Where in the world was Angie? Ivan was out there throwing body parts at them. How could she not find him?
The next wave was a volley of internal organs, flung quickly, one after the other. And, finally, Prescott’s bloody and shredded jumpsuit.
George just stared at the carnage in a state of disbelief. Even having seen Ivan’s malicious thrill-killing ways up close, it was still hard to imagine that he’d tear somebody into pieces and pelt a frickin’ van with them!
He wondered what happened to the ribcage and spinal column.
Ivan stepped onto the path, still fully transformed as a wolfman. He wasn’t holding Prescott’s ribcage--that was presumably a mystery never to be solved.
Ivan rushed at the van.
Something swished through the air toward him.
The net struck Ivan, knocking him to the ground. He immediately began to roll around in panic and fury, getting himself more tangled.
Angie ran onto the path on the opposite side from which Ivan had emerged.
I never stopped being bait...
Though he was more inclined to stick with the phony perceived safety of the van, George threw open the door and got out to help her. Angie pointed the rifle at Ivan’s thrashing body from about ten feet away and fired a tranquilizer dart into him.
He didn’t stop moving.
Angie pulled her crossbow off her back and notched a bolt. It appeared to be a makeshift silver bolt--a silver tip duct-taped to a regular one.
“Shoot him!” George said.
“I don’t want to kill him!”
“Look what he did to your partner! Shoot him!”
Angie kept the crossbow pointed at Ivan, yet didn’t fire. George understood that it would be her ass on the fire if she killed the werewolf, but Prescott was in chunks all over the ground!
His claws slashed through the net, cutting through the webbing like scissors. George’s stomach plummeted.
Ivan sat up, the net no longer covering the top half of his body. He snarled.
Angie fired the silver bolt at him. It went through his upper arm, bursting all the way through and popping halfway out the other side.
Ivan’s werewolf howl changed to a human scream as his face began to transform back.
George had attacked Ivan and been knocked aside so many times that day that he didn’t see the reason to give it yet another try. He settled for offering unnecessary advice: “Shoot him again!”
Angie snapped another bolt into the crossbow.
Ivan leapt completely free of the netting before she could fire. The tranquilizer dart dropped out where it had been lodged in his chest.
Angie still got off the shot before he reached her, but it sailed harmlessly over Ivan’s right shoulder and struck a tree. Ivan knocked her to the ground.
George went for the bolt.
Angie didn’t scream, and as George ran for the silver he thought she might be dead already. But when he yanked the bolt out of the tree and turned back around, he saw that she was very much alive. Ivan, his face still shifting between wolf and man as he stood, clutched the back of her jumpsuit with his good hand and dragged her toward the van.
Ivan slammed her into the front grille of the van, headfirst, with enough force to visibly crack her skull. He smashed her a second time with just as much impact before George reached him.
George thrust the silver-tipped bolt at him and missed. Ivan swung Angie’s corpse in front of him as a shield, and George’s second thrust plunged into her chest. For an instant he thought he was going to lose his weapon, but he pulled it out just before Ivan tossed her body aside.
Ivan took a swing at him, his claws slicing across the tip of George’s nose. The werewolf had a longer reach than George, so his own swing with the bolt missed completely.
Sizzling, foamy blood ran down Ivan’s injured arm.
Get him in the heart, George thought. One good jab to the heart and he’s finished.
He didn’t want to let go of his weapon, but there was no way he could get past Ivan’s claws. So he flung the bolt as hard as he possibly could, praying that he’d get lucky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Swapping Roles
He did not get lucky.
Ivan knocked the bolt away. “Now, Sam!” George shouted, looking over Ivan’s shoulder.
Taking advantage of Ivan’s momentary distraction, George ran for the van. Wow. He couldn’t believe that lame-ass trick worked.
It would’ve been nicer if it were some planned-out moment where Sam really was standing there with a crossbow, ready to put a silver-tipped bolt deep into Ivan’s heart, but for now George would happily accept the extra two seconds of life he’d been given.
He scrambled into the driver’s seat with the werewolf right behind him. He scooted onto the passenger side, opened the door, and got back out of the vehicle. It was even more difficult for Ivan to maneuver in here than for the oversized thug, so George got out with just enough time to slam the door in Ivan’s face. Hopefully he’d flattened his goddamn snout.
What now?
Where was Sam? The team had to have a backup plan prepared in case Prescott and Angie got murdered, right?
George ran around to the rear of the van. Actually, that cage looked nice and safe right about now. If it had been unlocked, he might have been inclined to jump in there with Michele.
There was just enough room for him to get in the back of the van. Since there was no way he could outrun the werewolf, his best bet was to keep hitting him with doors until Sam and Lou figured out that he needed some frickin’ assistance. He got in, pressed himself against the cage, and pulled the doors shut.
Ivan was at the doors in a few seconds. George heard his claws very slowly scrape against the outside steel--even now, the prick was still trying to be spooky. George took the pistol with its mostly useless lead bullets out of the holster.
Ivan pulled the doors open. He’d changed his hands back to human for the task.
George squeezed the trigger over and over, pumping several bullets into Ivan’s chest. Every few extra seconds helped, and if Sam had somehow missed hearing Prescott’s screams, he had to hear gunshots, right?
Ivan looked down at the bleeding holes in his chest, his expression incredulous even with his face in werewolf form. It changed back to human. “Bullets. Don’t. Work.”
George shot him in the face.
Ivan ran his tongue over the new hole in his upper lip. “Did you fucking hear me?” he asked, his words kind of slurred.
“You want one in the eye?” George asked. He’d actually been aiming for Ivan’s eye with the lip shot, but didn’t tell him that.
Ivan grabbed George’s left arm, not sinking his claws in. He gave it a sharp yank and George cried out in pain. The gun fell out of his hand as George’s arm, his shoulder now dislocated, flopped uselessly next to him. Ivan grabbed George’s ankle and dragged him out of the van. He hit the ground with a painful jolt, fortunately not crushing his twisted arm underneath him.
Ivan picked up the pistol and pointed it at George’s face. “So who else is out there? Is Sam real?”
“Nah.”
“Liar.” Ivan looked around uncomfortably. “I don’t hear him. I hear pretty well when I’m paying attention. He must’ve run away when he heard me tear your buddy apart limb from limb.”
“Must have.”
“You know that with a couple more tugs I could rip your arm right off. You saw me do it back at the bar.”
“I know.”
“Why do you keep messing with me, George? You got away. Why not just leave well enough alone?” Ivan wasn’t nearly as articulate anymore, but George could still understand him.