His arm. That had to be it.
Which arm?
He was right-handed, so they’d probably go for his left. That would be the best way to keep it undetected.
Where on the left arm?
They’d go for a fleshy part. Somewhere he’d be less likely to feel it. So...the bottom of his upper arm. Absolutely. That’s exactly where a sneaky bastard like Bateman would hide the chip.
Ivan transformed his right index finger into a claw. The problem with Bateman’s oh-so-brilliant plan was that he didn’t think Ivan would cut open his own flesh to dig out the chip. How wrong he was.
Ivan held up his arm, bent it at the elbow, and poked the talon through his skin. He was spilling new blood to replace what he’d washed away. Let the mosquitoes drink their fill.
He dragged the talon across his arm, cutting deep into his flesh.
He didn’t scream. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He’d felt much worse pain than this, and here he was in total control. He could stop whenever he wanted.
Ivan cut all the way to his elbow, then withdrew the talon. There was no chip on the end.
He took a deep breath to steel himself, and then slipped his middle finger into the gash, running along its length, searching for the chip. This hurt far worse than the initial cut. Worse than the bullets he’d taken today. Even worse than the process of having bullets extracted, which was something he’d been through several times before, and something else he’d have to endure in the near future. Drugs didn’t work on him anymore, so he was forced to remain totally conscious and alert as the non-licensed physician dug out the slugs with a scalpel and tweezers.
Now he screamed.
What difference did it make? Until he got rid of the chip, it didn’t do any good for him to remain quiet.
No chip.
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.”