“Yep. And you scared me too. I don’t doubt you’d do it, not for a minute. But just think about it for a minute. You’re gonna need me. Look at yourself, man. You’re a mess. You wince with each step, your ribs are busted, your face looks like hamburger, you’re popping painkillers like M & M’s. C’mon, I can help. Trust me.”

Stiles just stared at him. Not angrily; no emotion showed on his masklike face. He just stared, and Bean thought he could almost hear the whir of mental gears computing the logic of his words. Then the decision was made. Bean could see it as the soldier bent down to pick up the remaining ammo belts. His eyes squinted for just a moment, and pain flickered through them. The point was conceded. He pulled a small tube of black face paint from his pocket. “Get that face covered,” he said, “and help me get this stuff to the van.”

They were loaded and ready to go when Bean first noticed the fog. It was starting in the low-lying areas, just down the street from them at the bottom of the hill, a pale and wispy grayness. “I don’t like the looks of that,” he groaned. “I guess it’s too late to just torch the whole place and run like hell? Yeah, I know. It wouldn’t get them all. Stupid idea.”

“It wouldn’t get Danner. That’s the important thing.” Charlie shivered. The fog was spreading. “I still don’t like the looks of this. Not one bit.”

The sun lingered at the horizon, hanging on by force of will, just long enough for them to get into position. Then it was gone.

Part III: Shadow War

Part III: SHADOW WAR

16

Chapter Sixteen

The vampire had no problem getting Larson’s patrol car into gear. Just push the stick to “D”—he’d learned that readily enough. But figuring just how much pressure to apply to the gas and brake pedals—that was a skill Danner had yet to acquire. He drove down the evening street in short, spastic little hops, squealing tires and screeching brakes, and it nearly brought a flush of angry redness to his pallid cheeks. The steering wheel sported finger grooves where it had not before, and the column groaned from the punishment he inflicted. But he refused to quit. He had to learn how to drive; it was the way of the world these days.

He gunned the engine and overshot the intersection at Syca­more and Cedar, and an overcompensating jerk of the wheel took him up over the sidewalk and across the corner lawn. But he managed to get the cruiser back onto the road, and the prowl continued.