Wolf's Blind (The Nick Lupo Series Book 6) Read online

  WOLF’S BLIND

  Book Six of the Nick Lupo Series

  By W. D. Gagliani

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2017 W. D. Gagliani

  Original publication by Samhain Publishing – December, 2015

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  W.D. Gagliani is the author of the horror-thrillers Wolf’s Trap (a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004), Wolf’s Gambit, Wolf’s Bluff, Wolf’s Edge, Wolf’s Cut, Wolf’s Blind, and Savage Nights, plus the novellas Wolf’s Deal and both the original “The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis” and the upcoming Acheron Books version. He has published fiction and nonfiction in numerous anthologies and publications such as Robert Bloch’s Psychos, Fearful Fathoms, Undead Tales, More Monsters From Memphis, The Midnighters Club, Extremes 3: Terror On The High Seas, Extremes 4: Darkest Africa, and others, and early e-zines such as Wicked Karnival, Horrorfind, 1000Delights, Dark Muse, and The Grimoire. His fiction has garnered six Honorable Mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror (one of which, the story “Starbird,” is also part of Amazon’s Story Front program). His book reviews and nonfiction articles have been included in The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Chizine, HorrorWorld, Cemetery Dance, CD Online, The Writer magazine, The Scream Factory, Science Fiction Chronicle, Flesh & Blood, BookPage, Hellnotes, and many others, plus the books Thrillers: The 100 Must Reads, They Bite, and On Writing Horror. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. Additionally, the creative team of W.D. Gagliani & David Benton has published fiction in anthologies such as THE X-FILES: Trust No One, SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror, SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, Zippered Flesh 2, Malpractice, Masters of Unreality, etc., online venues such as The Horror Zine, DeadLines and SplatterpunkZine, plus the Amazon Kindle Worlds Vampire Diaries tie-in “Voracious in Vegas.” Some of their collaborations are available in the collection Mysteries & Mayhem.

  Contact:

  www.wdgagliani.com

  www.facebook.com/wdgagliani

  Twitter: @WDGagliani

  Books and Novellas:

  Wolf’s Trap

  Wolf’s Gambit

  Wolf’s Bluff

  Wolf’s Edge

  Wolf’s Cut

  Wolf’s Blind

  Wolf’s Deal

  Savage Nights

  Shadowplays (Tarkus Press; story collection)

  Mysteries & Mayhem (Tarkus Press; story collection, with David Benton)

  I Was a Seventh Grade Monster Hunter (Tarkus Press; Middle Grade, with David Benton, as A.G. Kent)

  “The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis” (Tarkus Press; novella)

  “Jack Daniels and Associates: Hair of the Dog” (Kindle Worlds Novella; A Jack Daniels / Nick Lupo Thriller)

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  Dedication

  Once again, as always, I’d like to dedicate this book to my Mom and Janis, who make it possible with their love and support, and in memory of my Dad, who lived some of the adventures that have found their way into my scribblings.

  Acknowledgments

  Great thanks are in order to: co-conspirator and collaborator David Benton—the Alpha of Beta-readers who also suggested the title, editors extraordinaire Geoff Brown (Cohesion Press) and Jonathan Maberry, Tony D’Amato of The Gun Store (Las Vegas), all my many friends and colleagues (you know who you are), and Don D’Auria (whose patience is now beyond legendary). Also the hard-working crew of the Oak Creek Starbucks at 8880 South Howell, who furnish me with a friendly office away from the office.

  I’d like to again acknowledge the stories my grandmother and parents told me of their childhood in Italy 1943–44, under German occupation and Allied bombing, as well as the war’s aftermath. Some of those stories, experiences and locations have made their way into this novel, as well as the previous two, Wolf’s Edge and Wolf’s Cut, albeit in greatly altered, fictionalized form.

  This time out I also would like to acknowledge the timeless work of Edgar Froese and Tangerine Dream…I’ve been a fan of all their eras, styles, soundtracks and “projects” since about 1977, especially their Virgin and Blue periods. I’ve just reached 71 recordings in my collection. This novel was written mostly under the influence of Tangerine Dream’s synthesizer explorations. When I wrote this note, I didn’t expect it to end this way, but as of January 20, 2015, I must add with deep sadness: Rest in peace, Edgar Froese, and thank you for decades of music. Travel well—you already know the soundtrack by heart…you wrote it. And the legendary Chris Squire of Yes, who left us much too soon. He was the heartbeat of Yes and so my musical world shrank once again. Onward through the night, and into the heart of the sunrise…

  Author’s Note

  The real Eagle River is located in Vilas County of northern Wisconsin. The real Milwaukee is located in the far southeast corner of the state on the shores of the great Lake Michigan. As always, I have altered these places as needed (geographically, socially, and with regard to local city and police department organization) in order to suit my purposes. All characters in these alternate versions of Eagle River and Milwaukee are either fictional or used fictitiously and in no way resemble their real-world counterparts. However, some things will always be true. If you drive up into the North Woods from Milwaukee, especially after dusk, you might notice lean shadows keeping pace with you just outside your view inside the tree line. And later, if you look up you might see the moon’s silvery sheen filtering through the swaying treetops. Don’t roll down your windows—and never, ever stop the car on a dark, lonely road…

  blind (traditional definition): unable to see; sightless, Also: unable or unwilling to perceive or understand

  From Wikipedia: blind (in Poker): a forced bet placed into the pot by one or more players before the deal begins, in a way that simulates bets made during play. Also, kill blind is a special blind bet made by a player who triggers the kill in a kill game

  blind
(in hunting): a cover device for hunters, designed to reduce the chance of detection

  WOLF’S BLIND

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Interlude

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Other books

  Prologue

  Berlin Underground

  The Führer Bunker, April 1945

  The SS guard showed him into a waiting room deep below street level, so far down that the almost constant shelling was barely audible through the several meters of concrete. The reinforced staircase had taken them below the corner of Wilhemstraße and Voßstraße not far from the partially destroyed Reich Chancellery, and into the main underground complex.

  Occasionally a small amount of dust was shaken from the corner molding above him, but otherwise he might have been in any doctor’s waiting room. It was comfortable, but sterile. He waited patiently on the black leather armchair.

  He had all the time in the world. Or so he liked to think.

  A hardy, handsome man with leonine salt and pepper hair and a serpentine burn scar on his left cheek, his fingers lightly stroked the “Spezial-SS” flashes on his collar, the lightning bolts woven through a silver wolf’s head, a rare insignia but one feared by those who knew enough to be afraid. He straightened his immaculate black uniform and absently flicked imaginary dust off his coveted Totenkopf—death’s head—sleeve diamond insignia.

  The bombardment was inaudible except for an occasional blast that might have been a thunderclap.

  When the inner door finally opened and a beautiful but frightened Aryan secretary herded him inside, he expected to see the same Führer he had seen the last time he had visited the Wolfsschanze, the Wolf’s Lair in Eastern Prussia. But that had been over a year ago, and the Führer he saw now sitting behind a desk that dwarfed him was harried, sleep deprived, and more than a little glassy-eyed.

  Benzedrine, he thought. Not the first hit today, either.

  In fact, the inhaler was on the blotter next to a stack of black files, right where the Führer could reach it whenever he needed it.

  Obergruppenführer Helmut vonStumpfahren, forced away from his own underground headquarters of the SS Special Units Division below the destroyed length of what had once been a beautiful Berlin thoroughfare, fidgeted in front of the utilitarian desk, a far cry from the elaborate one he had sat across not so long before.

  Indeed, Adolf Hitler seemed a pale imitation of himself of himself.

  VonStumpfahren was certain he knew why he was here. And he itched to leave as quickly as possible, for the Götterdämmerung Projekt—although it had reached amazing heights—would no longer be completed, at least not in any way anyone had predicted. But he knew the ashes would give birth to another project, Hydra. He spied the Götterdämmerung code name stamped on the top file of the stack sitting before the Führer, who finally looked up as if he hadn’t heard the general’s arrival.

  “Your reports are of great interest to me, General,” said Adolf Hitler, tapping the top file folder. “I knew when it began that you would bring our plan to successful heights.”

  VonStumpfahren nodded his thanks. He should have stood and saluted, probably, but this Führer was weary and seemed uninterested in the same formalities he would have embraced only a year before. The General sensed what was coming. He watched the great man’s eyes.

  “Now we must use it to prolong the life of our beloved Reich, General. You have learned much, according to your report. The experiments have worked. The path is clear ahead of us.”

  VonStumpfahren took a risk. “But Herr Führer, is it not too late? The Soviet devils are at the gates—beyond the gates, really.” A nearby shellburst knocked dust off the ceiling as if to reinforce his point.

  Hitler waved an impatient hand at him. “Of course, of course, all is lost here. But there are other places, other battles. The war is long. Your Werwolf Division is still producing results, is it not?”

  Yes, but it’s a losing proposition, he thought.

  He said, “Most assuredly, Herr Führer!”

  What he also didn’t say was that his own plans were shifting by the day. Plan Hydra was about to begin, and he wasn’t sharing this with the Führer. He understood that the Führer’s plans and his might intersect, but VonStumpfahren’s reward would be financial as well, not merely political or philosophical. He had decided that politics and philosophy didn’t pay for the lifestyle he had adopted.

  “I have watched some of the film of Schlosser’s secret work that was shared with me over the last few months.” Hitler’s eyes gleamed, though it was impossible to tell whether it was excitement, or drugs, or…insanity.

  And then Adolf Hitler said: “You will make me into a werwolf now.”

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Lupo

  He’d been sitting in the dark, feeling every ache in his body. The last few days had been tough and he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

  In his hands he held an H&K MP5A3 submachine gun with the stock retracted.

  His elbows rested on the desk and he felt the blotter under them, wondering how recently his father had done the same, rested his arms on the desk and perhaps lowered his weary head.

  Lupo had hoped Ghost Sam would keep him company, but the Indian was nowhere to be seen or heard.

  Maybe he’s had enough.

  Lupo was grateful, more grateful than his generally unreligious attitude usually allowed.

  He was grateful that Jessie was home safe.

  He thought of the raids he and his friends had managed to pull off, those hellfire raids. He’d turned Reaper missiles meant for him on his enemies. The few mobsters who’d survived were likely on the run now. He would have to clean it up. Time had been bought, but good people had paid the price.

  Charlie Black Bear, his ally from a while back, had paid the ultimate price. Lupo hoped there was something to that afterlife fantasy, because the big guy deserved to be at peace with his family in some version of paradise.

  But Lupo himself doubted it.

  His mind wandered. The darkness was conducive to introspection and analysis. Who had warned the occupants of the drone command house, and where had they gone to ground? The thought that the group that called itself Wolfclaw—they had a limited imagination after all!—was still out there, still active, and still seeking to fulfill its nefarious agenda…it was almost more than Lupo could handle.

  The padlock rattled gently in its hasp.

  He stiffened, his heart suddenly pumping faster.

  His muscles tensed and he grasped the MP5 more tightly, finger brushing the trigger. Only a tiny amount of pressure needed. A full 30-round magazine. He aimed the suppressor directly at the door.

  Goddamn it, now he would know who had been dusting—and using—his father’s files. Who’d been pulling strings, making Lupo dance from afar.

&nb
sp; The door opened on its oiled hinges. There was a square of light from the hallway, a dark figure standing in it momentarily then stepping inside. The door swung closed behind the figure and the light disappeared, then Lupo heard the sound of fingers scrabbling for the switch.

  There was the hiss of inhaled breath as the overhead lamp went on and revealed Lupo and his leveled submachine gun.

  “Surprise,” Lupo said. His finger was squarely on the trigger.

  A rugged, elderly man stood inside the doorway, startled but not terribly surprised at all. He wore khaki pants and a heavy sweater under a blue North Face vest.

  “I wondered when you would find me,” the elderly man said.

  Lupo detected a slight accent. He said nothing.

  They stared at each other for an endless minute. Then the older man spoke again, quietly.

  “My name is Corrado, and I knew your father and grandfather.”

  Lupo felt his head spin. The gun in his hands was suddenly beyond heavy. The muzzle sagged downward as if strength had seeped from his wrists into the desk.

  Besides the impossibility of the moment, something else flared in Lupo’s head like a lightning migraine. The wood-holstered blade tucked in Lupo’s boot seemed to grow hot next to his skin, almost as if its magic had been reversed.

  If this was indeed the partisan Corrado, he had to be ninety-one or ninety-two.

  But he looked barely fifty-five or sixty.

  Lupo gripped the MP5 harder and brought it to bear, but even as he did he knew it was the wrong choice.

  The overhead light winked out, and Lupo squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  Again: Click.

  The empty metallic sound was like an explosion in the artificial quiet of the insulated unit.

  Lupo expelled his breath explosively. What the fuck?

  In the darkness, Corrado sighed. “I suspected you would shoot first and—what do they say?—ask the questions later. I took a precaution and removed the firing pin.”