Drake stood rooted. The gun was still in his hand, smoking from the bullet he had fired into Sam’s knee.

He blinked.

He raised the gun and fired at Little Pete. But his aim was wild. His aim was off because of the blinding flash of greenish-white light.

Drake’s arm, the entire arm holding the gun, burst into flame.

Drake screamed. The gun fell from his melting fingers.

The flesh burned black. The smoke was brown.

Drake screamed and stared in stark horror as the fire ate away at his arm. He broke and ran, the wind fanning the flames.

“Good shot, Sam,” Edilio said.

“I was aiming at his head,” Sam said, gritting his teeth through the pain.

Gone, Chapter 34