Tool

Of all the ways Ocho had expected to die, being torn apart by a dog-face had never been one of them. Bullet in the head, sure. Hands chopped off and him thrown into a canal to bleed out, maybe. Blown to pieces by some leftover land mine from when Tulane Company had occupied all their territory, for sure. He’d come to terms with all those options, long ago.

Instead, he’d taken one impossibly fast and bloody swipe from a half-man and gone flying into a tree. No wonder the swanks who owned the scrap ships always used half-men. The bastards were deadly.

Page 122 Chapter 11 Drowned cities.