There was a deep sound, the kind of vibration that drums in the chest, and a hybrid landed in the road in front of him. This close, Gina could see that it was large and lithe and strong. It had swimming blue eyes in a sleek white face, and it at once leaped on Mark.

“It’ll kill him!”

But then it fell into two pieces as blood sprayed out of it and its eyes vibrated so fast that they were blurs. The sound it made was high enough to hurt and she clapped her hands over her ears.

She had not even seen Mark move, yet he had cut this six-foot-five hybrid clean in half with a combat knife.

“Here they come,” he said over his shoulder. “Give Gina a knife. And protect that kid, she’s got no defense.”

Linda thrust a combat knife like Mark’s into Gina’s hand. She closed her fist around it and looked down at its viciously curved, gleaming blade.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Linda threw her a glance that spoke, but Gina did not know what it said.

“I can’t use a knife like—”

Absolutely without warning, a hybrid was standing in front of her. He was hefty, but not as big as Mark. He wore a camouflage jacket and carried a Metal Storm.

Gina looked at it, appalled. Mark’s team had lost some dangerous weapons.

The hybrid’s face was impassive, almost frozen. It looked human, and Gina thought perhaps he was friendly, but then he began to raise the Metal Storm, aiming it directly at her. He moved with a curious slowness and deliberation.

Not understanding why he was so slow, she simply stepped in and thrust the knife at him—not hard, she didn’t think, but the best she could manage.

Something about it was terribly personal, feeling a knife entering the flesh of another person. It was like cutting into a cantaloupe, resistance followed by smooth penetration.

As the hybrid’s eyes slowly widened, a red haze appeared in front of his face. What was it, this gradually expanding cloud? Confused, she reached out and touched it and came away with fingers sheened by a thin film of blood.

It had begun to reach his hand toward the firing switch of the Metal Storm. She did not understand the continuing extreme slowness of his movements, not at a moment like this. But she drew the knife out and raised it and sliced downward with all her might, and his hand, still opening to reach the switch, came gliding off his arm and tumbled away through the air, the fingers fluttering delicately, as if he were waving.