Chapter Eighteen
The Las Vegas Strip glistened off into the horizon, much different than Mal’s mind that was caked in blackness.
Staring through the glass panes, Mal turned and hovering over a sleeping Mandal, he simply stared at her, feeling very odd, very off kilter.
In his hand was his serrated eight-inch hunting knife, the one with the white handle and chrome blade that Mandal had glimpsed her reflection on earlier.
In his mind he felt that he had finally unleashed the “Dogs of war” concerning his own fears, and that made him more afraid then he could remember. Much like his sleeping friend, he had difficulty remembering things he had done or would do and his gifted mind, so dark at times was his own worst enemy.
Knowing he had work to do along the slums and alleys, he looked at h
