“Stay here,” I told the wolf as I opened the truck door. “And you too, Mike. I’ll grab the papers and be right back.”
But Thunder ignored me, just as I should have expected. The second my boots hit the ground, he slipped past Mike’s hand and jumped down after me.
He came to my side and pressed his warm flank against my leg. I opened my mouth to snap at him, then stopped. He wasn’t looking at the frightened courier at all. His nose was working the air, picking up something invisible and ugly.
The city kid saw the wolf and nearly jumped out of his skin. He backed into the side of the SUV. “Are you Mr. Anderson?” he asked in a shaky voice. “Could you please get your dog under control?”
“He’s not going to bother you if you don’t do anything foolish,” I said, walking closer. “You’ve got documents from Dennis?”
“Yes, sir, from Mr. Dennis Carter,” the young man said quickly. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a gift box tied with a ribbon. “He asked me to give you this as a sign of respect before the meeting.”
I frowned. We had agreed on paperwork, not presents.
“The papers are inside,” he said quickly. “Along with a personal gift.” He held the box out to me at arm’s length, trying to stay as far from the wolf as possible.
I reached for it—and time seemed to slow down.
Thunder, who had been standing perfectly still, suddenly took one deep, sharp breath.
The freezing air held the smells of cheap cologne, exhaust fumes, and human fear. But beneath all that was something else—something mean and familiar. Cigarettes with no filter. Gun oil.
That scent hit the wolf like a live wire. For him, memory wasn’t pictures. It was smell, pain, and terror. That odor meant steel traps, a hard kick to the ribs, blood in his mouth.
It was the smell of the man who had once caught him in a poacher’s trap when he was young. The smell was coming from that gift box.
“No!” was all I managed to shout before Thunder launched.
It wasn’t a jump so much as an explosion. He didn’t go for the courier. He went straight for the box.
His jaws clamped down with a crunch. The courier yelped and let go. With one violent shake of his head, Thunder ripped the package free and flung it into a dirty snowbank.
Then he tore into it like it was alive. Cardboard split under his teeth. Ribbon flew in shreds. He ripped and stomped at the contents with his heavy paws.
“Thunder! Stop!” I yelled, trying to pull him back.
“Your dog is insane!” the courier shrieked, scrambling into the SUV and slamming the door.
Mike came running from the truck with a tire iron in hand, ready to protect me. But he stopped short when he saw the wolf destroying not a person, but the package.
Thunder had already shredded it. Legal papers and glossy brochures were scattered across the snow. Among them lay a velvet presentation box holding an expensive bottle of old cognac.
The wolf grabbed the bottle in his jaws. Glass cracked. Amber liquid splashed across the snow.
And then the smell hit us—sweet, sharp, unmistakable. Bitter almonds.
My chest tightened like a band had been cinched around it. Mike went gray in the face. “Cyanide,” he said under his breath. “That’s cyanide. They sent you poison.”
The courier, panicked now, started the SUV. Tires spun in the slush, then caught. The black vehicle shot onto the icy road and disappeared around the bend, leaving only exhaust and blowing snow behind.
I stood there staring at the shattered bottle in the snow.
