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Duvalier was up and alert, Brother Mark puffing up behind.
"Well, they discovered us," Valentine said. "Just not when we wanted them to."
The radio chirped again.
"Handshake," said the communications corporal, giving a clear connection password. He listened.
"Sir, we've got word from transport hitch," the tech said. "They were spotted by some armored cars."
"That settles it," Valentine said. "This could work to our advantage. We've got to get our hands on those cars."
"Val, I can do it," Duvalier said.
"I'm coming with."
"With that bum leg of yours? And you're the shittiest driver under eighty I've ever seen."
"I'll land on the good one. I want to capture the car, not drive it."
"I'll take the first," Duvalier said. "That way, when you fall off, I won't have to hang on while they swerve to run you over."
"Do you let your civilians talk to you that way?"
Valentine turned over command of Vendetta to Frat. If things went south with the cars, the camp might very well turn out anyway to hunt the road. He gave a nod to Pellwell and reached to clap her on the shoulder. "Don't worry, your critters will get their chance, but not with these."
They hurried to the old highway. It was so overgrown it was practically a tunnel, but vehicles with toothy brush cutters had cleared the worst of it recently, exposing a broken-up roadbed like coral. The worst holes had been filled with sand and gravel.
They climbed trees with big branches hanging over the road, and waited.
They heard the armored cars long before they saw them.
The noise resolved itself into humps of metal kicking up the dust of crushed Kentucky limestone used for evening out the broken old highway.
Valentine brought up his binoculars.
They were a pair of armored cars-armored farm equipment, more like. They weren't designed like urban armored cars, built to rush to a trouble spot and survive the cinder blocks and kerosene of rioters. These were serious off-road brush-crushers, with wedgelike fronts and six fat tires. Towed trailers, a little higher than the armored cars, made them look like ants at a distance. Blue-black paint, chipped here and there, alternately caught and absorbed the sun.
The drivers were enjoying the spring weather. Their heads could be seen atop the vehicles.
"Drop on the gunner first," Valentine said. "Otherwise he'll sweep me off with the machine gun."
The first armored car looked rather festive, like a bull exhibited in a livestock parade. Young branches and flowering stems had been caught in mud guards, headlamp grilles, and the brush-cutting teeth at the front of the sloped armored nose, giving each a leafy, woody beard. The car behind had been turned a chalky pale yellow by road dust.
Duvalier dropped first. Valentine's request about dealing with the gunner quickly was solved by her hanging upside down by her linked ankles. Her blackened sword didn't flash in the sun, but descended clean and rose again from the slash bright red. A wet divot, possibly a hairy patch of neck.
The gunner's head dropped forward as though he'd fallen asleep. Blood had splattered on the bulletproof plastic that shielded the gunner.
Duvalier released her ankles, and managed to drop onto the first car. Valentine held his breath while she arrested herself with a single outflung hand, the other still around the sword hilt.
The first armored car passed under him. The gunner was watchful and alert, but looking down his machine-gun barrel at the road ahead. Valentine, concealed in the foliage ahead, timed a mental practice jump.
The second car approached. The driver had a big, creamy white cowboy hat with the high crown favored by some Texans. A pair of sunglasses and a scarf kept the dust off his face. Valentine would have to act quickly. All he had to do to remove himself from danger was duck down.
Valentine checked the wrist loop on his legworm pick, tightening it.
Five, four, three ...
He dropped.
