“Loosen your hold, Santo. We don’t need the problems
associated with a killing.”
“Oh, but I think you do.” The voice came from another man
positioned behind them. Tristen turned just as the man fired his weapon. The
spray of bullets had Tristen diving to the side while Santo stood and faced the
man. The gunshots continued without impeding Santo again, moving too fast to
perceive. Santo reappeared behind the man, his forearm catching his throat.
Santo removed his platinum caps. Dagger-sharp canines bit down on the man’s
wrist. Not his neck. That thought floated around Tristen’s mind. He gazed
upward, meeting Santo’s stare. “No, Santo. The police will cart you off to the
detention center awaiting destruction. Don’t do it.”
Christ. Tristen reached up to his opposite shoulder and the
exit wounds left by the bullets. He’d taken at least three, if not more. There
was the familiar burning sensation, akin to flaming baseballs being hurled from
his body, through his wounds. Warm blood oozed down his chest and shoulder. He
slumped against the wheel of a car, unable to do more than gasp for air from
lungs that stabbed his ribcage with each breath.
He closed his eyes for just a second and returned to the
stadium, another baseball game, his shoulder aching. College ball. So long ago
and he’d dug his cleats into the pitcher’s mound. Up in the stands, his
grandfather sat, cheering. His whole future ahead of him if he could deal with
the pain. Work through the pain. Then he sucked in a breath, forced his
attention to the ball in his grasp. The wind-up on the pitcher’s mound. When he
let go, it wasn’t a baseball, but an automatic rifle he held. He was back on the
battlefield and the scent of burning flesh filled his senses. Tristen flickered
in and out of consciousness. The catcher signed a curve ball. The last thing he
remembered was hearing Santo threaten the man. “I can get rid of you easier
than taking out the trash.”
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