What would you do to protect a pride of Barbary lions, a species near extinction?

For Jared Montaine, the answer is simple: almost anything. As owner of the Central Florida Big Cat Rescue in Gainesille, Jared flies to Iraq, and rescues the starving lions from the private zoo of Udi Hussein. When he returns to the United States, he must then fight off well-meaning animal rights groups, the U.S. government, and a band of criminal animal dealers—all of whom want to get hold of the precious lions. With the help of staffers at his refuge and his lover, Dr. Valerie Wilson, Jared encounters the brutal animal dealers who invade his refuge and his home while trying to steal the lions. Jared has to deal with his own savagery, a violent nature that mimics the powerful cats he cares for.

Chapter One

By the time Jared Montaine caught up to the asshole throwing kittens out onto the road and watching the second asshole deliberately run them down, Jared was deep into a flaring, red-hot anger that washed his skin with sweat. His stomach torqued in his belly and his hands shook on the van’s steering wheel. 

The dark part of him relished the idea of giving a deserved ass-kicking. Ached for it.

The jokers pulled into a convenience store, and parked their trucks. The smaller guy jerked one arm down, like a wrestler pounding the mat and the fat one laughed. They ambled inside with smiles on their faces.

It was the smiles that did it.

Jared parked the un-marked wildlife refuge van next to their trucks, slamming the brakes a little too hard. Rasputin gave a soft grunt of protest as he slid a little in the van’s rear. He was loose behind the metal grate that separated the passenger section from the back. He wore a purple halter and leash.

“Sorry, Raspy. Be a good boy. Dad’ll be right back.” Jared scratched the cougar’s ears, then left the ignition on and the air conditioner running. He locked the driver’s door, and re-checked that the other doors were secure.

It was a clear October day, sunny with a touch of coolness that was balm after the long Florida summer. He was driving up State Road 19 from Universal Studios in Orlando, after taking Rasputin to perform for a Lincoln-Mercury dealer’s commercial. A quick two grand for the big cat refuge he owned west of Gainesville.

He went to the back of the two pick-ups and jotted down their license plate numbers on one of his business cards. In case he decided that the authorities should get involved. Animal cruelty was a misdemeanor in Florida; the punishment was an inconvenience, not much more.

And If I beat the bejeesus out of these guys, then the cops will get involved. Shit.

Jared sighed and made his way around the trucks. The trailing truck, an older Dodge Ram, sported a pot decal on its rear window and an empty gun rack inside the cab. Rust spotted its back bumper and its old Florida tag’s oranges were faded to a pale peach. The bed held two five-gallon buckets filled with paint scrapers, rollers and brushes. Jared knew these kinds of guys: high school grads, maybe, with shitty jobs busting their asses at a loading dock or hanging drywall for some small-time contractor. Guys who needed big trucks and guns to feel like men.

And killing kittens for fun.

The Dodge had blood spattered on its chrome front bumper. Jared bent down to see bits of golden fur and bloody flesh clinging to the left front tire. His face flushed and his shoulders tightened. He pushed away the thought of the kitten’s last few seconds of life: crying, scratching at the human’s cruel hands, the shock of being thrown on the pavement… .

I’d like to run you down in the road.

The men came out of the store, each of them with a twelve-pack of beer.

Be smooth now. Make ‘em your buddies.

“This your truck?” Jared asked as they stepped closer.

“Who’s askin?” It was the blond guy, with long, scraggly hair and a face pockmarked from recent acne. A wispy goatee grew over his weak chin. He had a slim build, as if growing the hair on his head strained his system to its limits.

Jared shrugged. “Just looks like meat or something on your tire. You’ll probably want to wash it off before it starts to smell.”

“Advice we don’t need,” said the other kid. This was one was pudgy with mean eyes. He hefted himself up into the Ford, using the running board to step up. “Come on, Mike. Let’s party!”

“You guys looking to party?” Jared asked.

Mike, the smaller guy, spoke up. “Maybe. Again. Who the fuck are you?”

“Sorry.” Jared held out a fist, trying to remember the street shake. “I’m Johnny. I just got some fresh herb in the van and hate to party alone, ya know?” Sounded credible, at least to Jared.

Mike bumped his fist, looking more friendly now. “We’re always looking to party. Rudy, you wanna?”

Fat Rudy’s eyes narrowed and he gave Jared a once-over. “I dunno.” He waved Mike over to his truck. Jared heard snippets of the conversation:  …could be a cop… don’t know him… wanna party, cheap beer sucks…. .

Jared raised a hand. “I’m gonna grab some stuff inside. See ya.” He left them, still talking. If they were there when he got back, great. If not, he had their license plates and descriptions.

In the store, Jared bought a Coke and package of vanilla Gogurt for Rasputin. The mini-mart cashier flirted with him, her thin chest stuck out, her brown eyes watery.

Outside Mike was waiting for him, alone. “Hey, you, uh, serious about what you said?”

Jared smiled. “Absolutely. I’ve got some new stuff, right off the farm. Wanna try it?”

“Yeah!”

“Great. You know that historic marker up the road? The picnic tables? Let’s meet there.”

“Why there?”

“Come on. We can’t light up right here in the parking lot. We gotta be cooler than that.”

Mike raised his narrow shoulders and tried a menacing glare. “You’re not a fag or nuthin’, are you?”

“Not me. I definitely like pussy.”

Five minutes later, Jared pulled over at the picnic area. Mike parked his truck right next to him, a grin on his face. He waved over at Jared, a beer in his hand.

Jared reached into the back and made sure the leash was secure on Rasputin’s collar; the cougar gave his hand an affectionate lick “Yes, you’re Daddy’s good boy. Stay here, now, we’ve got a surprise to give Mikey the Butthead.”

Jared came around the van and gave Mike a big grin. “Come on in, check out this herb.” He rolled back the van’s sliding door, knowing Rasputin would sit still as he’d been trained to do. This refuge van was old; the interior light didn’t work any more and Jared hadn’t bothered to fix it.

Mike wrinkled his nose. “Your van stinks, man.” But he stepped inside, body crouched down. Jared moved in right behind him and slammed the van’s door shut.

Hey!” Mike said.

Jared said nothing, letting his eyes adjust, knowing that Rasputin had already focused on the new human. After a few seconds, Mike shifted, squatting awkwardly on the van’s metal floor.

“It’s fuckin’ dark in here, man,” Mike protested.

Jared heard Rasputin’s chesty breathing and he felt it the second Mike heard it, too. Mike’s body went stiff and there was a lisp-y whistle as he sucked in some air.

“What the hell is that? I can barely see.”

Jared saw Mike’s eyes widen as he made out the shadowy form of the cougar. Mike half-rose and pushed backwards against the metal barrier behind the driver’s seat. “Is that a dog or something?”

“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Jared said. “Asshole, meet Rasputin. Rasputin, meet the asshole and be angry.”

“Be angry” was Rasputin’s cue to snarl and growl as he’d done repeatedly for the Mercury dealer’s commercial all weekend. His previous owner, a drug dealer the DEA had arrested in Tampa, had taught him several tricks and Rasputin responded as always. He snarled and growled, a near-scream of feline warning. His canine teeth looked huge in the van’s dim light, gleaming ivory against his red tongue and tan fur. Rasputin’s growl filled the van with a visceral punch; every animal lower on the food chain would instinctively pull away.

“Raspy, come,” Jared commanded.

The cougar stood and took two steps forward. Jared smelled the cat’s breath, the common stink of all big cats; Rasputin’s pelt gave off a rich, wild smell in the van’s confines. Mike slammed back, eyes big. His arms pressed back against the grate and he bonked his head on the van’s roof, as if he were trying to crawl right through it.

“What the fuck is that thing?” His voice went whispery.

“This is a mountain lion. He’s an adult male, almost two hundred pounds, capable of chasing down a deer a sheep—or a human. One killed a jogger in California last month; maybe you saw that on the news. If they don’t kill you by severing your neck, they’ll suffocate you—just hang onto your throat until you die.”

“What do you want, man? You can’t do this!” Mike jerked against Jared, his wiry body no match for Jared’s bulk. Mike’s right fist whisked off Jared’s broad shoulders; he may as well have been a toddler for all the effect it had. His boyish face spasmed, lips twitching, eyelids fluttering.

Jared put one hand on his shoulder, the other at his throat. “I saw you killing those kittens, you cretin. And there’s a part of me who really wants to beat the shit out of you, cut one of your arms off, and let Rasputin play with it all afternoon.” Jared sighed and loosened his grip. “But I’m not going to do that. I want you to put your hands on him.”

“No way. That thing will bite it off.”

Put your hands on him.”

“No!” Mike’s face gleamed with sweat and Jared smelled his fear—that pungent odor, the metallic stink of terror.

Rasputin smelled it, too. His nose twitched and then he opened his mouth in a feline grimace, lips pulled back, the flehmen gesture to capture the scent on the back of his mouth. It revealed his awesome teeth again.

“Oh, Jesus!” Mike said.
 “You’re scared of him?” Jared asked.

“Hell, yes, I’m scared of him. You’re fucking nuts, man.”

 “Raspy, lie down,” Jared ordered. The cougar plopped down immediately, his paws stretched out in front of him, at Jared’s feet. “Mikey, open up that bag in the corner there.”

“And what’s in there? A fucking snake?”

“Be reasonable, Mikey. Do what I say and open the bag.”

Mike snapped the canvas bag open, breath huffing. He pulled out a gallon Ziploc bag, filled with dark green leaves.

Rasputin rolled over on his back and “mmmwwrrrow’d”, kittenish. His paws kneaded the air, claws easing in and out, in and out.

“What’s this stuff? It’s not pot.”

“No, it’s catnip. Here.” Jared reached over and opened the bag. A puff of mint-y odor. Jared scooped out a palmful of the herb and smeared it over Mikey’s hands. Its dried leaves crackled in the quiet.

Mike jerked away. “Now what?”

“Give him a snootful.”

“If I do, will you let me go?”

“Put your hands down in front of him.”

Mike’s deep breath was loud in the van. He put his trembling hands near his own feet but as Rasputin crawled closer, his nose just at Mike’s groin, Mike pushed his hands back. Rasputin eased back with him, his thick whiskers brushing against the van’s floor as he eased his scent glands over the catnip. His mouth opened and he licked Mike’s hands as he rubbed his cheeks against the catnip.

A rumbling purr filled the van. Jared relaxed as he heard it; the sound of a happy feline.

As the minutes passed, Mike’s face changed from fear to trepidation to quiet. Rasputin used his thick tongue on Mike’s fingers, licking the herb off, snuffling Mike’s palms. The cougar took a deep breath and sneezed, sending a fine spray of cat snot over them. Mike smiled. Rasputin lay down, rubbing his cheeks against Mike’s hands, rolling over, this way and that, his thick tail snaking up against the van’s rear door. His body stretched out, nearly six feet long.

“You can pet him,” Jared said.

 “He’s okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine; he’s stoned. Touch him.”

Mike’s hands were tentative, spidering over Rasputin’s ears and neck. The cougar merely purred and rubbed back against the human. Jared sat down behind Rasputin and rubbed the fine pelt of the cougar, both hands filled thick with lush fur and flesh. Mike got more brave and began petting Rasputin’s chest and shoulders.

Jared waited for Mike to look up at him. “You think he’s having fun?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, most cats purr when they’re happy, right?”

“So he can be happy or sad--or scared?”

“Yeah,” Mike kept his eyes down, face flushed.

Jared let his voice go soft. “You catching what I’m throwing?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t talk or look at each other for a while. Jared was content to watch the cat; Rasputin was content to have four human hands massaging him. He lifted his face and put his chin in Mike’s palm, his yellow eyes rich as September’s moon. Mike looked into the cat’s face and Jared saw it happen—that instant of cat magic taking place, when a human felt a cat’s strength and power, its thick fur came alive with soul in a human’s grasp—and Rasputin “mmmwwrrrow’d” up at Mike then flopped over on his back, one dangerous paw on Mike’s hand.

After ten minutes, the catnip began to wear off. Rasputin sat up and washed his face and paws. The rasping sound of his sandpaper-y tongue filled the van. Jared opened the van’s door and they all blinked at the afternoon’s bright light.

Jared offered a hand to help Mike out and the other man took it. He turned back to the van and said, “Bye, kitty. You sure are a funny-looking dog.”

“I’m not gonna say anything more to you. But I think you get the message,” Jared said.

Mike clambered back up into his truck, looking like a redneck asshole again, the metal shield a barrier round him. “I got it. Really. ” He raised a hand out the window as the truck ripped away.

Well, at least I didn’t beat the snot out of him. That’s progress. Maybe he understands.

‘Whaddya think, Raspy? Did we do any good?” Jared asked. The cougar sat at the van’s door, tail curled around his forepaws, looking polite. Gentlemanly. Jared hooked the retractable leash on his halter. “Come on out; you can pee.”

Rasputin ambled out of the van and sniffed the picnic table. His tongue lapped the wood.

 “I said you can pee, Raspy, not take the tourist route. Go pee!”

The cougar snuffled around the bushes, scratched with his back legs, then squatted, his ears slightly back, his face drawn back, prissy. It always cracked Jared up: every species of cat he’d ever handled got that same look.

Rasputin scratched and sniffed, hauling leaves and dirt over his mess. He ambled back to Jared, cougar hips swaying, his shoulders swooping. His yellow eyes were lined with black fur and flesh; cat’s eyes always looked feminine that way, as if women got the concept of eyeliner from the feline world.  

© Copyright, 2005. Work-in-progress.
All rights available