“I agree,” he told her. “And the fuckers didn’t even bring their own guns to that fucking gunfight.”
That was news. “How do you know?”
“I had Peterson count the weapons.”
“Three missing, no extras?”
This was ridiculous. No sane person would’ve attacked US troops unarmed and unequipped. It would’ve—should’ve—been a suicide run.
“Three missing, no extras,” the general confirmed sourly. “They waltzed in and rolled us like amateurs starting out with their bare hands.”
He frowned and one of his hands twitched as if he wanted to finger the cut on his head again. “I don’t think they were after the alien at all. I think they were after the host. Which means as soon as the entity wakes up, things are gonna get interesting.”
That was putting it mildly. “What’s the plan, sir?”
Young’s eyes turned flinty. “I’m done fucking around. This time, we’re taking the Spitfire and if the alien fucker doesn’t put up its hands and surrender, it is toast.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
THERE was something slightly surreal about sitting in the shade of a desert canyon with the burn of southwestern spices painting over the memories of bland breakfast cereal eaten in the New Orleans Garden District and the livid images of recent violence slowly fading into sepia in the quiet of the afternoon. Andrej was used to short bursts of adrenaline-driven carnage followed by periods of forced inactivity, but this time he was having trouble with the disconnect. He didn’t know whether it was because everything had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, or because they were moving way outside of their usual pattern. Not only had this mission been unsanctioned, it had proved to be eminently uncontrollable, which wasn’t something that sat well with a man of his profession.
Yet no matter how unsettled he was, Andrej felt himself relaxing slowly, lulled into some semblance of calm by the heat and the paradoxical sense of security that came with the presence of far too many weapons not currently pointed at him.
The company might’ve had something to do with it too.
“So that’s Misha.”
Andrej glanced up from his bowl of chili, but J.C. looked perfectly neutral. Just making conversation. No pressure. It made Andrej grin, because, damn, that must be taking some effort. J.C. was curious by nature and paranoid by choice. He had to be dying to know what the hell was going on. So, of course, instead of answering, Andrej only nodded an affirmative and went back to eating. There might’ve been the tiniest grinding sound from J.C.’s jaws working, but when Andrej checked, J.C.
merely blinked lazily and took a pull from his bottle.