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Valentine fired three more times quickly, and then jammed the gun. The ejector had torn off the heat-softened brass rim on the casing. He grabbed the hot barrel at the other end. The ornery weapon would be more lethal as a club anyway. Then he remembered his machine pistol.
He flipped open the stock and extended the foregrip. It did group tightly, and the harpies were closing.
The prisoners in the trucks began to yell. They'd been left handcuffed inside.
The harpies swooped over the vehicles, dropping grenades and plastic arming tabs.
Valentine watched a grenade bounce under the truck, realized that the same bungees that kept him secured to the passenger door were keeping him from jumping off-
All he could do was wait for it. He fired a burst at a harpy coming straight for the cab, watched with satisfaction as the bullets tore it into a blood-rain of gory pieces.
The grenade went off but didn't sound much louder than an overstuffed firecracker. Other explosions rocked the second truck.
Valentine brought down another harpy, who'd suddenly appeared from behind a tree as though he'd popped into existence just to aim a leg claw at Valentine's throat. He reloaded, but the sky had cleared. The harpies had had enough at last and the flock was keeping low.
The soldiers moved the obstacle and got on their way again.
The front truck was leaking coolant, and a couple of the mechanically minded did a bird-droppings-and-bubblegum fix that slowed the leak. They had to stop and refill with water.
They'd destroy the engine before recrossing the Mississippi anyway.
It got them to the landing.
The men were in admirably high spirits. The only serious injury they'd suffered was to the Wolf from the front truck, who'd broken a wrist, hurt a knee, and taken a piece of shrapnel to his calf, though one of the prisoners had an ugly gash in his scalp and another had torn his wrist open trying to get out of his handcuffs as the trucks were bombed.
The injured Wolf rode back to the landing, scratching the dog's ears in good humor despite his injuries.
At the landing Valentine was happy to let Rand take over.
"Far shore says river watchers report clear river," the man at the radio said. "We've got the okay to cross."
A pair of the Skeeter Fleet roared downriver.
Valentine's head felt thick and the old gunsmoke smell was getting nauseating. "Get the swag loaded and the men on the boats and rafts. And-"
There it was. The cold spot on his mind, a bit of ball lightning lurking in the thick river woods, raising the hairs on the back of his head. Reaper!
"And, sir?" Rand asked.
"And I'm going back up the road a bit to make sure there's no pursuit."
Rand pushed the glasses back up on his nose and nodded. "Ten, fifteen minutes at most, sir."
"Patel. Hoboken."
They trotted over, Patel solemn at the tone in his voice.
"Hood," Valentine said, using Southern Command slang for a Reaper.
They took the news like experienced Wolves. Concern but not panic. Hoboken put his hand on the big parang at his waist.
It was back along the road away, somewhere at the top of the river-bank. It might just be watching, waiting for someone to trot off into the bushes to take a crap. Sure, it could wade into them and do a lot of damage, but how many dead pawns would make the Kurian controlling it think the sacrifice worth the loss of his knight?
But who knew what might be rushing to its aid.
Valentine and the Wolves slipped off into the brush, spread out by a few meters, preventing the Reaper from taking two at once if it decided to fall on them.
"Lifesign down," Valentine said.
