Saved and Savaged

Chapter 4 - Gric

The dullards think they can best us. I toss another explosive over my shoulder and leap over the crest of the dune, enjoying their attempts at pursuit. If I hadn't jumped out of our transporter and resorted to teasing them on foot, they would have already lost our trail.

Rolling down the rest of the slope, I pop onto my feet and turn my toes due north yet again.

Even with my suit regulating the air within it, sweat drips down to pool at my neckline and lower back. I haven't had so much fun in much too long—our previous mission may have been grand, but the close quarters and dire situation stole most of the joy.

The scorching desert wind smacks me in the face. I should put my mask on, but the wild emptiness of the climate calls for me to experience it in all its raw glory. Besides, this fight won't be in cramped quarters or underground—the risk of an airborne attack is minimal.

As the transporter launches over the crest of the dune, I smirk in delight and angle my body halfway up the hill while maintaining my northerly direction.

Popping sounds indicate their attempts to shoot me, but the sand plumes over two feet away, the bullets nowhere near on target. I sigh and shorten my strides, giving them the impression they're gaining on me because of the slope's pitch.

The engine roars closer as I eye the horizon and count down the seconds. When they finally catch up, I wrap my tail around my arm and dodge sideways, tucking into a roll.

The driver jerks the wheel, sending the back wheels whipping uphill, which upends the vehicle's balance. With a wave of sand billowing into the air, the nose slides past me.

I give it a boost, reaching back and pushing the corner of the front bumper into the air, aiding it into a roll.

If I wanted, I could dart forward and smack its underbelly, but I let the vehicle complete a full rotation before moving closer. The wheels hang in the air at the end of its second roll, offering me a view of its roof before it tips upright.

By the time I reach the doorhandle, the idiot in the backseat yells out a warning and sticks his handgun's muzzle out the shattered window.

I swat the weapon away and slice the back of his hand with the tip of my tail while wrenching the front passenger door off its hinges. The beta male sits slumped in his seat, the belt the only thing keeping him inside the vehicle. I reach over him, grab the edges of the seat, and rip it from its moorings before tossing the unconscious man, chair and all, into the desert.

With the moron in the back seat screaming over his lacerated hand, I lean further into the transport and wrap my fingers around the driver's wrist, halting his attempt to raise his blaster to my face.

Their inconsistencies over who carries what kind of weapon baffles me, but I shrug and bury my fist into the alpha's temple, deciding my bare hands prove more lethal than anything they may carry.

The driver's face flies backward while several of his teeth do not. I release his wrist and snag his blaster before it jumps out of reach. Pain sears my shoulder as the fourth male, a third beta, fires his pistol one-handed, his left arm caught between the driver's seat and the crunched frame of the vehicle.

My reflexes throw the metal in my hand. As it collides with his unprotected face, my tail yet again strikes the man in the back passenger seat, his screams more annoying than the fiery pain coursing through my shoulder. At his high-pitched yelp, I turn a raised brow toward him and smirk.

"Sounds like you're asking for more."

With blood spurting from every individual in the transporter, my senses heighten in manic glee, the rush of adrenaline more satisfying than a female during my rut.