shelters by now were on their own. Half Breeds swarmed through the city, racing through yards, bounding down streets, scampering along sidewalks, and even leaping onto first story roofs before rejoining the main flow that led into what had been designated Sector 14. Milosh looked out of his window as Half Breeds ran past the Humvee that met them shortly after their arrival in town. Some of them even kept pace long enough to glance over and snap at the vehicles. The driver jerked the wheel to the appropriate side to nudge the creatures along, which was enough to buy some space before any tires were shredded.
One of the soldiers who’d met them was a young Asian man with bright eyes and a curious smile. “So what’s the deal with you guys?” he asked.
“Deal?” Milosh grunted.
“Yeah. Usually all you specialists carry sticks. What’s with the knives and that post?”
Milosh turned in his seat to look at George, who carried his long weapon so the weighted end was resting on his shoulder and the claw was wedged between his feet. “What is the deal with that post, Georgie?”
“Nobody calls me Georgie, and if they do,” the Amriany added while shifting so the weighted end of his weapon was on more prominent display, “they don’t remember it. This post can make you forget your last three birthdays, know what I mean?”
“He’s definitely talking to you, man,” the soldier said.
“We are not Skinners,” Milosh said. “We are called Amriany. In our language, this means both chosen and cursed. Appropriate, eh?”
The soldier shrugged and readjusted to get more comfortable in his seat. “Whatever. Now I see why the major just calls you all specialists.”
From the front seat Nadya chuckled. It had been generations since an Amriany tasted the sweet scent of pure nature energies used by the Dryad. She knew Sophie would have loved to travel that way herself. If things went according to plan, there would be other chances. For the moment, the Amriany couldn’t afford to send one of their most valuable assets into a wolf infested city.
The driver of the Humvee spoke on her radio and then put the handset into a bracket mounted to the dash. “We’re headed to Sector Fourteen.” Glancing over to Nadya, she added, “Not far from here.”
“I figured. Aren’t we headed toward the spot where that Weshruuv was dropped like a rock from one of your helicopters?”
The driver’s face cracked into a smile, making it seem almost pretty. The effect lasted for a few seconds before the Army shield was up again. “I guess that was a tough sight to miss, huh?”
“Yes.”
“So. Wesh-roove. What language is that?”
Without bothering to correct the driver’s pronunciation, Nadya told her, “It’s a mix of lots of things. More of some and a sprinkling of others.”
“My whole family’s like that.”
“Yes,” Nadya said while glancing over her shoulder at the two Amriany crammed into the back with the other soldier. “Mine too.”
The Learjet 45XR touched down at Shreveport Regional Airport, where it was immediately met by a military convoy. On any given day a year ago this would have gummed up the works for several commercial airlines and possibly hundreds of commuters. But since most of the people who wanted to leave the city had already done so, and nobody was too anxious to get there, the jet had the landing strip to itself as it taxied to a halt.
One of the soldiers who’d arrived to greet the plane stood on the tarmac with his back to the aircraft. Other soldiers stood alongside him, facing away, their rifles already raised to their shoulders. “How we doing on shifter activity?” the first soldier asked.
“Still a few packs in the airport, but Jeffries and Bukowski are keeping them occupied.”
Glancing over his shoulder, the first soldier watched as the jet’s side hatch was opened and steps were lowered. About two seconds later he asked, “What the hell are they doing in there?” Rather than yell up into the jet, he tapped the shoulder of the man beside him and said, “Go up and see what’s keeping them. We’ve got a limited amount of time here.”
Esteban’s howl echoed from another part of town, causing the IRD troops to shift their focus to the men beside them. It was more of a feral howl than the solid, vaguely melodic tones that infected random humans, and was cut off by the thump of multiple explosives, which ironically put the soldiers on the landing strip at ease.
The soldier who’d been sent into the jet ran up the steps and quickly poked his head out again to say, “It’s not ready yet.”
“What’s not ready yet?”
“I don’t know! Should I clear the cabin?”
“Can you do that without compromising any of the assets?”
The soldier at the top of the steps looked back, studied whatever was in the jet for a few seconds, and turned around without being able to disguise his wince. “Can’t say for sure.”
After a haggard sigh and a muttered curse, the soldier on the ground shot a quick glance to the others, who had formed a firing line in front of the jet’s stairs. None of the troops indicated that they saw anything coming from the surrounding area, so the first soldier shouted, “If that aircraft isn’t empty in three minutes, you’re authorized to clear it by force.”
Just as the soldier in the jet was about to acknowledge the order, something caught his attention and drew him back inside. He stepped up to the open hatchway but was shoved aside by a lump of a figure wrapped in a hooded sweatshirt, at least two sweaters, and a parka. Despite the soldier’s protests and attempt to stand his ground, he was unable to keep himself from being moved away from the exit hatch so the lumpy passenger could depart.
“All I asked for was another few minutes!” the lump said. Although no hands could be seen beneath the multiple layers of clothing, squirming arms were wrapped beneath a tottering pile of cases, jars, and small coolers. Faded sweatpants led down into a pair of rubber boots that jangled noisily as the unfastened buckles rattled against each other with every shuffling step. “After breaking my windows, messing up my carpets, knocking over my comic boxes, and breaking down my door, the least you could do was let me finish!”
Another man in uniform stepped into view. It was the pilot, who wore a dark green jumpsuit and pushed his way past both the armed IRD soldier as well as the griping passenger. Not even getting jabbed by one of the sharp implements poking out from the bundle in the passenger’s arms was going to prevent him from getting the hell off that jet. “If it was up to you, you wouldn’t have left that damn apartment.”
Daniels poked his head from behind the mound of stuff he was carrying. “I could have worked a lot better there than wedged behind some seats with my eardrums popping out of my skull.”
The pilot rolled his eyes, walked down the stairs and patted the first soldier on the back. “They’re all yours.”
“You might want to stick close to us, Lieutenant,” the soldier warned. “Class Twos are in the airport.”
“After flying all the way from Chicago with that little jerk, I’ll take my chances.”
Daniels was escorted down the stairs by the soldier who’d gone up into the jet, along with two other IRD troops. Sally brought up the rear carrying several small cases that were either hanging from her shoulders or gripped in her hands. “Most of the work is done. There’s just a few finishing touches, which we can get to on the way over. Is there enough room for him to work?”
“Should be,” one of the escorts replied. He addressed her fondly while completely ignoring the Nymar’s never- ending flow of gripes. Apparently it was a trick that everyone on that jet had learned, because none of them seemed anxious to acknowledge Daniels whatsoever.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Daniels looked up at the soldiers and let out a weary breath. “Where do we go from here?”
“You hear all that shooting and howling?”
Daniels listened for a second before nodding.
“That’s where we’re headed.”
“Her too?” the Nymar asked while glancing back at Sally.
Upon hearing that, the soldiers who had previously been annoyed with Daniels took notice of him again. One was a tall man with thick, angular features and skin the color of burnt clay. The only patch he wore other than the IRD insignia was a faded sampling from an older uniform that read OURAY. “We’ll look after her,” he said.
