Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

“All right,” he said, eventually. “So I post a blog. Then what?”

  Harker smiled. “Then we wait.”

  “What if nobody replies?”

  “Do not worry,” replied Harker. “If we are forced to do this alone, I have a plan for that eventuality. But I think it is remarkably unlikely that we will need to. I have faith that our call will be answered.”

  McKenna opened his laptop, logged in, and accessed the dashboard of his blog. He was about to start typing when he paused, his fingers hovering over the keys.

  “This matters to you, doesn’t it?” he said, looking at the vampire. “This isn’t just about revenge for what they did to you, or getting back at your family. You really want the public to know what’s going on.”

  Albert Harker regarded him with an expression of naked determination. “You are quite correct, my friend,” he said, softly. “I was incarcerated for almost a decade with no hope of release, by people acting with total impunity from the law, but this is not about vengeance. This is nothing less than a crusade, against everything that Blacklight has done in the shadows, on behalf of all the men and women who died because they weren’t allowed to know the truth that might have saved them. And I promise you this, Kevin, right here and now. The day will come when you will be proud to tell people that you were there when it began.”

  McKenna nodded, and began to type. As the words began to flow, more easily than they had in a long time, a tiny part of the fear that had filled him ever since he stepped into the garage beneath The Globe’s offices evaporated. It was replaced by something else; something his long-jaded system found unfamiliar.

  Excitement.

  28

  WHERE IT HURTS

  For a terrible moment, Paul Turner was completely unable to breathe; his eyes remained fixed on his console’s screen as his heart froze in his chest and his insides turned momentarily to water. Then his long years of experience kicked in; his fingers flew across the screen, ordering it to find Kate Randall’s locator chip. The console worked as Turner screamed silently for it to hurry, then returned the result of its search.

  RANDALL, KATE (LIEUTENANT)/NS303, 78-J/LOCATOR CHIP NOT FOUND

  Turner shoved the console into its loop on his belt and took off towards the Level A stairwell at a flat sprint.

  It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself as he ran. Monitoring is down on B. If she’s there, then her chip won’t show up. It doesn’t mean anything.

  As he pounded down the corridor, his boots echoing against the hard concrete floor, Paul Turner pulled his radio from his belt and entered his code on to its screen. The small rectangle lit up and he tapped a series of commands, activating a Security Division interrupt; this would cause the handsets of his Operators to act like speakers, broadcasting his voice whether they were switched on or not.

  “Security breach on Level B,” he said, his voice perfectly steady even as he ran. “Sections A, B and D, implement Security Protocol Alpha 7. Section C, convene on Level B room 261. Full medical and forensic tech. Out.”

  Protocol Alpha 7 would see three-quarters of the Security Division pair up into two-man teams and station themselves outside the most sensitive areas of the Loop: the hangar, the Lazarus Project, the Interim Director’s quarters, and a long list of others. The remaining quarter of the Division would meet him at the site of the explosion.

  Kate’s room. Where the bomb went off. Kate’s room.

  Turner knew he should not be thinking about the situation in such terms; the entire Department could be in danger, the bomb merely the precursor to a larger attack, and the fate of a single Operator should not be a priority under such circumstances. But as he skidded to a halt in front of the access door to the emergency stairs and pressed his card against the panel beside it, he found himself unable to view the situation in such objective terms.

  Not her. Anyone else. Just not her.

  The door unlocked and he pushed it open. The emergency stairs ran down the outer edges of the sprawling base, a seemingly endless column of concrete steps that doubled back on themselves between each level. He leapt down them three at a time, his heart thumping in his chest, and pressed his ID against the door that led into Level B. Turner pushed it open and immediately smelt smoke, along with a bitter chemical undercurrent that made his eyes water.

  The alarm was still sounding its endless two-tone whine. Turner paused, accessed the security override controls on his console, and turned it off. He replaced the console with one hand as he drew out his radio with the other and switched it to the Loop’s global frequency. He walked slowly into the northern Level B corridor, speaking into his radio as he did so, telling everyone in the Loop to remain where they were and wait for further instructions. The Security Officer knew that there would be panic in certain sections of the base, but that was the unavoidable result of a lockdown; the purpose of containing everyone where they were was to allow Turner and his team to do their job, and to prevent potential enemy operatives or suspects from escaping.

  The damage report had been correct; the fires that the explosion had caused had been extinguished, as it had claimed. But the smoke that had billowed from them had far from dissipated; it quickly began to burn his nose and throat as he made his way forward. His helmet was in his quarters on Level C, so he pulled his field survival kit from his belt, extracted the air filtration mask and the plastic goggles, and put them on. The goggles did nothing to clear the drifting smoke, but they protected his eyes from the acrid air, and the mask would keep out any toxins that had been let loose in the blast.

  Paul Turner walked slowly through the smoke with his Glock drawn. He doubted that whoever was responsible for the explosion would be nearby; he fully expected to find out that the bomb had been detonated either remotely or automatically. He also had no intention of being unprepared if his assumption turned out to be wrong.

  The numbers on the doors to his left climbed steadily – 235, 237, 239, 241 – and the smoke thickened as he approached number 261. He walked silently, his breathing shallow, his senses heightened; when the distant thud of boots on concrete became audible behind him, he settled his back against the wall and levelled his Glock in the direction of the sound. Moments later a cluster of ethereal black shapes became visible through the smoke, shapes that seemed to solidify as they neared him, their purple visors lending them a familiar robotic, anonymous appearance. Turner lowered his pistol and stepped into the middle of the corridor to meet them.

  “Section C reporting, sir,” said the nearest Operator, his voice flattened by the filters in his helmet.

  “Is that you, Bennett?” asked Turner.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Operator.

  “Good,” said Turner. “Fall in behind me. Ready One for supernaturals, anyone else I want alive. Anything that moves, anything that shows up hot, I want to know about it immediately. Clear?”

  “Clear, sir.”

  “Then follow me.”

  Less than a minute later Turner began to see the carnage described in the damage report with his own eyes. The corridor had been stained white by the billowing clouds of carbon dioxide released by the fire-suppression system. A blackened piece of wood lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by chunks of plaster and scraps of twisted metal. The debris mounted up as Turner led Section C past rooms 257 and 259, then stopped.

  The entrance to room 261 was entirely gone.

  The door itself had been blown across the corridor and was lying on the ground beneath a pile of debris; much of its wooden surface was missing, revealing the metal skeleton beneath. The doorway had been destroyed, leaving a ragged hole where there had once been a rectangular frame. Smoke plumed from the room as thin white foam poured out into the corridor.

  “Jesus,” said Bennett. “I hope there wasn’t anyone in there.”

  The Security Officer turned his head and stared at him. He wanted to reach out and crush the Operator’s throat with his bare hands, as punishment for giving voice to what Turner had
already realised: if Kate had been in her room when the bomb went off, there was no chance of finding her alive.

  “Bennett, with me,” he said, summoning all that remained of his legendary self-control. “The rest of you, check the remainder of the corridor and double back. Then seal off a ten-metre perimeter and see what you can do about getting rid of this damn smoke.”

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the Section C Operators, and led the rest away down the corridor. Bennett stood silently at Turner’s side, facing the remains of the entrance to room 261; he appeared to have concluded that the best course of action was to keep his mouth shut.

  Paul Turner took a deep breath. The air in the corridor was slowly beginning to clear, but the dark interior of the room was still thickly clouded with smoke and spent chemicals. He drew his torch from his belt and flicked it on; a bright white beam burst from the bulb.

  “Careful,” he said. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bennett.

  Turner nodded, then walked into Kate Randall’s quarters.

  The small room had been utterly destroyed.

  The wardrobe, desk and bedside table had been blown to splinters and blasted against the walls and ceiling, leaving scratches and gouges across the plaster. The bed was ruined, torn to shreds and scorched by both the explosion and the fire that had burned fiercely until the Halon system had activated. A pitch-black depression in the centre of the floor suggested the likely location of the bomb; of the device itself, there remained nothing that the naked eye could discern.

  Attached to the door, Turner thought. I’d bet my life on it. Triggered as it opened, then a second or two delay to make sure she was in the room before it fired.

  He looked round the devastated room. The walls were scorched and blackened, as were the floor and ceiling; it was like standing inside an enormous oven. The residue coating the surfaces was thick and lumpy, and impossible to identify. It could be manufactured or biological; Turner could not tell with any degree of certainty whether what he was looking at were the charred remains of Kate Randall.

  “There’s no one here, sir,” said Bennett. “We need to seal this for forensics.”

  “Wait,” said Turner. He was not ready to leave just yet; if Kate had been in here when the bomb detonated, if she was, in fact, all around him, on the walls and the ceiling, then this would be the last time he was ever close to her. Forensics would analyse the room, then tear it down and send it piece by piece to the labs for chemical and spectral analysis. Whatever was left of Kate would end up in Petri dishes and specimen jars.

  “Sir!” shouted a voice from the corridor. It awoke him from his thoughts, and he turned towards the ragged hole where the doorway had stood. Section C had returned and were crouching beside the shattered door of room 261.

  “What is it?” he asked, walking towards them.

  “There’s someone here, sir,” replied the Operator. “Under the door.”

  Paul Turner’s heart stopped in his chest. For a moment, he just stared at the pile of rubble atop the ruined door, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. Then his paralysis broke and he ran forward, sliding to his knees beside his men.

  “Are they breathing?” he asked, peering down at the door. Beneath it, through a gap between the frame and a jagged lump of wall plaster, he could see pale human skin.

  “There’s a pulse, sir,” confirmed the Operator.

  “Let’s get this off them,” said Turner, and gripped the edge of the door with both hands. One of Section C took hold of the other side and the two of them hauled the heavy metal frame up and back, sending it clattering to the floor. A cloud of dust billowed up from where the door had lain; Turner waved it away, almost frantically.

  Let it be her. Please let it be her.

  The dust dispersed and they crowded in to look.

  Lying on the floor, covered in broken plaster and splintered wood, was a tiny girl with blonde hair and pale skin. Her eyes were closed, a thick smear of blood ran down the wall above her head, but her chest was rising and falling steadily.

  “Who is she?” asked Turner. He was overcome with disappointment, for which he truly hated himself; he had wanted it to be Kate Randall so badly that the sight of anyone else was terrible. It meant that Kate could still be in her room, smeared across the walls.

  It meant she could still be gone.

  One of the Operators placed his console against the girl’s forearm and typed a command. The locator chip that was surgically implanted beneath the muscles of every Operator’s forearm was scanned, and a name appeared on the screen.

  “Her name is Natalia Lenski,” said the Operator. “She’s Lazarus, sir.”

  “Then what the hell was she doing on Level B?”

  The Operator shook his head. “No idea, sir.”

  29

  DROWNING OUT

  LINCOLN COUNTY, NEVADA, USA

  YESTERDAY

  Larissa Kinley stared through the hole in the wall and wondered who she was going to have to explain it to.

  She had hit the gym as soon as the Special Operations Squad returned from Nuevo Laredo. The ride home in the helicopter should have been triumphant, and for most of the squad it clearly was; they were basking in the afterglow of a job well done, joking and laughing among themselves. Tim Albertsson had joined in, although she didn’t believe for a minute that his focus had truly been on his squad mates and what they had achieved; instead, it had been where she now belatedly realised it had for several weeks.

  On her.

  She had asked for permission to fly home on her own, knowing he would not grant it, but hoping that the question would reinforce what she had told him in the walled garden behind Garcia Rejon’s mansion, after Tim had kissed her.

  He kissed me. That’s what happened. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him back.

  Tim had refused her request, as expected, so she had strapped herself into the seat furthest from his and stayed silent the entire way home. She didn’t trust herself to speak, unable to predict with sufficient accuracy the words that might come out of her mouth. Tim had been either astute, or oblivious, and had left her alone. She had still caught him looking at her, though; tiny glances, barely more than flicks of his eyes, but there nonetheless, and obvious once she knew what to look for.

  How long has he been looking at me like that? Why didn’t I notice before?

  Larissa excused herself the instant the helicopter set down on the tarmac outside the NS9 hangar and made for the safety of her quarters. Once the door was locked behind her, she turned on the screen that hung on the wall opposite her bed, loaded NS9’s secure video link application, and sat with her finger hovering over the button that would send a message to Jamie’s console informing him she was trying to reach him, for almost five minutes. Her mind was racing, thoughts and feelings jumbling and rolling together; and at the very back of her mind a voice, the one she hated, that told her she was ugly and stupid and no good, whispered to her.

  Maybe you did notice how Tim looked at you. Maybe you didn’t say anything because you didn’t mind. Maybe you liked him looking at you like that.

  She pushed the voice away as far as she was able, and closed the application. Then she pulled off her uniform, threw on a pair of shorts and a vest, and headed for the gym, her feet floating above the ground.

  That’s not true, she told herself, as she began to work the heavy bag. She was pulling her punches, but it nonetheless began to swing back and forth rapidly, her knuckles thudding against it with a noise like the crack of a bullwhip. I didn’t know he liked me, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t encourage him. I really didn’t.

  But the voice at the back of her mind wouldn’t leave her alone; it dripped poison into her ears as she swung her fists, harder and harder.

  Why don’t you talk to Tim about Jamie? You’re so quick to tell everyone else about him, you normally won’t shut up about him. Why is it different with Tim?

  The bag swung higher and higher, creaki
ng on the chain that connected it to the ceiling.

  Didn’t you notice how he always sits next to you at dinner? Of course you did, you’re a smart girl. You noticed and you liked it, didn’t you?

  Puffs of dust began to burst from the seams as her fists pounded the bag; it was now little more than a red blur, hurled backwards and forwards by her supernatural strength.

  Why haven’t you mentioned Tim to Jamie? You’ve worked with him almost every day since you’ve been here, but you never thought he was worth telling your boyfriend about? Why didn’t you want them to know about each other?

  “Shut up,” whispered Larissa, and felt familiar red heat spill into the corners of her eyes. The heavy bag whipped back and forth, impossibly fast, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders ripple as she increased the power of her swings.

  Maybe that’s why you don’t want to go back to Blacklight. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with how they treat you or how they look at you. Maybe that’s why you asked General Allen about transferring Jamie here, because you knew he’d never do it. Maybe that’s what you’re hoping for, that you can stay here with Tim.

  “SHUT UP!” she screamed, a guttural roar that seemed to rise from the pit of her stomach and erupt from her mouth. Her eyes blazed under the fluorescent lights of the gym, and she felt her fangs burst into place, cutting her lower lip. She swung her fist with every shred of power she possessed, crashing it into the side of the heavy bag with the force of a wrecking ball. The chain snapped and the bag itself rocketed across the gym, crunching a hole in the opposite wall before bursting in a great cloud of sand.

  Instantly, the rage left her. She stared at the hole, embarrassment rising quickly through her as a memory surfaced from her old life, the life before she needed to drink blood to survive; her fourteen-year-old self hurling a glass against the wall of her bedroom, a disproportionate response to some long-forgotten parental slight. Her mother had said nothing, just stared at her with an expression of such deep disappointment that Larissa had burst into tears, screaming for her mum to get out of her room, to leave her alone, before hurling herself on to her bed and covering her head with a pillow, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. She felt similar shame now, although there was one major difference between what was happening now and what had happened when she was fourteen.