A palm. A human palm.
"Get the car keys!" somebody hissed from the left.
There were two of them. A pair of humans, both of whom smelled like crack smoke and old sweat.
Just as the rummaging hand went to the other side of him, Lash caught the man's wrist and, with a twist and a jump, traded places with the looting bastard.
As the guy went fish-mouth in shock, Lash bared his fangs and swept down from above, catching the ruddy skin of a cheek and ripping it free of the bone. A quick spit and he ripped the cocksucker's throat wide-open.
Yelling. Serious yelling from the guy who'd given the order about the keys--
Which was quickly extinguished as Lash withdrew his knife and pitched it at the running back of Mr. Grand Theft Auto, catching the fucker right between the shoulder blades. As the son of a bitch yard-saled into the dirt, Lash curled up a fist and punched the temple of the man who'd mounted him.
With the threat now neutralized, Lash went wobbly again, his body falling to the side as he briefly considered another round of throwing up. Not a great condition to be in--especially as the human he'd nailed on the fly began to grunt and claw at the ground like he was determined to get away.
Lash forced himself to his feet and shuffled over. Standing above the crackhead, he braced a foot on the guy's ass and yanked his knife out of that back. Then he kicked his target over and lifted his arm--
He was about to do the plunge-into-the-chest thing when he realized the bastard was built strong, his frame packed with muscle. Given his wild eyes, he was clearly into the pipe, but he was young enough so that the ravages of the addiction had yet to eat away at his body mass.
Well, wasn't this the SOB's lucky night. Thanks to a whim and a good body, he'd just gone from corpse to lab rat.
Instead of stabbing him in the heart, Lash slashed the human's wrists and nicked his jugular. As red blood flowed into the earth, and the man started in with the moans, Lash looked to the car and felt like the thing was a hundred miles away.
He needed energy. He needed . . .
Bingo.
While those veins drained, Lash dragged himself to the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and lifted the carpet section up. The panel that covered where the spare would normally go pulled out easily.
Hello, wakey-wakey.
The kilo of cocaine was supposed to have been cut down and repackaged for street sale days ago, but then the world had exploded and it had been left right where Mr. D had stashed it.
Wiping his knife off on his pants, Lash punctured a corner of the cellophaned block and dipped in the tip of the blade. He snorted the shit right off the stainless steel, loading up first his right then his left nonexistent nostril.
For good measure, he did another round.
Annnnnd . . . one more.
As he rocked some keep-it-in-there sniffing, the rush that thundered through him saved his ass, perking him up so that he could keep going even after his vomiting and passing-out routine. Why he'd had those problems was a mystery. . . . Maybe that 'hood rat's blood had been tainted, or maybe it wasn't only Lash's body but his internal chemistry that was changing. Either way, he was going to need that powder in the back until things stabilized.
Shit worked, too. He felt great.
After rehiding his stash, he returned to the crackhead. The cold didn't help the draining process, and waiting around here while the fucker bled out wasn't the brightest idea, no matter how well hidden they were under the bridge. Riding his considerable buzz, he strode over to the dead guy he'd done a Hannibal Lecter on; he ripped open the man's filthy jacket and tore the undershirt beneath into bandage-size strips.
Fuck his father.
Fuck that little Shit.
He was going to make his own army. Starting with that bulldog addict.
It didn't take long to wrap up the seeping wounds on the human, and then Lash picked him up and threw him in the trunk with all the regard a cabdriver would pay to cheap luggage.
Driving out from under the bridge, his eyes were bouncing around. But shit . . . every car he saw, from the ones on the surface roads to the traffic that whizzed by on the highway, every single one of them was a Caldwell PD unmarked.
He was sure of it. They were police. Humans with badges looking into his car. The police, the CPD, the police, the CPD . . .
As he headed for the ranch, he hit every single red light in Caldwell, and as he was forced to brake it, he stared straight ahead, praying that all the police behind and in front of him didn't sense he had a dying man and a fuckload of drugs in the car.
It would take too much effort to deal with being pulled over. Besides, talk about buzz kill. He was finally feeling like himself, every single heartbeat drumming through his veins, the steel-shod hooves of all that cocaine trampling through his brain, creating a cacophony of creative inspiration--
Wait. What had he been thinking of?