Captive Spirit Read Online Free PDF Page A

Duncan … changed.
    Took on a more human form. The light from its fur—no, skin now—let Duncan see the man’s black hair and black eyes. His high cheekbones and darker complexion. For a few seconds, the thing actually looked familiar.
    Then it looked too familiar.
    Cropped brown hair. Fashion-plate suit. Big smile. The thing had turned into Calvin, one of the Brent brothers, one of the few men Duncan called friends in his adult life. But Cal Brent was a desk jockey now. His brother Saul was in narcotics—and now the tiger-thing shifted into Saul, long hair, earring, T-shirt, torn jeans, and all.
    Right in front of him. Raising his tattooed hand … only the hand had tiger claws.
    The Saul-thing swung its fist, claws out.
    The blow staggered Duncan and sliced the flesh on his left side, neck to chest. He heard Cole swearing. There was a scuffle, and the tiger-man backed off. Duncan felt somebody grabbing him, pulling him upright. Duncan’s mind swam laps around his skull, but he couldn’t make sense out of any of this. The cut on his left side burned like somebody had a torch to his neck and shoulder.
    A bloodied, dirty hand jerked at his arm, and Duncan swung the muzzle of his useless weapon into John Cole’s face.
    The green eyes of his first—and for so long, his only—friend pierced Duncan’s brain fog. He lowered his weapon.
    John’s eyes were dull with grief and narrow with fear. “I can’t let you die,” he said as he gazed at the cuts on Duncan’s left side. “Not you. Anybody but you. Fuck , Duncan! Why couldn’t you listen, just once in your life?”
    Time was moving funny, and the world seemed sideways and unreal to Duncan now. He was hearing John on two levels, as a grown man and a fugitive, and as the little boy he had known way, way too long ago. Was John seeing Duncan as a cop now, or a kid in a cornfield?
    “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find some way to heal yourself and keep this fight going.” John’s tone turned grim as he pressed the hilt of that Roman knife into Duncan’s free hand. “Use this if you have to cut them to get out of here.”
    “John—” Duncan started, but Cole kept talking.
    “And keep this around your neck at all times— forever , you understand? Get in touch with Jack Blackmore through the Pentagon. He’ll tell you what you need to know.” John pulled the chain and coin over his head, thrust it out, and dropped it over Duncan’s head. As Duncan felt the coin bounce against his chest and dangling badge, John gave him a huge, sudden shove.
    Caught off guard, Duncan sailed backward.
    His Glock clattered against the concrete as he crashed shoulder-first onto the rough warehouse floor. Bone cracked. Fresh bolts of pain stole his awareness, and his breath left in a rush. It was all he could do to kick his legs enough to get to a sitting position and reorient himself. The knife was still clutched in his good hand. That had to be worth something.
    The tiger-things ringed John, and none of them looked like Cal or Saul Brent anymore. They looked like cover models for a bodybuilding magazine, if you didn’t count the paws and claws part. And they were laughing.
    Then they were growling.
    They roared and fell on John, tearing and snarling and ripping and howling, howling so loud Duncan thought the sounds would bash his ears off his head.
    He raised the knife and lurched toward the bloody, awful scene, shouting even though his throat was trying to close. His badge and that damned coin necklace seemed to weigh four thousand pounds. Closer. Almost there.
    “Off him,” he managed. “Get. Off!”
    Fighting a weird repelling force, kind of like a magnet shoving away the wrong charge, Duncan sliced at the nearest tiger-thing with the knife.
    Missed.
    He jammed the knife into his belt and used his freed hand to jerk the big cat away from John. The one with darker fur. The one who had made itself look like the Brent brothers. It spun on Duncan and let out a roar,