Franks watched him go, then moved toward his fallen agents. Jefferson was still breathing, but there wasn’t time to assess him. Franks knelt next to the rookie. The wound was terrible. He might have been Franks’ blood, but he had a body as fragile as any regular human. Maybe the Elixir could still save him . . .

The spirit had departed. Tom Strayhorn was gone . . .

Franks punched the floor hard enough to crack the concrete. He took Strayhorn’s rifle and stuffed a few of the magazines into his pocket.

Kurst was moving down the catwalk. Even hurt, he still was incredibly fast, and the grating beneath him shook with each heavy footfall. Franks put the red dot of the Aimpoint sight just ahead of the demon and let it rip. Most of the rounds hit sheet metal, but a few found muscle and bone before Kurst ducked behind the next girder.

There was a big platform behind Kurst’s cover. Franks couldn’t get a visual on what the demon was up to, so he kept moving, looking for an angle. There was a screech of metal rubbing against metal, and then a large machine came hurtling over the edge. Franks dodged to the side an instant before two hundred pounds of metal crashed right next to him.

“I’m going to smash your guts out, Franks!” Kurst appeared, a big cart filled with computers and electronic equipment held overhead, and he threw that as well. Franks barely had time to dive over a table before the cart bounced off the floor where he’d been standing. Bits of glass and plastic flew everywhere. “Then I’m going to eat them!” Kurst bent over, looking for something else to throw. He came back up with a heavy gas cylinder in both hands, zeroed in on Franks, and lifted it overhead.

Franks put a bullet into the gas cylinder.

It ruptured. There was a high-pitched whistle as thick orange smoke shot out. Franks didn’t know what chemical was in there—he’d been hoping for flammable or explosive—but whatever it was made Kurst roar in pain and clutch at his eyes. Kurst dropped the hissing cylinder, but the smoke cloud was already obscuring much of the platform. Kurst began to cough. He’d fashioned himself a fancy new body, but he was still breathing air through relatively normal lungs.

This was his chance. Franks ran back to Strayhorn. He was wearing a Strike Team uniform, and doctrine made them all organize their kit in the same way so they could use each other’s equipment in an emergency. Franks rolled the body over, found the big pouch he was looking for, took out the gas mask, and pulled it on. The rubber straps were far too tight on his big head, but it made for a good seal.