Bodies all over the place. And the tall guy who had saved his ass?

 

John Puller. Army CID. Military cop.

 

Had his appearance merely been a coincidence, or had he fed Rogers a bunch of

crap?

 

Yet Puller had saved his life.

 

Rogers wanted to go back and find out exactly who John Puller was and what he

was doing here. Yet as more sirens filled the air he decided retreat was the

better choice. He punched the gas and drove on.

 

He got to the motel, packed his few things, carried them out to the van, and

drove off. His heart was racing so fast he thought it might explode.

 

He traced the scar on his head, pushing down hard where the thing was. He looked

at his arm where he’d been wounded.

 

He’d lied to Puller. It was a bullet wound, not a blade. But it was in and out.

He could feel no pain and he noted that it was already starting to heal.

 

He rubbed the thing in his head. He hated it, but he loved it for the things it

could do like that.