Free Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1) by Cherise Sinclair Page A

sat at his desk. Fatigue made him feel as if he weighed several hundred pounds.
    His left hand held a pen—and trembled. He laid his right over it, pressing down, willing the shaking to stop as fear knotted his stomach.
    Parkinson"s. A slow decline into helplessness. That was not for him—Tony Vidal—who‘d crawled his way up the ladder, leaving dead bodies in his wake. Years ago, he‘d gone from being the Bull‘s most feared enforcer to slitting the drug lord‘s neck and taking his place. Then using his rival‘s little daughter as a lever, he‘d forced Garcia right out of Seattle. Hell, he‘d even given the kid back—a little scarred up, but alive. He‘d been on top for years. People answered to him, money flowed in as the drugs flowed out.
    No fucking way would he let himself turn into a drooling idiot and have some ambitious son of a bitch slice his throat. He released his left hand and it lay quiet. He didn‘t shake constantly—
    he still had time to find the answers.
    The fucking werecats held those answers. He knew it.
    He leaned back, remembering the village where he‘d grown up. All the rumors he‘d heard—
    people who changed into animals, who never aged, who never got sick. He‘d laughed at the fairy tales…right up to the time he‘d seen one of his teachers transform into a mountain lion.
    His family had moved away shortly after, and he hadn‘t thought much about it. Until his diagnosis. Until the doctor had said there was no cure for Parkinson‘s, merely a delay in the inevitable. The sickly curl of fear never left him. But he‘d known what he had to do. Become one of the beasts. Live forever without any sickness.
    If he could only find out how to do it.
    He drummed his fingers on the desk. What was Swane doing all this time, diddling himself?
    Worthless bastard—Vidal didn‘t have forever to wait. He punched in Swane‘s number.
    ―Yeah,‖ Swane answered.
    ―What‘s going on?‖
    ―The fire investigator could tell it was arson, and they found what was left of the old woman‘s body in the basement, but the investigation‘s stalled. We‘re clear,‖ Swane said smugly.
    ―What do you want me to do now?‖
    Vidal scowled. Dumb fuck. However, the ex-mercenary could be trusted to carry out orders without screwing up…if the sadistic asshole didn‘t get carried away like he had with the kid.
    ―Find me another creature.‖
    ―Like how? The traps where we caught Beastie-boy are empty. And a few are gone. Want me to move them to a new spot?‖
    ―Let me think.‖ Walking over to the huge bay windows, Vidal stared out at the drizzling rain. For some reason, the place where he‘d grown up had turned into a ghost town, but the rumors had mentioned other places with werecreatures. One was somewhere in the mountains northeast of Seattle—he‘d remembered that because his uncle lived in Seattle. He knew they were up there. Catching the boy proved that. ―Leave some traps where we got the kid. Then find the closest town and set traps around it—stay off the hiking trails though. If you need to hire someone, tell them you‘ve been contracted to trap a mountain lion.‖
    ―Got it.‖
    ―Call me in another day.‖ Vidal shut the phone off and scowled at the open folder on his desk. He picked up the driver‘s license lying on top. Victoria Morgan. The bitch was pretty. And clever. She‘d disappeared fucking thoroughly. But her ID had led him to the Marines, and then he‘d called in favors to get the rest of the information. She worked in a covert unit under an Agency big shot. No wonder she‘d slid through their fingers so easily.
    The CIA. Nothing he wanted to fuck with. But she‘d seen him and Swane.
    He didn‘t want to kill her though—not right away. If the cunt was alive, he‘d find out whether the bite had turned her into a werecreature. Besides, the kid might have talked to her, even told her where the creatures hid.
    If she had any information... Well, Swane enjoyed