The shield faltered and sputtered and failed, and Darquesse hovered there, watching it retract, unaware that a helicopter gunship – recently liberated from an unscrupulous private army operating out of the Middle East – had just appeared behind her.
A helicopter gunship. This was awesome.
There was a streak of light and a sudden plume of smoke and before Darquesse even had a chance to turn the rocket hit her.
The explosion sent her spinning out of the sky, trailing smoke and fire, and she vanished behind a building. Skulduggery wrapped his arm round Valkyrie’s waist and they flew to a roof that overlooked the square. Darquesse was on her hands and knees, trying to rise. The helicopter – an AH-64 Apache, according to the pilot Fletcher had been partnered with – opened up with its minigun. Bullets chewed up the ground around Darquesse, pummelling her and driving her back to her knees. The pilot, a sorcerer who could fly anything but preferred aircraft with fun weapons, let loose another rocket, and the explosion lifted Darquesse up and threw her like a rag doll. She rolled, her body limp. She’d been hurt, but there was no blood. No burns.