“She had the baby,” I said, “and—”
“She told me everything,” he said quietly then resumed scanning for potential danger, as vigilant and ready for action as a robot sentry. My throat tightened with gratitude for his presence. He’d have a better tactical position outside the truck, but tactics were only one consideration for him at the moment. He sat with Jill because it was what she needed. He intended to protect her—in every way—and I had absolute faith in his ability to balance it all.
I reloaded my empty magazines and grabbed all the extras Pellini had—grimly pleased to find a half dozen high capacity Glock 9mm magazines loaded and ready to go. I tucked three into each side pocket of my pants, then took Pellini’s Glock 19 and clipped the holster into place at the small of my back. Probably didn’t need anything more.
“Take the shotgun,” Bryce murmured, scanning. “And zipties.”
I didn’t argue. He outstripped me in Being Dangerous by about a zillion percent which meant I followed his advice. The shotgun had a strap that held a dozen shells. I slung it across my back and divided another half dozen shells between my two side pockets. I grabbed a bundle of zipties and shoved them into a front pocket. They made an uncomfortable bulge, but it felt good to have them. No two ways about it—Pellini was forever on my zombie apocalypse team.
Armed and ready, I closed the door gently then raced back to the valve. With a gun in each hand, I proceeded to stalk around Idris and Pellini and watch for any and all not-normal twitches of movement.
Easier said than done. Nothing was normal. Rubble choked the street in front of the PD, with some chunks as large as Pellini’s truck. First responders mobilized with careful haste. Police and air ambulance helicopters thumped overhead. The first generator fired up with a throaty roar. Cops and emergency personnel shouted orders, and their radios crackled, turned up high to be heard over background noise. Civilian survivors pitched in to help, and a woman with a crew cut and a megaphone organized the volunteers into task groups with brutal efficiency. A bald man in maintenance coveralls and with shoulders as wide as my bed carried supplies beside a woman in a pencil skirt and Louboutin heels.
All of this mayhem, for no reason other than to further the Mraztur’s irresponsible scheme to create a permanent gateway. It didn’t bode well for what they’d do on Earth if they succeeded.
Sweat plastered my shirt to my torso, and I licked dry lips, ignored the wary or accusing stares from people who surely wondered why we made no move to help with rescue operations. Every scream of pain and sob for help sliced through me, but I clung to the fact that thousands more would die if Katashi found a way to reactivate the charges.
A shadow passed over the lot. I dropped to one knee and brought both guns up, and only ingrained trigger discipline kept me from shooting at a helicopter.
Yet providence was on my side, for a change. The helicopter veered off, allowing me to see a kehza as it streaked down in a dive. Adrenaline surged. I leaped up and set my feet in a strong stance, breathed deeply and waited for the kehza to get closer. No wild and panicked shooting this time. It’s not going to get past me. That’s all there is to it. I held both guns close together, sighted down the one in my right hand then squeezed the triggers as fast as possible while maintaining control.
The kehza shrieked as bullets pierced its wings and leg, and it fell in an awkward tumble to the street, sending rescue workers scrambling away. I resisted the urge to do a fist pump. Instead I dropped empty mags and slapped in fresh ones, then positioned myself between the kehza and the valve. It’s not going to get past me, I silently repeated like a mantra. The kehza flapped into a crouch, let out a metal-curling screech as it swung its head toward the valve. Too late, I remembered the shotgun. I growled a curse as I held both guns on the demon. Double-aught at close range would do a shitload more to slow it than 9mm, but I had no time left to unsling the shotgun and bring it to bear.
The kehza’s muscles bunched, but instead of leaping forward it flailed and flung itself to the side. It wasn’t until the demon spasmed again that I registered the boom of a gun amidst the other noise. Scott Glassman moved into view with a shotgun hugged up tight against his shoulder. He fired once more into the thrashing demon, then backpedaled in surprise as white light streamed from a hundred fissures in its body. An instant later a crack split the din, and the kehza was gone.
Scott cursed and swung his gaze around as if expecting the demon to reappear behind him.
“You killed it!” I yelled at him. He looked over at me and sagged with relief, apparently willing to trust my judgment on such matters.