For three long hours, he’d been standing watch outside the dilapidated bar constructed of cinder block walls, rusted tin roof, and grim desperation. The seedy bar was a well-known hangout for rogue wolves that had no respect for Wolf Law, making it the perfect place for his suspect to hide. He grimaced as the scent of stale urine and fresh vomit wafted over him, making his stomach clench in a violent spasm. He regretted parking in the dark alley away from the blinding security light, but tonight’s mission required stealth, so he’d sacrificed fresh air and comfort. His saving grace from the repugnant odor was the occasional breeze carried on the October wind. He narrowed his gaze on the door, as if willing Raymond Wilson to exit so he could apprehend him. Why any werewolf would risk outing their species to the world for easy drug money was beyond his comprehension. Risky behavior, whether criminal or not, wasn’t tolerated by the Pack. The U.S. Government knew about the existence of werewolves.
