Dyson hefted his sword and squinted at the sky. The brutal July sunlight was scattered but not dimmed by billows of red dust and blue gunsmoke. He couldn't see.

Simian shrieks echoed out of the searing haze.

"They are coming!" Marcella screeched.

"Where are they coming from?" The Italian accent he'd found so charming started to grate after weeks of enforced proximity. But she made an excellent spotter amidst the chaos.

"There!"

He whirled. The flying monkey screamed hate and died.

"Come to Bejing, he said! The girls are pretty, he said!" he snarled, spat. "I'm going to murder Trick."