SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

“You’re not listening to me, George! I said if you don’t behave yourself you’ll never see Cheryl alive again! Pay attention!” The voice was deeper than before and rumbled; the blue eyes had gone so dark they looked almost black, and when the man spoke his lips peeled away from teeth that barely seemed to fit inside his mouth.

“You don’t get to hit me, George. You don’t get to threaten me. The only reason you’re even alive is because I’m nicer than most of my kind and I decided to let you have a fighting chance.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” George struggled, even with the wind knocked out of his body and the giant of a man — six foot four? Hardly, closer to six foot eight! —holding him off the ground it was hard for him to listen to the words and make himself calm down.

“You told them to stop, George. I’m giving you points for that. But you didn’t even try to make them stop. You just watched.”

The Incredible Growing Man spun George in a half-circle and threw him toward the distant kitchen. George was reunited with the floor in a painful collision that left his arms tangled with a chair from the dining room set and eyes that refused to focus.

Before he could get to his feet, or even to his knees, the man was back again and this time he took the offensive, pushing one foot against George’s neck and pinning him in place. “Keep it up, George, and I’ll tear Cheryl’s heart from her body. Do you understand me?”

George stopped struggling and took several deep breaths, focusing himself, pulling back from the anger that still threatened to erupt. Finally he nodded, knowing that all the rage in the world wouldn’t help him right now.

The man nodded and stepped back, his face still locked into a snarl. “Good. Listen to me and listen carefully. Go about your life like nothing is out of the ordinary. I’ll be in contact with you in a few days.” He moved toward the front door. “Don’t get stupid, George. You do anything you shouldn’t, and Cheryl will be the one who pays for it. Oh, and keep that temper of yours at the ready.” He paused and looked back at George, still on the ground. “You’re going to need it.”

* * *

Cullie Landers didn’t have a family. He was alone in the world and that suited him just fine. He tended to think of himself as a man without a care in the world, and most of the time he was right. His parents had left him a fortune when they died, and he’d been wise in how he spent it. The house was bought and paid for, the cars in the driveway all belonged to him and he was cautious about going crazy with the spending. He didn’t live beyond his means and with a little careful financial maneuvering he’d managed to set most of his assets aside and still give himself a spending allowance of almost three thousand dollars a month. When it came to living on Easy Street, Cullie was an old pro.

When it came to having a good time, he was even more of a seasoned veteran. So it wouldn’t have surprised anyone who knew him to hear that he staggered into his house at just after two in the morning, wise enough at least to have taken a cab home. He could always pick up his Bronco in the morning.

Cullie opened the door and stumbled through the threshold as the room did a small spin to the left. He reached back to close the door and encountered a very warm fur coat instead.

He turned back with unfocused eyes and looked at the thickly muscled torso he was touching, felt the flesh move as the thing standing in his doorway breathed, and then looked up at the face.

He meant to scream “bear!” but never had the chance. The fist that clocked him was as big as his face, and drove him to his knees. He was unconscious when he was lifted from the ground and carried out into the cold night air.

* * *

Captain Eric Fulford was not happy. He was, in fact, absolutely miserable. The diner in front of him looked perfectly comfortable, but he sat in his car anyway, smoking a Pall Mall and trying to keep calm.

Four days earlier his wife Sarah’s car had been found abandoned on the side of the road. Foul play was suspected. Two days later, he was home on emergency leave, trying to figure out exactly what had happened to Sarah and the boys. Lance and Tyler were good kids, but too young to do much if something had happened. He took out the last picture taken of the whole family together and stared at each of his loved ones’ faces, memorizing them.

The phone call had come just after two in the morning, and he’d answered it quickly, praying it was Sarah. No, instead it was a stranger’s voice.

“Captain, we have Sarah and your twins. Lovely boys they are, too. They’re all fine and they miss you horribly.”

“Who is this?”

“Don’t concern yourself with that. Right now what you need to worry about is getting your family back. So here’s the deal. I want you to go to the Wilmont Diner on White Horse Pike, do you remember the place?”

How could he ever forget? “Yes, yes I do.”