With a quick spin, he had the smaller man in the cradle of his embrace. But even if Jack had been so inclined, this was no lover’s clinch. His free hand smoothed over the guys throat, the razor sharp claws tickling over his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. He babbled unintelligibly, another wave of urine stench washing over him as he lost control of his bladder again. Jack felt no pity. This was the guy who’d laughed in the blood wagon when Jack’s guts were on display.
“Too slow. Way too slow. You should have picked another career,” he whispered and drew his claws lightly across the man’s throat. The cut wasn’t serious—it barely broke the surface. A solitary bead of blood rolled down to the starched uniform collar.
The wound wouldn’t kill him, but it was still a death sentence.
*
