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With the woman named Carrie, he didn't seem so much the tanned accountant, more the attentive boyfriend. She needed it. Perhaps it was the strain of being assaulted in the shower and tied up showing, but she seemed terrified by the idea.
At the very least, Valentine decided, the works might be delayed until they could return with more forces. Then, if the Control put enough troops around Center City to meet an unknown threat, they'd have to weaken elsewhere. His companies or the Army of Kentucky could hit a weak spot then and really pour some fat into the fire.
Carrie had a hundred questions, but Valentine wasn't willing to answer any of them.
"He's trusting us on our end. We'll have to trust him on his," Champers said.
They worked out a dead letter drop, using a coffeepot in the garbage dump, shook hands, and wished each other luck.
"Honestly, how far can you set them back?" Valentine asked as he put his hand on the door.
The accountant look came back into his eyes. "Six weeks. Eight if they're careless with inspecting the heavy equipment after we've run."
Valentine wondered how much his battalion and the Army of Kentucky could accomplish in that time.
Well, he was but a major. The higher-ups would have to decide what to do about the Georgia Control.
He hurried away into the overcast night, around the garbage pit and under the wire fence, recovered rifle cradled in his arms. Just in case.
The light went on in the trailer's bedroom again. Maybe they were releasing nervous tension together.
"More power to you, hard hat," Valentine said, safe beyond the wire.
Of course, safe, anywhere near the Kurian Zone, was a relative term. Valentine's hair rose-a sure sign of a nearby Reaper.
He didn't know where he got the gift of sensing them. Perhaps he'd been born with it. Some of the other things he could do came from the Lifeweavers, humanity's extraterrestrial allies against their Kurian cousins. His night vision, sense of smell, reflexes, healing-there were others who had been enhanced better than he. But he'd never met another Wolf, or Cat, or Bear who could tell by a cold feeling at the back of the head that a Reaper was nearby.
It was up on the hill. Near where he was supposed to meet Duvalier.
He risked a run, hoping the guards in the towers weren't looking his way with night vision.
Panting and dragging his bad leg, he made it to the crest of the hill. The brush was lighter up here.
Duvalier approached, hands shoved in the pockets of her big duster, smiling. Her sword staff was tucked under her arm like a swagger stick.
He held up a clenched fist-danger!
Was she drunk? Crazy? She ignored him, still shuffling forward as though trying to make as much noise in the soggy leaves as possible.
A black figure exploded out of the trees, running for her.
Too late, Duvalier turned.
She screamed. Not her battle cry, half wildcat screech and half foxhunt yelp, this was a shriek of pure terror.
The Reaper put long pale fingers around Duvalier's arms. It lifted her. She kicked futilely at its kneecaps and crotch.
"Hey!" Valentine broke cover, waving his arms, anything to get it off Duvalier. "You! Over here!"
It opened its mouth. Duvalier managed to get a hand up to ward off the coming tongue-
The Reaper jerked back as though kicked in the head by a Grog. It fell with her, one arm still gripping skin so deeply blood welled up like a pitchfork thrust into rain-soaked soil.
Adrenals on fire in the small of his back he ran up, parang and .45 out, noise of the shots be damned, in time to see Duvalier sawing at the dead Reaper's forearm tendons with her own camp utility knife. Released from the death grip, she stood up and turned to meet him.
"You have your talk?" she panted, smiling.
Seeing red and needing a fight, he resisted an impulse to slap her. "What was that, letting a Reaper grab you?"
