Game of the Wolf by William Massa

Author:William Massa
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Critical Mass Publishing
Published: 2020-06-20T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Today. Nashland, Oregon.

The camper van pulled into the empty strip mall and parked in front of a restaurant sandwiched between a drycleaner and a Wells Fargo. The establishment’s colorful sign read Nashland Avenue Family Restaurant and promised, in small print, Greek, Italian, Mexican, and American Cuisine.

They should have just called it Everything But the Kitchen Sink, Ali Silver thought.

In his dining experience, the longer the menu, the crappier the food. But as long as they had something that bled, he would be okay.

Silver couldn’t care less about gyros or pasta or burritos. He was a devout follower of the carnivore diet and only consumed meat products, preferably thick juicy slabs of beef or lamb cooked extra rare. He’d been on the road for too many hours, and his stomach craved sustenance. And even though he planned to feast like a king later tonight, he needed a small appetizer to tide him over.

Silver slipped on his Wayfarer shades before getting out of his 19-foot Simplicity SRT, his home on wheels.

Silver was a nomad. He hadn’t held a permanent job or residence since gaining access to his two-million-dollar trust fund five years earlier on his thirty-first birthday. Once he became financially independent, the road had beckoned, and he’d happily answered the call.

He must have logged over 40,000 miles by now and been around the country so often that he’d lost count. Now, his wanderlust had some limits—he wasn’t on the go non-stop, and he did set down roots occasionally. The most recent example was Venice Beach, where he’d kept his RV parked near the ocean for three blissful months. Good times. But eventually, he always felt the need to start moving again.

To hunt for fresh meat, so to speak.

It was a lifestyle that suited his personality and his peculiar appetites.

Ali Silver was a serial killer.

Before he’d inherited his fortune, he’d held down a job as a bookkeeper. The mundane life had left him hesitant to satisfy his dark desires. Fantasies of murder consumed his daydreams, but he never—okay, rarely—indulged them.

At work, he was as personable as possible. He maintained the charade well enough that his coworkers liked and respected him, even though none of his so-called friendships extended beyond the workplace. During those long years, he constantly felt constrained and emasculated—a man forced to bury his actual personality under a mask of platitudes and fake smiles.

By the time Silver celebrated his thirtieth birthday, he’d only murdered two women. A hooker in Cabo, whom he strangled while on vacation, and a stripper in Vegas he’d picked up on the strip and whose remains were buried in the Nevada desert.

And then there was the third girl who changed everything for him. He hadn’t killed her with his own hands, but his actions had led to her death.

So perhaps she counted after all.

In those dark, pre-trust fund days, the income of his bookkeeping job had barely paid the bills, much less allowed him to travel to far-flung places. Killing near his home was a no-no.

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