Licence To Howl by Helen Harper

Chapter One

‘DoI get a sporty car with an ejector seat?’

‘No.’

‘How about a watch that shoots poison darts? Do I get one of those?’

‘No.’

‘A pen with a hidden microphone?’

‘No.’

‘A gun?’

Sarah Greensmith stared hard at him. ‘Mr Webb,’ she said heavily, ‘this is not a film and you are not James Bond. I am not M. There is no Q. And you are not a sex symbol.’

‘That remains to be seen.’ Devereau linked his hands behind his head and offered her an easy grin. ‘Martini,’ he said, ‘shaken, not stirred.’

Greensmith rolled her eyes and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath while a pair of Lycra clad joggers bounced past them. Her eyes tracked them until they disappeared out of view. Devereau paid them little attention. He wasn’t stupid; he knew they met in places like this rather than any official MI5 buildings because nobody wanted to acknowledge that he was now working for the British government. He was a werewolf, and an ex-criminal. He wasn’t the type of recruit that tended to do much for PR.

‘What about training?’ he inquired.

‘You don’t get any training either.’

He raised an eyebrow, surprised for the first time. ‘Seriously?’

‘We need you to be you. It’s why we have recruited you in the first place. Any training we provide will take the sheen off Devereau Webb, career criminal and lonely supe. It would make you look like a stooge. The less training you have, the more genuine you appear. We can’t allow anyone to gain even the faintest inkling that you are not anything other than what you present yourself to be.’

‘A drop dead gorgeous crime lord with a fondness for the full moon?’

She gritted her teeth. ‘Don’t make me regret hiring you.’

Devereau had the distinct impression that she was already regretting it. ‘What happens if I’m captured by an evil mastermind and tortured to force me to reveal everything I know?’

Greensmith held up two fingers. ‘First of all,’ she told him, ‘you won’t know anything. Second, in that scenario it wouldn’t matter how much training we gave you. Everybody talks under torture. That’s why it’s so effective.’

He watched her delve into the bag which sat beside her on the park bench. She started rummaging through it. ‘Suddenly,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer so sure that I want to be part of MI5.’

‘Too late. You’ve already signed on the dotted line.’ Her expression cleared as she found what she was looking for. ‘Here it is.’ She slid over a large brown envelope. ‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’

For the first time, Sarah Greensmith smiled. ‘Your first assignment.’ She pointed at the envelope. ‘Information has reached us that a certain Member of Parliament has been compromised as a result of an evening he recently spent with a sex worker.’

Devereau shrugged. ‘So? I imagine that sort of thing happens all the time.’

‘This particular MP has considerable dealings with the Ministry of Defence and he’s party to a great deal of sensitive data. Our tip off tells us that he’s being blackmailed by a gang out of South East London as a result of his dalliance. Your job is to either confirm or deny the allegations.’

‘And put a stop to the blackmail?’

‘No. All you have to do is find out whether it’s true or not. We will take care of the rest.’

Devereau opened the envelope flap and took out the papers within. ‘Alexander Carruthers,’ he read aloud. The enclosed photograph was of a pompous looking man in his fifties. He had ruddy cheeks and appeared to be wearing a cravat. He looked like the very definition of an Eton educated British politician.

‘That’s the MP,’ Greensmith said.

‘Anything on the sex worker?’

‘She’s not important. We’re confident that she’s not part of the blackmail and is unaware that it’s taking place.’

Devereau hesitated. Then he glanced through the rest of the papers. ‘The Wasps?’ he asked.

‘That’s what the gang calls themselves.’

‘They sound like an amateur football team.’ His lip curled in disdain.

‘Well, if you manage to infiltrate them and discern the truth of the matter, then you can tell them that for yourself.’ She sniffed. ‘This is an important matter. There is the potential that the safety of our country is being compromised by this gang. They present a very real threat and we are counting on you to help us out.’ She fixed him with a steely-eyed stare. ‘Can we count on you?’

‘In spades.’ He winked at her. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

‘I certainly hope not.’ She stood up and prepared to leave. ‘That will be all for now, Mr Webb.’

He doffed an imaginary cap at her. ‘Cheers, Moneypenny.’

* * *

Three hourslater Devereau Webb swaggered into the grimy pub on the corner of Bell Street and took up position at the bar. Initially, the bartender, a short brown haired man with a wiry build and corded muscles visible on his sleeveless arms, barely glanced at him. Never one to be described as a shrinking violet, Devereau cleared his throat. ‘Pint of beer, mate.’

‘Not your mate,’ the bartender replied. Then he glanced up and took a proper look at his latest customer. It took less than a second for the man to pale dramatically. ‘You’re Devereau Webb.’

Devereau didn’t smile and didn’t offer an autograph. ‘Get me what I asked for.’ He leaned slightly over the counter and permitted the faintest shadow of lupine whiskers to emerge around his jaw.

The bartender swallowed and grabbed an empty glass. Devereau grunted in satisfaction as he filled it with amber liquid. In truth, he would never normally be so rude. In his experience, you caught far more flies with honey than vinegar. However, he’d spent the last hour or so reading what Greensmith had given him and then scoping out the pub from a safe distance. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this less than salubrious establishment wasn’t the sort of place where punters were expected to mind their Ps and Qs. If he was going to get anywhere fast with his first mission, he had to fit in. Play-acting as a grizzled werewolf with a nasty temper wouldn’t be hard, especially not with the full moon barely two days away. He’d only been a werewolf for four months but that had been plenty of time to discover how the lunar changes affected his mood, especially when he was working on an empty stomach.

He took off his coat, draping it on a nearby bar stool. Devereau grabbed the sticky, faux leather bound menu sitting on the bar top next to him and scanned its contents. It was highly doubtful that the kitchen here had passed any food hygiene requirements. It was more likely, in fact, that any inspectors had been intimidated into giving the pub a pass. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers and Devereau had a façade to maintain. He shrugged to himself and barked again at the bartender as soon as the pint was presented to him.

‘Five of those burgers,’ he ordered. ‘No salad. No sauce. No buns.’ He paused. He liked all those extra components but he was trying to make an impression. In fact, he might as well go all out. ‘No cooking either,’ he added. ‘Just give me the patties on a plate.’

‘Raw?’

Devereau tilted his head. ‘Did I,’ he inquired silkily, ‘or did I not say no cooking?’

The barman took a step back, colliding with several stacked glasses as he did so. ‘Five raw burgers,’ he muttered. ‘Coming right up.’

Devereau reached for his wallet but the man shook his head. ‘On the house.’

‘Are you trying to suggest that I don’t have the means to pay for my own food and drinks?’ Devereau asked.

The bartender’s eyes widened. ‘N – n – no. I meant no offence. I’m sorry. I - ‘

‘Relax.’ He smirked. ‘I’m only playing with you.’

The bartender stared at him mutely. Satisfied that he’d done enough for now and rather impressed with himself so far, Devereau lifted his glass and turned round to survey the rest of the pub while he took several long gulps of the beer. There weren’t many customers. He glanced at the two middle aged geezers in the corner who were pretending not to look at him. Both wore high vis jackets and stained clothes that spoke of hard labour, probably somewhere on a nearby building site. To their right, there was a spotty kid playing the bandit machine with intent concentration and jangling a collection of coins in his right hand. And finally there was a white haired elderly lady in the corner with a gin and tonic on the table in front of her. She was watching him with narrowed eyes.

‘Fancy a little of what you see, darling?’ Devereau called, splaying his arms out for her supposed delectation.

She bared her teeth at him. He bared his own teeth back – and his were considerably sharper.

‘You threatening me mum?’

Devereau glanced towards the source of the strongly accented voice. It was a man in perhaps his forties, wearing a flat cap and a shabby tweed suit, and looking for all the world like he’d just stepped off the stage as an extra in Oliver. Devereau knew a thing or two about carefully cultivated images. He also knew from Sarah Greensmith’s information that this was Ronnie Hitchens, the owner of this grubby establishment and de-facto leader of the Wasps. Well, he pondered, that had been even faster than he’d thought.

He masked his thoughts and snorted. ‘I think she’s the one threatening me.’

Hitchens looked over. Then, surprisingly, he grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s probably right.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ma! Stop staring at the supe! You’re freaking him out!’

The old woman glared. ‘You let all sorts of riff-raff in here, Ronnie.’ She pursed her lips in disgust and turned away.

Devereau took an overly casual sip of his beer. ‘You run this place?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’ Hitchens looked him up and down. ‘Whatchoo doing here? We don’t usually get the likes of you walking through those doors.’

‘I was in the area and I fancied a pint,’ Devereau told him. Then, with a hint of a challenge in his voice, he added, ‘Is that a problem?’

Ronnie Hitchens held his hands up. ‘No problem at all. I don’t care what or who you are. Your money’s as good as the next man’s.’

The old woman coughed.

‘Or woman’s,’ Hitchens said quickly.

‘Here’s your food,’ the bartender said, sliding a plate across the bar top towards Devereau before stepping hastily away.

Devereau nodded in brief acknowledgment and, using his fingers, picked up the nearest beef patty and took a large bite.

If Hitchens was disturbed by his choice of meal, he didn’t show it. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, ‘man to man. Why’d you do it?’

Devereau swallowed his mouthful. ‘Do what?’

‘You were the Shepherd. You had a good thing going. Why’d you ruin it by becoming a supe?’

‘You know who I am?’

Hitchens met his eyes. ‘Everyone knows who you are.’

Devereau reached for a second burger. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘I felt like a new challenge.’

‘Uh huh.’

Or maybe,’ Devereau continued, ‘I wanted to feel what it was like to have some real power.’

Hitchens’ eyes gleamed. ‘You’ve got power?’

Hardly any. Not yet anyway. Devereau smiled. ‘Lots.’

Hitchins wasn’t giving up yet. ‘I heard your old lot chucked you out. That the Flock don’t want a Shepherd who’s also a wolf.’

‘Some people don’t know what’s good for them.’

Hitchins chuckled. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Ain’t that the truth indeed.’ And then, with a right hook so swift that Devereau didn’t see it coming, he punched him in the side of the face. Almost simultaneously, something hard and heavy hit the back of Devereau’s head. The half eaten patty slid from his hand and landed on the dirty floor. A moment later he joined it, his knees buckling. He groaned from the bursts of pain on both sides of his skull while Ronnie Hitchens bent down, his face looming over him. ‘You ain’t got that much power at all,’ he commented. ‘And you definitely don’t know what’s good for you either.’

Devereau blinked. His vision was blurring. He stared at the feet of the two labourers who were directly in front of him and tried to focus, in a vain bid to hold onto the last slip of consciousness left to him. All he needed to do was call on his wolf and then Ronnie fucking Hitchens would see what he was really about. He reached for the animal inside him, attempting to stir it into action yet again. But as the two pairs of feet became indistinct and he tasted the unpleasant metallic edge on his tongue, he knew he was already out of time.

* * *

The waterwhich splashed in his face was icy cold. Devereau choked and spluttered, gasping for air. He jerked his arms, in an unconscious bid to wipe the water from his face. Unfortunately, however, his hands appeared to be bound fast behind him. He shifted his body. There was rope round his waist and chest, tying him to the very chair he was sat upon. At least his legs and feet appeared to be free.

‘Wakey wakey! Rise and shine!’

Devereau shook his head to rid himself of the dribbling water, sending a shower of droplets into the face of Ronnie Hitchens, who was smiling unpleasantly towards him. Hitchens took out a spotted handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his skin with it.

‘Attacking a werewolf is not only dangerous,’ Devereau hissed, realising from the smell that he’d been shoved into a small back room of the same pub, ‘but downright foolish. You’re going to regret this.’

‘We shall see about that,’ Hitchens replied calmly. ‘It’s not as if you have a clan at your back who will spring into action on your behalf. You’re a lone wolf. You don’t have a pack of your own. Even the humans who once followed you have fallen by the wayside.’ Hitchens dropped the handkerchief unceremoniously on the floor. ‘So unless you’re planning to break free and rip my throat out, I reckon I’ll be fine and dandy.’

Right now that was exactly what Devereau was planning. When he reached for his wolf again, however, nothing happened. And he could still taste something unpleasant on his tongue. This was not supposed to happen.

As if he knew what he was trying – and failing – to do, Ronnie Hitchens smirked. Then he grabbed a nearby chair and swung it round, perching himself on it back to front with his legs straddling the seat and his arms draped casually over the chair’s back. ‘So now that you know you’re not going anywhere, why don’t you answer a few of my questions?’

‘You’ve not asked any yet,’ Devereau growled.

Hitchins fixed him with a cold eyed stare. ‘Why’d you come into my pub?’

‘I wanted a drink.’

He lifted one arm and smacked Devereau around the face. It wasn’t a particularly hard knock but it was unpleasant all the same. ‘Try again.’

‘The warm inviting exterior drew me in.’

Hitchins hit him again, this time with slightly more force. Devereau felt his teeth rattle. He spat out a glob of blood onto the floor. Ick.

‘You might think you’re being clever but it won’t help your cause,’ Hitchens murmured. ‘For one final time, why did you come here?’

Devereau exhaled. ‘You are under the delusion that I’m friend-less and there’s no-one at my back but I can assure you that’s not actually the case. Clan or no clan, there are plenty of supes who owe me favours. Not just wolves either. There are several vampires who will do just about anything for me.’

Hitchens sighed. ‘I didn’t ask for idle threats. I asked for an explanation as to why you’re here.’

‘And,’ Devereau retorted, ‘I’m giving you one. You’re not patient enough to listen to all of it. A few days ago, one of the vampires who’s in my debt came to me with a proposition. She had come into some information regarding your little operation here. She knew that I was looking for a new group to work with and she suggested that the Wasps here might be a good bet. I’m no longer so sure about that.’

Ronnie Hitchens’ eyes narrowed at his mention of his gang’s name. ‘No blood fucker would ever know about us.’

Devereau snorted mildly. ‘Of course they know about you. They know a lot more about what goes on in this city than anyone else does. Anyone who underestimates the bloodsuckers,’ he continued, ‘is an idiot. The things that Lord Horvath knows would make your toes curl up. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere.’

A muscle ticked in Hitchins’ cheek. ‘So, if we say for argument’s sake that you’re telling the truth, why would you want to work with us?’

‘Because,’ Devereau said, ‘my own Flock left me, as you already know. The vamps and wolves I know are fine. They’re good people. But they’re under the government’s thumb. They can’t take a shit without the police landing on top of them.’ He met Hitchens’ gaze. ‘And I miss fucking with the police. Being a werewolf is fun but my soul is crying out for some real action.’ He managed a facsimile of a shrug. ‘Don’t worry though, I’ve got several other possibilities. I’m not throwing all my eggs into one basket. You’re not the only little gang on my list.’

‘Oh yeah? Who else are you looking at then?’

‘Smack me around all you want,’ Devereau told him, ‘but I’m not going to tell you who they are. Not if I want to end up working with any of them. And I wouldn’t tell any of them about you. There’s a code.’

‘Yeah,’ Hitchens said quietly. ‘There’s a code.’ He paused for a moment as if thinking. ‘What makes you think we’d want to work with you?’

Devereau’s eyes gleamed. He was finally getting somewhere. It was the first time he’d been interviewed for a job while tied up. Hell, it was the first time he’d been interviewed for a job at all. ‘You need some muscle in your team.’

‘Muscle?’ Hitchens scoffed. ‘We took you down easily enough.’

Devereau grinned. ‘Did you?’

A tiny frown began to crease Hitchens’ forehead. Then Devereau sprang up and, still tied to the chair, kicked Hitchens in the chest with one foot. Hitchens toppled backwards, landing clumsily on the floor with his own chair on top of him. Devereau laughed coldly and tensed his muscles, yanking hard against the rope holding his arms in place. It wouldn’t take much to break free. A few attempts and he’d manage it. He kicked the fallen Hitchens in the ribs and strained against the rope again. Hmm. Then he ran backwards at the nearby wall, angling his collision so that the wooden chair at his back took the worst of the impact. It splintered into several pieces – and seconds later, Devereau was free of his bindings.

Still on the floor, Hitchins groaned. Devereau walked over and smiled down at him. ‘I won’t hold any of this against you,’ he said. ‘And I won’t hurt you any more. To be honest, I’m pleased that you were smart enough to knock me out to begin with. It proves that you’re able to think on your feet and adapt. That’s the sort of thing I’m looking for in my new gang.’ He circled round Hitchens. ‘It’s not your fault that you don’t know how strong I really am. I could teach you a thing or two about more effective restraints. I have a lot to offer you. But,’ he sucked in air through his teeth, ‘I’m not sure on reflection that you’ve got a lot to offer me.’ He bent down and slid Hitchens’ wallet out from his back pocket. There was no cash inside it. There was, however, a single piece of folded up paper. ‘What’s this?’ He smoothed it out and scanned the scrawled words. ‘A.C.’ He glanced down at Hitchins’ face. ‘What does that mean? And is this a phone number here?’

Hitchins groaned again. ‘No.’

Devereau’s smile grew. ‘Yes.’ He reached into Hitchins’ other pocket. Then he whistled. ‘Nice phone. It’s one of those ones with facial recognition, right?’ He grinned and held it up to Hitchins’ face. Almost instantaneously the phone unlocked. Devereau wasted no time in tapping in the phone number.

It was answered within three rings. ‘This is Alex Carruthers. I don’t know why you’re calling me again. I’ve already given you twenty grand. If you want more –’

Devereau hung up. ‘Who’s Alex Carruthers? And where’s the twenty grand he gave you?’

Hitchens didn’t immediately answer. Devereau grabbed him by the throat and hauled him up to his feet. ‘I don’t like repeating myself.’

‘He’s just some MP! We got some dirty pictures of him with a blonde woman who he paid for sex. That’s all.’

‘Blackmail?’ Devereau sighed. ‘That’s unimaginative.’ He shook Hitchens. ‘Where’s the cash you squeezed out of him?’

‘In a safe under the bar.’

‘What’s the combination?’ He tightened his grip on Hitchens’ throat.

‘Three five oh two four.’

Devereau tutted loudly. ‘You gave that up far too quickly. My instincts were right.’ He sighed as if deeply disappointed. ‘The Wasps are not the gang for me.’ He released Hitchins, who collapsed back down onto the floor again. ‘Never mind.’ He shrugged to himself and headed for the door.

* * *

Nobody stoppedhim as he left the pub. The builders watched him warily and Hitchens’ old mum, if that’s who she really was, scowled in his direction. There was no sign of the teenager who’d no doubt done the smart thing by disappearing out of the front door, but the bartender remained in place, watching him with a white face as he grabbed his coat from where it still lay hooked on the bar stool. Devereau smiled pleasantly before ambling outside. Then he delved into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, calling Sarah Greensmith.

‘It’s me,’ he said into the phone. ‘The Wasps have definitely been blackmailing Carruthers. They’ve already tapped him for twenty thousand. It’s in a safe behind the bar.’ He told her the combination. ‘I suggest you get someone to their pub tout suite to scoop them up.’

Sarah Greensmith didn’t immediately say anything.

‘Are you there?’ Devereau inquired.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m here. I’m merely surprised, that’s all. That was fast work, Mr Webb.’

‘I aim to please. Next time,’ he murmured, ‘try and give me something more challenging.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Your next assignment will be longer and will involve overseas travel.’

Devereau felt a frisson of excitement. Excellent.

‘I’ll be in touch after the full moon,’ she told him.

‘I’ll pack my suitcase and look forward to hearing from you.’ He smiled to himself and ended the call before glancing up at the sky. It was just as well he’d finished up his work for the day. Rain was on the way and he still had a few errands to run.

He supposed that the sensible thing to do would be to wait here until Greensmith sent someone to mop up the mess he’d left behind him. He wasn’t going to waste his time, however. The entire operation had been a set-up from the beginning. The two builders nursing their pints might have had appropriately stained clothes but both their shoes had been brand spanking new and were entirely unsuitable for hard labour. The bartender, who’d done a reasonable job of acting scared, hadn’t been worried in the slightest. Devereau was a werewolf; he could literally smell fear – and there had been nothing on the barman to smell beyond traces of aftershave and stale beer. Part of his lack of fear had probably been because Devereau’s drink, or perhaps the raw burgers, had been laced with some sort of chemical poison that had prevented him from turning into a wolf. No way a small time London gang could get hold of something like that. Not at short notice. MI5 could though. They’d probably fucking developed it in their own secret laboratory. It was hardly surprising that they’d worked out a way to tame werewolves, even if only temporarily. It was an unpleasant discovery but one which Devereau was glad he’d learned about.

The final nail in the coffin – and the one which had damned the whole thing – was Alexander Carruthers. MI5 hadn’t done quite as much research on Devereau as they’d thought they had. He had pursued some dealings with Carruthers several years ago. He’d broken into the MP’s second home near Westminster and divested him of several rather ugly but lucrative pieces of artwork. He knew from the photographs he’d seen in Carruthers’ house that the MP was completely, one hundred percent, unstiltingly gay. Alexander Carruthers wouldn’t pay for a blonde female sex worker’s services any more than Sarah Greensmith herself would. Whoever had been on the other end of that phone, it certainly hadn’t been the Member of Parliament. Greensmith – and by extension MI5 – had been testing him. Could he withstand pressure? Could he lie convincingly when he needed to? Would he steal money if he was given the chance? Was he a loose cannon? He’d been very tempted to throw it all back in Greensmith’s face and tell her that he wasn’t as stupid as she thought he was. And that she wasn’t as clever. However, it served his purposes to know more about MI5 than they knew about him. It was only to his advantage if they under-estimated him. Devereau Webb had agreed to work for the secret services and serve his country as required. But he would never ever trust them.