Finally the monster was at bay.

It had been flushed out of the forest. It had been hounded downhill, bullets thudding at its heels and smacking into the trunks of oaks and other mountain broadleafs on either side of it. It had been shepherded by gunfire into the village and driven along the streets. At last it had been corralled in a cul-de-sac with high, ancient walls on either side.

Cornered, panting, torso lathered in sweat, the monster turned.

Two of its pursuers were approaching from the open end of the cul-de-sac. Above, in the upper storeys of the stone-built houses, shutters cracked opened and villagers peered out. Their faces were fearful but hopeful. The monster had been terrorising the Corsican interior for months, killing at random. Now it was being terrorised itself. The villagers were eager to see the monster get its comeuppance. Long overdue.

But the monster was still dangerous. Just because it was trapped, that didn't mean it was helpless. It was, after all, the Minotaur — seven feet tall and 400lbs of hyperdeveloped muscle and skin-straining sinew, with the strength of several oxen. Lowering its head, the Minotaur fixed its blood-red eyes on its foes and pawed the ground with one foot. Breath rattled from its nostrils in short, thick gusts.

"Tethys, Hyperion. What is your status?"

Sam did not take her gaze off the Minotaur — specifically, not off the pair of huge horns that were now pointing towards her like ivory spears.

"Hyperion, Tethys. Mnemosyne and I are in range of target. It's about to charge."

"Do you have line of sight?"

"Roger."

"Do you have a clear shot?"

"Roger."

"Then what are you dicking about for? Take it."

Sam raised her recoilless. 45mm submachine gun. It was boxy but lightweight, a skeletal weapon. Blisteringly effective nonetheless.