The Keepers Story 01 - The Gatekeeper

give you the other.”
    Saxon heard the click as the other man hung up. He frowned just as Dirk finally collapsed, falling down as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut.
    Tears sprang into the younger man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that...I had to give him Calleigh. He swore that Angela was still alive and that he’d give her back if...if I gave him Calleigh.”
    Saxon felt his fury draining away; this kid was a mess. He wasn’t a criminal—he was simply cowardly. No, not even cowardly. He was just pathetically in love and utterly useless.
    He dragged Dirk back to his feet. “Listen up. I’m going to go get both of them back. You’re an idiot if you thought your girlfriend would be returned. Bailey considers them a threat, but he’s a man with an eye for a pretty woman, and that means he’s going to use them both up and spit them out when he’s tired of them. They’ll end up as more bones in the desert if I can’t save them. I can’t take you with me—you’ll just be someone else I need to protect—but if you pick up a phone and call anyone, you’ll be signing their death warrants and your own. Do you understand.”
    Dirk nodded, sobbing. “You have to understand...I love her!”
    This mess of a human being was in love with an Elven, and apparently she loved him back. Sad. Truly sad.
    “Who were you talking to?” Saxon asked.
    Dirk was sniveling. Saxon had to nudge him to get an answer.
    “Monty. Monty Reilly.”
    “Reilly is in on this?” Saxon demanded.
    “He, um, he says that Bailey is going to rule Las Vegas and all of the desert. That there’s no point trying to stop him. He said Angela and I could get out before...before the killing started if I just gave him Calleigh.”
    Dirk was full-on sobbing again when Saxon bent down beside him. “I need a horse. I don’t want to take my car, because they’ll be waiting for me.”
    “The mare...Mistress Mellora...she’s like a speed demon, and she’s used to the desert. She’s a Thoroughbred-Arab cross,” Dirk managed.
    Saxon didn’t wait to hear more. Time was of the essence.
    He slipped out back and quickly found a bridle and a stall with a placard that read Mistress Mellora. In less than a minute he was on his way.
    * * *
    The desert could be unforgiving, but Saxon had come to know it well, because it was such an organic part of the place he had bizarrely chosen as home. And as he rode the fleet-footed mare across the rough terrain, he thought about how to use it to his advantage.
    Carl Bailey had no doubt built his lair underground so he could carry out his crimes—and practice whatever depraved behaviors turned him on—undetected. It was also no doubt where he was preparing for the werewolf attack that would end with his takeover of Las Vegas.
    But no wolf’s lair would have just one entry, because then it would be too easily turned into a trap. The question was, where would the back door be? And how would it be camouflaged against the desert floor and sparse vegetation?
    It would have to be hidden by either a field of scrub brush or a group of cacti.
    Finally he found what he was seeking. It was actually hidden by both scrub brush and cacti, and shadowed by a small dune for good measure, but footprints—both human and wolf—in the sand gave away its location.
    After dismounting, he stroked the horse and thanked her in a whisper for the ride; then he gave her a slap on the rump that sent her running for home.
    He crept low among the cacti until, just as he’d expected, he found a wooden hatch flush with the ground and hidden under the brush.
    They might not be expecting him to come in the back way, but even so, he would be an idiot not to expect an armed guard immediately inside.
    Silently, he worked the latch, grateful for the darkness that was swiftly falling over the desert. He glanced up before entering. Bad luck. The full moon was rising.
    He quickly lifted the door and slid through, stopping at the top of a flight of stairs leading down into the lair. As he’d expected, there were guards on duty: two of Carl’s chowhounds. Luckily they weren’t taking their work seriously. They were standing together, rifles slung over their shoulders, extolling the virtues of the Cuban cigars Bailey had procured for them.
    Saxon marveled at the fact that they were so involved in their conversation that they didn’t see the sliver of moonlight that slipped in with him—or him. They didn’t