"What happened? The pair of you get into it over what to have for Last Meal? Dress code? Or was it something more serious. Homer versus Fred Flintstone?"
He made quick work disarming the soldier, removing two good, serviceable guns, plenty of ammo, multiple knives, a length of choking wire, and -
"Watch it," he barked as Throe's arm came up. Catching it easily, he forced it back down with hardly any effort. "Quick moves are going to make me finish the job Xcor started. "
"Shin blade. . . " came the croaked response.
Tohr popped up the pants, and, hello, more metal.
"At least he kept you well supplied," Tohr muttered as he got out his cell phone and dialed the compound.
"I have a situation," he said when V picked up.
After some quick back-and-forth with his brother, he and Vishous decided to bring the SOB to the training center. After all, the enemy of your enemy could be your friend. . . under the right circumstances. Besides, the mhis that surrounded the compound could scramble anything from GPS to Santa Claus. No way the Band of Bastards would find the guy, if this happened to be a setup.
Ten minutes later, Butch arrived with the Escalade.
Throe didn't have much of an opinion about being lifted up, carried over, and laid down in the backseat: The fucker was finally out cold. The good news was that it meant he wasn't an immediate threat - but it would be a bene to get him back alive.
Bargaining chip? Intel source? Footstool. . .
The repurposing options were endless.
"Just the kind of passenger I like," Butch said as he got behind the wheel again. "No chance he's going to try to backseat drive. "
Tohr nodded. "I'm coming with you - "
The first gunshot that went off came from John's forty, and Tohr immediately went back into fight mode, throwing the Escalade's door shut, at the same time he went for his own weapon.
Second shot was from the enemy, whoever it was.
Lunging for cover behind the bulletproof SUV, Tohr nonetheless pounded on the quarter panel to get the cop to take the fuck off. Throe was too valuable to lose over something as ho-hum as a squadron of lessers. Worse, it could be the Bastards.
As the brother hit the gas, Tohr was left with his ass in the breeze, but he took care of that quick, ducking into a roll, becoming a tight, moving target that would be harder to hit.
Bullets followed him, except the guy with the trigger finger didn't know how to lead prey - the pinging off the pavement closed in on him, but not quick enough. And as he came up to a Dumpster, he tore behind the thing, prepared to return fire, as soon as he knew where his boys were.
Silence in the alley -
No, that wasn't quite right.
Dripping, like something was leaking out of the iron belly of the massive trash bin, made him frown and take a quick look down.
It wasn't the Dumpster.
Shit. He'd been hit.
Like a computer running a scan, he went into his body and identified the sources of the damage. Torso, left side, at the ribs. Upper arm, underside, four inches below his pit. And. . . that was about it.
He hadn't even felt the hits, and he wasn't drained by them, not by the pain or the blood loss. Goddamn feeding - it was like pouring jet fuel in your tank. And of course, it helped that the bullets hadn't caught anything important - they were surface grazes only.
Putting his head out around the Dumpster, he couldn't see anyone in the alley, but he could sense slayers all around, taking cover. At least he didn't smell any fresh blood other than his own. So John and Qhuinn were okay, t
hank God.
The lull that followed got on his nerves.
Especially as it persisted.