The shield was down. Eleven mercenaries stood together with the three cars at their backs. They each gripped a pistol,and I couldn’t tell if they were loaded with tranquilizer darts or bullets. Their eyes grazed us, then Fanny’s remains—and stuck there.
“Weapons live,” one of the men said to the others. “Circle them.”
With a jangle of weapons and a rustle of fabric, Magnum’s muscle jogged over, fencing us in.
“Eyes on them only,” the apparent leader of the bunch commanded.
But a woman and two men, those who stood closest to the monster, appeared unable to stop their eyes from drifting downward.
A guy with a tight buzz cut and a meticulous goatee goggled at the sight, blinking repeatedly.
“I said, eyes on them only,” repeated the commander, this time with bite.
The woman and man beside him snapped their stares upward, but Goatee gawped.
I tried to view the scene from his perspective, assuming he’d been kept in the dark about the true nature of the people he worked for as we’d been.
Beyond the grotesque sight of a pulverized head and an abdomen ripped apart with the brutality of bare hands, he’d be seeing inexplicably slippery gray flesh, gray blood, and gore. He’d be spotting sufficient teeth to fill the mouths of a dozen humans. And he’d be seeing how the body of the woman we’d believed to be Fanny pooled limply around her hips and hands—how I’d shattered her arm and wrist bones. The skin suit was bunched up in an accordion of pale-colored skin, gray alien flesh, and blue shirt. The rest of her was unnervingly human-looking. Her flowered maxi skirt had barely been disturbed, save for the gray gore that spattered it. Her feet were still stuffed into matching blue socks and her ever-present Birks.
Goatee gulped, visibly shaken, and dragged his stare across me, my friends, and my dog. The guys’ sneaks were covered in alien gray, and the monster’s blood spattered up the legs of their jeans. Gray blood was on their shirts, arms, hands, faces, and hair too.
Layla and I were also covered in it. Her and my hands and arms were so thick with gray blood, it was as if we’d dunked them.
The commander sighed, and before I could decide what that signaled, he opened fire.
Pop.
Blood blossomed in the center of Goatee’s forehead.
Before he dropped:pop, pop, pop, pop.
The leader caught the woman in midturn, preparing to flee, and he caught the man as he was raising his revolver to shoot back.
A scarlet crimson bloomed through the back of the woman’s head as she plummeted forward. The man’s knees gave out as blood dripped from an eye socket. He slammed to his knees before pitching forward.
Their bulletproof vests had been useless.
My crew and I leapt to our feet.
I commanded. If he charged the commander, I had no doubt he’d aim that gun at my sweet boy. I added for good measure, so Bobo would do nothing to provoke the trigger-happy fucker.
Griffin, Hunt, and Brady lined up in front of Layla and me. She and I quickly sidled up beside our guys.
The commander trained his gun on me.
Griffin and Brady dove in front of me. Hunt darted around to shield my exposed side.
But the commander didn’t shoot. He only glared at us while he spoke to his soldiers: “Anyone else unwilling to follow orders?”
In unison, the seven surviving mercenaries barked, “No, sir!”
The commander scowled. “Good.”
To us, he sneered, “It’s naptime, assholes.”
From the others’ guns, much softerpops rang out into the afternoon. They hit Griffin, Brady, and Hunt first. When my guys wobbled, they shot Layla and me.
A dart pegged me in the neck, spearing my throat. They were probably all sharpshooters, which meant the extra fuckery was intentional.
