The lesser stopped moving.
He was a newer recruit, his dark hair and olive coloring suggesting that he was of Mexican or perhaps Italian descent, and he got points for showing no fear. Even though he was looking at a hurting, he merely calmly glanced over his shoulder, as if to confirm that he had in fact been ambushed.
“How you doing?” Rhage drawled.
The lesser didn’t bother to answer, which was in contrast to what they had been seeing lately. Unlike the others, this was no young punk to talk smack and flash his gat. Calm, calculating…controlled, he was the kind of enemy that improved your job performance.
Not exactly a bad thing…
And sure enough, his hand disappeared into his coat.
“Don’t be stupid, my man,” Qhuinn barked, prepared to put a bullet in the bastard at a moment’s notice.
The lesser didn’t stop moving.
Fine.
He pulled his fucking trigger and dropped the bitch.
The instant the lesser hit the snow, Blay froze with his guns in place. The others did the same.
In the silent seconds that passed, they kept eyes locked on the downed slayer. No movement. No response from the periphery. Qhuinn had incapacitated the thing, and it appeared to have been working alone.
Funny, even if Blay hadn’t heard the shot in his left ear, he’d have known Qhuinn was the shooter—everyone else would have given the enemy another chance to think things over.
As Rhage whistled in a short burst, that was the cue to close in. The five of them moved like a pack of wolves over downed prey, swift and sure, crossing the snow with guns up. The slayer remained utterly still—but there hadn’t been a death in the family, so to speak. You needed a steel dagger through the chest for that.
But this was the desirable state. You wanted them to be able to talk.
Or at least, in a condition to be forced to talk—
Later, when he replayed what happened next…when his mind churned and burned over the facts obsessively…when he stayed up days trying to piece together how it all rolled out in hopes of divining a change in procedure that would ensure something like it never, ever went down again…Blay would dwell on the twitch.
That little twitch in the arm. Just an autonomic jerk seemingly unconnected with any conscious thought or will. Nothing dangerous. No signal of what was to come.
Just a twitch.
Except then, with a move that was blinking fast, the slayer outted a gun from somewhere. It was unprecedented—one second he was deadweight on the ground; the next, he was shooting in a controlled manner in a fat circle.
And even before the popping sounds faded, Blay caught the horrific image of Zsadist taking a slug right in the heart, the impact strong enough to stop the Brother’s forward momentum, his torso throwing back, his arms ripping out to the side as he flipped off his feet.
Instantly, the dynamic changed. No one was looking to interrogate the bastard anymore.
Four daggers flashed high. Four bodies jumped in. Four arms slashed down with cold, sharp blades. Four impacts struck, one right after another.
They were too late, however.
The slayer disappeared right out from under them, their weapons stabbing the black-stained snow beneath where the enemy had landed, instead of an empty chest cavity.
Whatever—there would be time to question the unprecedented disappearance afterward. At the moment, they had a fighter down.
Rhage all but launched himself on top of the Brother, putting his body in the way of anything and everything. “Z? Z? Oh, mother of the race—”
Blay got out his phone and dialed. When Manny Manello answered, there was no time to be wasted. “We have a Brother down. Gunshot to the chest—”
“Wait!”
Z’s voice was a surprise. And so was the Brother’s arm shooting up and shoving Rhage to the side. “Will you get off me!”
“But I’m giving you CPR—”
“I will die before kissing you, Hollywood.” Z tried to sit up, his breathing heavy. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Hello?” Manello’s voice came through the phone. “Blay?”
“Hold on—”
Qhuinn dropped to his knees next to Zsadist, and in spite of the fact that the Brother didn’t like to be touched, took hold under one armpit and helped the male get his torso off the snow.
“I have the clinic on the line,” Blay said. “What’s your status?”
In reply, Z reached up and unhinged his dagger holster. Then he dragged down the zipper of his leather jacket and ripped his white T-shirt in half.
To reveal the most beautiful bulletproof vest Blay had ever seen.
Rhage sagged in relief—to the point that Qhuinn had to catch him with his free hand and keep the guy off the ground, too.
“Kevlar,” Blay mumbled to Manello. “Oh, thank God, he’s wearing Kevlar.”
“That’s great—but listen, I need you to take the vest off and check to see if it held the bullet, ’kay?”
“Roger that.” He glanced over at John and was glad to find the guy up on his feet, two guns out straight, eyes scanning the environs while the rest of them assessed the situation. “I’ll take care of it.”
Blay shuffled over and crouched down in front of the Brother. Qhuinn might have had the balls to make contact with Zsadist, but he wasn’t going to do that without express permission.
“Dr. Manello wants to know if you can remove the vest so we can see if there was any injury?”
Z jerked his arms, and then frowned. Appeared to give things another try. After a third attempt, the Brother’s hands managed to lift as high as the Velcro straps, but they couldn’t seem to do much.
Blay swallowed hard. “May I take care of it? I promise not to touch you as much as possible.”
Great grammar there. But he was serious.
Z’s eyes lifted to his. They were black from pain, not yellow. “Do what you have to, son. I’ll keep it tight.”
The Brother looked away, his face screwed down hard into a grimace, the scar that made an S-curve from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth standing out in harsh relief.
With a stern lecture, Blay ordered his hands to be steady and sure, and the message was somehow carried out: He tore apart the fastening strips at the shoulders, the rips louder than the screaming in his head, and then peeled off the vest, terrified of what he was going to find.
There was a big round patch directly in the center of Z’s broad, muscled chest. Right where the heart was.
But it was a bruise. Not a hole.
It was just a bruise.
“Surface wound only.” Blay dug his finger into the dense webbing of the vest and found the slug. “I can feel the bullet in the vest—”
“Then why can’t I move my—”
The smell of the Brother’s fresh blood seemed to hit everyone’s noses at the same time. Someone cursed, and Blay leaned in.
“You’ve been hit under the arm, too.”
“Bad?” Z asked.
Over the phone, Manello said, “Get in there and look around if you can.”
Blay lifted that heavy limb and flashed his penlight in at the underside. Apparently a bullet had entered the torso through the vest’s small, unprotected pocket under the pit—a one-in-a-million shot that if you’d tried to re-create, you couldn’t possibly pull off.
Fuck. “I don’t see an exit wound. It’s right on the side of his ribs, way up high.”
“He’s breathing steadily?” Manello asked.
“Labored but steady.”
“Was CPR administered?”
“He threatened to castrate Hollywood if there was any kind of liplock.”