“What’s that?” Corbin hollered back, even as the raptor vaulted over the Scrambler’s fence and pursued. “Cease fire, you say?”
Red heard gunshots—not Corbin’s AR-15—it was Charlotte, trying hopelessly to hit the raptor from the spinning carriage. “Corbin!” someone screamed, but Red couldn’t tell if it was Charlotte or himself.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you over all the cease fire!”
Red ran, hearing the animal’s sickle-claws tapping against the pavement, hearing its labored breathing, feeling its closer proximity with each thudding heartbeat, smelling its gamey odor, and as he did so he remembered the look in the cop’s eyes in the window of the supermarket’s office, a look that said, I could leave you here right now, asshole. Because seconds count ... and it might just come down to you
