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Fixated by the shadow, Valentine starting to pick out individual wings and short, skinny bowlegs. A branch slapped him out of his trance, and he ducked back into the cabin.
"Harpies," Valentine said. "Pass the world. Honk and bring the Wolves in."
He hated those snaggletoothed bastards. A sort of cold clarity took over as he stifled the urge to get one in his hands and dismember it like a well-cooked chicken.
"We could stop under thick trees, Major."
"No, that'll just give them more time to figure something out. And let them aim."
Valentine looked at the bungees holding the cargo on the roof. He detached a couple of the S hooks and fitted them on to his vest and belt. Testing his grip, he exited the cab, closed the truck door, and hooked another bungee to the bars covering the passenger window.
"Stop a sec and pass me up the gun and bandolier," Valentine said. "And try to keep to the left."
As the truck ground into motion again, Valentine now hanging on the outside with his foot on a fuel tank, he found that the side-view mirror protected him from the bigger branches. All it did for the smaller ones was bend them back to give them a little more energy for a swat.
The Wolf scouts returned and perched on the hood and front hedge cutter. At a turn Valentine saw the following truck also had Wolves atop the driver's cab.
"Pass the word: Wait until I shoot," Valentine ordered.
The shadow broke into individual forms as it neared. Valentine searched the flock for the bigger, longer-legged form of a gargoyle. The harpies darted and zigzagged as they flew; it was how their bodies kept aloft. He placed his foresight on one hurrying to get ahead of the trucks.
Its course was a crazy mix of ups and downs, backs and forths. . . . But between the frantic beats of the wings you could sometimes track them on a glide-
BLAM!
Valentine had been so used to firing guns equipped with flash suppressors he'd forgotten the white-yellow photoflash. And he'd forgotten just how hard you had to press into the stock to absorb the shock.
Valentine worked the lever and ejected the little thimble of the shell casing, his shoulder smarting with the old mule kick.
Missed.
The Wolf on the hood had a combat shotgun, a sensible weapon for brush fighting. He tracked one of harpies above and fired.
Valentine heard a high, inhuman scream.
Time to get down with the sickness.
The sickness. The shadow half. The monster.
Valentine had a few names for it, depending on his mood. He'd learned long ago that a part of him rejoiced in the death of his enemies and his own survival. Whether it was a character flaw or some piece of strange heritage passed down from his Bear father didn't matter. The awful exhilaration he felt when he killed, triumphed, made him wonder whether he wasn't even more deserving of destruction for the good of the world, like some rabid dog.
But for now the sickness had its uses.
Valentine, remembering his early years in the Wolves, made an effort to thank those left behind at the landings and hear their accounts.
He shouldered the gun. One was diving right at the truck. Its feet rubbed together and a plastic strip fell-it had armed some kind of grenade. BLAM!
Damn cranky gun.
Maybe he put a bullet through its wing and spoiled the dive. It flapped off to the left and dropped its explosive.
It detonated, orange and loud, in a stand of brush. Valentine wondered what the birds and critters residing in the undergrowth thought.
Don't get weird now, mate. Job at hand.
Valentine heard canvas tearing. The men in the bed of the truck were hacking off the truck-bed cover to better employ their guns.
Valentine aimed again, but a twiggy smack in the back of the head spoiled his shot.
