By Eric Van Lustbader
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Extra info for Black Blade
Now, look here, wise ass, I don't take shit like that from anyone, hear? Any time a man of mine is killed in the line of duty it's bad enough; killed with his own gun, stinks. You know my meaning. It makes us seem incompetent. ' 'I can see your point,' Wolf said while grinding his teeth. ' He lifted his hands off the desk, pointed a sausage-like forefinger at Wolf. 'You may be the Commissioner's fair-haired white boy, but you ain't mine. I got my eye on you, Matheson. I'm just waiting for you to fuck up so I can get you out of here, fill this place with my people.
They had a life, it was true, but it was another kind of life, unimaginable to civilians, where the fear of being a target filled the days and nights like decay fills a rotten tooth. Through it all, Wolf still knelt, holding Junior Ruiz's wet head in his hands, keeping it raised even when the ME's men arrived, as if even in death his man needed protection from the street. The Werewolves were headquartered in a run-down movie theatre in Chinatown that had shown a stultifying succession of cheap, racist Kung Fu films (the villains were invariably Japanese, scrutable, wholly evil) until a teen tong war, more violent than any of the films, had closed the place down.
With men such as those he had been given a mandate to find, one was obliged to consider all the worst possibilities. Wolf did not need to look at his watch. Time had become insubstantial, irrelevant; he was living inbetween days: immersed in the inner language used by his quarries as they went about trying to make sense of a disordered and dysfunctional universe. This time his quarry was a Colombian named Chucho Arquillo, a major player in narcotics bought from the Cali Cartel, and arms which he had cleverly siphoned out of US military bases.
Black Blade by Eric Van Lustbader