Unearthed by Robert J. Crane Page B

here, and we can put together a pretty good crossfire if need be.”
    “Not gonna do us much good when we’re inside, though,” Hendricks said, looking at the setup. “You’ll be likely to hit one of us.” He glanced at Arch, then Duncan. “If we’re going in.”
    “We’re going in,” Arch agreed.
    “In the shocker formation,” Hendricks added with a smile.
    “I wish I could cover the front from over there,” Alison said, nodding toward the left, where the driveway was a parking of cars, a rainbow shape that stretched along the U of the unpaved access road. “Straight shot into the house, none of this side-to-side motion from my targets—”
    “Huge, battleship-sinking holes in the place,” Hendricks said, “and your teammates.”
    “That could happen anyway,” she said coyly, not looking up from adjusting her scope.
    “Bill, go for it,” Arch said, and Longholt took off at a trot. He moved decently well for an old man, Hendricks thought. And for an Army guy. “Duncan, you want to go in the back door or you want me to?”
    “I’m surprised you let him do that, Alison,” Hendricks quipped.
    “I like it,” she said, and he caught a smile as she looked sidelong at him. “It’s really hot and intense once you get used to it, great thing to do other than blowjobs when I’m on the rag.”
    Hendricks felt his face burn on that one. He was used to her firing back like it was nothing, but every once in a while she caught him off guard, giving him a dose of too much information coupled with a voyeuristic thrill. This was one of those times, and he caught a hint of shame mixed with a curiosity to know maybe just a little more.
    “Let’s go,” Arch said, dour and sour again. Hendricks couldn’t blame him for that one. Duncan took off dutifully after Bill, and Hendricks watched Arch take off out of the woods toward a nearby weeping willow tree in the yard before he followed behind, doing his damnedest not to look at Alison as he passed her by.
    *
    Arch was feeling more than a little embarrassed himself, hearing his wife say things about their very, very personal life just to get a rise out of Hendricks. The cowboy was more than crude; he was one of the basest men that Arch had ever met. Every once in a while he considered himself unfortunate to have met him.
    But, the rest of the time, he had to admit he wasn’t sorry at all. Even now, as he was bent double under a willow tree, peering into the dark, about to crash a demon house party, he felt the rush that told him he was having the time of his life.
    It wasn’t that the prospect of being on the other side of the law—even though he was only under suspicion—didn’t bother him. It bothered him a lot, in fact. It crawled right under his skin like one of those cheg’tuatha that they’d run across up in the hills a couple weeks back. He hated being on the outs with Reeve, not just for loyalty reasons, but because Arch had a reputation he’d worked hard to cultivate. If the line was at knee level, Arch would jump and pull his legs up waist-high in order to clear it. He’d lived his life by that principle, and the hit to his pride that being called a crooked cop brought held its own special kind of sting. It had kept him awake the first few nights, worrying about it.
    Then he’d gotten into a rhythm of demon slaying, and slept like a baby during the days. The guilty feelings, the burning sense to his pride, it was near-gone.
    He looked over Hendricks, whose once clean-shaven face was now buried under a few weeks of scruff. The cowboy squatted next to him, down on a knee, peering into the lit windows of the house. “You got a count?”
    “More than we could handle by ourselves,” Hendricks said, then turned his eyes to the driveway to their left. “Look at all those cars. This ain’t no demon picnic. This is like a Christmas party.”
    “More like an Antichrist-mas party, given the audience,” Arch said, voice a little thicker with emotion