Gun muzzles came out of the windows of the Lessening Society’s soccer-mom special like the bitch was a stagecoach, and bullets went ape shit, pinging the Hummer’s reinforced-steel body and ricocheting off its inch-thick Plexiglas windows.

“Second night out with my ride,” Qhuinn spat. “And these fuckers are Swiss-cheesing me? Hell, no. Hold on.”

Qhuinn threw them into reverse, jumped the SUV back fifteen feet, then punched the engine into first gear and nailed his foot to the floor. Wrenching the wheel to the left, he dodged around the Town & Country, chunks of earth clumping up and clapping against both cars.

As they bounced around like a boat in bad weather, Rhage reached into his jacket and took out a hand grenade. Opening his bulletproof window just far enough, he popped the pin with his teeth and tossed the fist-size explosive out. By the grace of God the damn thing tripped off the minivan’s roof and rolled under the vehicle.

The three lessers leaped out of that fucker like the thing was on fire.

And ten seconds later it was, its flames lighting up the night.

Fuuuuuck, if Z thought the trip through the tunnel had been bad on his leg, it was nothing compared to the bump-and-shatter act it took to get away from those slayers. By the time the Hummer burst out onto Route 9 after having clipped at least one of the lessers on its hood, Zsadist was on the verge of blacking out.

“Shit, he’s going into shock.”

Z realized with little interest that Rhage had turned around and was looking at him, not at the civilian.

“Am not,” he mumbled as his eyes rolled back in his head. “Just taking a little break.”

Rhage’s spectacular Bahama-blue stare narrowed. “Compound. Fracture. Motherfucker. You’re bleeding out as we speak.”