“This meeting was scheduled at the insistence of my client and against my professional advice,” Cohen continued. “For whatever reason, he’s decided to talk to the two of you without me present. The only way I’ll allow it is if you agree to everything in this document and sign it.”
“Or?” Brooks prompted.
“Or I’ll get one of my favorite judges on the phone and have my client committed for a psychiatric evaluation. If that happens, you won’t be able to talk to him for a very long time—if ever. Because I think we all know Mr. Oliver is a deeply disturbed young man, and if he goes into the mental ward at the North Texas State Hospital, he’s not going to come back out anytime soon.”
Exactly how much did Cohen know? Brooks was confident in saying Oliver didn’t hire the man, which meant Cohen almost certainly worked for the hunters. Did that mean he knew about werewolves? Considering how calm the man sitting across from them was, Brooks didn’t think so.
“What are we signing?” he asked, sliding the document closer and scanning it.
Cohen gave them a small smile. “You’re agreeing not to record this meeting or any that follow. In addition, you won’t take notes of any kind, nor will anyone else be allowed to listen in from the observation room. And finally, any statements my client makes during this or any other meetings will be considered hypothetical, and nothing said in this room can be used against my client in a court of law in any way.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we agree to any of that rubbish?”
Cohen shrugged. “I have no idea. But my client assured me you would. Was he wrong?”
As a cop, Brooks knew he shouldn’t sign it. But as a werewolf desperate for information on the hunters, he had no choice. They needed to know what was coming their way, and he’d pay any price to find out.
Biting back a growl, he signed the document on the line above his name, then handed Zane the pen. Zane hesitated but, after a moment, put his name to paper, then shoved it across the table to the lawyer. Cohen put the document and the pen back in his briefcase, then snapped it shut. Sliding back his chair, he got to his feet.
“Gentlemen.” Giving them a nod, Cohen left, closing the door behind him.
“I’d feel better if we had something we could hold over Oliver’s head when we talk to him,” Zane muttered.
“I’m with you there,” Brooks said.
Unfortunately, Oliver hadn’t gotten into much trouble growing up in Rapid City, South Dakota. He had played sports in high school, then did three years in the army infantry, where he’d gone on deployment to Iraq. He had gotten out of the military shortly after that with an honorable discharge, then bounced around a few oil field and mining jobs before falling off the radar, only to show up in Dallas with a group of hunters.
“It would be even nicer if we could find a connection between Oliver and whoever is working with the hunters inside the department,” Brooks added.
It was bad enough there were people who wanted to kill werewolves simply because of what they were. It was even worse knowing somebody in the Dallas Police Department was helping them. But when they’d attacked the medical center, Lana had overheard a phone conversation between one of the hunters and a man who knew where Zane was being treated, that she was there, and exactly how long it would take SWAT to move on the clinic. The only person who could know all that stuff was a cop.
But after weeks of digging into the background of every cop and department employee who’d ever looked at the team sideways, they had nothing to show for it. They couldn’t find a link between anyone in the department and Oliver or any of the hunters who’d been killed during the raid.
“It doesn’t help that the feds are investigating the murders now,” Brooks continued. Of course, they didn’t know the victims were werewolves. They thought Oliver was a run-of-the-mill serial killer. “Becker is digging as deep as he can into Oliver’s background, but he has to be careful not to let the FBI know what we’re doing.”
“So what, we play it safe and hope the next time the hunters show up, they don’t kill one of us?” Zane snarled. “Or maybe we’ll get lucky again, and they’ll only cripple someone else.”
Brooks didn’t answer.
Beside him, Zane cursed. Lifting his good arm, he ran his hand through his dark hair. “Sorry. I’m just cross. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re Pack. I’m not going to patronize you and say I understand what you’re going through, because I don’t. None of us do. But your arm is going to heal. You just have to give it time.”
Zane looked dubious but didn’t argue. If he had, Brooks might have punched him. He and the rest of the Pack weren’t giving up on Zane, and Brooks damn sure wasn’t letting him give up on himself.
The thump of footsteps approaching the door put an end to any more conversation. Both he and Zane got to their feet as the door opened. Two beefy guards came in, leading Seth Oliver between them. Tall and wiry, Oliver had grown a beard since the last time Brooks had seen him, but he still had that same hatred in his eyes.
The guards moved him over to the table positioned in the center of the room, then sat him down in the chair and attached the handcuffs he was wearing to the shackle point bolted on his side of the table. One of the guards yanked on it a few times to make sure it was secure, then looked at Brooks and Zane.
“The prisoner stays in cuffs the whole time,” he said. “You aren’t to give him anything. By anything, I mean no gum, no water, no pencils, no pens, no good luck charms—nothing. Understood?”
Brooks nodded. He and Zane didn’t spend a lot of time talking to suspects in prison, but it wasn’t like they were planning to get friendly with this guy. It was much more likely Zane would get mad and rip Oliver’s head off. If that happened, Brooks would make sure to point out that the cuffs and shackles had stayed on throughout the process.
“We’ll be down in the office at the end of the hall if you need us,” the second guard said.
After giving Oliver’s handcuffs one more look to make sure they were secure, the guards left the room and closed the door. Brooks listened to the echo of their footsteps as they disappeared down the hall.
Across from them, Oliver leaned back in his chair, regarding Zane with amusement. “Last time I saw you, you were stuffed in a fancy ice chest like a werewolf Popsicle. I thought you’d be dead by now for sure.”
