Winston Cross dropped the peregrine into a padded briefcase and snapped it shut. He threw the briefcase into the back seat of his car and opened the driver’s side. Sturgis took three shots at Cross with a revolver. Cross looked like he was in a movie that was getting tangled in the projector and the bullets sailed through him.
Cross frowned at Sturgis and shook his head with more pathos than anger. Like he was confronting a brother who can’t handle his hootch. Sturgis stared frozen and his face fell into involuntary penitence, “I won’t hold that against you, Verne. I can see why you would be so angry. And terrified.” Cross slid into the driver’s seat and tore off.
“We have to go after him,” Toli said yanking on Delareux’s jacket.
“Not tonight,” Delareux murmured, watching Cross’s car shrink as it departed.
“What about that guy has you rattled? We’ve seen things walk through walls.”
“It’s like I said, be either corporeal or incorporeal. Not both.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m not locking horns with anything that can walk through a wall and put a slug in my gut.”