He Really Was a Good Man

In the desert, a military olive-green Jeep Wrangler left conspicuous tire tracks in the sand as it drove toward a human settlement. "Drive properly. Even if you have a gun at hand, you're still not faster than the movement it takes for me to kill you." He-El sat in the passenger seat, as indifferent as Bleach, warning him in slightly accented Arabic. His brows were tightly furrowed. He lightly dipped his left hand into the blood at his waist and glanced at it.