bent beneath him as he stood at the edge of the clearing, thigh muscles tightly coiled. He was to wait until one of the guards was close enough for him to strike, and Thurpa knew that his calculations had to be exact. One misstep, a few inches short or even a simple stumble could result in an armed killer turning his automatic weapon against Thurpa, his allies or the very people they were there to rescue.
Thurpa hadn’t cared much for the Panthers of Mashona when he and Durga first encountered them alongside the Millennium Consortium. They were brutish men, the type of beings who exemplified Durga’s description of mankind as nothing more than a pack of barbaric apes. It was their disregard for their enemies and victims that reinforced Thurpa’s initial prejudices. He’d seen what the Panthers had done to their captives already.
It had been that negative impression, and the consortium’s equal disregard for the militia’s cruelty, that had primed Thurpa to become so disgusted with “mammals” that he’d used a grenade against a small family of meerkats who had made too much noise. The last thing Thurpa had wanted to do was seem weak in front of the hairy-knuckled, thick-browed thugs who took the defeated and helpless and used them as glory holes, men or women, if they weren’t already pressed into hard labor.
Thurpa hadn’t wanted to think what would happen to him if they saw him as a pushover. He had little interest in becoming a rape rag. If there was one thing that Durga didn’t appear to tolerate among those fighting for the purity of the Nagah race, it was that the cobra men didn’t engage in that kind of sexual violence, against their own or against others.
That was before Thurpa had met humans with a conscience. People who protected their injured, who cared for others despite differences. That was before Brigid Baptiste had related Durga’s sexual cruelty toward Hannah, his princess, and the evidence of what he had done to other women who hadn’t been his perfect little toys.
You’ve been following a rapist, a kin-murderer, a despot, damn you, Thurpa told himself. That only strengthened the young man’s resolve to take the gunman guarding these prisoners out quickly and certainly.
The Panthers are so strong, so cocksure against the helpless, Thurpa thought. You haven’t faced a son of Enki, though. We were born with fangs to ensure that you do not poison the other beloved of our Father.
The Panther gunman drew closer. Kane and Grant had timed out the patrols of these men perfectly. Everyone seemed to be stepping into position as the two men had predicted. Even so, there was no guarantee that his timing would be right, and Thurpa’s heartbeat increased.
Just in case he had to take out more than one opponent silently, Thurpa also had his knife in hand. He had venom and long fangs, but a broken fang or an empty venom sac would make it impossible for him to bite two opponents. He wondered at the ability of Brigid Baptiste and Nathan Longa when it came to close-quarters murder, but he didn’t want to think about it too much.
Thinking about how hard it could be for others to take down a murderer with a swift, ruthless strike made him think about how cruel his act would be.
Brigid Baptiste was not a murderer, nor was she a trained assassin, but she hung around with some of the best masters of sharpened steel in the world. She knew how to use the knife in its sheath as more than a tool or utensil. Kane, Domi and Shizuka had taken turns at teaching her the art of the fighting knife, not any intensive set of exercises, but they’d shown her moves, explained to her the discipline and made her go through every step.
They hadn’t gone easy on Brigid simply because she had a photographic memory; they’d expected her to copy their maneuvers. They had her go at it with blunt, rounded cornered blades for intense sparring matches. Muscle memory was different from the data that came in through her eyes and ears, and they worked her in the gym until her arms and sides ached, her flame-gold hair was matted to her scalp and her breaths came in long, ragged gasps.
In the end, no, Brigid was not going to take on another knife fighter as a master duelist, but she would be able to show a good accounting of herself if she was separated from her pistol.
That if had come enough times in Brigid’s adventures around the globe for her to know that losing her firearm would be a when. Any distaste for an assassin’s strike had been washed away with Kane’s depiction of how the caravan of prisoners had been treated. Naked and manacled about the neck and ankles, as she could see now, thanks to the light amplification optics in her shadow suit, the captives were in miserable physical condition. They were gaunt, exhausted, with blood dripping down their torsos.
To a child, they were naked and ragged, and each had to sleep staring straight up into the night sky because the metal yokes about their necks would cut or tear skin if they moved their heads one inch. Brigid’s heart ached for the poor victims of the militia members, and she was able to make out the insignias on the patches of the soldiers.
They were the Panthers of Mashona, the same group who’d laid siege to the Victoria Falls power station, who’d allied themselves with the mad Nagah prince, Durga, and the Millennium Consortium. They were known killers, murderers, raiders who had no concern for human life except for what they could get out of them.
Brigid examined the line of prisoners. Women, men, those in their early teens, none of them seeming as if they were good for forced labor, especially after the march that had turned their necks and backs raw with the weight and abrasion of their slave collars. These people were going to be shells of human beings if they had to go much farther.
Her thoughts went back to the killer who had all but drained the last drop of blood from Nathan Longa’s father. The murderer would have made use of biomass, draining either blood or other moisture and plasma within the human anatomy. Sure, the prisoners spilled some blood, but they still retained more than enough to feed—
Feed what? Brigid asked herself, but she fought off the urge to visualize the horror or horrors that awaited them. She had her knife pulled from its sheath, the keen edge held in an ice pick grip, and the Panther guard ambled closer on his prescribed patrol route along the chained line of prisoners.
Concentrate on the horror before you, Brigid told herself. We’ll deal with an entity or entities who’d devour two dozen human beings when we get to it.
She locked her green eyes on the gunman, who showed no concern for the suffering of other human beings. Slipping a knife between his ribs or into his kidney wouldn’t be a pleasure, but it’d be one step closer to the safe emancipation of twenty-four human beings.
Brigid promised herself not to take visceral satisfaction in gutting the bastard.
Grant assembled the recurved bow he’d brought with him. He screwed the two arms into the central riser, the grip that an archer held, complete with an arrow rest where the shaft would stay during the draw. The riser was made of rigid, high-density carbon fiber around an aluminum core. The arms themselves were composed of sandwiched layers of carbon fiber and wood, making the limbs of the bow denser, harder to flex, and thus building up greater potential energy when the string was drawn back.
Grant also had the yugake glove that Shizuka had made for him. Grant was a student of kyudo, the samurai art of archery, and the yugake was specifically designed for the kind of hold an adherent of the style used, one in which the other fingers trapped the drawn string against the thumb. The yugake had ridges on the thumb designed for securing the drawstring, especially under the pressure of an eighty-eight-pound draw weight. That translated, with the 750-grain broad-head arrows he had, into 58.5 foot-pounds of energy when the recurved snapped straight and hurled the shaft at 188 feet per second.
The kinetic energy downrange might not have seemed like much in comparison to a bullet that moved much faster, but the dynamics of
