The mercenary frowned at Adam. "But you probably guessed that."
"Most of the competent people end up elsewhere," agreed Adam. "FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, National Security Administration, Secret Service, or one of a few other agencies. Cantrip has been a dumping ground for the screwups for years, and this has the same sort of FUBAR painted all over it that I've seen whenever desks try to run real operations."
The other man grinned at him. "What you said. I'm going to repeat that to my superiors."
"Okay," Adam said. "But where is the money coming from? I know what Cantrip's budget is; they don't have enough of a black-ops slush fund to work this. Maybe if they all gave up their salaries, they'd be able to hire something like your operation without alerting someone. You guys are more likely to be out protecting some drug lord in South America or fighting the war when the Geneva Convention is too restrictive for the home troops."
The other man put a finger along his nose and pointed it at Adam. "I could like you if you weren't a hell spawn, you know? No. Cantrip doesn't have that kind of money, though they would if a werewolf killed the Billionaire Senator, right? If his party didn't see to it, his very rich and very, very powerful family would. Word is that the head of this operation is cooperating with some money man, a rich son of a bitch anonymous puppet master who seems to have it in for you, Hauptman. He funded this operation, and the only stipulation was that it was your pack that got elected for assassination duty. Don't know who he is, but people are afraid of him."
And that was very interesting. Adam found himself settling in, ready to hunt. That it was personal made his enemy specific. Not people who hate werewolves, which was a very large group, but a man who hated him.
"Your intelligence was very good," Adam said. He needed to know where the information came from. "Traced cell phones for where the pack members who weren't at my house for Thanksgiving would be - that would have been Cantrip. But how did you find all the pack members?"
The other man nodded. "Right track. It's where I would have looked first. The list of pack members was provided to us - came from a different source. Same folks who provided the tranq. If I were to guess, I'd say it was someone high up in the military who doesn't like werewolves. But he wasn't the man funding this - just an interested bystander."
The tranq and information both could have come from Gerry Wallace before he'd been killed. Adam's pack hadn't changed since Gerry's death. Gerry's job had been to keep track of the lone wolves - and to do that he had a pretty extensive list of who was in which pack as well. Adam would have to warn Bran that someone had that information and was making it available.
"Did you ever see him?"
"Which him?"
"The money man or the information man."
The other man tilted his head. "Just the money man, once, I think. Said he was a flunky, guys with lots of money always have flunkies. He was soft-looking, looked like a civilian through and through. Dressed in a suit and looked like butter wouldn't melt. But he made the hair on the back of my neck crawl - and I always trust my gut. He looked soft, but he didn't move like a civilian, get me? Moved on the balls of his feet, and when he pulled a chair up, it didn't take him as much effort as it would have taken a civilian. He was stronger than a man who looked that soft should have been."
"You don't think he was a flunky."
"You read people, too," the mercenary said. It didn't sound like it bothered him. "No. I think he was the money man himself. I've trained a lot of men. Some of them are better at giving orders than taking them. He was one of those. But subtle about it."
"When and where?"
The other man shook his head. "Now, that is too much. More my company's secret than my ex-employers'." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Crouching for that long wasn't easy, especially if the one doing it was a human over thirty. But the mercenary didn't seem to find it uncomfortable.
"My doctor tells me if I don't quit smoking, I'll die of cancer someday," he said.
"If it ruins your endurance, it'll kill you sooner than that," said Adam. "Smokers don't run as fast or as long."
The man laughed. "Tell you what. A couple of days ago word came to me that these folk aren't Cantrip. Oh, they work for the agency all right. But they've gone rogue, and Cantrip has a group out looking for them." He looked at his cigarette, then put it back in his mouth and inhaled. "Cantrip's problem-solver got into town last night - just in time to do the cleanup on my boys."
A small red light flashed on his wristwatch. He tapped the watch and ground the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. "Son," he said. "If I have to depend upon running fast to stay alive, I'm already dead. Got to go now." He pulled out a key and frowned at it. "It's a strange old world, you know? Never know who you're going to find yourself in bed with."
He stood up and tossed the key toward Adam, who let it fall to the ground next to him.
"Good luck, now." The mercenary stepped over Darryl on the way to the door. "You aren't a bad sort for an abomination."
"I could say the same to you."
The mercenary glanced back and laughed. "Yeah. There is that." He opened the door, and said, quietly, "I heard one of them say that there's another assassin on the senator's security detail."
"Aimed at whom?" asked Adam.
The mercenary nodded. "I do like you. That is the right question. For you if you succeeded, for the senator if you didn't." He left without another glance.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Darryl and Warren both looked up at Adam. Darryl inhaled and gave a soft growl, too drugged from the ketamine to bring out words.
"Yes," said Adam. "I'm better." He didn't say why or how. They'd think it was Bran, and his legend would help them get up and on their feet.
He used the key to free himself and opened the shackles that held Darryl first, then Warren. When Warren sat up, Adam dropped the key into the old cowboy's hand. Warren was in the best shape next to Adam.
"Free everyone, but stay here until I get back or summon you," he told Warren. "Free Honey last, and be ready in case she really loses it."
Then he stood up and stripped out of his clothes. The final thing that he had learned in Vietnam, even before he'd been turned into a werewolf, was that he was good at killing.
Naked, he walked to the door and turned the knob - his mercenary visitor had left the door unlocked and unbarred. It opened into the small antechamber where Mr. Jones's desk was still in place. The room was dark, but they were underground - or so his nose told him, though the ceilings were higher than usual for a basement.