Two people on Tristan's side were dead. Four were badly wounded, and possibly even crippled for life. The numbers weren't good, but they were typical for fights in tight spaces, when there was no avoiding being shot point-blank or knifed under your rib.
Tristan's people wore bulletproof vests, but most of the fanatics fought with melee weapons, and wielded them with inhuman strength.
'I ordered a direct attack that led to these losses, and couldn't even catch Gospel in the end,' Tristan thought as he helped to administer first aid to the wounded.
His fingers tightened the bandage knot until the wounded man winced; Tristan caught himself and relaxed before he made the wound worse.
Kicking the wall earlier was far from enough—Tristan was itching to punch Gospel's face and then kick him repeatedly. But he wasn't here.
Nobody else was happy, either. Damien's dark mood was written on his face, but he stayed mostly quiet about it.
