Here’s the start of the White Wolves serial:
“Honey. You have to stop chasing that rainbow.”
She turned to stare at her mother, “How the hell can you say that! He is your grandson!”
“I want him back as much as you do, Jen. But it has been two months. You know what the police said.”
“You are writing him off. He is still alive. I know it.”
“You are hoping he is. Jen, I understand. But we need to be realistic.”
“No, Mom. I believe in my son. That is not unrealistic, foolish hope, or anything else. That is a mother loving her son.”
Jen threw down the dish rag and stormed out. Her mother’s words nauseated her. In her heart, Jen knew Curran lived. Somewhere.
Some instinct drove Jen to a rundown bar several blocks from her house. She never drank anymore. Not since finding out she was pregnant with Curran two years ago. That accident probably saved her life. Things were out of control before that. They still were for Curran’s father last Jen knew.
Shaking her head to clear the memories, Jen pushed the door open. The inside was small, but surprisingly clean. She sat down at the end of the bar uncertain of what she was doing or looking for.
“Can I help you?” The bartender sauntered toward Jen while giving her a thorough once over.
“I would like a Coke, please.”
One dark brow arched over hazel eyes. He poured her the Coke and leaned back after collecting her money.
“Nothing else, just the Coke, thanks.”
“You’re lookin’ for something.”
She blinked, “My son. He was taken five weeks and two days ago.”
Jen was not sure why she told him that.
“What are you willing to do?”
He slipped her a card, “Call him.”
Printed in block letters, the card read Rhys Waylon. White Wolves. Justice is Swift. 555-489-2012.
“Who is he?”
“He leads the White Wolves. They are better than the police. But, it may cost ya, and not in money.”
She pulled out her cell phone without any hesitation.