Wolfman is Back Read online

  Wolfman is Back

  A Brad Coulter Novel

  Dwayne Clayden

  Also by Dwayne Clayden

  The Brad Coulter Series

  Crisis Point

  Outlaw MC

  Wolfman is Back

  Coming Soon

  Speargrass - Opioid

  Short Story

  Hell Hath No Fury

  AB Negative. An Anthology of Alberta Crime

  Copyright © 2019 Dwayne E. Clayden

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at:

  [email protected]

  DwayneClayden.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Published in Canada

  Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers

  Editing by Taija Morgan

  Proofing by Jonas Saul and Colleen Peters

  Formatting by Dwayne Clayden

  Wolfman is Back/ Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-7752564-6-5 (pbk), 978-1-7752564-7-2 (e-book)

  Created with Vellum

  To My Grandparents.

  * * *

  Della and Jack Clayden

  Anne and Ernest Moore

  * * *

  They were so important to me growing up.

  I miss them every day.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Mid May

  Monday Evening

  Jeter Wolfe tapped a cigarette out of the package and lit it from the embers of the previous one. He dropped the dying butt out the car window where it joined a growing pile. The tip grew bright red with each breath. He twisted in the seat, trying to get comfortable. Even with the seat completely back, his knees touched the steering wheel and his head rubbed the roof. At six-foot-five and more than two-hundred and fifty pounds, he was cramped in most vehicles. The next car he stole needed to be bigger—much bigger.

  He scratched his beard. He’d let it grow the entire two years he was imprisoned. The dark beard and long hair reinforced the nickname his biker buddies had given him—Wolfman.

  A few more visits and he’d know her routine—whom she lives with, where she goes, whom she meets, the vehicles she drives, and the routes she takes. He had to know when she was home alone. He would need enough uninterrupted time.

  Her house was on the corner of a crescent. He parked down the street with a clear view of the front of the house and yard. If someone was looking, and curious, they would see him and might wonder why he was parked there. He’d have to park in different places at different times of the day. Changing vehicles after each visit would be a good idea.

  Most cops, lawyers, judges, and politicians kept their names and addresses out of the phonebook. But two years ago, his former club, the Gypsy Jokers, had collected the addresses for all the cops, politicians, media, judges, and lawyers who were trying to shut the Jokers down. They’d used a few of the addresses harassing cops, a journalist, and a judge. This address was seared into his brain. He knew one day he would come here.

  He checked the duffel bag on the passenger seat. The contents were from army surplus. Everything he needed—one-stop shopping. Binoculars, hunting knife, duct tape, rope, triangular bandages, several pairs of gloves and a pistol. Earlier, he thought about stashing this stuff. No sense having it in the car in case he was stopped by the cops. Then he realized if he was stopped by the cops, having his duffel bag of goodies would be the least of his problems. The gun under his seat would take care of the cops. He smiled at that thought.

  A new BMW drove past him and continued straight into her driveway. He tossed the cigarette butt out the window and grabbed the binoculars. The driver’s door opened and Jenni Blighe’s shapely legs swung out—all nylon up to mid-thigh. Her navy skirt slid farther up as she slipped out. Wolfe held his breath, then the air escaped in a blast. He’d spent over a year in jail waiting to see her again. She was a lot hotter in person than his fantasies. Funny how a memory fades. She walked around the back of the car and herded her kids up the sidewalk and into the house. His eyes were glued to her ass—the ass he’d watched in court for weeks. It seemed like so long ago.

  He’d sat in the prisoner’s docket for close to a month while she presented the crown’s case against him. She’d started out dressed conservatively, dark above-the-knee skirt, colored blouse and jacket with comfortable shoes. Halfway through the trial it changed. She wore fashionable skirts, showing more leg, white blouses, shoes with heels, and often took the jacket off, especially as the afternoon grew warmer. Later he found out Blighe and her husband had divorced. Maybe that accounted for the change of clothing.

  He scanned the street, memorizing the location of each house. He worked out escape routes by car and on foot. At some point he’d need to go to the back of the house to figure out his escape options there.

  After about five minutes the front door opened and she came outside with her two kids. No longer fixated on her ass, his eyes roamed over her body. She wore shorts and a tight T-shirt. When the sun beamed at just the right angle, he clearly saw the outline of her breasts. It was like she was doing it for him, and
he soaked up every moment.

  The kids raced ahead of her to a park at the end of the street where he lost sight of them. Wolfe was tempted to walk past the park. Seeing her up close would be a thrill, and also stupid. Bad enough he was in a residential area and sitting in this car, occasionally using binoculars—let alone taking his unforgettable bulk out into the open. He’d waited two years. He could be patient and wait for the right opportunity. Half an hour later they came back into view. Again, the kids raced ahead of her and into the house. She was in no hurry, walking slowly, like she was a model at a fashion show, her wondrous curves on display and her blond hair shimmering.

  His heart raced and pressure intensified in his groin. Soon. It would have to be soon.

  He’d waited long enough.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday Morning

  Detective Brad Coulter yawned as he drove to work. He’d missed the action on the street during his one-year leave from work. His life had been normal—almost. Before the leave, when he was on the street, it seemed that no matter where he was, shit found him. Maybe he’d kicked the jinx. Maybe fighting crime would be less adrenaline filled. Maybe.

  He parked and stepped into Gerry’s Convenience Store.

  “Morning, Brad.”

  Brad grunted and glanced at the newspaper. The headline read: Budget Cuts to Blame for Prison Escape.

  Gerry chuckled. “And the top of the morning to you, too.”

  “Why are you so cheery in the morning?” Brad poured an extra-large coffee. “I don’t function until I get caffeinated.”

  “Try getting up at 5 A.M. to be here by six.”

  “No thanks. Seven is still too early for me. I like night shifts.”

  “First day back?”

  “I checked in yesterday. Got my new badge and a portable radio. Maybe today I’ll get my own car.”

  “How long were you off?”

  “Almost a year. The studying is done, and I’ve written the bar exam. Now I wait for the results.”

  “You’re not going to practice law?”

  “Nope. I’m itching to get back on the street.”

  “I’m going to miss seeing you every morning on your way to study.”

  “Don’t worry, Gerry, I’m hooked on your coffee. You’ll still have to put up with me.” Brad glanced out the window. His eyebrows raised.

  Gerry followed Brad’s gaze. “You see something?”

  “Looks like an argument at the gas station.”

  “Panhandlers hang around there. Probably hitting someone up for change and they refused.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Brad’s gaze never left the window as he tossed a quarter on the counter. “See you tomorrow.”

  Brad stood outside the store, scrutinizing the action across the street. A Chrysler Cordoba was parked at the gas pumps. One guy, dressed in a suit, stood at the open driver’s door, shaking his head. He said, “Leave me alone.”

  A hefty guy shoved the driver against the car. He punched the driver in the face twice, then threw him on the ground. His partner, a skinny guy, kicked the driver repeatedly in the ribs.

  Brad started toward the assault. “Hey, what the—”

  The big guy glanced at Brad and said, “Let’s go.” He slid into the driver’s seat. His partner sprinted around the front of the car and jumped into the passenger’s seat.

  The driver rolled away from the car.

  The engine roared, tires squealed, and the car raced across Parkdale Boulevard, cutting off traffic, and headed east.

  Brad tossed his coffee into a trash bin and slid into his car. He backed away and sped after the carjackers. The car’s owner was leaning against a gas pump. He looked okay.

  Brad grabbed his portable radio. “Detective Coulter to dispatch. I am in pursuit of a brown Chrysler Cordoba.”

  “Roger, Coulter,” dispatch replied. “Uh, why are you in pursuit?”

  “I’m pursuing carjackers.”

  “We don’t have a call for that.”

  “Well, you will. Get a cruiser and paramedics to the gas station, 3400 block of Parkdale Boulevard.”

  “Roger.”

  “I’m eastbound on Parkdale Boulevard. Do you have backup rolling?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  Brad’s Firebird caught up to the Cordoba as it veered left onto Kensington Road. At Fourteenth Street they turned left and at the next intersection turned left again onto Fifth Avenue. When they reached Crowchild Trail they turned right, heading north.

  Brad kept pace, telling dispatch and responding cops his direction of travel.

  At Twentieth Avenue the carjackers made a hard left through rush-hour traffic, colliding with several cars on the way across, trailing fenders, bumpers, and other vehicle parts. The car coasted into the McMahon Football Stadium parking lot, rubber sailing off shredded tires and sparks flying from the rims.

  Brad weaved his way through the accidents to the south-side parking lot. By the time he reached the disabled car, the two occupants were out and running. Brad grabbed his portable radio, jumped out of his Firebird, and pursued. “Dispatch, I’m in foot pursuit of the suspects. They’re heading into the stadium from the south side. Have backup come in from the north.”

  The suspects raced across the parking lot to a gate secured with a heavy chain. They managed to squeeze through an opening and onto the football field. Brad ran after them, also squeezing through the opening. The two suspects were sprinting down the football field.

  Brad smiled. For five years he’d played university football on this field. Chasing someone here was second nature. Funny how old instincts came back.

  At the south forty-yard line, the hefty suspect stopped, gasping for air. On the way by, Brad connected with a serious forearm smash to the man’s head. Glancing back, he watched the unconscious suspect do a faceplant at the thirty-yard line.

  The skinny suspect slowed near the fifty-yard line. Brad increased speed and tackled him hard to the turf. Brad rolled the suspect onto his stomach, yanking back his arm.. Brad slapped the handcuffs on tight. He dragged the suspect y his foot to the thirty-yard line where his partner lay staring up at the sky with a confused expression and gasping for air. I love this job. He’d take this over a suit and courtroom any day.

  Brad didn’t have a second set of handcuffs, so he stood over them. “Don’t you shitheads move.”

  Sergeant Jerry Briscoe and four uniformed officers entered the stadium by the north gate. The uniformed cops sprinted to Brad. Briscoe sauntered way behind.

  Brad asked the officers to handcuff the second suspect and take them downtown. As the cops left with their arrests, Briscoe finally caught up.

  After Brad’s partner Curtis Young was killed four years ago, Brad had been partnered with Briscoe. To say Briscoe was rough around the edges was an understatement. But he was a good cop and a good man and had helped Brad through the months after Young’s death. Along the way they’d become friends.

  Briscoe wandered over to Brad. “You’re not officially back to work yet, so thank you, Joe Citizen.” Briscoe paused and took a few deep breaths. “Now run along and leave this to the pros.”

  “You sound a little out of breath,” Brad said.

  “You couldn’t have let them run to the end zone?”

  “The walk too much for you?”

  “Not the way I like to start my day,” Briscoe said.

  “An easy jog for me.”

  “Well, aren’t you fricken’ special. Rookies are supposed to do all the running.”

  Brad smirked. “Really, you’re still referring to me as your rookie?”

  “You were and will always be my rookie.”

  “That’s Detective Rookie to you, Sergeant.”

  “You spent a lot of years running on this field,” Briscoe said. “Must be like old times.”

  Brad smiled. “It did bring back some memories.”

  “So, tell me why you were chasing these pukes.”

  Brad told him
about the assault, carjacking, and chase.

  Chuckling, Briscoe said, “How does this shit find you?”

  The suspects were in separate interview rooms, side by side. Brad stood in a large viewing room and watched the suspects through one-way mirrors. After they were arrested, they were transported in separate cruisers. They’d had no contact with the other. The big guy had put his head on the table and looked like he was sleeping. He wasn’t. That was one of the ways career crooks acted. They thought if they were calm they’d get out. The fact Brad caught them red-handed was kind of incriminating.

  His smaller partner was the opposite. He nervously glanced around the room and jumped at every noise.

  Brad turned to the sound of a door opening. A tall guy with slicked-back graying hair stepped in and extended his hand.

  “Detective Ed Walsh, Robbery.”