No Such Thing As Werewolves Read Free

The weapons we’ve prepared should be considerably more effective,” the Director said.
    Jordan watched traffic rumble by, so damn normal.  
    “Sir, we’re fighting a god-damned werewolf that crawled out of a pyramid with no right to exist. We don’t know what will be effective. I’ll take the added firepower, but what I really need is more men. That thing carved through my squad like a Thanksgiving turkey,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the heat from his voice.
    “That takes time, and you damned well know it,” the Director snapped. Jordan was shocked. He’d never heard the Director lose his composure before. “We’re working on replacements, but they’ve only had two weeks training. If I send them in now, I’m as good as pulling the trigger myself.”
    “What about mercs, sir? There has to be an off-the-books option,” he offered. Mohn Corp. had ties with a number of black ops organizations that specialized in wet work.  
    “That could bring unwanted attention,” the Director said, sighing heavily. “I just got off a call with the Peruvian president. They want to know what the hell we’re doing up there and why we’re bringing in so much hardware. I can’t afford any more scrutiny, and that’s exactly what sending in cowboy mercs will do. You’re just going to have to make do with the personnel you have. Review the weapons and get your ass back to Peru.”
    “Yes, si—“ Jordan began, but the phone beeped as the call ended.
    He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, this place was hot. Such a contrast to the frigid Andes. He resisted the urge to see if anyone was watching, and instead pounded the hangar’s door three times with his fist. The hollow booms were swallowed by the road noise, but the door opened almost immediately. A hard-eyed man in full Kevlar opened the door. He carried an unfamiliar rifle, front hand resting on the underside of the barrel, with the other over the trigger guard. In one fluid motion he could snap it to his shoulder to fire. His face screamed drill sergeant, though he bore no insignia except Mohn’s standard green triangle on his shoulder. The guy could have been R. Lee Ermey’s shorter, angrier brother.
    “Jordan?” he barked, leathery face set in what Jordan guessed must have been a permanent scowl. “Get your ass inside. This isn’t the goddamn shopping mall.”
    He opened the door just wide enough for Jordan to slip through, slamming it behind them the instant they were clear. The place was pitch black except for a pair of stand lamps overlooking narrow tables lined with weapons. Behind them stood a skinny, nerdy-looking guy with a thick mustache and small tinted glasses. He wore a flannel shirt under a polyester vest, not exactly standard-issue gear. The guy reminded him of Carter, summoning a memory of the dead tech’s lifeless eyes. Jordan had seen a lot in his time, but that memory was one of the worst.
    “You’re here to get some real firepower,” Sarge said. A made-up name helped because it was the only one Jordan was likely to get. Mohn ops were anonymous. You never knew more than you had to about the people you were working with.
    Sarge walked over to the tables, gesturing at one of the rifles. “Your last op used the M4, right?”
    “Yeah. Lacked stopping power though,” Jordan replied, crossing to stand next to the table.  
    “The M4 is great,” the skinny guy broke in. Jordan decided to call him Lester, after a character from a video game he’d played back in the 90s. “Um, it’s one of the most ubiquitous military firearms on the modern battlefield. Definitely the most familiar rifle to your mercs…er…soldiers.”
    “A lot of operatives ,” Sarge corrected. “Use the Russkies’ AK. Cheaper than the M4.”
    “Yeah, uh, operatives. Anyway, the AK’s great too, but I like the M4, and that’s what we’ve got here, a typical M4,” Lester said, patting the stock lovingly. “The locking bolt