Romans & histoires Wedgie Guy

Jaguar. We were lying on our stomachs at the top of a hill. Wrench was looking through a pair of binoculars at the small shack down in the valley below us, less than a football field away. Five minutes ago, we watched the arms dealer, Jimmy Jay, plus his assistant pull up in a truck and carry in a few crates. We waited and watched, tension mounting in the group. “Fucking Snakes,” Thade said. “Late as always.”

He waved for us to come forward and the guy that had been with us went to sit at a table across from us. Susie and I both deposited our bags on the floor and sat down. We spent the next ten minutes relaying the story we’d made up and learned that this man’s name was Beta Wade. He was a serious man and very straight to the point. You could tell he’d had a hard life at one point, he had a big scar over his left cheek. For a wolf to keep a gash like that and not fully heal, it must have happened when he was young. I knew Susie had been reading his mind through the entire conversation and I was dying to know what he was thinking. I couldn’t mind-link her since I wasn’t fully a Shadow Warrior yet

The air smelled faintly of copper and rot. Wade sat in a leather chair that had long since lost its polish, one hand lazily twirling the remote control for the mounted television, the other drumming against his thigh in rhythm with his laughter. The screen glowed against the dim, underground walls of his hideout. On it: a live CCTV feed of LAX, its arrivals hall buzzing with hundreds of travelers. Businessmen with briefcases. Families dragging toddlers by the wrist. Backpackers yawning into their phones. And in the middle of the crowd, among faces blurred by pixelation and poor camera angles, were his men—Ace, Black, and three others—moving like sharks among minnows.