I apologize for yelling at you after you blew open the cage with dynamite. You have to understand why I’d be stressed out at that particular moment.”
“I do.”
George’s phone rang again. “I’d better get that or he’s never going to stop calling.” He pressed the “talk” button and placed the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Ricky?”
“Where have you been? What’s going on?”
“Rescue team’s dead. Werewolf’s still loose.”
“We know. We’re tracing him.”
“So are we.”
“I hear Bateman and Dewey are both trying to put together a new team. I mean, like, every dogcatcher from here to New Orleans. From a friend to a friend, George, I’m suggesting that you get out of the country as soon as you possibly can and don’t look back.”
“Sorry, Ricky. We’re killing the werewolf.”
“Don’t do that! Just stay out of this now.”
“Not going to happen. There’ll be bits of fur for a six-mile stretch of I-75.”
“Then we never had this conversation.”
“Fair enough. And you’re not my friend. I pissed in your coffee cup twice a week.”
“You did what?”
“Okay, that’s not true. I never did that. Take care of yourself, Ricky.” George hung up the phone. “He’s a rotten little prick,” he said to Lou, “but he deserves to enjoy his cup of coffee in the morning. How far ahead is Ivan?”
“Looks like about two miles.”
“Good.” Ivan seemed to be sticking to the speed limit. George was doing about ten miles faster and cruising along at eighty miles per hour. Neither of them could afford to get pulled over by the cops, but George was apparently more willing to take the risk.
The plan, which was straightforward and inelegant, was to catch up to whatever car Ivan was driving, and fling a stick of dynamite at him. Watching that bastard go up in an explosion would be better than every Fourth of July celebration George had witnessed in his entire life combined.
If he had a hostage in the car with him, they’d use guns instead of explosives. Either way, unless he was in a bus filled with nuns, orphans, and kittens, that werewolf was only a few minutes away from death.
They’d discussed the idea of just following behind him, out of sight, until Ivan was forced to stop somewhere to get gas. The problem with that plan was that their van was already getting low on fuel, and they had to assume that he’d outlast them in that regard. They couldn’t afford to lose ten minutes to get off and refuel. Twenty if there was another frickin’ dog attack.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t be more subtle?” Lou asked. “There are a lot of cars around.”
“If we get the opportunity to be subtle, we’ll take it. Otherwise, dynamite out the window.”
“All right. I can’t say I won’t enjoy it.”
George pressed harder on the accelerator, bringing their speed up to eighty-five. Plenty of other cars were going that fast. As far as he knew, the cops weren’t looking for a white van that said “Ray’s Air Conditioning” on the side, so they’d be okay until they started flinging explosives.
“He’s a mile ahead.”
“Cool. Maybe if we’re lucky, there’ll be a semi we can hide behind or something.”
George pressed down on the accelerator a bit more, letting their speed creep up to eighty-seven.
“Slow down,” Lou said, glancing at the speedometer. “You’re getting too impatient.”
“I want him gone.”
“So do I. Slow down.”
George relented and dropped their speed back down to eighty-five.
“Do you think he knows we’re coming?” Lou asked.
“I hope so. I don’t like the idea of an ambush, but I do like the idea of him being scared out of his mind.”
“Well, let’s not get overconfident. I don’t think we’re going to be able to narrow this down to a single car unless the traffic really clears up, and he knows what we’re driving.”
“Believe me, after the way things have gone, the last thing I am is overconfident.”
Lou rolled down his window. Several sticks of dynamite and a few grenades rested in his lap. Yesterday, that was a sight that would have made George extremely uncomfortable. Now it made him happy.
“Shit,” he said, as red-and-blue flashing lights became visible in the rear-view mirror. “Cop.”
“I’m not throwing a grenade at him.”
George slowed down to seventy and moved into the far right lane, desperately hoping that the cop was pulling over somebody else.
The police car drove ahead of the van and came up behind a brown truck. The truck slowed down and moved into the right lane. The cop followed him. As the truck pulled off to the side, George breathed a sigh of relief.
Lou picked up a stick of dynamite. “This would’ve been difficult to explain.”
“No kidding.”