The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy

by Richard Parry

“These people?” Carlisle looked at them. “That’s a good question, ma’am. They’re … they’re, ah—”

  “We’re helping her with some inquiries,” said John. “So, what about it?”

  “I’m not supposed to—”

  “Let anyone in?” John examined his hands.

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, that’s right.”

  “I get it. But we’re the good guys.” John looked back up, beaming at her. Chicks couldn’t resist the smile. “Seriously. Also, there’s a bunch of assholes coming in the front who are going to kill everyone.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. It’s probably best if you just open the door.”

  Millicent nodded, swiping her card against the lock. It beeped, and the door opened. John smiled at her. “Thanks a bunch.”

  “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

  John stared at her. “Shit no. Why would we do that?”

  “It’s just — the guns.”

  “I bet you didn’t think today would be like this when you were having your morning coffee.”

  The woman cracked a nervous grin as the three of them filed in. John held the door for her, and she took a cautious step outside. “Say, Millicent.”

  “Yes.”

  “Be careful, okay?” John nodded towards the forest at the back of the complex. “I’d make a bee line for those trees. Lose yourself in there for a while. It’s not safe here.”

  Millicent looked at the trees, then back at John. “Thanks. Say.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”

  “What girl?” John kept his voice casual.

  “The little girl. They brought her here a couple days ago—”

  Danny rushed forward, grabbing the woman by her lab coat, slamming her up against the wall. “Where is she!”

  “I … I—”

  A snarl twisted Danny's face. “I swear to God, I will tear it from you!”

  John put a hand on her shoulder, very gently. “Danny.” She was panting, he could feel her shoulders heave with the force of it. “Danny. Put her down.”

  Danny turned her head back at him, her face still twisted, then she turned back towards Millicent. She was holding her up against the wall, the woman’s shoes a good foot off the ground. Danny relaxed her shoulders slowly, Millicent sliding to the ground. “Sorry,” she said.

  John stepped between the two of them, hands out. “Say, that was intense.” He beamed. “I’m real sorry about that, Milly. But the thing is, that little girl? Well, Danny here—”

  “She’s my daughter.” Danny's voice was steady.

  “I…” Millicent cleared her throat, then started again. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. She’s on the top floor.”

  “You’ve seen her?” Carlisle’s question was sharp, professional.

  “Uh, no. But the other floors are empty. They always have been. It’s just the top floor.”

  John nodded. “Thanks. Now get out of here.” He nodded at the tree line. Millicent broke into a run, her lab coat flashing white behind her.

  Carlisle shrugged. “That was unorthodox, but we got what we needed. Top floor it is.”

  “You think she’s telling the truth?” John looked after the running woman. “I mean, you know. What’s her motive?”

  Danny sighed. “Does it matter? Top or bottom, we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “You’re right.” John closed the door behind them. “I guess we’ll start from the top.”

  He waited until Carlisle and Danny had walked into the back foyer, watching Danny. John sighed, then punched a button on the lock. It clicked, then lit red. If Val was here, he’d probably have thought to get the woman’s card from her. That’d have made things easier.

  Where was Val anyway? John was sure he should have seen some sign of him by now. He jogged after the women as they headed into the core of the building.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Spencer watched the battle unfold. He’d planned for this, but plans rarely survived contact with the enemy. Still, the ace in the hole for his side was Volk. The man stood to his side, grinning at the gunfire, and actually laughed out loud when a man screamed up ahead. He looked like a child, face alive with glee — he even clapped his hands like an excited schoolgirl at one point. Spencer would have tried to put him down already if he didn’t need what he had.

  That, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he could put Volk down. He was aware of his many flaws, and self-delusion wasn’t one of them.

  Regardless, having a man without fear in a heated battle was a solid asset. He was confident Volk wouldn’t fold under pressure. Hell, he’d seen the man provoke one of his soldiers into unloading a grenade into him. Spencer didn’t care which side of the tracks you came from, that took balls. Even if you knew you couldn’t die, there’d have to be some nagging doubt in a man’s mind that this would be the last time.

  Wouldn’t there?

  A bullet whispered past his face. That one almost had his name on it. Hunkering down, he shouldered his rifle, aimed through the scope, and fired three shots in quick succession. All three hit.

  Of course.

  He didn’t notice the noise of battle anymore. You didn’t get through two tours in Afghanistan without picking up a thicker skin. Weaker men, less deserving men, had cracked, gone back home with PTSD, crying to their mothers, unable to hold down a job. One of his comrades had even killed himself once he got back Stateside. That kind of weakness turned Spencer’s stomach. It’s what he admired most about Volk; the man was a force of nature, unshakable. He did what he wanted.

  Spencer wanted a little piece of that. He’d not really done what he wanted for a long time; it was always at someone else’s behest. This little engagement was a good example. If he had his way, his men would have the gift, and they’d be unstoppable. They wouldn’t have all died, falling like tin soldiers as they’d thrown themselves against an enemy they couldn’t be prepared for.

  No use whining about it. Time to muscle up and take charge. That’s what he’d done: take charge. After he’d run Volk to ground, he’d found the man bleeding out in a gutter and made him a deal, trading life for life. If there was one small wrinkle in the plan, a fly in the ointment, it was that he didn’t trust Volk. Not one bit.

  The schism at Ebonlake hadn’t helped. He’d tried to explain the tremendous potential asset to the chain of command, but they simply weren’t visionaries. They thought he’d cracked, for God’s sake. It’d take more than an unexpected encounter to crack Tim Spencer; his mother hadn’t raised a limp-wrist fagot. Ebonlake had told him to take some leave, get some distance, some perspective back.

  He had all the distance he needed at the end of his rifle.

  It was a shame, really — some of his men, aware of the rewards that Volk could give them, had left Ebonlake. They had his back, but Ebonlake was still cashing checks from Biomne and that bitch Morgan at the top. He’d wanted to throw her out a window the first time he’d met her; she was cosseted inside the cozy walls of law and rule and thought to give him commands. No. It wasn’t commands he didn’t like. He needed to be honest: he’d taken orders all his life from people he didn’t much like, so that wasn’t it. It was that she’d thought to play him. He couldn’t abide that, that lack of respect.

  His men — the ones still loyal to him and not to the pay check — were pushing into the facility. He knew the target would be at the top. Not Morgan’s kid — but Everard. He’d be drawn up there like a bee to honey, and that’s where they’d take him down. That was the deal.

  “You want this, yes?” Volk had spat blood onto the ground. “The power. You need it.”

  “It gives a tactical advantage I can’t ignore.” Spencer had pushed the man with his boot, watching as the Russian had winced in pain. “Still, you’re not invincible. I have to wonder if it’s worth it.”

  “Worth it? You will see many things.” Volk had coughed, red bubbles coming to his lips. His hand had reached u
p, clawing at Spencer’s pants. “I promise you this. By tooth and claw, it will be done.”

  “What’s the catch?” Spencer had adopted a bored expression, thumbing silver rounds into his pistol’s magazine. He’d cocked the weapon, looking away from Volk. Waiting.

  “Mistakes.” Volk had levered himself up against the wall, and grinned through the pain. “You must help me. Erase mistakes.”

  “Mistakes?”

  “The other wolf. He should not be alive.”

  Spencer couldn’t have agreed more. Everard should be six feet under. “It sounds like we have a deal.” He’d offered Volk a hand.

  It was curious that Volk wanted Everard dead. He was sure they didn’t know each other, and such passion — well, it was to be admired, certainly. But it could be a cause for concern. If it distracted them…

  No, it wasn’t a distraction, it was the price of the mission. Once Spencer had Volk’s gift, he’d give it to his men, and they’d become an army. Perhaps they could challenge the natural order of things. He’d always wanted to run his own country; the people usually in charge were motivated by politics and petty ambition, rather than structure and order. He’d do a better job of it.

  There was an explosion as his men breached the main door. He thumbed his radio, ordering a handful of troops to flank their approach and take the rear. They were a sacrificial pool, designed to draw enemy fire, but the distraction might buy him success. If the enemy thought that they were being attacked on two fronts, they’d have to divide their forces. The shame of all of this was the cost; soldiers on both sides were dying, good men he’d fought alongside before and hoped he would again. The extra sweetener here was the Ebonlake contract; the death payments to families could potentially bankrupt a company the size of Biomne.

  Maybe that was wishful thinking.

  “Volk. It’s time to move.” Spencer nodded at the front entrance. “We’ve got a breach.”

  “Da. So you do, Captain.” Volk grinned. “This is fun, yes?”

  Spencer eyed the man. “Let’s just get it done.”

  “Of course.” Volk hefted the baseball bat he carried. It was a signed José Canseco bat, an older Worth one by the looks of it. Spencer wasn’t a fan of the game, but he recognized that bat.

  “Why did you bring that? A gun would be more effective.”

  Volk shrugged. “This is very effective! Besides. Canseco was the first honest American I hear of in Russia.”

  “Honest?” Spencer spat on the ground. “Didn’t he admit to doing steroids?”

  “As I said. Honest.” Volk started to jog towards the entrance, smoke pouring out of the breached doorway. “Come, Captain! There is much killing to be done.”

  Now that was a curious way of phrasing it. They were after Everard, for sure. Casualties would happen en route, that was a certainty, but Spencer took no special pleasure in it. It was like reaping wheat; it needed to be done to put food on the table, but that was all. Volk — well, the man seemed to relish it.

  Spencer watched as Volk reached the front of the battle, three soldiers still at the doorway. God, but he was fast. As the Russian ran, he scooped up one of Spencer’s loyal troops from behind, holding the man up as a shield. The surprised soldier had time to yell before the salvo of bullets hit his body. Volk had hunkered down behind his human shield, still running, until he was in amids the soldiers at the doorway. He threw the dead human shield at one man, then swung his bat into the helmet of another soldier. The man’s head spun around, neck broken, his body tumbling into a patch of fire and smoke. Volk didn’t stop to look at what he’d done — he’s damn sure that man’s dead, isn’t he — just whipping the bat around over his head, gaining a revolution of momentum before releasing the bat into a throw. Spencer was sure he could hear the low woosh of it even over the noise of the battle around them.

  It spun horizontally through the air, connecting with another man’s helmet and bouncing off. The man fell, twitching, and Volk — God damn, but he didn’t just catch that bat did he? That was an impressive thing to see. Another soldier fired at Volk, but he wasn’t there anymore — he’d ducked into the smoke. The soldier took a cautious step forward before Volk lunged back out of the smoke, an overhead swing cracking the top of the man’s helmet.

  Spencer stepped through the doorway, looking at the bodies. “You’re right.”

  “About what?” Volk was grinning like a happy dog.

  “That bat. It’s effective.” Spencer waved his hands, and soldiers started to stream past them.

  “I’m curious, Captain.”

  “About what?”

  “All of you. You wear black. Da?” Volk picked up one of the bodies and shook it. It looked to Spencer for all the world like a cat trying to play some life back into a dead mouse.

  “It’s the uniform. Studies show black is intimidating.” Spencer nudged a body with his foot, then fired once into the body’s head and twice into the chest — you could never be too sure. Once when he’d been a rank and file grunt, his squad had been almost wiped out by an insurgent they’d presumed dead. Carelessness cost lives.

  “I understand. What I wonder is, how you tell each other apart?”

  “It doesn’t seem to bother you.” Spencer nodded at the torn body of the soldier Volk had used as a human shield. “That man was on our side.”

  “He was on your side, Captain.” Volk showed his teeth. “He was not on my side.”

  “What—” But Volk was gone, loping off into the building. Damn it but the man was cryptic. Spencer assumed it was a language issue, or that Volk was simply crazy. Either way, he had solutions to those problems; once he had the gift, he could resolve the issues around Volk permanently. He patted the grenade harness around his body absently, feeling the dull metal of the silver. It’d been painted black so that Volk wouldn’t notice, but the grenades were a complex mix of ingredients — a full silver casing with nano-particles of silver suspended in a gel at the core. Spencer was almost certain that one of those going off near you wouldn’t make you happy. The metal shards would carry the silver into the blood, and then — well. The silver in the gel wasn’t solid like a bullet that could be pulled out.

  Spencer smiled a dead smile to himself. If what he’d seen when he shot Everard was anything to go by, a werewolf hit with one of these would burn alive from the inside out. Volk’s untrustworthiness was a risk, and when you had risks you needed to carry insurance. If Volk tried to double cross him, the best the man could hope for was for them both to die. It seemed fair to Spencer.

  It was as he was lost in thought that he almost died. It was a careless mistake — he’d assumed the squad he’d sent to the rear of the building would be effective. Most of his men were seasoned veterans, the odd new blood salted in for good measure. Spencer thought they’d breach the rear of the building and meet him here. What he didn’t expect was the three civilians in their stead. Civilians, for God’s sake, instead of his squad. Two of them looked familiar — no, he corrected himself. All three were from the hospital — Everard’s friends.

  Spencer was so surprised to see them he failed to act, his gun resting in his hands while he stared.

  One of them — another woman, they show no damn respect — drew a sidearm on him. She was pulling the trigger as Spencer’s brain kicked in, and he rolled behind the reception desk in the lobby. It was a sidearm but still dangerous through the wood of the desk. He caught sight of Volk at the base of the stairwell, door held open as the big man looked at the action. He was grinning again.

  Spencer lifted his rifle and fired blind over the top of the lobby desk. It wouldn’t hit anything unless he was really lucky, but it’d keep their heads down. True to form, the shooting on his position stopped, and he risked a look around the edge of the desk. Large pillars touched the roof — they’d be hiding behind those. It didn’t matter; he just needed to get to the top of the building.

  “Volk!” Spencer said. The man’s gaze swung briefly to him, then back into the
room. “Give me a distraction!”

  The big man looked at him again. “I think this is distracting enough—”

  “Motherfu—” It was a woman’s voice, and Spencer risked another look. His eyes widened. One of the other civilians — a crossbow? Really? — was trying to run towards Volk or the stairwell — it was one and the same. The third, a man, was wrestling with her, trying to get her behind a pillar.

  Spencer grinned to himself, and stood up. He raised his rifle, but ducked back down as the first woman pulled out from behind a pillar and fired at him. He’d never have a better chance; Spencer ran towards the stairwell where Volk was waiting, bullets dogging his steps, the shots ringing loud and fierce in the lobby. He was almost there when Volk stepped back, letting the door close. Spencer slammed against the outside, then kicked it open, ducking into the dark beyond. The ceiling light was out but he saw Volk’s teeth glinting in the dark.

  “They a part of plan?” The Russian chuckled from the darkness.

  “No.” Spencer breathed heavily, then faced the door. He raised his rifle, shooting the door mechanism. That would slow them down some. Unless Everard had turned them — but no. They wouldn’t have needed cover if they’d been turned, they were flesh and blood like he was. “Why’d you shut the door?”

  “Is fun, this.” Spencer saw the shadow of the man heading up the stairs. “Back home, I did not get much excitement.”

  Christ. It was all some big game to him. That’s the last thing Spencer needed — some kind of goddamned Leeroy Jenkins on the battlefield. He’d need to bear that in mind, stay behind Volk and not rely on his support. It wasn’t a mistake he’d make again. Spencer tasted dust in his mouth, spitting onto the ground.

  “Excitement, huh.” He checked his weapon again, then touched his grenade belt to make sure they were still there. “I guarantee you’ll get all the excitement you need before the day is done.”

  There was no response. Spencer hurried up the stairs behind Volk, hearing noise from above — gunshots, then the sound of something heavy hitting flesh. He came to the second floor landing, finding black armored bodies. One man had been shoved through the stair rail, his head staring upwards as his chest faced down. Spencer looked away, then climbed higher.