Jacks, Marcy - Mason Returns to His Mate [DeWitt's Pack 8] (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic Man Marcy Jacks (ready to read books txt) 📖

cleared his throat, trying to purge himself of all the negativity he felt. “Hey, guys, how can I help you?”

One of the men, the only one of the three not wearing any shades, drew the attention of the others to the deer head Derek had mounted

on the wall behind the counter. They all nodded to it in appreciation  before returning their attention to the human in the store.

There was apparently a leader in this group since only one man  stepped forward. “Yes, we were wondering if you were selling any  rifles or pump-action shotguns. Handguns would be good, too.”

This wasn’t exactly an uncommon question considering the woods  surrounding Brampton made for prime hunting grounds during the  season, but the season for big game hunting didn’t open for another  six weeks, and these guys looked ready to go out now.

“I have a couple of things on hand. Only shotguns, though. No  handguns or rifles, yet, and no one’s really come in to scoop the  shotguns up yet since the season is still a little ways away,” he said,  hoping they took the hint.

They didn’t. The leader then seemed to notice some of the  shotguns Derek had mounted on the wall behind them.

“Let me see that one,” he said, hardly paying attention to what  Derek had just told him.

Derek did as he was told, already thinking he was going to have a  picky sort of customer. He’d wanted to take his mind off of Mason,  but not like this.

None of the guns were loaded. Derek had checked and double-checked that one before he’d put the guns on display, so he had no problem  with letting each of the three men handle the few shotguns that he had. Most were pump action as the man had asked for, but a

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couple were lever action or the break-open kind.

The two men behind the leader seemed to have a lot of fun

pumping their shotguns  and pointing the barrels at the rest of Derek’s  wares, testing out their sights.

“Hmm,” said the leader. He was maybe in his forties, if all the  silver in his short hair was any sort of indication. From what Derek  could see of his forearm, he also had a whole lot of small star tattoos

riding up to his elbow.

“You sure you don’t have any rifles?” The man looked at him  suspiciously, as though Derek would have some kind of reason for  lying about that.

“Pretty sure.” He was not selling his guns to these wackos. They’d  probably get stupid and shoot each other, and then Derek would be  responsible for it.

Then Derek got a little suspicious himself. “Why? What are you  hunting that you need a rifle?”

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, or the right  thing, depending on how one looked at it.

All three men looked at Derek, and with a signal from their leader,  they all put the shotguns back on the glass counter for him to put back  on the wall.

At least now he wasn’t going to have a fight on his hands when he asked to see their permits.

The man with the gray hair nodded to him. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” Derek said, nodding back.

The three men left the store, and suddenly everything around him  was quiet once more. The only difference was that now Derek had to  put all the guns away.

Weird. That had been way too damn weird.

* * * *

Mason Returns to His Mate                    21

“You think he’s a supporter?” Billy asked. He was the youngest in  their group, but Tom liked keeping him around because sometimes, of  all the stupid things that came out of his mouth, there was a gem of  intellect that was good for their team.

Extra perspective was a good thing now and again.

Tom rubbed his chin. He didn’t do something as obvious as look  back at the store from which they came, though.  That would be too  much. “Don’t know. We can keep an eye on him for a little while, see  if he leads us anywhere―”

“Fucking supporters,” Billy muttered.

Alan nudged him for interrupting. Alan was Tom’s son, and he  kept his boy around because he had a sharp eye and was good with his  weapons, just like his old man.

“Don’t let your opinions take you places they shouldn’t,” Tom  said, pointing a finger at Billy’s nose. “We watch him to see if he  leads us to any wolves”—it was never a good idea to call them  werewolves when out in public in the middle of the day, even if the  streets were deserted—“but you absolutely cannot stick with just one  theory. Every clue you get as to who’s supporting and who isn’t will  always support your theories, even when you’re wrong, and that can  lead to a lot of unnecessary deaths.”

Billy grunted and nodded, and Tom knew that his lesson had gone  straight over the idiot’s head.

He wanted to sigh his frustration but kept it inside instead.

“He was a shop owner selling weapons. Clearly it made him  suspicious that we’re dressed to go hunting when the season’s not  open. Take that into consideration when you observe him.”

“Will the guns we have now be enough?” Alan asked.

“We’re fine for now, but it’s always better to find the places that

can restock your ammunition or the weapon itself in case it becomes  damaged. Next time we walk in there, we dress as civilians, though.  Otherwise he might call the cops on us.”

And they didn’t want that, considering the things they were here

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to hunt.

A couple of months ago, the call went out to any hunter available to come to Brampton to hunt down a pack of werewolves hiding in the area. Tom didn’t personally know any of the hunters who took up the challenge, but he did know that none were ever seen again after leaving.

That was why he was here. If there was a whole pack of them, then Tom wanted the money that having all of those werewolf pelts could provide. He was going to be smart