Faber chuckled low. “Well, Vinnie. You really are going to get yourself in trouble.”
“I’m just trying to clean up your mess!”
“That ain’t your job. Now put the gun away.”
“That’s right,” Ben murmured. “Put the gun away.”
Vince didn’t like being told what to do. Was especially tired of a two-bit hood like Faber telling him what to do. He didn’t put the gun away. Instead, Ben sensed his trigger finger tighten. Just a little.
What were the odds? This was Vegas, this town dealt in nothing but odds. So what were the odds that gun had silver bullets? What were the odds the guy would actually shoot him?
He had to get out of this. He had to take the chance. Had to believe his odds were pretty good—he’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d become a werewolf for a reason.
“Go ahead.” He stood from the table and spread his hands, presenting himself as an offering. “But I don’t think you have the guts.”
When the guy snarled, Ben knew he’d tipped him over the edge, knew that finger was about to squeeze on the trigger the moment before it did. Knew it was too late even as Faber shouted, “Vince, put the goddamn gun down!”
Do it, Ben mouthed the words.
The guy shot him.
The bullet slammed into his chest. Ben took a step back against the impact. He paused, eyes shut with shock, body hesitating, trembling. So this was what it felt like. Dead on his feet. Except—it stopped hurting. He could feel his heart pound, but it was with anger now, howling with the voice of his wolf rising. He clamped down on this tight. Had to stay in control if he was going to get through the next few seconds. He kept his eyes shut tight. Focused on breathing. Slowly, now.
The bullet wasn’t silver. He wasn’t going to die. He remained standing, considering.
“Hey,” the other thug said. First time he’d spoken all evening. “He ain’t falling down. Why ain’t he falling down?”
Ben’s lip curled. He was a goddamn superhero. And he was going to make it out of this alive.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” Ben said. The look on Vince’s face—sheer, blank terror. Everyone else had paled, staring wordlessly.
“I shot you! I got you in the heart! You’re dead. Dead!”
Ben jumped on the table, then over it. Plowed straight into the guy and kept going, found the gamble paid off, because they were all so shocked they couldn’t react. And he was strong. Lupine blood roared in his veins. Vince fell, and the rest of Faber’s gang were shouting and running. But the only thing Ben had to think about was getting out of there.
The world fell out of focus, and he was sure he’d lost it, that he was shifting.
“No, no, no . . .” he muttered, because he had nowhere to go, no safe place to hide. Vegas was far too human a city to cope with.
Besides, he was starting to think the city had it in for him.
Two legs, not four. He clenched human hands and tried not to think about claws. But the wolf in his blood helped him run faster. Just put your head down, stretch out, and go. He left the fight. Slammed through the door to the outside. Heard gunshots behind him; couldn’t stop. Kept running, down a very dark street lined with cracked concrete buildings, an industrial park of some kind, old and worn. Under a dark night sky, washed out by the city’s blazing lights.
He’d been at that game for hours. All night—and where was Kitty? What had she been doing all this time? He wondered what would happen if he never saw her again—
No—he crashed to a stop by a wall, slid down ’til he was sitting, panting for breath. Had to get his bearings. Had to figure out where he was and how to get back to the hotel.
The stre
et was very quiet. Motionless. Ben listened for cars, gunfire, for anyone who might be following. Maybe he’d left them behind; he wasn’t sure how far he’d gone.
Then he heard police sirens. A lot of police sirens, moving quickly, speeding. Instinctively, he huddled in a shadow, out of sight. He had no reason to hide from the cops, but he didn’t want them to find him like this, blood covering his shirt, on the verge of turning wolf. Too much to explain. They’d want to take him to a hospital. All he wanted to do was see Kitty.
The sirens seemed to be converging behind Ben, blocks away—Faber’s hideout. Vince was right all along, the cops tracked him there, and Faber’s arrogance was going to get the better of him.
But the cops wouldn’t find Ben. They’d find blood, they’d get the story—would they even believe it, that Ben had been shot in the heart then run off?
Maybe he ought to go back.