“When he came to the street where Stan got shot, he stopped at the spot to take a quiet moment of contemplation, and the horror of the police shootout hit him full force. He swayed on his feet as he relived the cacophony of loud, rapid-fire detonations, freezing fear, chaos, panic, terrified screams, blood, all over, red and liquid, spurting from the bodies. So uncompromising. So brutal. So unfair.
Yeah, the blood, he could see the spots on the asphalt. A week after Stan’s assassination, traces were still there. Surely somebody must have flushed them, surely the storm must have hid them, too. But he swore there were traces. Maybe even Stan’s outline. Right there, on the ground. The position of his arms, legs, the long wild hair, black as raven, spread out in the dirt. A fallen mustang, lying helpless and scared, emptying of blood with every ragged breath, wide-open eyes begging for grace.
I can see you, my friend. I can see you.
His heart filled with instantaneous, breathtaking grief. Inexorable. Blind. Left him numb again, cold, nauseous. Maybe Stan’s ghost lurked nearby, watching him. Watching over his blood. His remains. Restless, unwilling to move on. Or maybe Tomor had just imagined the bloodstains. Maybe he really was sick in the head.”
Excerpt from Wild Hearted
Lea Bronsen 