The three remaining coyotes barked and whined and howled at the attacker in frustration. None of them made a move to close the distance between them and Dutch, but they didn't retreat either. They just sat there like yappy dogs, taunting him.

Dutch was on his knees and could barely stay upright, much less stand. He swayed forward and had to catch himself with his right claw. He looked up and watched the coyotes as they darted back and forth, unsure of whether to run, or attack. Dutch slid painfully forward, putting himself in an attack posture. He pushed himself towards the coyotes who didn't move away.

Dutch reached out and swiped at one of the coyotes. He missed his target, but his claws clipped the coyote next to it and it yipped and whined in pain as his body twisted around as it tried to lick his side. Dutch didn't have time for sympathy and swiped again.

It was a clean miss. The coyotes however turned tail and ran back the way they had come. Their tails were low, with heads hunched forward, as they trotted back to the city away from the killing machine that had dispatched three of their band.

Dutch laid down slowly in the sand. He rolled onto his back, whining from the pain of his injuries. He had no concept of dying, he knew death, but the thought of it coming for him was alien to him. He had had a pack once, a family that he had cared for, and in turn the pack protected him. He had never been alone. But now in this desert, next to this almost alien city, inside this alien body, he was truly alone. A wolf alone never survived long; he knew this, as he knew the night sky. Perhaps, his survival was at an end, the hunt had come to a close. He exhaled softly, but raggedly through his blood-stained lips as darkness fell all around him and he was mercifully free from pain.

* * * * *

"Hey man, what you want from me anyway?"

Marco looked at the tall dark skinned man in front of him. He had been tracking down leads into this supposed 'blood buyer' for about two weeks now. Using just about every technique he knew from counter surveillance, to pay offs, to subverting and recruiting rats. All his work had paid off in him standing in front of this man.

The guy was pretty non-descript, wearing average clothes. He's not what you would call, 'well dressed', but he did put some effort into his appearance. Marco knew the thug had a hand gun on him somewhere.

"Why don't you give me what you got, and I'll decide if it's worth anything," Marco replied casually, but with a steel edge to his voice.

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If the thug caught the dangerous warning in Marco's voice, he didn't show it. "So now you think I'm stupid?" He shook his head and turned to walk away, "I aint in the business of giving away shit for free. Laitaa, you high ass cracker mother fucker."

"So, I'll just give these three thousand dollars to somebody else, then?" Marco replied calmly.

His words cut through the thug like a shot. Marco watched the man's body freeze as he slowly turned his head back around and looked over his shoulder at the shorter white man, "I'll tell you what, you give me half, then I tell you what I know, then if you try to cheat me, I'll shoot your sorry ass and take everything you got."

Marco looked bored. He had dealt with guys like this before and for a long time it seemed. Oh, he had no doubt that the man would shoot him at the first provocation, but what this dumb ass punk didn't know was just how old Marco was, and how strong, and just how pitifully useless bullets were against him.

"I'll give you eight." Marco held up eight, one hundred-dollar bills.

The thug ripped the bills out of Marco's hand. If he hadn't been a vampire the grab might have been surprising. The man's hand flew with almost supernatural speed and quickness, but even his street-smart reflexes paled in comparison to Marco's vampiric ones.

The black man didn't bother to count the bills but stared into Marco's eyes for long moments. Marco met the man's gaze with even patience. The man was taller than he was by far, but intimidated Marco was not, and so he was obliged to simply return the man's stare with only mild interest.

"Alright look, there's some talk going around about some guy buying up blood, he's paying pretty big money, least that's the word," the thug finally replied.

Marco almost rolled his eyes, "No shit. You gotta do better than that. Please tell me I didn't waste my time."

The taller guy hung his head while looking behind himself, trying to make it look like he wasn't looking behind him. "Alright, look, nobody knows this dude's name. He's a brown guy, likes rolling in a sweet Mercedes Benz with at least a couple of dudes at all times."

Marco pursed his lips, there might be something to go on here, "What about the Benz, anything special about it? Rims? Window tinting? Underglow?"

The thug shrugged his shoulders, "Look man, I don't know. I know its black and it's got like CIA type window tinting shit can't nobody see through, but nobody never mentioned nothing about no rims or underglow."

Marco rubbed his chin as he held up twelve hundred dollars. The thug tried to grab it but Marco easily pulled it away before the thug's fingers even came close, "I promised you three thousand, right now you've almost earned two. What can you tell me about this brown guy?"

The thug threw his hands up exasperatedly, "I don't know, man! This dude's a brown jihadi looking mother fucka! Got a beard and everything but everyone says he dresses like some kind of dude from Wall street, always wears a nice suit, and not some cheap ass Men's warehouse crap neither."

"Where does this Arab mother fucker hang out at?" Marco asked calmly.

"Look man, some dudes seen him rolling around the Skybar."

"Anything else you can think of?" Marco asked, more out of habit than any real thought of getting any additional information out of the thug.

Not surprisingly the thug shook his head, "Man, I done told you everything I already know."

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