FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 22

I'm glad I let him drive. My legs actually hurt a lot more than I had anticipated. Jesus, they ache. And no amount of massaging and positive thoughts can make it go away. Jackie asks a couple of times if we should stop, but I shake my head. Those cleaners were right on top of us in the club. And if they knew how to find us there, however they did, then they might have access to information we could only dream of. For all we know, we could be stumbling into a trap.

Jackie is calm behind the wheel and traffic is sparse going down towards the waterfront south of Little Palermo. It's in an area that is a combustion of dense residential and commercial properties, as opposed to the wall industrial buildings and wharfs that make up the majority of the riverfront in Happy Town, not too far east. Jackie being so collected is a relief. It means he didn't inhale any, or enough, of the cocaine to get high off of it. The last thing I need is to take his collar off and lay him down in my car until the storm passes. I need the backup.

When we arrive, I realize just how accurate that statement is. The ermine wasn't lying, despite his words laced with acid and his general disposition making me think every syllable is a lie, the shop is directly on the waterfront. The Red District got its name from its red brick warehouses and homes, and for attracting immigrants from the Eastern Bloc. I generally don't care about politics. The only reason I keep this information tucked away is because it's a neighborhood that conceals Rodionovich's activities.

The mafia is dangerous as it is, but the tactics utilized and attitudes held by the Bratva border on war crimes. Say what you want about the suit-wearing pizza-munchers, at least they won't go after your family. Beyond that, it's a neighborhood that borders Happy Town to the west and has become mixed pred-prey since the fences came down. This means that it isn't exactly in a very good state of repair. The homeless, drug addicts, and winos stumble about the streets.

Jackie is smart enough to park across the street so we can get a good look at what we're up against. The building is large, if but unassuming. Constructed of faded brick with wide front windows packed with gorgeous, likely tasty, flowers, it's a diamond in the rough tucked between decaying warehouses and rundown townhomes. But, what stands out isn't even on the street. My eyes are attracted to the glowing lights and shining neon across the bay that reflects and dances on the rough water of the ocean: Poney Island.

Jackie observes it as well. He asked his mom why he couldn't go there in the summertime when he was a puppy. It's the biggest, oldest amusement park in the state, possibly the country, and until just very recently, it was prey-only. Yeah, that's right; they didn't desegregate until I was in my senior year of high school. Fred Hump Jr. and his corporation, who owned the park until about two years ago, fought it in the courts all the way to the top. He lost. And then he let it slide into degradation out of spite. Walked away with a pretty penny, all thanks to the citizens of New Haven. That's capitalism for you. What an odd sight on such a dark night, the bright, fruity circus colors against a blank, starless sky.

I'm just about to open the door when Jackie grabs my shoulder and holds me down. I turn to ask why when a car whooshes to the right. A long, black sedan with black wheels and a spotlight on its windshield, slows down to make a right into the alleyway between the brick building with 'Paw Print Flowers & Courier Service' written in dark neon above and the warehouse beside. It's only when it passes under the streetlight that I catch a good look at the blue and gold star medallion on its license plate.

When I look to Jackie, I find his icy blues reflecting the same, sullen sentiment I have. My heart runs cold when I accept that the car is an unmarked cruiser. It looks like Mrs. Wolfowitz was right after all, the cops are involved. Before I got here, I was frustrating myself about how I was going to get inside. Obviously, it wasn't going to be breaking a window. Maybe getting Jackie to jimmy the lock would've worked. But now, I guess we have our point of entry: follow the sleaze.

Jackie follows my lead. Although my legs still ache beneath me, it's but a fleeting annoyance. Being pumped up on adrenaline and pure willpower doesn't hurt, either. My friend isn't so excited about the coming events, he stays close and he keeps quiet. Peeking around the corner of the alleyway once we're across the street, I watch as taillights glow against a far wall way at the back, accompanied by the quiet squeak of poorly maintained brakes.

I slip around the side and patter across the macadam into the shadow of the flower shop. My eyes naturally stare into any open window as we pass them by, but only the displays in the front are open to observation. Any glass I find in doors or casements is covered by densely duct taped newspaper. Somebody obviously doesn't want any prying eyes witnessing what is going on inside. As we approach the edge of the building, I glance upwards and see that the back is ringed by a high brick wall. Above, the glower of headlights outlines its crest.

And over the distant tinkle and merry music of the boardwalk amusement park comes the dull grind of a heavy engine winding down. I try to keep my footfalls light, to mask our approach, as well as to overhear any careless chatter. The wall leads all the way to the back and I slow my pace as we near it. Jackie hovers just behind me, his breathing short and choppy. When I glance back to make sure he's not getting freaked by the coke, I find nervous eyes and blank lips.

He smiles reassuringly.

Over the wall to my left, I hear the sound of a singular door slamming shut, echoing against the high, empty walls in the still of the night. Voices can be heard, all male, but any words they utter are inaudible, nothing but vocal static. My ears strain in an attempt to discern anything, even to identify the voices, but I can't decipher a thing. The wall is too thick, and I think there might be other things between us.

"Let's hurry, we need to hear what they're saying," I instruct Jackie and then beckon with a tilt of my head.

Jackie nods and follows closely behind as I try to quietly shuffle to the far rear of the alleyway. I say 'try' because my hooves aren't exactly cooperating at the moment. Again, I wish I had Jackie's soft paws or had the foresight to put on some shoes, even if I'm not used to them and feel uncomfortable in them. Anything to overhear the conspirators, to get close enough to maybe even identify the dirty cop working with them.

"You what?!" a voice screams out as we near the rear end of the wall, marked by a high pillar.

The voice echoes off of the dark walls and causes the both of us to stand stock still. Jackie's chest rubs into my back and both of us are afraid to move for a few seconds, despite our discomfort. Gasping, my ears twist like radar to make sure we haven't been sniffed out already, without having witnessed anything. But there is no follow up, nobody jumps us. So we continue forward as the sound of muttering voices comes from behind.

"--like that," a soft voice pleads.

I peer around the corner and into the space behind the flower shop: a delivery dock and loading zone. It's lined with panel vans and sedans, as well as a lone semi and a few marked mopeds, parked unbelievably tightly. The glow of headlights illuminates the hoods and windshields, and casts shadows up the concrete. They're indistinct, but at least I can count how many other animals are here: three. Big blobs, the lot of them.

"Not like that?!" the voice screams, hoarse and raspy. "You fucking let a cop jump you? And a bitch cop too?! You two are the dumbest motherfuckers I've had the displeasure to ever work with!"

"Come on," I whisper to Jackie and then start forward silently.

Jackie seems unsure as to what I'm doing and I can tell he's nervous just being here. But he doesn't leave. He doesn't even suggest it. In fact, he's right on my tail as I delve into danger's waiting jaws. Tiptoeing across a small gap to the first panel van, I kneel down and then glance around the shining, chrome bumper. Jackie stands on the tips of his claws, peeking through the windows.

"I can't see a thing, Jane," he mutters.

I shush him, but realize I didn't need to a moment later. The truth is, I can't see a thing either, but I can at least hear everything as clear as a bell. And the dancing shadows cast upon the concrete make for good entertainment. I have at least a guess as to who two of them are. How did they get here first?

"Hey, it isn't like we were expecting company," a familiar, deep-throated voice argues carefully. "You know the deal: you and your, ah, associates_were supposed to be running interference. In as much time as I've worked with you, a cop has never _once been at a site. I thought all of you were in on it."

His voice is nasally and higher than the last time I ran into him, but that's the ram, the one in the flat cap with the terrible clothes. I bet the sucker punch Jackie landed on him broke his nose and it's full of cotton. Maybe it's some of his own wool. That'd be a laugh. The second shadow, the shorter one, must be the boar. But who's the third? Who's the cop?

"Well, this cop ain't like the rest of us, you dig?" The third, unfamiliar voice replies accusingly. "He says he thinks she'll play our game and do it well, but I think she's a Boy Scout. And what's worse is you led her back to the fucking rat. God only knows she's on her way here. Couldn't handle a female, a little one, too. Shameful."

The shadow turns and spits onto the ground and then watches as the largest, the ram, approaches.

"Wasn't just the bitch. She had help, too," the ram continues. "Fucking dirty-ass, jumped up pred caught me with knuckles."

"What pred?" the third voice asks, curiously.

"Some skinny coyote, I think," the boar interjects. "I saw him pounding sidewalk when I was coming down the stairs."

The sounds and words that come next are hard to describe. But it's akin to an engine being revved to the redline while the driver struggles to put it in gear. The clutch is grinding, but the tranny won't catch. The third beast stutters and spits indistinctly, the shadows dancing about, arms and coat flying. The only words I can make out are 'flay,' 'coyote,' and 'fucking fucker.' It's then that I decide that I can't stay here, we have to get closer. Leaning back, I look up at Jackie, who steps down from the running board.

"Let's move up the side," I tell Jackie. "I have to get a good look at them. I need to know who the cop is if I'm going to nail him."

"Alright," Jackie replies unconfidently.

He smiles anyways, one of those I'm-lying-but-it's-for-a-good-reason smiles. It's at least cute, so I try to reassure him with one of my own. Stepping around him, I stay low and squeeze between the rear doors of the van and the brick wall behind. Jackie follows directly behind me, and as we crawl closer, the voices become more and more distinct.

"Alright, so this is how things are gonna go," the new voice instructs after heaving a deep sigh. "Since you two chucklefucks couldn't handle this, _I'm_going to. And this needs to end now. If she made her way back to the pusher, we have to make sure there's no more bread crumbs to follow. We have to cut off the trail here and plug the leak."

We slide between a half a dozen vans and the tall, brick wall, all covered in matching blue paw prints and curly, sky-blue lettering before reaching the front. Putting my back to the rear door of the final van, I lean my nose around the side and glance towards the sedan parked diagonally across the lot. Its lights are on, which is what is casting the shadows and illuminating the stockyard, despite its engine having been turned off. At the very back of the yard is a tall, rectangular glass building attached to the flower shop. Its windows are lined with hazy greens, reds, and blues. It must be a greenhouse. I can almost smell the ozone.

And between the two loom three figures: the ram, the boar, and the cop. The boar and ram are easy to identify. It's hard to forget the face of someone who once held a knife to your throat, a face purple and swollen. As for the cop, I don't immediately recognize him. Then again, I can't see his mug. He's wearing a wide-brimmed fedora and a trench coat and his back is facing me. But he's shorter than the boar, and diminutive compared to the ram. Despite that, he commands these two cleaners like a strict schoolmarm, who recoil at each pointed finger.

"Plug the leak?" the boar inquires, confused, rubbing the back of his head.

The third figure produces a small object from his coat and pushes it into the unreceptive hands of the ram. Then he grabs the fronts of their shirts and drags them down to his level. In the light, I can almost make out a silhouette of his face peering upwards, but it's nothing more than shadows and blobs. Above, I feel Jackie take a peak for himself and breathe heavily.

"Plug the leak, to plug the leak," the cop hisses. "If this goes any further than here, we're all just walking corpses and everything we've worked for is shit. So fix it. Now!"

Then he lets them go and pushes them back. The ram stands solidly while the boar stumbles backwards, almost knocking into the concrete loading dock. Satisfied that his message has been communicated clearly, the cop turns and begins to lead the cleaners towards us, towards steps climbing up to the greenhouse entrance. As he nears us, I push Jackie back to make sure we're not seen.

Pressed against the cold van, I listen as several figures clomp and pad near to us and then up concrete steps. When the third passes by, I lean forward again and watch as the ram opens the squeaky rear door and disappears into darkness. Then the boar follows. The third figure grasps the open glass door, but doesn't proceed inwards immediately. Instead, he stops and abruptly swings about.

Without a second to spare, I recoil into the shadow of the van and hold my breath. I'm not sure if he saw me, or if he can sense my presence. From the heartbeat pounding out of my chest, maybe he can just hear me. Moments later, to my relief, the sound of a cigarette being lit hits my ear, followed closely by the creak of unoiled hinges as the door swings shut. Letting out that breath, I lean forward and look up at the greenhouse. The door is closed. High above, on the second floor of the brick building, I see a window illuminated. Somebody else must already be here.

And my mind can already guess what those cleaners are here to do.

"Come on, let's go," I whisper over my shoulder and step out from behind the van. "We have to keep on them, if we're going to prevent whatever they're planning."

"And to find Howie," Jackie reminds me.

I let my hooves clatter on the pavement as I flit across the open lot to the concrete stairs. As I ease up them, I peer through the warped glass and watch a small, orange light drift through a dense forest of potted plants or luxurious flowers. Then, like a ghost passing into a wall, it fades into the darkness. As I approach the door, with Jackie at my heels, I slow as the stench of cigarettes fills my nostrils.

But I don't cough. In fact, I feel a tingle rush down my spine. It's a familiar scent, like the ones Jackie smokes. As I look over my shoulder, I glance to the pack in his pocket and see that there's maybe one cigarette left. He smoked one in the car, hanging his arm out of the window, which I didn't complain about. After what we just went through, maybe I'd want to smoke as well.

For now, though, I simply ease open the glass door and allow Jackie to enter first, which he does with a curt smile. Inside in the greenhouse, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Sure, there wasn't a lot of light outside, but in here, it's truly dark; humid, stuffy, hot, and dark. The room is the size of the entirety of my apartment and filled to the brim with many exotic plants on perhaps a dozen tables. Tall ones tower along the walls, topped with bright petals of pink and yellow, blue and red. Smaller ones crouch at their bases, absorbing whatever light filters by their taller comrades.

"Wow, look at them all," Jackie mutters and pads forward, down between two long tables of plants. "It's like walking into a travel poster."

Wow is right. I'd always thought a flower shop would have the same typical ones most people would buy: roses, mums, carnations, lilies. Or even rows of vegetable and fruit seeds for those who attempt to grow their own at home in this suffocating city. But that's not what I see here. As I walk forward myself, I'm surrounded by a massive room filled to bursting with mostly the same flower creating an ocean of cream and crimson.

"What are they?" I ask him as I pad forward.

"Don't look at me, I know jack shit about flowers," Jackie replies quietly and rolls his shoulder. "I would assume you would, since you're the leaf-muncher, yeah?"

I just shake my head. Botanical and other similar biological studies were never my forte, unless you count those courses I took in high school where we studied lettuce under a microscope and dissected a tomato. But he is right in assuming that I would at least be vaguely accustomed out of pure biology. The plants that blanket every surface around us are familiar. They're squat and wide, with flutes that segue from crimson red in the center to unblemished white on the edges.

"I swear I know them," I tell Jackie, my voice barely above a whisper, "They look and smell very familiar. Sweet, fruity, and sour all at the same time. They make me feel comfortable, safe. Mmm . . ."

As I walk up the aisle, I bend over and inhale the enticing aroma emanating from the wide petals. It beckons to me, begging me to eat them, to stuff as many as I can between my teeth and lose myself. It's a call that I've heard before, though it wasn't nearly as tantalizing as it is now, so all-encompassing in a room full of it. Leaning down, I put my nose as close to them as I can, letting their tendrils tickle my cheeks. Then my lips part to welcome a desperately-needed nighttime snack.

"Jane, what are you doing?" Jackie asks.

A shock rushes through my spine and I gasp, blinking. Standing upwards, I stumble into the middle of the aisle and look up to Jackie. He stands near the end of the long, wide wooden tables, gazing at me with folded ears and lips parted justly. I can't make out any features beyond that. Peering back at him is difficult and it feels like I'm standing in a thick fog from an old, favorite, noir film. My lips part as I try to conjure an explanation, but one won't come. The truth is, I almost feel like I wasn't in control.

"I don't know, I think--"

"Son of a bitch!" a voice exclaims in pain.

Flashlights flicker on in the other room and a cone of yellow light sweeps back towards us. Some more voices pipe up around the first cry, though they sound amused, while the originator curses and mutters. Jackie's head bolts around and his ears stand skyward at the unexpected light and noise. Then we shadow each other, tumbling to the floor and sliding forward to put our back against the wall separating us. Yes, the windows of the glasshouse extend to the back. But, from the waist-down it's brick.

Gasping, I shoulder between Jackie and the door leading into the shop beyond. The light illuminates the greenhouse, revealing the ton of pollen and dust filling this room. It flutters and summersaults in the torrent of our breath. The light then twists from side to side before moving on, casting us back into deep darkness.

"Are you ok?" Jackie asks me between breaths.

Peering over to him, I nod and give him a reassuring smile as my head finally clears. Or at least, I understand enough to regain control. His hand covers the back of mine for a second and then in unison we turn around and ascend to our knees. Peering inside, I look through a shop that I can only describe as ordinary. The walls are white and forest green, the floors are tile and wood, the fixtures are covered in a thin veneer of Formica or metal. Beyond that, the arrangements behind and in front of the counter, as well as in the window, are beautiful, professional, and inviting.

The three beasts congregate just beyond the wide sales counter. The ram leans on the end, rubbing his leg and cursing. Must've knocked it into something in the dark. To his right, the boar aims his flashlight around while the third figure looks on in utter disdain, a trail of smoke coursing up from his fingers. A puff of smoke appears from his mouth and then he jabs his fingers forward. I lean over and push open the greenhouse door and nod my head to Jackie to follow.

"--wake up the whole fucking neighborhood, you pair of jackasses?!" the third figure hisses accusingly. "Wherever he found you, I hope he sends you back, I swear to Capybara!"

The ram grumbles, "Well, maybe if we had just come in with flashlights at the get-go, this wouldn't've--"

"Just shut up!" the cop interjects through clenched teeth. "Stop arguing! Just shut up and do your fucking job. I already have a lime pit and shovels all ready. Somebody's going in it, and if it's gotta be one of you, so fucking be it."

Slinking inside, I try to keep my hooves quiet on the tile flooring, which feels like an exercise in futility. Surprisingly, they don't hear me cross to a small table in the center of the preparation area, stacked high with reams of white, flattened boxes, ceramic pots, and spools of multicolored ribbon. Jackie follows quietly, crossing the room to the left wall, where a display case of plastic wreaths representing sales offerings hides his blue shirt and white pants effectively.

"Ok, ok, just keep cool," the ram apologizes gently, stepping away from the counter. "We'll handle it."

From between piles of paperboard, I'm able to watch them. The cop turns and begins to walk to his right, but suddenly swings about angrily.

"And let me do the talking," the cop orders and stabs a finger through the air, up towards the ram. "Jesus Capybara knows you've fucked up enough tonight. The less you touch, the better." He rumples his overcoat and then adds, shaking his head, "Plus, I bet the old guy knows we're coming. The whole neighborhood must by now."

As he turns around, the ram and boar glance to each other. Usually talkative, they keep their traps shut in the presence of their apparent superior. The cop disappears off to the left and I hear tromping as he ascends a creaky wooden staircase to the second floor. Sighing, the ram and boar follow, like punished children. Soon, they disappear through the doorframe and silence reigns.

Standing up, I walk briskly through the prep area of the shop to the show floor, where the windows are flush with fresh flowers and ornate stained glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Listening intently, I hear the cleaners mount the stairs that are hidden behind a small door in the wall and snake their way through the building. Voices in friendly tones call out, but it's all just mush in my ears. Jackie approaches and pants.

It's just now that I notice above the door on the wall is a blue-felt backed display board with several photos of beasts. The intricate cursive lettering featured below reads, "Meet our Employees." Both Catwright and Howie Wolfowitz are featured. They're both beaming an ecstatic, fulfilled smile, not unlike the others. I only find it surprising because every employee is a predator. And Howie is employee of the month.

"Well, we're definitely in the right place," I whisper to Jackie.

"Why--," he tries to reply, but I cut him off when I point out the photos. "Oh. Eddie finally delivered. For once."

Thank Jesus for that. Not that we haven't already gotten something of value out of this. We need to find the wolf. He may be our only willing witness. And in order to put these dirtbags away, we're going to need to put every nail in the coffin I can afford. Plus, it wouldn't hurt for Jackie to get paid. And, of course, Mrs. Wolfowitz deserves her husband back.

"I have to follow them upstairs," I tell Jackie at a conversational volume and look over my shoulder. "I think I know what they're here for, but, I have to catch them in the act before I get on the horn."

"You have your radio on you?" he asks me, only marginally surprised.

I sort of blush. I know he told me to leave that stuff at home, but, it's come in handy. In more than a few times, in fact. At first his eyes are marginally displeased, but it soon melts away, even before I stumble to offer up an explanation. Then he sighs and rubs the back of his neck looking like he's thinking of a way to admit he was wrong, at least in this instance.

"Ok," he then says. "I suppose it's better that we had that equipment than if we didn't. But I have to look for Howie. With his face on the wall, I can only assume that there has to be some clue here to where he is. You follow them upstairs; I'm going to sniff around down here."

"There were casement windows in the alleyway. Maybe there's a cellar. And they were covered in newspaper, too. I don't think anybody wanted anyone looking in," I suggest to him.

"Or out," he concludes.

If I wanted to hide somebody, that'd be where I do it. It's hidden, out of the way, and near soundproof. And in this neighborhood, nobody would be walking by to hear any screams. I nod in agreement and then look back towards the open doorway leading to a stairwell. It's dark now, and most of everything is difficult to discern. But a faint light glows from the top, beckoning to me.

"I'll meet you back here," I tell Jackie over my shoulder. "If I don't come down in five minutes, call the precinct and come up for me. This ends here."

Jackie nods and tightens his jaw. Without any further ado, we part, me making my way towards the door, my fingers reaching for my gun, Jackie padding back behind the sales counter. As I round the corner into the stairwell, I loose the gun from its hiding place in my jacket and creep upwards. The stairs are narrow and sharp, cutting hard to the left near the top. As I get closer to that bend, I see light filtering down.

"--didn't say he was sending you down," an unfamiliar voice resonates and then chuckles. "What an unexpected, uh, delight."

"He didn't, huh?" the cop replies, attempting to be cordial. "Well, tonight has definitely been an unexpected night, hasn't it?"

A couple of chuckles come from the ram and boar, uneasy ones. I poke my nose around the bend and peer across a hallway to find a wall covered in print pictures and peeling wallpaper. Twirling about to put my back against the opposite wall, I cross the stairwell and then mount the final few steps. At the top, I check straight down the hallway at the top to cover my retreat, which ends with a window looking onto the street, and then peek around the frame towards the light source.

The hall just beyond is long and narrow, running the building from end-to-end. It looks like an apartment where somebody, I'm assuming the owner, would live. The floor is cheap wood, covered only with a threadbare runner. No furniture, save for a small end table covered with keys, fills the space. Three doors, two behind me towards the light, one directly forward, line the poorly kempt walls, all of them opening into dark rooms. The only one I'm interested in is the one at the end, which leads into an office.

At the center behind a large, executive desk sits a thin lion with a neatly-cut mane. His form is wide, but gaunt, dressed in a white button-down shirt with wide cuffs around his wrists and suspenders lining his chest. Bottle cap glasses hide dark eyes set into his face, masked in graying fur. The ram and boar are just inside the door. The ram leans against the wall, his shoulder on the doorframe, while the boar sits in an armless chair. They both have their backs towards me. From here, I can't see the cop, but the lion's eyes give me a clue to where he is, just out of sight.

"Everything has been going well, there haven't been any, err, hiccups," the lion explains and nods his head.

His collar blinks around his neck, alternating green and yellow. He doesn't trust them. I wouldn't either.

"The books are being well managed, the suppliers arrive on time," the lion says with a chuckle and awkward smile. "Nobody asks any questions."

"That's good," the cop, out of sight, cheerily says. "Very good."

I hear him exhale and see a cloud of smoke appear. The lion turns his eyes away and blinks rapidly. Then he waves his hand to coax the smoke away.

"Then what's the problem?" the lion asks, getting to the point. "You wouldn't be down here unless there's a problem. If it's the wolf, I assure you, it's been taken care--"

"It's not the wolf," the cop says, "even though you fucked that up too, taking pity on him."

Come on, Jane, you have to get closer. Looking down, I measure the distance from here to the first open door. Maybe ten feet, twelve at the most. The boar's eyes are set intently on the lion, the lion's on the cop. I can't see the ram's face, but I doubt he'll be peering up the hallway any time soon. Taking a chance, I step out and pad down the hallway, being careful to keep my hooves on the thicker portions of rug.

In the office, nobody notices me approach, and I decide to press my luck and go for the second. But just as I pass the first open door, the lion's head begins to shift and the cop strides between him and the open door, the smoke heralding his appearance. The boar rises to his hooves and I stop dead still before retreating backwards and spinning into the open doorway just before their eyes cross the hallway. I think I'm standing in a living room, a dark, musty-smelling living room.

"Then-then what is it?" the lion asks, his voice cracking.

Turning my head, I peek around the doorframe and see the lion's head turned in the other direction. The ram hasn't moved, but the boar has crossed the room and is only just in sight, his cheap suit and thick gut almost resting on the cherry desk the lion sits at. The cop isn't in sight, but I can follow his position with the lion's eyes and the cigarette smoke that surrounds him. The lion's terrified. I think he knows what's coming. But he can't do a damn thing about it, unless I move in first.

"Well, you see, that cat of yours--" the cop begins to elaborate.

"I know what you're going to say, but I'm sorry, I swear it. I didn't--I didn't know he was going to get into the supply," the lion desperately tries to explain away. "He was always good before! I didn't know he could react like that, I don't know what happened! I swear, I didn't mess with the mix, it's as pure as when we got it!"

He freezes abruptly, his eyes widening and his lips going still. The cop walks into the open, finally appearing in sight. His tan coat and matching hat glow brightly in the artificial light. He pads quietly to the back of the room, the lion following him with a creak of his swivel chair. The cop pauses at the window and peers outwards, sucking on his cigarette and blowing smoke. From here, I see that his fur is brown. I can guess who it is, but, I still try to hold out hope.

"I don't think you did, Larry," the cop says with a shake of his head. "But, what your cat did has led to some, heh, shall I say, consequences. The short of it is, I don't like cleaning up other animal's messes. You dig?"

The ram and boar shift uneasily. I know I have to move forward now, while all eyes are turned towards the rear of the building. Easing from the room, I keep my hooves on the carpeting as I attempt to clear the distance of another ten feet to the next open door. The ram steps forward, keeping his back towards me. His hands rest calmly at his sides, but I notice his fingers twitching nervously, anxiously. I even notice that the white parts of his striped shirt are covered in dried blood on the shoulders and down the back. Jesus, Jackie got him good.

The smile that crosses my lips fades when a noise comes from behind me, a sort of muttering or hooting sound. My ears twitch and I see the ram tense up, about to turn. I thrust myself into the open door just in time as the ram to swing his frame about to investigate. What follows is silence as everyone tightens their lips and opens their ears. I shut mine as well to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest. My nerves are on edge and even my training can't drive away the nervousness and fear.

"What was that?" the ram asks.

"Uh, it's the wolf," the lion offers up. "I know he was going to blow us, but he didn't -he doesn't--deserve to die! I dosed him with a small amount of the drug. I don't think he's ever coming back. Good God, what I did," he gasps, "what I did . . ."

At first I think that they might send somebody down. Jackie wouldn't see them coming. And if he found Howie, and I hope he did, he'd be screwed. The ram walks forward, casting a long shadow down the hallway, dark and menacing. He steps out of the office and lingers just beyond the doorway. He's close enough to where I am that I can almost feel his heavy, looming presence atop of me. They pause for a second and the cop sighs deeply.

"Was necessary. We don't want him to talk. So don't worry about it," he curtly commands the ram, and then his voice becomes somewhat calm, yet somehow still angry. "What was done was necessary, even if it wasn't what you were ordered to do. I'll undoubtedly have to fix that, too."

I see the shadow cast by the ram turn and retreat. Licking my lips, I peek around the corner and see that eyes have once again turned away from me. I'm only maybe two or three paces from the door and I can hear the lion's shallow breathing. The ram returns to the desk, where he stands like a sentry on watch. The lion is leaning back in his chair, though I can see his eyes flickering about, looking for escape. But one isn't there. The cop releases one last puff of smoke and then tosses the butt onto the floor. The lion watches it arc and tumble.

Larry, I suppose it is, gasps and snaps his eyes back upwards when the cop begins to dig around in his pocket. My fingers wrap around the butt of my gun as I feel the end nearing. It's heavy now, much heavier than I've ever felt it.

"Which brings us to why we're here," the cop says, his fingers rooting around in his coat. "You see, somebody fucked up and now some animals are following the breadcrumbs back to the cottage. I have to make sure that trail ends abruptly and without explanation."

The ram cracks his knuckles and reaches into the pocket on the seat of his pants. He grasps something and withdraws it, cupping it in his palm.

"What--what do you mean?"

The boar sidles up next to the desk and crosses his arms.

"It seems that there's a clean badge out there following a little trail backwards and, well, that trail has to be swept away. And because it was your fuckup that started everything, sending that inexperienced leopard out with three weeks' worth of our supply on him, you get to take the fall. When they find you, they'll just think you were some desperate, ghetto-dwelling, predator crap who cooked up some pisspoor drugs and sold them. End of story."

There's silence for a second and then the lion goes to rise from his seat. But the boar doesn't let him. He reaches out and eases him back into the wooden office chair. Larry's eyes swing around at his assailants, evidently feeling the noose tightening around his neck.

"Please, tell him I can fix this," the lion begs, his voice becoming strained. "We'll move production, there's another location just across the bridge! Packaging our supplies will be no problem; we can even take our existing employees with us! No one will notice!"

The cop chuckles and then sighs. The lion's eyes flutter about as he searches for something, anything to stop what's coming. He gazes into the bright window and, for a second, I swear his reflection makes eye contact with me. His lips part and his brow rises in surprise.

"Damn, I'm out of Buckies," the cop says with an almost pleased tone. "And Larry, you're out of time. Don't take it personally. This is just business. If it weren't you, it'd be someone else."

With startling grace, he produces a long, black-and-silver object from his pocket and presses a button on the side. A five inch blade flicks from the end of the stiletto and the cop turns on a dime, despite his rotund body and short stature. The knife arches up and then down, disappearing into the lion. But not his chest, it thrusts through his hand. The lion screams and roars, the collar around his neck flaring up its usual warning.

The lion's shoulder pulls and he throws his other arm up, only to have it intercepted by the boar, who jerks it back down, pinning it to the arm of the chair. Finally, the ram steps forward and wraps something long and thin around Larry's neck, his body leaning onto the desk and sending papers fluttering to the floor. Then he rows his body back, elbows out, rocking the wooden chair all the way against the desk, producing a horrifying screeching sound. Larry's legs kick while he thrashes about, desperate to get his hands up under the garrote, gagging and sputtering while his collar shocks intermittently. Everything else on the desk is thrown off in the struggle.

Without thinking twice, I raise my gun and I fire two darts into the back of the ram, who shudders. Then I sink two more into the boar's side and neck. The ram begins to slump first, presumably due to blood loss. Then the boar looks over and has just enough time and energy to mumble something before collapsing. Like a sack of potatoes, the ram follows him to the floor, thudding against the hardwood floor.

This leaves only the cop left, his stiletto sunk to the hilt through the back of the hand of the poor accountant. His brown eyes glisten with shock and disgust, but he doesn't stumble back. His hands remain steady, not chancing a reach for the detective-issue .38 special in his shoulder holster. He knows if he does that, he swallows the remaining tranquilizer. And maybe what happens afterwards will be tossed up to an accident.

In short, Detective Sergeant Ashe has fucked up.

"Don't move, asshole, or you eat it!" I command. "Put your hands up, put 'em up!"

"Y--you?" he stutters with only bemused surprise. "How did you--? Listen, you don't know what you're doing. You don't know what you've walked into."

"I know exactly what I'm doing: stopping you. Now shut up and put those hands up!" I order.

The beaver reluctantly follows my command as I enter the room, gingerly stepping over the unconscious ram in the threshold. He bears his teeth angrily and mutters curses and accusations under his breath. Keeping the bead on him, I withdraw the radio from my pocket and hold down the button. The adrenaline pumps through my veins so thickly that I have to take a few cleansing breaths to even form any words.

"This is Detective Jane Brooks, reporting an attempted murder at Paw Print Flower Company on Shepherd Street," I shakily say into the radio. "Two culprits have been subdued, third is under control. Suspects are armed and dangerous. Victim is stable but injured, another may be on site. Requesting ARU and ambulance response."

Ashe's eyes flash when he realizes who's coming for him. Not some beat cop like me, but the ARU. The Armed Response Unit, or Howlers. They're the heavily armed fast response wing of the NHPD, and they don't mess about. And they didn't get that name simply for giggles. The predators call them Howlers because it's the noise most of them make when they arrive. The lion gasps and coughs in his chair, severely injured but alive. Ashe finally raises his arms and steps backwards. We lock gazes and just contemplate each other. I knew something stunk, I just didn't realize it was so close to home.

The only thing Ashe can do now is regret his actions.