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"Thought he moved," DuSable explained.
"This one's wounded bad," Rutherford said.
Valentine nodded. He had to finish the job. They couldn't leave wounded behind who could tell stories.
Rutherford said, "Sorry, bro," and fired.
"Give up, give up," another bearded man shouted, holding his hands up as DuSable approached him.
DuSable ordered him to the ground. "Take him prisoner," Valentine said.
He had a sort of a long scarf about his neck. Valentine thought he might have been in the gun truck. He looked dazed but could walk. He wouldn't slow them up. Headquarters could figure out what to do with him.
"We're clear to this end, sir," Rutherford called, firing one more blast at a wet coughing sound.
"The easy part's over," Valentine said.
"I admire your definition of hard, sir," DuSable said, reloading his shotgun.
While scouts watched the road, the men worked in pairs, loading bodies into one truck.
Then they backed it into the barn.
Valentine nodded to Patel. They both drew their knives and went to work.
Meanwhile Glass brought forward the dead bodies they had taken out of camp, now clad in legworm leather vests and soft boots such as the locals favored, and had the Grogs dig shallow graves for them near the road. They had assorted hooks and chains looped or stuffed in their pockets.
They hung some of the Moondagger bodies upside down from the rafters and cut their throats, letting the last of the blood run onto the barn floor. Then Valentine started cutting off beards.
He'd mutilated bodies before for effect in Santo Domingo. Then he'd only been risking his soul.
From what he understood of the Moondaggers, their retribution would be swift and merciless.
Valentine could picture the local reprisals easily enough. Moytana's description of their tactics had plenty of historical precedent. People herded into old church buildings and burned.
Executions against town square walls worthy of Goya.
Who bore the responsibility? The agent provocateur or the troops? The Moondaggers would claim that if there had been no attack, there would be no reprisal.
Valentine took off another beard. Easier than skinning rabbits. No legs to deal with, just a long circular cut of the knife from one corner of the mouth, down the throat, and then back up to the other corner of the mouth. The bodies were still warm and he could smell their dried sweat. The cloying aroma of death wouldn't begin to rise for some hours yet.
For now they smelled like blood and diapers.
Rand was at the door of the barn, blocking the daylight coming through the gap between the truck and the post. "Sir, there's a radio in the command car that's still working."
Valentine stepped over to another body. "Put Preville on it. Have him listen to chatter and see if they know about the ambush."
Rand kept his eyes well above Valentine's waistline and the flash-ing knife.
"Will do, sir." Mercifully, he left without saying anything more.
Valentine's sense of honor wasn't taken word for word from the Southern Command Officers Epitome. It was instead like a jigsaw collage from three or for different puzzles, all half-formed but recognizable pictures. Some came from his parents, others from Father Max, more from his training, a few from his experiences in the Kurian Zone.
Of course he'd done despicable things in the past. He'd bled men who had no more of a chance of fighting back than bound pigs, Twisted Cross lying in their tanks in a basement in Omaha. He'd tor-tured. He'd acted as judge, jury, and executioner over Mary Carlson's killers.
He'd helped the overlord Kurian in Seattle wipe out Adler and his staff.
Each time one bit of his conscience or another had plucked at him, he'd burned with regret later thinking back on what he'd done, but necessity compelled and partially excused him.
