Predator: Eyes of the Demon by Scott Sigler & Stephen Graham Jones & Kim May & Tim Lebbon

Author:Scott Sigler & Stephen Graham Jones & Kim May & Tim Lebbon [Sigler, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: , &#160
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2022-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

LITTLE MISS NIGHTMARE

BY PETER BRIGGS

Sheathed in her optical refraction field, R’Kyn of the clan P’Rekh crouched atop the ancient alien slaughter ground. The mighty had once clashed against a bestiary of ferocity here, colored banner fabrics of cruel rulers fluttering above. R’Kyn thought, in essence, it represented the mutation of the ideals the Yautja themselves yearned for.

A garbed custodian passed through, scattered people turning as his voice echoed. “Ladies and gentlemen! It’s five p.m. In an hour’s time, the Colosseum will be closing for the day…”

R’Kyn gazed across sprawling modern Rome. Beyond the combustion-engine vehicles and the ancient structure they called Constantine’s Arch, were the temples and columns of the time-ravaged Forum, and she wondered about the heyday of this fallen empire that had once subjugated all.

Since the scout-probes had spectrographed this backwater exoplanet and discovered its dominant species, the oomans had evolved into a Favored Chosen for the Yautja’s fierce pleasures. Their problem-solving and tenacity made oomans especially attractive for those testing their mettle beyond the flashier, brawnier behemoths of a thousand worlds.

In her expeditions here, R’Kyn had noticed troubling societal changes. To make sense of it, she’d researched the popular ooman entertainment distractions from their internet. One depicted this very location in its triumphal glory days. Its warrior champion’s defiant utterance—”Strength and Honor”—appealed to her. But did the oomans still believe, truly, in this creed?

One Aberration in particular, R’Kyn had reasoned, might help her understand. The problem this time, was R’Kyn had competition.

* * *

Agent Trinh Hue Dang loved monsters. A senior operations manager of one of the United States’ diverse anti-terrorism Special Response Teams, monsters motivated and defined who she was. Trinh’s Number One freak-show doozy this time had led her a merry chase from Washington itself, through an almost fruitless detour into France, culminating today, in Rome’s cheerfully BoHo thirteenth Trastevere district.

Trinh exited the removals truck acting as forward staging post for her modest tactical team. Surveillance had their target well covered with randomized drone fly-bys, but Trinh wanted one more swing-past herself before they sprang the trap.

The Tacs had regarded Trinh earnestly as she’d addressed them. Her face was a contradiction: at once a blade, delicate and fierce, welcoming smile and Bambi-brown eyes. The squad for the most were beefy Midwest farm boys; vested, a handful in armor-concealed civvies. Say what you will about them, thought Trinh, but shooting straight was a necessity of the job, and these boys knew how to hit a target.

Twenty or so were jammed into the boxcar alongside a handful of their Italian equivalents, chomping gum and Red Vines as the air conditioning fought for equilibrium. A couple perspired so freely, Trinh thought their tattoos might drip right off.

“I don’t need to remind you all, this target may be a fucking terrorist, but optics still matter to the agency.”

Trinh noticed one—a man-mountain named Valtersson—blush at the salty advisory. It’d been gossiped Valtersson was secretly sweet on her, she remembered. She suppressed the urge to smile.

“Even though this is our very

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