Two snipers

Transitioning fluidly from claw to kick, Ryn cracked the mortal’s jaw and tossed him into a brick smokestack. It cratered and he hung limp in the indentation.
Ryn traced her fingers across the tarpaper and sniffed where he’d lain. Different mortal. Then where was the one from the ice rink? This one was ugly. In fact, she wasn’t sure he was human. He was… lumpy. His face didn’t look right. His skull bulged out like he had a grapefruit under his scalp and his swollen shoulder was hunched, one arm a foot longer than the other. Saxby’s work. But to what ends?
“I know you’re conscious.” She crouched, ready. “Where is the other shooter?”

Chapter 14, Page 210


An ambulance sat in the driveway but didn’t move. In the back of a police car was a middle-aged man who smelled of the ice-rink shooter. Her animal mind refused to piece it together, processing only what was before her: the shooter caged, blood in the air, the noise and bustle of authorities. Ryn dropped from the roof and approached the police car, fingers curling. She’d peel the car’s chrome shell to get the meat inside.

Chapter 14, Page 220