more. Don’t struggle now. You might get your hair dirty.”
“Hrgff.”
“What’s that?” Jack eased the pressure.
“In the Edge, I would’ve killed you by now.”
“With your flash, yes. Don’t kid yourself. If this was for real, you would’ve broken your neck in the fall.”
A desperate high-pitched squeak jerked Jack’s attention to the end of the parking lot. Straight ahead, the five guys crowded around a tree growing from a square flower bed. The thicker kid with brown hair held a rope. Another squeak. Jack focused on the end of the rope coming from beneath the hedge on the other side. The kid on the left looked back at him and George, said something, and laughed.
A fist landed on his ear. Jack ignored it and sat up. George sat up next to him.
The thicker kid jerked the rope and pulled, dragging a small gray shape into the light. It was bedraggled and filthy, its fur smeared with some sort of mud or paint.
Jack forgot where he was.
The little cat shook and hugged the ground, trying to break free of the rope. The asshole on the other end kept pulling, dragging the limp body across the asphalt.
Red flooded the world. Jack exhaled rage through his nose. Suddenly, he was on his feet and walking, and he didn’t remember how he got there.
Next to him, George caught up with him, reached out, and snapped an antenna off the nearest car.
The world snapped into crystal clarity, the smells too sharp, the sounds too loud. Jack floated through it, light as a feather.
“Don’t kill anyone,” George said.
The bastards noticed them and turned toward them.
“You two done making out?” a tall blond kid asked.
The little cat lay on its side. He wasn’t moving. A long stripe of bright green paint ran along his back, gluing his fur into small, sharp spikes. They had painted the cat. Those fucking bastards had painted the cat and then tortured it.
The Wild snarled inside him. He strained, pushing it back into its den.
“I’ll make it simple,” George’s voice rang out next to him with icy precision. “Give us the cat, and you can go.”
“Man. What a fucking dumb-ass.” The blond kid snorted. “Get the hell out of here, fags.”
“What’s with the clothes? Are you from some sort of fag cult?” the asshole with the rope asked.
“No, man, they’re from a Renaissance fair.”
“Maybe they need the cat for their fag sacrifice!”
The Wild retreated into its lair and stared at him with glowing eyes.
“Yeah, be careful, they might pull some crazy satan shit on you, man.” The bigger dark-haired kid laughed.
The smaller kid on the right raised his hands and crossed his index fingers. “Stay back, the power of Christ compels you!”
Jack looked at George. “Now?”
“Ooh, I am so scared.” The blond kid raised his hands. “So scared . . .”
“Now,” George said.
Jack charged.
OUTSIDE, the California sun hit Kaldar. He kept walking, down the path and out into the street, through the open iron gates, past the cream-colored wall bordering the rehab facility. He turned left, heading for the parking lot. He’d left his stolen vehicle there. Men in pristine black shoes did not walk; they drove expensive cars, and so he’d procured one on an off chance someone might see him arrive. And now he needed one to depart quickly because a man in his outfit would draw attention jogging down the street.
He had to find Audrey Callahan. Kaldar imagined a female version of Alex Callahan. Ugh. Likely an addict as well. If Callahan was to be believed, she hated him, so she wouldn’t have helped them with the heist out of love or from a sense of obligation. No, their father must’ve dangled money or drugs before her, and she took it.
Family was the last line of defense. No matter what Kaldar had done or would do, he could walk through the gates of the New Mar house and be welcomed with open arms, food, and friendly proposals to rearrange his face. They would lament and bellyache and whine, but
“Hrgff.”
“What’s that?” Jack eased the pressure.
“In the Edge, I would’ve killed you by now.”
“With your flash, yes. Don’t kid yourself. If this was for real, you would’ve broken your neck in the fall.”
A desperate high-pitched squeak jerked Jack’s attention to the end of the parking lot. Straight ahead, the five guys crowded around a tree growing from a square flower bed. The thicker kid with brown hair held a rope. Another squeak. Jack focused on the end of the rope coming from beneath the hedge on the other side. The kid on the left looked back at him and George, said something, and laughed.
A fist landed on his ear. Jack ignored it and sat up. George sat up next to him.
The thicker kid jerked the rope and pulled, dragging a small gray shape into the light. It was bedraggled and filthy, its fur smeared with some sort of mud or paint.
Jack forgot where he was.
The little cat shook and hugged the ground, trying to break free of the rope. The asshole on the other end kept pulling, dragging the limp body across the asphalt.
Red flooded the world. Jack exhaled rage through his nose. Suddenly, he was on his feet and walking, and he didn’t remember how he got there.
Next to him, George caught up with him, reached out, and snapped an antenna off the nearest car.
The world snapped into crystal clarity, the smells too sharp, the sounds too loud. Jack floated through it, light as a feather.
“Don’t kill anyone,” George said.
The bastards noticed them and turned toward them.
“You two done making out?” a tall blond kid asked.
The little cat lay on its side. He wasn’t moving. A long stripe of bright green paint ran along his back, gluing his fur into small, sharp spikes. They had painted the cat. Those fucking bastards had painted the cat and then tortured it.
The Wild snarled inside him. He strained, pushing it back into its den.
“I’ll make it simple,” George’s voice rang out next to him with icy precision. “Give us the cat, and you can go.”
“Man. What a fucking dumb-ass.” The blond kid snorted. “Get the hell out of here, fags.”
“What’s with the clothes? Are you from some sort of fag cult?” the asshole with the rope asked.
“No, man, they’re from a Renaissance fair.”
“Maybe they need the cat for their fag sacrifice!”
The Wild retreated into its lair and stared at him with glowing eyes.
“Yeah, be careful, they might pull some crazy satan shit on you, man.” The bigger dark-haired kid laughed.
The smaller kid on the right raised his hands and crossed his index fingers. “Stay back, the power of Christ compels you!”
Jack looked at George. “Now?”
“Ooh, I am so scared.” The blond kid raised his hands. “So scared . . .”
“Now,” George said.
Jack charged.
OUTSIDE, the California sun hit Kaldar. He kept walking, down the path and out into the street, through the open iron gates, past the cream-colored wall bordering the rehab facility. He turned left, heading for the parking lot. He’d left his stolen vehicle there. Men in pristine black shoes did not walk; they drove expensive cars, and so he’d procured one on an off chance someone might see him arrive. And now he needed one to depart quickly because a man in his outfit would draw attention jogging down the street.
He had to find Audrey Callahan. Kaldar imagined a female version of Alex Callahan. Ugh. Likely an addict as well. If Callahan was to be believed, she hated him, so she wouldn’t have helped them with the heist out of love or from a sense of obligation. No, their father must’ve dangled money or drugs before her, and she took it.
Family was the last line of defense. No matter what Kaldar had done or would do, he could walk through the gates of the New Mar house and be welcomed with open arms, food, and friendly proposals to rearrange his face. They would lament and bellyache and whine, but
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