Monster Hunter Alpha-ARC (29 page)

Chapter 17

We owned the night.

The other side was tenacious and damn tough. The nefarious bastards were in it to win it. That just meant that we had to kill more of them before they got scared.

Travis was a wrecking ball. It turned out that Bullmen were extremely robust. Their hide is nearly impenetrable, and they heal at an astounding rate. Not as quick as a lycanthrope, mind you, but one day Travis could soak up half a mag from an AK-47, and the next he’d be anxious to go out again. He did get shot a lot, though, because he wasn’t very fast and was too damn big to make very effective use of cover. We had to keep him way ahead of the vulnerable mortals of first squad, because Travis tended to fly into fits of rage. Charlie began to tell campfire stores about him, as something that translated roughly into “Furious Water Buffalo.”

Sharon was a surprise. Singer was her assigned name, and she’d received it because of her talent. Her father had been a sailor. Her mother had been a siren. That particular relationship had worked out better than normal, with the sailor not being drowned then eaten, and Sharon had been the result, brought back to human civilization and raised to be a civilized young lady. That had mostly worked out, until the government had decided that a half-siren still belonged on the PUFF list.

Ironically, she’d never hurt a fly until the government had helped her find that side of herself. Though she was far stronger than a human, she was not as tough as me or our Texas Longhorn Furious Water Buffalo, but the girl was a terror of a different kind. Her song haunted the jungle. She could get into a man’s mind and twist it so that you couldn’t see straight. Sentries were unaware, patrols got sloppy, and no man could withstand her interrogations. All she had to do was bat her eyelashes a few times, say a few words, and the prisoners would spill their guts. She didn’t even speak the language.

We had to bring on a local from the ARVN to translate. His name was Van. Destroyer had worked with him once before, and said he spoke just about every dialect in the region. His French was better than his English, and his English was better than mine. I was surprised how young he was, but he proved valuable, and the kid was hilarious.

We were very effective. The humans of first squad were as good a bunch of soldiers as I’d ever met. Destroyer was a consummate professional. Even while riding in the close confines of a chopper, sitting across from a hunched-over Travis, disguised only by being covered in a big blanket, the man didn’t ask any questions. He got us in, covered our butts, and got us out. The two of us were never friendly. Destroyer obeyed orders and didn’t talk much. I don’t think he liked the assignment or me.

Conover was a far better leader than expected. He actually cared about everyone under his command. He was one of those rare leaders with real integrity, and after having been recruited for a few of these black operations over the decades, I was thankful we’d ended up with somebody like him. If he hadn’t stayed with the government after the war, I would have loved to have recruited him to MHI. He would have made a superb team lead.

As for me…I led the actual missions in the field. Nobody had more experience than me. First squad thought of me as just another human, only one extraordinarily good at stealth and jungle fighting, though I think Destroyer suspected I was something more akin to the blanket-wearing giant and the nearly glowing goddess that forced them to wear earplugs. Three nights a month I was lowered into a pit, and then Travis covered the top with something heavy. Even in a war, there are certain things that shouldn’t be done, not if you want to be able to tell yourself that you’re the good guy.

That would soon change.

* * *

Heather stopped at her front door to remove her heavy gloves in order to manipulate the keys. A lot of the older folks in Copper Lake didn’t even bother to lock their doors, but she knew what the actual stats were. Even their small town had enough tweakers to really run up the property-crime numbers. Like every other rural part of the country, there were meth labs out there, and when there was meth, there was thievery. If she was lucky maybe the werewolves would eat some of those scumbags and OD from the chemical cocktail in their blood. It would be like killing two birds with one stone.

There was a series of pops. She froze, listening. “You hear that?”

Harbinger looked around. “Nope. I feel like I’m deaf.” Despite having thrown an old leather coat over his weird armor suit, his teeth were chattering.

“Gunshots…” There was the slamming of a car door, the roar of an engine, the spinning of tires. “That SUV is turning around.” A sudden fear hit. It must be the two government men. They’d murdered Chase earlier, and now they were coming back to finish her.

“Get inside,” Harbinger ordered.

Heather found her house key and got the door open just as the returning headlights illuminated the front yard. Harbinger followed her inside and closed the door behind them.

Startled, Otto began barking in the kitchen. To his credit, the German shepherd was ready to repel intruders. Her dog was just a shadow as he moved through the living room, shoulders hunched, head low. “Easy, boy,” Heather said. “It’s just me.” The barking ceased. Otto stopped, tilting his head, confused. It was like he didn’t recognize her in the dark. He barred his teeth and growled. “Calm down, big dummy.” The German shepherd got closer, snarling. Then Heather realized she could smell Otto’s fear. He was scared of her.

Peeking through the blinds, Harbinger studied the road. “Hmm…I don’t know who this is. You know ’em?”

Otto was her pet, her loyal companion, but right then he was prepared to go for her throat. Otto may have only had three legs, but he was still an intimidating eighty pounds of Purina-fed muscle. “Harbinger, my dog doesn’t recognize me.”

He didn’t turn from the window. “I should’ve told you. Animals fear us. Dogs especially hate our guts. I hope you’re not into horseback riding.”

Not Otto.
He’d been a loyal friend forever. She loved Otto. There was no way. She reached out one hand, but Otto’s brave growl turned into a whimper, and he scrambled for the kitchen, tail between his legs. It broke her heart. “Otto?”

“What’re these assholes doing? Wait. One fella is getting out. Guns.
Get down!”
Harbinger grabbed her by the sleeve and jerked her to the floor just as the window shattered. Heather hit the carpet hard. There was a crackling noise as a machine gun raked bullets through the walls. Splinters and drywall rained down on them as the gun thundered.

Harbinger rolled on top of her protectively, a purely instinctive move, but asinine since he was only human and therefore not much better than a meat sandbag. “Crawl! Get to cover!” he shouted in her ear before rolling off, raising his Thompson and firing back through the window. He was answered with even more fire, but Heather was already scrambling for the kitchen. She’d just reached the linoleum when the bullet struck. The impact hit like a baseball bat and took her leg right out from under her. Heather shouted in surprise and fell on her face.

It took a second to realize that she’d been hit. She’d never been shot before. It
burned
. Rolling over, she grabbed her calf and felt the blood pouring between her fingers. The kitchen cupboards were flying apart, so she tried to become one with the floor.

Harbinger had heard her cry. Rising, still shooting, he backpedaled until he reached the kitchen and took cover in the doorway. “You hit?”

“I’m okay” she responded, but as she spoke, the burning sensation mutated into the worst pain ever. “Oh shit! No, I’m not. My leg!”

Bullets still flying, Harbinger came to her, and Heather almost passed out when he touched her leg, grabbing it roughly in the dark. His hands were firm as he probed the wound. Heather shrieked as her severed nerve endings fired. The pain flipped a switch deep inside. Something deep within Heather
awoke
. She gasped, but it wasn’t because of the gunshot wound.

“Artery ain’t hit. Keep pressure on it,” he ordered. “And stay down.”

“No kidding!” Heather shouted as the microwave exploded.

Then Harbinger was just gone. He may have only been human, but he was
fast
.

* * *

Earl used his minotaur-hide coat to protect his face as he went through the side window. It was an old, solidly constructed house, and in the excitement, Earl had forgotten that he was no longer a werewolf. That fact was driven home as he slammed his shoulder through the wooden slats and tumbled into the snow in a cascade of broken glass.

“Damn,” Earl croaked as he got up and concealed himself in the deep shadows of the wall. That had actually
hurt
. The gunfire stopped. Earl was up and moving instantly. Running through the deep snow was far harder than it should have been. His legs were too weak. Reaching the front corner of Kerkonen’s house, Earl crouched and shuffled into the narrow space between the wall and a snow-covered bush. It was dark except for the headlights, which their attackers hadn’t had the forethought to actually point at their target. The light reflected off the snow of the road, illuminating the yard but leaving everything else in deep shadows.

Earl peeked over the edge of the porch. There were two of them. A short white guy with a buzzed head was wrestling with the feed tray on a SAW, obviously not familiar with the weapon. An older man with a mane of gray hair and an M-4 carbine was going up the steps, heading for the blasted front door. The SUV’s windows had been tinted, so he didn’t know how many other targets he had, so he’d start with these two assholes.

It would have been easy to just mow both of the knuckleheads down, but Earl kind of wanted to know why they were shooting at him first. He’d long ago rigged all his Thompsons with single-point slings that clipped to his armor so he could just drop his gun to use his hands, and Earl had always been a hands-on kind of guy. He let the Thompson fall as the first shooter huffed his way to the front door.

“Come on, Ryan! Back me up.”

“The damn gun’s jammed,” the one with the SAW responded, obviously frustrated. “Hang on, Larry. Wait for me.”

The names meant nothing to him. Earl smiled. These two idiots had tunnel vision. They were so fixated on what was inside the house that they couldn’t see the danger right under their noses. Focusing on a perceived threat while losing your peripheral vision was a common effect of an adrenaline rush. That’s why Earl always told his Newbies to keep on scanning.

“Hell with it,” Larry shouted as he raised one boot to straight kick the door in. Earl reached under the porch railing, grabbed him by the other ankle, and yanked. He yelped in surprise as his grounded foot came out from under him, and then he was tumbling down the icy steps. Earl came around the porch in a flash. He kicked the M-4 carbine off into the snow, then brutally slammed his fist square into Larry’s face, and Earl knew how to knock someone the hell out. Earl grimaced as the shock traveled up the bones of his hand, but Larry was down.

The one named Ryan looked up from trying to clear the malfunction and saw Earl coming right at him, wearing a look of predatory confidence. “Oh shit!” Ryan tossed the SAW, reached across his body, and stuck one hand into his coat. Shoulder holsters amused Earl. They were comfy, but they sucked when your target was right up in your face, which Earl promptly demonstrated by reaching over and easily trapping Ryan’s hand inside his coat. “Shit!” Ryan shouted again, eyes widening, as he realized he couldn’t get his pistol out. Earl smiled, then brutally head-butted the shorter man.

The sound of their skulls connecting made a terrible
thud
noise. Ryan hit the snow flat on his back. Dizzy, Earl staggered away, holding his forehead. That was another move that worked great as a werewolf, but not so much as a human. “Son of a bitch, that stings.” Everyone loses with a head butt.

But like they say, if an idea’s stupid, but it works, then it ain’t stupid, and Ryan was neutralized, moaning and dazed. Earl crouched there, waiting to see if there were other would-be assassins. Cursing his lack of awareness and the general dullness of human senses, Earl decided that apparently it was just this pair of jackasses.

With headache rapidly forming, Earl removed the pistol from his fallen opponent’s coat. It was one of those oversized Belgian plastic guns that carried half a box of those little tiny armor-piercing bullets. He threw it in the bushes. Larry was still out, but Earl patted him down just in case. This time he found a .50 Desert Eagle, which was probably the single most unwieldy pistol ever manufactured, and to make matters worse, this one was actually gold plated. Grimacing, Earl tossed the gaudy thing onto Kerkonen’s roof, where it would be hidden until the snow melted. He dragged Larry by the leg back to his buddy and dropped him there. Ryan was stirring, so Earl helped wake him up with a swift kick to the ribs.

“Ohhh…My head…” Ryan came to, saw the Thompson pointed casually at his face, realized what was happening, and immediately began to whine. “Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Harbinger. Please don’t hurt me.”

“You’ve got the advantage, then. You know who I am. So, who’re you and why are you shooting at me?” It took Earl a moment to realize that Ryan looked familiar. “Hold on.” Earl reached down, grabbed Ryan by the collar, and dragged him up. Sure enough, it was one of his old Newbies. “Horst? Ryan Horst?”

“Yeah. You remembered,” Horst said, raising his hands defensively. It was obvious he hadn’t been mentally prepared for Earl being the one with the upper hand. “Come on, man, careful where you point that thing.”

“This?” Earl jiggled the Thompson under Horst’s nose. “You’re lucky I don’t ram it up your ass. What’re you doing here?”

“Hunting monsters, just like you taught me.” His voice quaked.

“Taught you? Hell, boy, I
fired
you.” Earl remembered that Horst had been a low-life hood, but that hadn’t precluded him from being picked for a Newbie class. A couple of Earl’s best Hunters were ex-cons. The important thing was that they were survivors. The problem with Horst wasn’t that he’d survived, it was the
how
, and when MHI had found out the whole story, they’d immediately booted him. “And I can see I made the right choice, because no decent Hunter would’ve got snookered so easy. Why’d you shoot at me?”