Chang Xuefeng opened the door, already on guard for whatever had set Hattie off. Normally, she would race to the door, no matter what any of them said, so for her to insist that one of them open it.
Well, it doesn't bode well for whoever was on the other side.
The rest of the guys fanned out behind Hattie, their sole focus on the man facing them. If 'dirtbag' had a look, this would be it. Sure, they were in the middle of an apocalypse, but the amount of grease in the man's blond hair was enough to deep fry something.
As if completely unaware of the guys' disgust, the man on the porch gave a crooked smile.
He was in his early 30s, maybe. Still fit, though the kind of fit that came from resentment, not discipline. His eyes swept over Chang Xuefeng, then Tank, and lingered a little too long on Dante's knife. There was no shame in him—only the smug calculation of someone who thought he'd found the top of the food chain.
