The Noimoire jail was huge. It wasn’t a part of the prison, which was even bigger—just the jail, where people awaiting trial and the people serving short sentences for baby crimes stayed. It occupied a massive block it would take minutes to drive around.

“I still can’t believe you took that guy’s pants,” Shel said, trying not to start laughing again.

Wolfe didn’t try, chuckling. “Best chance to get him legitimately arrested, and if he doesn’t want to get arrested for having his dong out, he’s gonna need to be mighty stealthy—which means longer before people find out about Marco.”

“Did you check his cards?” Shel asked as Wolfe pulled into the massive parking lot in front of the jail main entrance.

“Yeah, I glanced at them. Mostly a few extra Angry Hellhounds, which is gonna be the signature card in this deck, I swear by all the gods—”

“Appropriately signature,” Shel snarked

“—and most of his other stuff was trash. But he did also had a Gehennan Kennel Master,” Wolfe said.

Shel clapped rapidly in front of her face, looking a bit more like a woo-girl than Wolfe was used to. “Take it out, I want to see it!”

"That’s what she said?” Wolfe asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

She chuckled. “C’mon, let’s see it.”

Wolfe pulled into one of the parking spaces and turned the car off, then reached into his pants and pulled Marco’s deck out.

He passed it to Shel. “Yeah, sure. Here.”

She flipped through the deck, pulled the card out, and held it where they could both see it.

Gehennan Kennel Master

Tier-1 Rare Infernal Creature

2 Infernal Power, 1 Fire or Beast Power

Health: 28

Attack: 8

Magic Attack: 6

Defense: 7

Magic Defense: 7

Special: Motivation: When this creature enters the field, any creature with a matching type may make an additional attack.

Special: +1 to attack and magical attack to any Creature[Canine] for each of the types it matches among Fire, Beast, and Infernal.

Special: This card acts as a Creature[Canine] for triggering any other canine’s bonuses only.

Special: The first time a deckbearer with this card and at least three Hellhounds defeats a divine deckbearer, they will gain a random hellhound from any of the last ten sets as if drawing from a rare deck.

“The Fireborn Hellhounds that hunt Gehenna, the Lake of Fire, are sometimes recruited to serve in the armies of the Infernal, and a magically twisted demon is put in charge of them. He motivates his pack with the flesh of angels.”

“Are you going to add it to your deck?” Shel asked.

Wolfe hesitated. “It’s crazy strong for my deck, but it takes so much power for a card that isn’t a canine itself, given how my deck works.”

“It takes three, and you have seven. Most of your strong cards could enter—imagine if you had this big boy and Cerberus’ Home for Wayward hellhounds. Each of the generated Lost Hellhound Puppies would be crazy strong.

Wolfe did the math—each would become a nine-attack creature. Cerberus’ Home would generate four that would enter free, five when he made one more level. Still…

“If I had it out, I could either place Cerberus’ Hone and also spam my spare Lost Hellhound Puppy cards, or bring out two Angry Hellhounds with this guy… But I have to cut something from the deck.”

“What would you cut?”

Wolfe was having trouble deciding, but… “Yeah, it’s completely worth it. I’ll add it. Wish I had another power or two though, to really stack stuff.”

“You need to gain another six levels to gain another power.”

Wolfe nodded. “Yeah. I doubt that’ll happen soon.”

“It would if we fought in the Arena and gained some levels. It’d be hard, but if you got some over-level match-ups, you could make it.”

Wolfe thought about it. Maybe, but… “Same problem as before. If I go to a major arena, Damian will find me—and maybe the police. I’ve already got Rhett up my rear, I don’t need the Noimoire police department comparing notes with him.”

“Why don’t you call someone, one of your old contacts. I mean, you’re back on the scene anyway, and Damian is bound to find out. Perhaps just call Victor. He likes you even if he doesn’t owe you anymore, right?”

Wolfe laughed as he imagined the look on the information broker’s face. “He’s gonna be shocked. But he might sell my existence to someone else, you know.”

Shel shrugged, and glanced back down at the card. “It’s going to come out soon, Wolfe. You’re hunting again.”

Wolfe nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll call him. But first, let’s go see if we can find out what happened to one Maybelle…” he snapped his fingers.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Fontain,” Shel supplied.

“Right, one Maybelle Fontain.”

***

The inside of the jail, at least in the front room, was less horrible than Wolfe would have guessed. The floor was clean green-and-white tile. The walls had art whose motif seemed to be almost entirely ‘wholesome scenes from the 1950’s.’ The lady with curly brown hair at the front desk, dressed in a prison guard’s uniform and typing away at the old computer next to an even older printer, was surprisingly cute, perky, and helpful.

Well, as helpful as she could be, but Wolfe was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to let him go down the hallway that led past the metal detector to the visiting rooms.

She smiled up at him, her teeth so white and brilliant that Wolfe expected an announcer to pop out and say something about ten-of-ten dentists.

Then she gave a cute little frown. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a Maybelle Fontain in custody right now—neither the first name, nor the last name, are bringing up any hits right now. Your friend is lucky—she got let go.”

Wolfe met Shel’s eyes, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. The odds that was ‘lucky’ for her were about the same as the proverbial snowball in Gehenna.

The smile came back. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Can you at least tell me when she was released?” Wolfe asked, leaning over onto the desk.

Without a falter of her smile, the front desk guard leaned back about six inches. “I’m sorry, sir, only family with proof of relation can access that information.”

Wolfe sighed, straightened, and shuffled to the side. Shel went with him, and the two moved over to the waiting room benches.

“What now?” Shel asked.

“I don’t—” Wolfe started, but stopped, glancing back at that lady and then to Shel. “That lady—she just answers questions about people who are, or were, in jail, all day long, right?”

Shel pursed her lips in evident confusion, but nodded. “Yeah.”

“And it’s hooked up to a database or whatever that tells her about all of them? Even the ones that left?”

Shel nodded.

“So all I really need is to look at the program for a few seconds…” Wolfe mused, still glancing at the lady.

“Wolfe… You can’t take that nice guard’s computer away from her,” Shel said with a heavy sigh.

Wolfe looked up, ready to argue that he wasn’t that dumb and wouldn’t just hurt some random women, but found Shel smirking at him.

He chuckled. “Hilarious. But seriously, how do I do this?”

Shel glanced around the room they were in. It was fairly small, with the desk and waiting benches… but it had three exits. One was the double doors back to the parking lot, one was past the metal detectors and into the facility itself, and one was to a small alcove with a bunch of vending machines and some small computers.

Before Shel could answer, Wolfe pointed back toward the computers. “What’s back there?”

Shel briefly glanced at it. “It’s a new electronic system they installed to check on current inmates and put money on books, so they can buy food and stuff.”

“Hmm…” Wolfe mused. “Perky there seems like she’s really excited to do her job. What if I just go pay someone to pick a fight with the vending machines, and check the computer when she leaves?”

“Okay—just pay them off camera, okay?” Shel asked.

Wolfe nodded.

Then he walked out of the double doors and back into the parking lot. He glanced around for a place he could observe easily without being observed as easily, in case someone came in that would recognize him. Two columns along the side of the entrance that were in the shadows at the moment were the best he was going to do, Wolfe figured.

He leaned on one of the columns, his profile sideways to the entrance, and scanned the people filtering in. Older long-haired lady with entirely too much makeup in entirely too little of a leather skirt, likely the girlfriend of a career criminal—too wise and jaded by half. Heavy-set man in a cheap suit with a widow’s peak, looking embarrassed, likely the father of some precious kid that took a walk on the wild side—not even remotely criminal or desperate enough.

Then he saw him. A pale-skinned twenty-year old with a pock-marked face, dressed in baggy designer jeans that were old and worn, a black t-shirt, and scuffed sneakers that were a touch too large. He had a faux gold chain around his neck, and the skin on his face was sunken in so much you could open a cardboard box with his cheekbones.

The kind of guy that was both idiotic and had a lot to prove. Wolfe knew the type quite well. I’ll call him Baby Thug.

As Baby Thug walked up, Wolfe pried three hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and stepped forward.

Baby Thug turned, took a step back, eyes wide, then stepped back forward, subtly pressing his chest out.

“I’ve got a business proposition for you,” Wolfe said without preamble as he stepped up to Baby Thug, the money visible in his hand.

“What?” Baby Thug asked, staring at the money hungrily.

“What’re you here for?” Wolfe asked.

Baby Thug turned to face him. “Gonna do my ten—caught a bullshit possession case, lawyer fucked me. Why you care?”

Wolfe winced at Baby Thug’s use of language—and his halitosis.

But that confirms what I needed to know about Baby Thug’s judgement and station in life. “I don’t actually give a shit. But I need a favor. I want you to pick a fight with a vending machine in there, make it good. Can you do that for three hundred dollars?”

Baby Thug reached for it, but Wolfe pulled it back. “I’ll put it on your books, after you do what I need.”

“How do I know you’ll—”

“You don’t,” Wolfe interrupted. “You’ll have to trust me. But I’ll handle it. And I’m only asking you to pick a fight with a vending machine.”

“I’m Reginald Hutchings,” Baby Thug said. “So you can put the money on my books.”

Wolfe glanced at Reginald. He doesn’t look like a Reginald—more like a train wreck.

“I go by Reggie.”

“I don’t care,” Wolfe said. “Just do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

Reggie nodded.

Wolfe followed Reggie back in, and Reggie immediately went to the side, where the vending machines were. Wolfe walked up to the desk and waited at the side. When Guard Perky gave him a questioning arch of the eyebrow, Wolfe ignored it.

“Hey, give me my soda, you fucking machine!” came from the back, followed by the sound of flesh striking glass.

Guard Perky stood, smiled briefly at Wolfe and rolled her eyes, nodding to the back like it was some kind of joke.

“Remain calm, sir!” she called.

Shel was trying not to giggle in the corner of the reception room.

A couple more slams came from the back. “I don’t need your shit right now, you fucking machine!”

“Sir, calm down!” Guard Perky yelled, sounding angry now. “Don’t vandalize the machines!”

Another couple smacks and some profanities followed.

Guard Perky glanced at Wolfe while pulling out pepper spray. “Don’t touch anything!”

She raced around the side of the desk and down the hall.

Wolfe immediately walked around the desk and leaned over, trying to figure the system out. It was rather intuitive, with a huge imput bar next to a space titled “Inmate lookup.”

“Sir, let go of the machine, right now!” came from the back, followed by a “It took my fucking money!”

Wolfe ignored that and quickly typed out ‘Fontain, Maybelle’ into the search bar.

A picture came up of a corn-fed Iowa cheerleader type with red-rimmed blue eyes and blond hair, a bruise on the side of her face. Wolfe glanced through her biographical data without interest before coming to the status section. She had been picked up thirty days ago, and released the evening after, at five. The only other note was that the pretrial services package had been prepared by a company called Worldwide Decurion, carried out by its agent Caine Delacruz.

Caine… I’ve heard that somewhere.

Wolfe remembered his fight in the trainyard. When he had been beating Tracy d’Ordinii, the fixer had called for backup from the guy with the sportscar. He had specifically called out for Caine.

It wasn’t the most common name…

“Alright, alright, just give me a soda and I’ll calm down, no need to pepper spray me,” came from the back.

Wolfe glanced back up at the biographical information. It claimed Maybelle was homeless and had her father unlisted… and she had no emergency contact information.

Wolfe quickly exited the file, and tried to remember the name of any other young working girls he knew, but couldn’t. He just typed in ‘Smith,’ and got a ton of hits. Looking for one with a female name and a release date in the last sixty days, he found a Marissa, and selected it.

She had been released a day after pickup, and Worldwide Decurion had done the pretrial services package. This time, Wolfe glanced at the biographical data.

Homeless, no emergency contact information, dad unlisted.

Wolfe quickly hit escape and stood, just as Guard Perky came around the corner, marching Reggie in front of her.

Wolfe met Reggie’s eyes and nodded, patted his own pocket, and then walked toward the back before Reggie could say anything stupid and get them both in trouble.