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CHAPTER 4

Three weeks later, we’d acquired a base of operations where our team could be kept away from prying eyes. Following Raymond’s advice, we’d picked a facility in Pasadena for a good price. The Gasparyans were an Armenian family who ran the business in the front of our building. They were “read in” about the supernatural, as they say. I’m not certain what their monster encounter had been, only that they were of great assistance to the US government and were granted asylum here soon after. They ran a little restaurant that served the best Mediterranean food I’d ever had outside of Lebanon. Their spit-roasted chicken was great, but their falafel and tahini were to die for. Rafi Gasparyan could do things with food that no mortal man had ever accomplished before—and do it without costing a fortune, thanks to his wife, who actually ran the business. With four kids, and a fifth on the way, they were living the American Dream. The Gasparyans were good people.

Behind their restaurant was a warehouse that was perfectly suited for us. Relatively private and out of sight, it had a large area on the first floor for a machine shop, which Rhino seemed happy about because he loved tinkering on our guns and cars. The one downside was the walls weren’t soundproof enough for an indoor range. However, the Mojave Desert wasn’t too far away, so we weren’t going to suffer for a place to practice. There was a second floor that served as our offices, and a space for a bunkroom for those times when someone had to sleep here on-call. There was a private driveway so we wouldn’t bother the Gasparyans’ customers, and plenty of parking for our personal vehicles.

It was the perfect setup. I was glad the Boss recommended this one in particular.

By this time Rhino and I had a good grasp of who could do what, and everyone had begun to settle nicely into their role. Melanie had already reached out to her uncle the sheriff and gotten a positive response, and he had passed our information along to a buddy of his at the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s department, and another at the California Highway Patrol. Most big police agencies usually had someone with some monster experience, or who had been briefed on it by the MCB—along with all the corresponding warnings about keeping monsters secret or else. It was hit and miss, with the MCB being so haphazard about who they would let in on the secret. In general, assume a big agency will have one or two senior staffers in the know. Smaller departments, probably not.

Sheriff Robert Simmons turned out to be a gold mine when it came to contacts, because the man seemed to know just about everyone in law enforcement, and even had a cordial relationship with the local MCB office, which was rare.

As much as I was still hesitant about how Melanie would perform as an actual Hunter, her connections had already paid off big time. Golden State Supernatural—or GSS as they put on all their vaguely worded invoices so those bills could be explained to auditors as something benign—had done a decent job discreetly handling monster problems so the local police wouldn’t have to, but their rapid collapse had left a lot of people hanging. Into this sudden vacuum steps MHI, a family-owned company with eighty years of experience handling cases around the world.

Luckily, contract negotiations were not my team’s responsibilities. Marco was bad at talking to people. As for me, even though the country seemed to have lightened up since I’d left in 1941, most police chiefs and CEOs still wouldn’t take a woman talking business seriously. We could occasionally make friends, but MHI’s official negotiator was Leroy Shackleford. I didn’t know him, but apparently he was a silver-tongued charmer, part heroic Monster Hunter, all salesman. He handled most things with a long-distance phone call from Alabama, but if there needed to be any in-person meetings, Leroy would come out here to wine and dine them. The idea of Marco trying to do that made me giggle.

A few of us rented apartments in the area, some cheaper than others. Not everyone, though. MHI’s base pay was good, but it wasn’t like my team was collecting our own bounties yet. That’s when the real money would come rolling in.

In between moving in and training, I had my teammates go out in pairs, cruising the streets, purposefully getting lost in order to find their way back to the shop. It was a neat trick I’d picked up overseas. You figured out faster routes that way instead of relying solely on maps, and you learned about the shortcuts and unusual one-way streets that weren’t always labeled on the maps. Pasadena was rife with one-way streets, so knowing where they were and which direction they went was a bonus. All this driving around town was a huge pain because of the gas shortage and waiting lines at the stations, but worth it because we needed to get to know the area fast.

One interesting thing I discovered about Melanie: the girl never got lost. It was eerie. Drop her anywhere in the city and she’d find her way around. She had an unerring sense of direction. Then while we were out practicing in the desert, I had to admit that she was actually a pretty good shot too, though she had a propensity for wearing tops that showed off her cleavage and suffered from “brass in brassiere” a few more times. Still, a decent shooter. Maybe I’d been wrong about the pretty bubblehead? Time would tell.

Despite not being in the valley proper, traffic here was still awful. The smog was horrible. Pollution from the Ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles made the air taste like oil. Fortunately, we arrived in the middle of March, so the temperature only managed to get up to about 70 degrees for the first few weeks. It was almost pleasant. Much nicer than Alabama. Unlike the South, California didn’t make you feel as if you were walking and breathing soup when it got hot. Well, except for the smog. And the food was much better than anything within a hundred miles of Cazador, though everyone’s fashion sense . . . ugh. Hideous.

The saving grace for the entire region was what the locals called the Santa Ana winds. Every so often these powerful winds would kick up and blow all the smog out into the Pacific Ocean, leaving the San Gabriel Valley with blue skies. This was pretty much the only time you could see both downtown Los Angeles and the San Gabriel Mountains at the same time. With the smog gone and the skies clear, the basin that held Los Angeles and the surrounding cities were quite beautiful. Picturesque, even. I bought a new Canon F-1 and snapped a lot of photos while wandering around lost. Some of which I had framed and put up in my apartment. It was expensive getting all that 35mm film developed, but I could afford it.

Getting lost on purpose was a good way to get to know your area of operation, and we started spreading out farther. One day I was out with Justin, and we had found ourselves driving around a rough neighborhood in south El Monte. The locals here were predominantly Mexican, which meant I fit in fine, but Justin was catching a lot of angry looks.

“There sure is a lot of racial tension in this city,” I said.

“A brother driving around with a chica is asking for trouble.”

“We’re coworkers, not boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Explain that to the cholos over there,” Justin said as he came up to a stop sign and a group of young men on the corner started doing the aggressive head bob and arm spread his way. It was the middle of the afternoon, so I doubted anybody would randomly shoot at us, but then again, half this city had been rioting and on fire not too long ago. The cholos looked ridiculous, wearing hairnets and long-sleeve collared shirts buttoned only at the neck, and khaki pants. As bad as some modern American fashion was, these guys were definitely worse.

“Bad neighborhoods are the same everywhere: Stick with your team, hate everybody else.” Where I had been living those kids would be Palestinians, Kurds, or Druze. Minus the hairnets.

“I know. The music and accent are different here, but same story where I came up. I know how people be.” Justin kept both hands on the wheel and very specifically kept his eyes forward as he muttered, “Which is why if they wanna start some shit I’ve got an AK-47 in the back seat.”

“We’re just here for the monsters, Justin.”

Ignoring the hairnet hoodlums, he turned the car right. “You say that, but next time we do this, you can see what it’s like and we’ll cruise through scenic Watts instead. You dig?”

“I hear it’s nice in the spring.” We made it only a hundred feet before I saw something that shook me to my core. “Stop the car. Stop!”

Justin hit the brakes. I jumped out with my camera in hand, not believing what I was seeing.

The entire side of a Mexican market had been covered in a giant, colorful mural. Calling it graffiti cheapened it. This was religious iconography. It was a mishmash of Aztec and Mayan influences, and much of it was wrong, but it got a few very specific things right, and seeing his sacred glyphs so brazenly displayed out in the open like this filled me with rage. Even though his influence shouldn’t reach into these lands, this had clearly been created by worshippers. This was trespassing, plain and simple.

“What’s that painting of?” Justin asked, still in the driver’s seat, obviously confused by what I was staring at.

“The invisible and the darkness, ruler of the north, and lord of night,” I muttered.

“Say what?”

“Nobody,” I spat as I raised the lens to my eye and snapped a picture of the mural to analyze later. Alex would probably add it to his files and thank me.

The hairnet kids from the corner had seen me get out and were approaching. Their cat calls grated on my ears. Justin saw them coming in the rearview mirror and nervously said, “We’d better scoot, Chloe.”

Except I wasn’t in the mood. As they drew closer, I turned toward the boys and hissed in Spanish, “Cross me and I’ll eat your fucking hearts.”

I was so angry at the presence of the mural that a touch of the nagualii crept into my voice. It cut right through their swaggering machismo and caused all of them to take a nervous step back, probably subconsciously reminded of old tales their abuelitas had told them when they were little, about things that were best not to mess with. What lived in darkness was nobody’s friend.

“Bruja,” one of them whispered fearfully and crossed himself. That kid must have had the gift of sight or a really stern abuela.

The obvious leader raised his hands defensively. “Sorry, lady, we don’t want no trouble.”

I got back in the car and closed the door. “Drive.”

Justin did. “Holy shit. You scared the hell out of them. What’d you say?”

Taking a deep breath, I composed myself before responding. “I told them if they kept being rude I’d tell their abuelas.”

“What’d you take a picture of?”

“I like street art. It’s different. Just keep going this way, I think that’ll get us home.”

We kept driving in silence, because Justin was smart enough to recognize I was deeply troubled about the mural but didn’t want to talk about it. He turned on the radio instead of trying for more awkward conversation and the familiar notes of “Brand New Key” came on. Lizz loved the song and hummed it all the time.

I’d told Earl and Ray I was willing to go into Mexico if this job required it. Why not? The old ways were mostly dead. The odds of me running into anyone from the Court was low even in Mexico . . . I certainly hadn’t been expecting to find their sign on this side of the border.

Times were changing, and not for the better.

* * *

It was in the middle of the day a few weeks after getting settled in the new office when we got our first callout. Something big and red was trapped within an old Spanish-mission-style house out in Covina. Cute town, used to be known for its orange groves. Marco decided we needed to do a full team evolution to show just what we were capable of.

We didn’t even leave anyone to answer the phone in case of an emergency. We didn’t have enough business yet to justify hiring a secretary, but Lizz had purchased a marvelous device called an answering machine to record our phone calls for us while we were away. So it was all hands on deck for the maiden voyage of Team Rhino.

Intel was sparse. The monster was trapped in a house. MCB agents had already secured the location and intimidated the witnesses, as usual, but they weren’t about to clear the house. Some local police had it surrounded and had evacuated the neighbors, but the MCB wasn’t letting the cops get close enough to get a look either.

The street was blocked off with roadblock signs when we arrived. Once we told the sheriff’s deputy manning the entrance into the small suburban neighborhood we were MHI, he let us through. He didn’t even know what MHI was, but orders were orders. As soon as we were through they closed the road behind us.

It was pretty simple to figure out which house was the problem one. There was a gaggle of police officers crouched behind their cars, all with their guns aimed at the house. A few of them were armed with pump shotguns but most only had revolvers.

Melanie, Lizz, and I were in the first car and stopped on the street a few houses away. Rhino, with the rest of the team, pulled up quickly behind us, his massive Ford Econoline van spewing noxious fumes. It amazed me that thing managed to survive the drive across the country. Justin, Kimpton, and Alex jumped out of the back of the van, every one of them looking a little green, either from this being our first mission together, or the exhaust from Rhino’s van.

While I walked over to the police, everybody else started gearing up.

“You MHI?” the one wearing sergeant’s stripes asked, probably wondering why he was talking to me instead of one of the men. Not unfair, but still a little annoying.

“That’s us.”

“What’s an MHI?”

“The answer to your problems, which I heard was something big, red, and furry?”

The sergeant had clearly been expecting Marco to be the head of our merry little band of miscreants, which, technically he was, but I don’t think the big man had the vocabulary for it. “Something like that. We got the noise complaint, but when my men knocked, whatever kind of animal they’ve illegally got in there started raising a fuss and tearing the place up so they retreated and called for backup. I called animal control, only then the Bureau of Land Management people showed up and took charge.”

BLM? That was a new one. It was clear the sergeant was not having a good day. I decided to take it easy on him.

“Where are they at?”

The sergeant breathed a sigh of relief and pointed off to the right, where a tall blond woman dressed in a blue windbreaker and black slacks was standing. Which was a surprise to me, because the last time I’d dealt with them, the Monster Control Bureau had been very old-fashioned and didn’t normally allow women out in the field.

“You with MHI?” the woman asked as I approached. Seeing my nod, she continued. “Agent Erin Beesley.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Beesley,” I lied. She didn’t offer me her hand, which told me the feeling was mutual. MCB always disliked private organizations like us. I figured it was mostly because we got paid like robber barons while they worked for peanuts. “I’m Chloe Mendoza.”

“They put you in charge?” she asked incredulously.

“No. The giant one with all the scars is in charge.” The cops were far enough away they wouldn’t be able to hear us. “So you’re pretending to be BLM today?”

“We are.” Earl had warned me that the modern MCB liked to travel around with a stack of fake credentials, so they could butt into any local incident, take over, and then cover it up. “This will be written up as illegal animal trafficking in the police reports and newspaper. Understand?”

“Understood. Part of my job is making your job easier. MHI looks forward to establishing a good working relationship with the MCB in Los Angeles.”

Agent Beesley snorted and rolled her eyes. Apparently that wasn’t the first time a Hunter had tried to feed her that particular line of bull. “You private-sector types are interchangeable to me.”

“What’ve you got for us?”

“Something you can’t kill,” she stated as she looked back at the mission-style house.

I chuckled darkly. “With enough flamethrowers, I can kill just about everything.”

“No, I mean, you’re not allowed to kill it.”

My customer-service face must have slipped and let my confusion show because the Fed sighed and explained in a very condescending tone, “Under the cryptozoological protection rules, the miniwatu is an endangered species.”

The Endangered Species Act was a relatively new law that Monster Hunters were still trying to figure out. There were two versions: the public one and the secret one, with the secret one only being applied to natural creatures that fell under PUFF guidelines for keeping the knowledge of their existence away from the public, but not actual supernatural creatures that we were still allowed to blast on sight. The difference between the two was one for the lawyers to argue about.

“I don’t even know what that is. Mini what now?”

Miniwatu were hunted to near extinction back during the French-Indian War. Something about their horn curing impotence or something, I don’t know. They’ve only recently begun to climb back up in number. With one of these, it’s a catch-and-release policy. Fish and Wildlife will fine MHI into oblivion if you kill it.”

“Seriously?”

“Which means no flamethrowers.” Her smile was smug and condescending, which suited her pinched, narrow face. I could already tell she was going to be a joy to work with. “Besides, I don’t want to put out a call to the fire department here in town. They want nothing to do with this sort of stuff. Subdue it unharmed, and once that’s done another agency will transport it out of the area.”

I sighed. This was going to be one of those calls. My opinion of the east San Gabriel Valley was already beginning to slip. It had looked so promising too. “Anyone inside? Other than the monster I’m not allowed to kill?”

“Not that we’re aware of.”

Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I pivoted on my heel and practically stomped over to where the rest of the team was busy loading guns and getting dressed.

MHI didn’t have any kind of uniform. Ray had talked about investing in some kind of anti-monster armor to be issued company wide, but what was available on the market was just too heavy, hot, or awkward. We’d just picked up some surplus flak jackets and dyed them black. They were heavy and left our arms exposed, but they were good for protecting the body from teeth and claws. I’d heard some Hunters were paying for custom chain-mail shirts now, but I’d never seen one. Thick leather gloves protected our hands, and everyone wore steel-toe boots. Some of the guys wore helmets. I didn’t like to since they interfered with my peripheral vision and hearing. Plus, the nagualii part of me hated anything covering my ears.

Justin and Kimpton were carrying AK-47s. Marco had a Remington shotgun loaded with silver pellets, which cost a fortune but were very, very effective against some types of monsters. New Orleans PUFF payments must have been better than I thought. Melanie and Alex had Colt Commandos. Lizz had her trusty scoped bolt action. And I had to ruin their fun by saying, “MCB declared we can’t kill it.”

“What kinda bullshit is that?” Marco asked. “It’s a monster, ain’t it?”

“If we shoot it, MHI gets sued. We’ve got to capture it unharmed.”

My team was baffled. Especially the newbies, because this was not something they’d been trained on. I certainly hadn’t told them anything about this in class, because back in the old days we probably would have just thrown a bunch of dynamite through a window and called it a day.

“Are you shitting me?” Justin said, with a look of disgust clearly evident upon his face. “Shouldn’t all monsters be killed?”

“That’s arguable,” I said, trying not to be prickly about it, as none of them knew my little secret. This wasn’t the time to get into a discussion about PUFF Exemptions and monsters who simply wanted to be left alone. “Point being, this one needs to be bagged alive.”

“What is it we’re supposed to be capturing?” Lizz asked.

“A miniwatu, whatever the hell that is. It’s an Endangered Species Act crypto-something.” Stupid MCB . . . 

“It’s what certain Indian tribes called a giant horned beaver,” Alex immediately said.

The kid could remember just about everything he ever read. I forgot what I had for breakfast by lunchtime. “Native to the Missouri River Valley. Dark red fur, almost purple, one eye, single horn . . . okay, I get that reference now. Sheb Wooley wrote a song about one, once. Big hit in the fifties.”

“Seriously?” Melanie asked.

“They probably don’t eat people, though. Or fly.”

I had no idea what song they were talking about, as the musical selection had been rather limited where I’d been during the fifties. It wasn’t like Alex was ever wrong, though. I think he might even have one of those so-called photographic memories. “We’re a long way from the Missouri River.”

Alex shrugged. “Someone probably got it as a kit, thinking a baby beaver would make a cute pet. They’re born without horns, so someone not paying attention could have missed there was something wrong with it. Probably spazzed out when it grew bigger than a dog. They top out at around two, three hundred pounds. Herbivores aren’t usually dangerous, except when cornered.”

“Like this one that’s trapped inside a house?” Kimpton asked pointedly.

“Yeah . . . I wonder who owns the house?” Alex mused.

“Why?” I felt silly, asking all these questions. I was supposed to be the knowledgeable and experienced second-in-command, not some newbie.

“Someone is trading in exotic animals. The Fish and Wildlife people will probably want to investigate when we’re done capturing it.”

“Do we even have tranquilizer guns?” I asked. I couldn’t remember any being listed on the equipment inventory, and even if we had some in one of the still unpacked moving boxes back at base, we certainly didn’t have any here. “Where’s the nearest zoo? Maybe we can go and borrow theirs?”

“No time,” Marco grunted. “We’re supposed to be the pros who handle this kinda thing. It don’t look good going around begging for equipment. If we don’t do this job right now, it looks bad on all the other contracts we’re working on.” Apparently that meant the decision had been made. “It don’t sound too big. Hell, I’m three hundred pounds. Let’s do this.”

How?” I asked. Because that was the kind of thing an experienced second-in-command should ask when your boss has decided to go wrestle a giant beaver.

Alex scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, according to the lore, they’re nocturnal. Right now, it’s napping probably. Get some rope and we can probably just tie it up and get it into a van for transport. Logically, the longer we let it wake up, the harder it’ll be to catch.”

“MCB said they’d handle transportation.” I cast an evil look in Agent Beesley’s direction. She wasn’t paying attention, focused instead of chatting up one of the local sheriff’s deputies.

“So what’s the plan, Rhino?” Justin asked, looking at our team leader.

“Rope in the van,” he grunted. “We go in. Two on front, two on back. Take it down quick. Let’s go.”

I blinked. As far as plans went, it felt a little light on any actual planning. Earl had warned me this might happen, so I expanded for the rest of the team.

“Justin, get the rope from the van. We’ll go in the front door at Rhino’s signal. Try to stay quiet until we find the monster so we don’t spook it. Alex, you and Rhino grab its front legs. Justin and Kimpton will grab the back. I’ll take overwatch on the front door. Flip it over, hog-tie it, and try not to hurt it. Protect yourselves, but for the love of God don’t shoot it. We can’t afford the fines, and I’m pretty sure the Boss would kill us.”

“What about us?” Melanie asked.

Melanie was physically fit, but not nearly as strong as any of the guys. Lizz was tiny and would probably just get squished.

“Melanie, stick by me so we can help if we’re needed. Lizz . . . ”

“I’ll stay here and guard the guns. Good luck with your mutant.”

Everyone nodded at this and went into action. That was good, as despite Earl vouching for me, I still wasn’t sure how much they trusted my experience. I looked over at Rhino but he seemed unconcerned about his lack of communication, or me taking over. I’d talk to him about it later. I didn’t want our leader feeling like I was usurping his authority. Right now, I needed to focus on surviving an oversized red beaver with a horn on its head.

We moved into position, only now without all our machine guns, which the local cops seemed rather disappointed about, as they still thought the thing in the house was a grizzly bear, and that would be a heck of a show. The house was styled to look like a Spanish mission. There was no monster visible through any of the front windows.

Rhino stepped back away from the door and looked ready to put his massive size-thirteen boot to it. I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him, pointed at the door knob, and made a twisting motion with my hand. He reached out to test the door and found it unlocked. He didn’t seem pleased by this. My guess? Rhino hated doors and really wanted to kick that particular one open to show it who was in charge.

We went in quietly.

The really interesting thing about single-story house designs in Southern California is the waist-high walls scattered around, which served to separate the rooms while still keeping it looking like an open-floor plan. The owner had clearly put a lot of work into remodeling. It was a shame that most of the living room had been destroyed by the giant angry beaver.

The living room area was clear. No sign of the miniwatu, save for a chewed-up sofa and pillows. Rhino and Alex began to move toward the kitchen, which was just inside the front door and to the left. Kimpton and Justin stayed back a bit, while me and Melanie stayed in the entryway. There was a long, narrow hallway just off the dining room, and when I noticed the dark wood paneling was covered with red hair, I motioned for their attention and pointed that way. Our team of intrepid beaver wranglers started down the hall.

“It smells like beaver piss in here,” Justin said.

“How do you know what beaver pee smells like?” Alex asked.

“Call it an educated guess, wise guy.”

While they searched, I inspected the living room. It was a product of the era, complete with thick shag carpet and tables that were brass and glass. The wooden television box took up one whole wall, but it was basically two big cupboard doors on either side of a relatively small screen. There was a stand for records, and one of the legs had clearly been gnawed on. The kitchen was filled with avocado-green appliances and floral print wallpaper where the dark wood paneling ended. The dining room table looked vintage compared to the rest of the setup, except it had been scraped with beaver teeth too. All in all, it was a very strange combination of money and tackiness.

Lizz would have loved it. From what she’d bought for our office so far, she seemed to be really into modern design and ugly furniture.

Justin came out of the closest bedroom, shaking his head. Nothing. Rhino led Alex toward the back of the house where there appeared to be doors for two more bedrooms back there. Kimpton poked his head into one, then came back out and signaled for me to come look.

“Stay here,” I whispered to Melanie.

“What if it tries to run past me?” Considering this was her first real hunt as a professional Monster Hunter, she was understandably nervous.

“Don’t get run over.” Then I walked over to Kimpton.

“Trophy room,” he said quietly. Since it was the home of somebody trafficking in illegal animals, when Kimpton had said trophies, I’d expected animal heads and antlers. Only when I peeked inside there were bowling trophies everywhere. Most had been broken and were on the floor from the beaver chewing on the shelves, though the ones higher up remained untouched. There was a partially chewed leather bag with a black bowling ball in the corner.

“Whoa,” I muttered. “Serious bowler.”

“Master bedroom was clear, just a bed with a dresser,” Justin stated as he came up to us from behind. “No closet, bathroom is a mess. Single guy, midforties would be my guess. No signs of a live-in girlfriend or anything. No pictures on the walls.”

“I wonder where he is?”

“Maybe the beaver ate him?” Justin suggested.

“Alex said they don’t do that.”

“A book of unknown reliability told Alex that,” Kimpton responded.

I put my finger to my lips and shushed them.

Rhino poked his head into the last bedroom before quickly backing away. He circled with two fingers before pointing into the room. Our target was inside.

With five of us in the hallway, it was rather cramped, but I shuffled forward to take a look. “If that thing’s only three hundred pounds, I’m a ballerina,” Rhino whispered.

The creature was probably double that weight, and taking a nap on the smashed remains of a futon. Kimpton had been right about the accuracy of Alex’s book, because when they had said the miniwatu was big, it hadn’t really clicked in my head as to just how big the thing would be. I’d seen all manner of monsters in my life, but seeing a sofa-sized horned beaver sleeping in a makeshift nest of ruined sheets and partially chewed bowling trophies was something else entirely. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The tail was wider than the miniwatu’s body and looked particularly sturdy. Something told me I did not want to get hit by it.

“So much for our everybody grab a leg plan,” Justin said when he looked inside.

Alex, of course, was super excited. “The tail is special, according to the Arikara Indians. When a miniwatu swims in the waters of the Missouri River during a full moon, the wake the tail leaves behind is filled with precious metals which drop to the river bottom. They believe this is how gold gets into their river.”

“You really need to get a girlfriend,” I said. He looked at me, hurt.

After all of us except for Melanie had gotten a glimpse of the slumbering beaver, Rhino ordered, “Get ready to bag this thing.”

“Anybody else ever rope livestock before?” Kimpton asked. “No? Really? Okay, easy-peasy. Back legs first, then tie it off on the front. Watch that tail. If it panics, it’s probably going to start bucking.”

“I got this,” Rhino said, taking the rope out of Justin’s hand. Making a quick slipknot, the big man crept around the makeshift nest to get behind the miniwatu. I motioned for everyone else to hang back. The room was small, barely larger than the master bathroom. If this was going to work, Rhino needed the space. Kimpton bailed to the living room, while Justin stayed close to me.

The moment the nylon rope wrapped around the back legs of the miniwatu, the thing absolutely spazzed out.

Well, the miniwatu might not be able to fly, but they can jump really high when startled, much to our surprise. It also moves far faster than anything that large should. Oh, and the tail? Just like a beaver, except the miniwatu swung it the way Hank Aaron would a baseball bat. Believe me when I say that this critter hit a home run.

Rhino had absolutely no warning before the frightened beaver’s tail slammed into his flak jacket. Our very large team leader’s body left a very impressive dent in the wood paneling after he bounced off it.

“Grab it!” Rhino shouted as he immediately got back up.

Credit to the team, they sure tried.

The nylon rope flexed but didn’t break, which was good for our purposes. However, it did allow the creature to get one of its hind legs out from the lasso almost immediately. In the living room this wouldn’t have been a problem. In the tight confines of the miniscule bedroom, however, this proved to be a huge issue.

The miniwatu made a horrid sound which nearly shattered all of our eardrums. It sounded like “QwikqwikQWIKqwik!”

“I got a leg!” Justin shouted, and then, “Oh shit!” as it turned out he didn’t.

The terrified giant beaver kept jumping and spinning, trying to escape its attackers. Unfortunately, six hundred pounds plus of angry beaver monster thing had nowhere to go and responded with the grace and agility befitting an animal half the size of my car.

The miniwatu pivoted again, this time bringing its flat, heavy tail into play. Alex tried to grab the makeshift lasso but the beaver was having none of it and was bucking like a fat weird-looking bronco, just as Kimpton predicted. This time it ran directly into Alex.

The poor kid didn’t even have time to move out of the way before the angry beaver knocked him down. Alex was maybe just shy of 180 pounds and was immediately squished as the miniwatu landed on him. The miniwatu scrambled over the downed hunter and bolted for the hall and freedom. Rhino, still holding onto the rope, was jerked halfway across the room as the beaver ran for the door.

The damn thing was fast, considering its size, and I only just managed to get out of its way. “Angry beaver! Angry beaver!” I shouted. “Incoming! Melanie! Close the front door!”

She did and then wisely climbed on top of the big wooden TV to keep from getting nailed by the agitated beaver, which was now bounding in circles around the living room, still dragging Rhino, who was shouting, “Grab the beaver by the horn!”

“What the fu—” Kimpton started to ask before he was bowled over by the six-hundred-pound-plus miniwatu. Justin, thinking quickly, jumped on its back. He almost got a good hold around the monster’s neck before sliding back a little. The miniwatu was frightened, desperate, and really fat. Justin had absolutely no chance. Spinning rapidly, the giant beaver flung off Justin, who went over the decorative wall to land in the kitchen. Something in there broke when he hit it and suddenly water was spraying everywhere.

“QwikQwikqwikQWIKQWIKqwik!” the terrified monster screamed as Kimpton took his chances and jumped onto the miniwatu. Somehow he’d avoided getting injured when the beaver had run over him. Unfortunately, the creature wasn’t as stupid as it looked, and must have been starting to catch on that we had no idea what we were doing, so it reached up with a front paw to drag Kimpton off its back. It hooked his flak vest, and then the miniwatu slammed him onto the now-wet carpet. Thick claws stuck in the flak jacket and the beaver looked down at the Hunter in annoyance. It opened its massive mouth and the large, orange-stained buck teeth were inches from Kimpton’s face. The creature bellowed a challenge. “QWIK?!”

“It’s gonna eat him!” Justin shouted in alarm.

Suddenly, a very pissed-off Rhino let go of the rope, jumped up, and bellowed a challenge at the beaver, before lowering his massive shoulders and tackling the damned thing. Mass versus mass, Rhino should have lost, but I don’t think the monster had been expecting that and got bowled over, sparing Kimpton from finding out if Alex’s hypothesis about miniwatus eating people were just folk tales or not.

Rhino and the beaver crashed into the remains of the couch. Promptly rolling over, the beaver thumped Rhino’s legs with its tail. We all heard the snap of a bone and the big man cried out in pain.

The giant, soaking-wet beaver was pissed now. Scratching and kicking at the increasingly soggy carpet, the beaver began to slap the downed Rhino in the head and shoulders with its heavy tail. Thud! Thud! Thud!

I picked up the nylon rope and pulled hard, and luckily nobody else noticed that I was a whole lot better at it than Rhino had been, actually managing to drag the beaver out of thumping-Rhino range. Well, the miniwatu sure noticed, and now it turned its horn my way, and that beady little eye was staring right at me.

Before it charged me, Melanie distracted it by throwing some vinyl records at its face, so the beaver retaliated by smashing the thick glass of the TV beneath her with its tail. Kimpton had managed to scramble out of the way, but got clubbed on the backswing, so now he was stuck under the monster again.

I was about to say to hell with the MCB and the Endangered Species Act, and to tell everybody to just pull their pistols and shoot the damned thing, when Alex stumbled into the living room, holding up a ratty old bedsheet in front of him like a shield.

I did a double take when I saw Alex, because getting trampled by the beaver had knocked one of his boots off and its claws had shredded his pants. There were some things about my team I was not ready to know just yet. Like, for instance, Alex’s tattoo on his upper thigh, and just how high the tail of the shark in question went.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll use this sheet.” He was out of breath thanks to the miniwatu knocking the wind out of him. “I’ll throw it over its head!”

“It ain’t no fucking parrot!” Justin called back from the kitchen. “That only works on birds!”

“What are you still doing in the kitchen?” I asked, grabbing the nylon rope and snaking it around the beaver’s hind legs. It was too busy being angry at Melanie and her vinyl rain to even notice. I managed to get the rope knotted before the tail slapped it out of my hands. Nylon is slick when wet, turns out, but can still rub the leather fast enough to generate heat. I yelped in pain. “Quit messing around and help!”

“I’m trying to find a carrot or something in the refrigerator!” Justin replied loudly.

“A carrot?!” I called back, incredulous. “This is not a rabbit! Shit. Kimpton, watch that horn!”

Kimpton had realized it was now trying to gore him before I had and managed to catch hold of it with his hands. The miniwatu’s gnarly teeth snapped closed next to his face, but the horn was pointed safely away. However, it was a still attached to a wriggling, angry, now sopping-wet beaver trying to crush the man.

“Try the damned sheet!” Kimpton shouted as the miniwatu used its weight to press down into the Hunter’s chest. The giant beaver’s tail was smacking the wet floor in irritation, splashing everyone in range. The horrid smell emanating from the wet minwatu was almost as bad as the wet shag rug—which, it turned out, had a lot of dried beaver poop on it.

Alex tossed the sheet over the beaver’s head and let it settle, like he was making a bed. The sheet partially covered Kimpton and for a moment I thought he was a goner. Surprisingly enough, as soon as the sheet went over the miniwatu’s head, the monster immediately calmed down. It continued to grunt and make noises, but the frantic thrashing ceased.

Kimpton pulled himself out from beneath the placid creature, practically swimming through puddles that had accumulated on the carpet. We all remained there, breathing hard, kinda shocked by the sudden quiet, and waiting for the beaver to change its mind and go back to trying to kill us all.

After a moment I said, “Well, that worked surprisingly worked well.” The room smelled absolutely horrible, but the miniwatu seemed placated for the time being.

“Is Rhino dead?” Alex was clearly concerned as he looked over at our team lead, who was lying on the floor, unmoving.

“He’s breathing.” Kimpton crawled over to where Rhino lay and checked out the big man.

Rhino moaned as he lay there. He looked like shit, and smelled even worse. “Did we win?”

“I think so, boss.” Justin came out of the kitchen, holding a large clump of overripe carrots and a head of lettuce. He staggered over to the massive shape of the miniwatu and knelt down next to it. Lifting the corner of the sheet a few inches, he quickly shoved the carrots and lettuce under. All of us could hear the giant horned beaver make some snuffling noises and then happily munch away on the produce. Since it seemed happy blind and eating, we hurried and tied the rope around all of its legs and neck. Now all we’d have to do was pull it tight and our beaver wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“How are you not covered in water and beaver shit?” Justin asked Melanie.

“I didn’t get thrown into the kitchen or roll around on this scuzzy carpet.” She was still safely standing on the broken TV and seemed happy to stay up there.

Rhino groaned as he rolled over, wincing at the pain. “Everybody else okay?”

Alex had an embarrassed expression on his face. The miniwatu had practically barreled through him. It was amazing he hadn’t busted any ribs. “I think so.”

Everybody else agreed. They were beaten up, but in one piece.

I took off my glove and held up my hand. It was slightly red. “I got rope burn.”

Rhino winced as he looked at his leg, which was pointing in a very awkward, obviously broken direction. “Well, ain’t this some bullshit.”

The man was tough.

“Do we even collect PUFF on this thing?” Kimpton asked. “We’re not dogcatchers, you know.”

“Well, the county will pay us. As for a PUFF bounty, I don’t know. I never even heard of this thing before today.” I looked to Alex, who shrugged, which meant probably not, because if it had been on the bounty tables he probably would’ve seen it and remembered. “Well, shit.”

Considering the badass nature of our job, Team Rhino was off to a rather ridiculous start.


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Framed