The muscle at the hinge of his jaw tensed at the remark and Richard's tree-trunk legs flexed before his conscious mind overroad the subconscious instinct to rise from his chair and slam his fist into Dog's mouth. He could picture it. Feel it.
It felt good.
And Dog would deserve it. He had killed and not for his country and not even for money. For sport. Because he liked it. There were piles of bodies in Dog's hulking shadow.
But Hawkshade couldn't do anything about it. Even if he could defeat a super-strong regenerater with claws that could cut steel and who had spent more years at war than Richard had been alive, what would he do with him? Take him to jail? There were still mutants who saw men like Dog as heroes. They'd laugh Hawkshade out of the country. Dog wouldn't spend twenty seconds in jail and that's if Hawkshade won.
"You're right." Now he stood, hard. The stool bounced off the dirty floor and rolled away. "I didn't."
He stormed toward the door and shoved aside a drunk who didn't get out of the way fast enough. "Move."