by Declan Finn
He was going to bring down the buildings with the ninjas inside.
Chapter 20
Fallen Knight
Amanda had barely gotten off of the floor when she heard Marco scream “Catch!”
Amanda’s hands were up and waiting when an AK landed in them. She was about to ask what she needed a gun for when she heard footsteps on the floor above her.
A minion swung around the staircase, gun at the ready.
Amanda wasn’t going to just wait to see if his bullets were effective against vampires.
She raised the rifle and put three in the man’s stomach. The minion fell back, confused that he was still alive. Amanda leaped onto the stairs, then jumped from one landing to the next. She grabbed the minion by the body armor and drove her teeth right into his neck. This time, there was no hesitation, no slowness.
This man was simply lunch.
The minion screamed in horror and tried to thrash against Amanda as she drained the life out of him. She held fast and continued to suck his blood.
Most importantly, she continued to drain the power out of him. This was less a matter of sating her hunger, and more about diffusing a bomb … But every little bit helped.
There was the sound of a shotgun being racked on the floor above her.
Amanda twisted, hurling the minion into his colleague. She launched off her right leg, landed on her left, and kicked with the right, delivering a low roundhouse kick that struck through both of the minion’s knees. Joints bent sideways. She came back with a hammer fist, shattering his sternum, and dropping him.
Amanda stripped his weapons, then broke the man’s elbows so he couldn’t suicide and self-destruct.
She frowned to herself. “That was easy.”
Then she felt the crash downstairs.
Marco burst from the front room, kicked off of the wall of the front hallway and bounded into the dining room.
The dining room table was half collapsed, with his father slammed against the surface. A six foot, bipedal monster stood over Robert, claws raised, and fangs dripping with drool.
The wolf looked at Marco with gray eyes. “Don’t–”
Before the wolf could issue a single order to Marco, Robert stabbed the wolf in the leg with one of the silver steak knives. The tip of the knife went in behind the Achilles tendon. Robert punched out, ripping through it with the silver blade.
The wolf screamed and whimpered.
Marco lunged for the wolf, tackling it around the waist, and bringing it down to the ground. He straddled its bulk, his knees in the wolf’s armpits, and his left hand pressing all of his weight down on the side of the wolf’s muzzl. He pressed the wolf’s face flat against the floor.
Marco let out his own deep, animal growl as he punched the werewolf in the throat, over and over again.
He ended with a punch so hard it broke the wolf’s windpipe, its cervical spine, and the floor beneath it. The wolf’s thrashing and kicking grew weaker. Marco reared back, his fingers open and splayed like claws—his fingernails a bit longer than they had been a minute ago. He lashed forward and ripped open the wolf’s throat. He wrapped his nails around the exposed part of its spine and pulled out a fistful of vertebrae from the wolf’s body.
As the dead werewolf began to twist and shrink beneath him, turning back into a human being – that was three inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than the wolf it had been, Marco threw his head back and laughed.
It nearly sounded like the gleeful yips of a wolf.
Captain Hendershot of the Vatican Ninjas squinted through the dust at the wall that Misha had so casually thrown at his head. It had sliced neatly through the wall where he had been standing, and the walls on either side of him, and even into the roof.
But it was the angle of attack that had saved his life. Slanting down from where he stood to the window where it broke through, it even protected him like a shield against further attacks. I’m always grateful for the save, but I don’t need proof that prayer works.
He frowned as he looked around the area; he had work to do. He had enough room to crawl out, and even make it to the door.
Then Hendershot saw that the door was also sliced off at the top by the projectile wall. He scanned around for his bag. Crawling over to it, he shook off debris and dragged it over to the door. He pulled out the shotgun inside and blasted the hinges and the doorknob, taking the door right off the frame. Using the butt of his shotgun, he slammed it out of the way and pulled himself forward. He stood as soon as he was able, straightened, and charged down the stairs.
Hendershot stopped before the front door. He already had a solution the moment he saw that Misha could stop bullets with his mind, but had to stop a container of holy water with a rock.
Misha couldn’t effect holy objects with his telekinesis.
Despite the sounds of warfare going out on the street, he didn’t hurry. He took out the belt-fed machine-gun and calmly loaded it. He then took out an atomizer and sprayed down the tips of the bullets with holy water.
Hendershot took a deep breath, said a prayer, and pulled the door open.
There stood Misha, in the middle of the street, trying to bring down the sniper perches on his men.
He swung out into the street and opened fire with the blessed machine gun of Our Lady of Sorrows.
The first three bullets stitched along Misha’s back. He roared in pain. It was a deep, bellowing sound like it had come from a towering dragon the size of a skyscraper. It echoed from the depths of Hell. He fell forward, twitching as it burned. He rolled between the two blocks of asphalt he had ripped up from the street.
Misha wheeled around the concrete shields, holding back a scream. His eyes watered, he grimaced again, and detected the whiff of a struck match. His skin sizzled. He grew weaker as the bullets penetrated his hide, buried in his body, and drained his power. Raising a trembling hand, he blocked the sun from his eyes as it became suddenly harsh. Everything he had done with swagger and aplomb before would now be the death of him if this went on much longer.
The bullets must be holy. But how could they be holy bullets?
Misha extended his fingernails into claws and reached into his wounded flesh. Digging into his own skin, he grabbed the back end of the bullet. He roared again as he ripped it out. He raised the bullet to his eye.
It was a wooden bullet.
It had been sprayed down with holy water.
“Monster!” came a voice from the direction of the wooden bullets. “If you want my men, you will have to kill me first.”
Misha growled and reached for the small of his back. “I can oblige you that.” He whirled to face his new adversary.
Commander Robert Hendershot didn’t even blink as Misha came into his sights. He opened fire on full automatic, hosing down the creature before him. He didn’t care that the bullets weren’t striking the heart. It was clear that the monster was already growing weaker—if he hadn’t been, Hendershot knew that he would have been dead already.
The bullets streamed down the street, pelting the vampire. And Misha stood and took at least a dozen rounds in his stomach, five in his leg, and another three in his chest.
Misha answered by raising the gun from his belt holster and firing.
The first bullet punctured Hendershot’s right lung. The second one caught him lower, in the liver. The impacts knocked him back, but he spit blood and kept firing.
Misha dove forward, down the hole in the middle of the street, leftover from the previous night. He landed with a splash into the sewers below. He staggered off into the darkness, growling in pain.
Misha’s only comfort was that he had killed the ninja, and Marco would be his slave,—if not tonight, then within 48 hours.
Marco was already starting to become one of his own. Misha could smell it.
Robert Catalano scrambled away from the werewolf as his son crashed into it. The werewolf thrashed and bucked under Marco and he made certain that he was nowhere near the claws. It
was bad enough that Marco had been infected, he didn’t want to catch it as well.
Robert stared at his son, laughing over the slaughtered corpse of the creature that just attacked him.
It wasn’t so much that Marco had killed it with his bare hands—Robert was used to that by now.
The insane laughter wasn’t … too off-putting; Robert knew his son had a dark side to him.
However, the laughter went on for a full minute, and it became creepy after the first ten seconds.
The laughter died away, leaving Marco breathless. He bent over the body, catching himself on the floor as he steadied his breathing, forcing breaths to come slower.
Marco rose from the corpse and turned towards Robert. His eyes were a bright gold, and his hand dripped with blood. He dropped the vertebrae, then brought the hand up, like a surgeon ready for cleaning.
“This is infectious,” he said absently. He stared at it, and looked around it, making sure that no blood splattered on the floor. He cocked his head to one side, as though listening to the wind.
It was at that point that Robert noticed that the sounds of gunfire had died off.
Marco nodded and looked to his father. “I’m going to wash this off. Wouldn’t want to spread it around.”
He left the room, and Robert let out a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. Well, he thought, that was different.
The sound of footsteps thudded in the hallway, and Robert held onto the steak knife as he strode towards it.
He wasn’t expecting the two slabs of concrete rammed into the walls of his home. And he definitely hadn’t imagined seeing four Vatican ninjas dragging in their commander, who looked like he’d been gut shot. The faint sour smell coming from his body confirmed it.
“Lay him on the floor,” Robert said immediately. He charged in and helped them place Hendershot in place. He looked up at Bram. “My medical bag, in the living room, next to my desk. Bring it.”
Bram nodded and darted off. Robert gently moved Dougherty’s hands away from the bullet hole and winced at the placement. “It hit his liver. We need an ambulance. Now. Call 911, tell them officer down. Give them Donald’s badge number, I’ll apologize later.”
The redheaded ninja nodded and backed away, drawing his cell phone. Bram replaced him, bag in hand. Robert took it, placed it on the floor, and opened it up, ready to get to work.
“Hendershot?” Marco asked from the doorway.
Robert winced. The last thing he needed was Marco becoming feral on him.
Marco dropped to Hendershot’s other side. His hands were clean of blood, but not for long. He ripped away the shirt from the wound. He winced at the damage. He looked at Robert, and his father met Marco’s—now blue—eyes and gave a slight nod.
The odds of saving Hendershot would have been great, if they had him in a hospital at that instant.
Marco gave Hendershot a smile. It wasn’t amused, it wasn’t sardonic, and Robert could only presume that he had practiced a look meant to be reassuring. “Come on, man. You’re going to be fine.” He gripped Hendershot’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t wimp out on me now, you pussy,” he said softly. “Especially over a scratch. Your men are watching.”
Hendershot rolled his eyes and scoffed.
Marco frowned, and his voice was serious. “I promise you, Hendershot, we’re going to kill the little bastard.”
Hendershot gave a tight, grim smile. “It’s funny. I was born a Calvinist, but I didn’t believe.” He coughed violently, and Robert struggled to keep the pressure on the wound. His breathing started to speed up. “I had never known faith until I became Catholic. Now, to hear the angels call my name…”
“No,” Marco growled. “No. God can’t have you yet. You’re with me. You’re one of my people. You’re a cold fish, icy bastard, Hendershot, but you’re my bastard.”
Hendershot actually, for the first time Marco could recall, laughed. “No, you egomaniac. I will go to my God like a soldier. You’re not Him.” Hendershot gasped in pain and grabbed Marco’s arm. “Rodgers. He should tell my family, I died … saving my men.” He pulled Marco closer. “I died saving our men.”
Marco nodded firmly. “Our men.”
The Ninja commander’s breathing came fast and shallow. “No regrets, Marco. No fear. We’re the light.” His icy eyes locked on Marco’s face. “Though the darkness surrounds us, remember who you are. Kill them, Marco. Kill them all.” His ground his teeth, fighting against the pain, and Hendershot’s teeth cracked. “Deus vult! Deus … vult!”
Marco nodded. “God wills it.”
Hendershot’s body tensed and spasmed once.
Vatican Ninja Captain Hendershot joined their God.
At his rectory, Monsignor Rodgers answered his cell phone … only to discover that it wasn’t his usual phone for church business. It was the red phone that never rang. Not unless his day phone was turned off. Both were encrypted, but the red cell phone—blood red, of course—was the emergency phone.
Rodgers couldn’t consider what emergency was so severe that the ninjas would go straight to the red phone without even trying his regular one.
He looked around the main office of the rectory, then answered. “Hello!” he boomed. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Hello, Monsignor,” Bram said.
Rodgers paused and knew something significant had happened. Because Bram didn’t call him. He would have gone through Hendershot, as per protocol.
In short, something had happened to Hendershot.
“How bad? Hospital or morgue?”
“The morgue,” Bram whispered, as though worried someone might be listening in.
“Are you alone?” Rodgers asked.
“For the moment. Misha attacked us in open daylight.”
Rodgers frowned. He had heard of several engagements during daylight hours. Even the assassin Nuala had been strong enough to leap from one building into another without igniting. “We’ve seen other vampires run in the open for a few seconds.”
“This was several minutes,” Bram corrected him. “Nothing even scratched him until the Captain hit him with wooden bullets he’d sprayed down with holy water. All that did was drive him off.”
Rodgers let out a deep breath, deflating. “Okay. Is there any way to contain the scene?”
“After a fashion. Officer Tolbert arrived a few minutes after the shooting stopped. But we have one live minion, two dead werewolves, and the street is ripped apart like somebody made potholes with heavy artillery. So situation normal.”
Rodgers didn’t need him to complete the acronym SNAFU. “I’ll be there shortly. Make sure you’re not seen by anyone other than our people. We don’t want to drag in even more of the unwary.”
“Already done. All of our equipment is off-site, and one of the EMTs is working with Tolbert and the cops.”
“What about the werewolves?” the priest asked. “Any more bites or scratches?”
“No, but it was a near run thing. And … You know what, never mind, we’ll talk about it when you get in.”
“Copy that.”
Rodgers hung up. He crossed himself, then crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, and prayed for the soul of Captain Hendershot.
Chapter 21
Cleanup
The black SUV pulled up to the Greenpoint street with caution. The entire street had been cordoned off, as though it was going to host a block party that evening. Only instead of just putting up blue wooden police barricades, it was joined by crime-scene tape. The sidewalk and the street were sealed off. The fire department evaluated and evacuated homes, in case gas lines had been ruptured.
The SUV parked in front of the barricade. The doors opened to reveal Police Commissioner Raymond Wilson. He wore his usual three-piece suit, dark shades, and an NYPD baseball cap. He strode down the sidewalk, quietly observing the level of damage. Three buildings were on the verge of collapse—one wall completely ripped out and thrown across the street, leaving a building�
��s main support wall listing dangerously, two buildings with cracked foundations, and the front door and window of the third entirely destroyed. The street had two large holes like bombs had gone off, and two-lane wide strips had been pulled up and left like misshapen tiles across a different patch of street. The sidewalk was also torn up, some leaving holes that peeked into storm drains. Wilson couldn’t figure out why until he stopped in front of the brownstone, and observed where hunks of familiar gray concrete were driven into the walls.
The wreckage that used to be cars on the side of the road also demanded his attention. Three of them had been torn in half, both lengthwise and across the center. The jagged cuts and countless perforations he’d only seen once outside wartime. It had to be a minigun. It was usually a vehicle-mounted weapon, but the vehicle that had it was gone from the scene. It made Wilson wonder who had the minigun, and he wasn’t certain who would worry him more. If the attackers had the minigun, that was a problem. If the defenders had the minigun and still couldn’t stop the onslaught, that was a bigger problem.
Wilson walked up the steps of the residence and was apparently unnoticed by the cops and CSU people around him. He stopped at the threshold of the doorway, took off his sunglasses, and studied the wreckage. The bullet holes in the walls caught his eye, as did the AK on the stairs.
Wilson walked along the edge of the floor, careful to avoid the blood trails. He passed the front room, which had the window smashed in. Glass glittered on the floor as he walked. He stopped at the second door on the left; he peered inside and saw the gathering of officers and civilians. He could see into the third room, which was a dining room with a smashed table.
Wilson looked down, and took a long step over and around the blood trail, walking into the living room. There were only three civilians, all on the same couch.