City Of The Damned: Expanded Edition

by Stephen Knight

  “Christ, you broke my shoulder!” The man’s face was a mask of pain.

  She grabbed him by the neck and shook him violently. He gasped while Yi-Ting shrieked like a little girl beneath him.

  “Which car is yours?”

  “Accord,” the man gasped. “Green, two door—”

  Sharon released him and ran as if demons were chasing her.

  ***

  Claudia was just about to use the office chair to shatter the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the hallway outside when running footsteps caused her to rethink things. She plopped back down on the cot and affected a woozy look, pretending to be under the effect of the drug. When Sharon Thompson hurtled past, she bolted upright.

  “Sharon!” she shouted. “Sharon, get me out of here!”

  For a moment, Claudia thought that Sharon either hadn’t heard her or wasn’t about to stop. To her surprise, Sharon appeared at the window and gazed at Claudia with narrowed eyes.

  “Where’s the rest of the team?” Sharon asked.

  “Some warehouse in El Segundo,” Claudia answered. “I need to get out of here—can you help?”

  Sharon tried the locked door, then shrugged. “Guess not,” she said, and turned to run off.

  “I know where Osric is!” Claudia shouted.

  Sharon looked back at her. “Tell me.”

  “Get me out of here and we’ll go together. That’s the deal.”

  Sharon stared at Claudia for a moment longer, then ran off.

  “Sharon!” Claudia cried.

  Sharon reappeared, holding a large potted plant. Claudia barely had time to step out of the way before Sharon hurled the pot through the window. It exploded like thunder and shards of glass ricocheted through the office like shrapnel. None hit Claudia.

  Sharon stepped inside and grabbed Claudia’s arm. Her grip was strong, without a hint of gentleness. Her demeanor mirrored her touch.

  “Let’s go,” Sharon said. “I’m a little bit pressed for time right now.”

  ***

  Danny Licht met Ellenshaw at the passenger side of the van and waved him into the front seat. “You’re riding shotgun,” he said before he pulled open the clamshell door and hurled himself inside. Ellenshaw opened the passenger door and climbed into the high van, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “Ellenshaw’s with us now, Two-Six,” Licht said into his headset. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Roger that, Two-Six.”

  Ellenshaw’s radio crackled. “Two-Six for Ellenshaw.”

  Ellenshaw wiped the rainwater from his eyes. “Ellenshaw, go ahead, Two-Six.”

  “Robert, the rest of the team is on tactical three, so this is just between us on my end. First: never disobey an order from me again. I say, you do. Clear?”

  “Absolutely,” Ellenshaw said.

  “You’re going to follow that truck you reported,” Acheson continued. “Follow it to wherever it goes. We’ll try and have the satellite pick you up when we’re done at the warehouse. We’re still five to ten out, but I want the TOC team to break station and follow that truck. Do you understand?”

  “Understood,” Ellenshaw said.

  “You’re the only one in that van that’s ever seen a vamp up close and personal. I want you to take care of those people, because they’re going to depend on you to stay on top of what’s going on. Copy that?”

  “I copy that,” Ellenshaw said. He looked over at Fenster, sitting in the driver’s seat. “Move us toward the parking lot entrance. Keep the headlights off, and use the emergency brake to stop, so they can’t see our tail lights.”

  Fenster sighed and turned on the ignition and dropped the van into gear.

  “You’re in charge, Robert,” Acheson continued. “We’ll contact you when we’re done with the warehouse. I’m pretty certain we’re going to be a bit too busy to exchange updates, but if something happens, reach Washington directly.”

  Ellenshaw looked out the passenger window. He waved for Fenster to stop, and the van braked to a halt. Without the windshield wipers going, it would be tough to see when the box truck left the warehouse parking lot, but Ellenshaw was counting on them using their headlights. The gleam would give him enough to go on.

  “I’ll get it done,” he said.

  “I’m rolling off now. Good luck. Two-Six out.”

  “Have you been taught mobile surveillance methods?” Ellenshaw asked Fenster.

  “Of course,” Fenster said. “We all have.”

  “Congratulations. Now prove it. They’re leaving.” Ellenshaw pointed out the window. The box truck pulled out of the warehouse’s gate, its headlamps cutting a weak swath through the growing murk. “Follow those tail lights like they’re crack and you’re an addict.”

  “Nice analogy.”

  “Remember, no headlights,” Ellenshaw warned him. “And try not to get too close.”

  “No headlights in this crap, and don’t get too close,” Fenster repeated. He flipped on the windshield wipers and accelerated the van toward the parking lot exit. “Damn, we ought to just stay here and lose them early. What should I do when it gets full-on dark, professor?”

  Ellenshaw reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a pair of AN/PVS-7 night vision goggles. He put them on the padded engine cowling separating their seats.

  “I hope when it gets full-on dark, you’ll tell me you’re NVG qualified,” Ellenshaw said. “Because if you’re not, we’ll have to drive by Braille.”

  19

  They advanced upon the warehouse in two two-man elements, carrying all their gear with them, including the bulky fuel-air explosives. Acheson knew the building had a sophisticated fire suppression system, but it was of no concern. The FAEs would transform the entire warehouse into an inferno.

  Unknowingly retracing Ellenshaw’s route, Acheson and Nacho approached from the south, hurrying past the parking lot the TOC van had vacated only minutes earlier. The rain came down in great sheets, riding curtains of wind that ripped at their clothes and gear. The three leashed dogs Nacho led flattened their ears against the onslaught and ran with their bellies low to the ground. While the day rapidly darkened, the effect was more from the thickening cloud cover than the setting sun. According to Acheson’s watch, it had not slipped behind the horizon yet. But the murky shadows provided enough cover to reasonably mask their movements.

  “Parking lot gate’s open,” Nacho muttered over the radio. “Ellenshaw’s truck is gone. Wonder how many they got out?”

  Cecil and Julia approached them from the opposite end of the building. Julia was in the lead, hunched over beneath the weight of her gear and the forty-pound FAE she carried on her back; Cecil hung back, ready with the SAW. Most of the windows overlooked the parking lot; very few of them looked out onto the street itself. Acheson kept his eyes on the building, his AA-12 cradled in his hands.

  “Everyone cross over,” he broadcast, and the four members of Containment Group 6 sprinted across the street. They flattened against the warehouse. Nacho and Cecil assumed security positions. Julia stepped closer to Acheson.

  “What’s the op?” she asked, having to raise her voice above the noise made by the rain and wind. “Send in the dogs first, or—”

  “We don’t have the time.” Acheson pointed at his watch. It was almost 5:00 p.m. “But if they’ve bracketed the doors and windows, we’ll get our butts waxed if we try and use them. They didn’t pull everything out of here, and Ellenshaw reported those servants had guns.” He tapped the wall they leaned against. “We’ll go in through here. You got your shaped charges?”

  Julia nodded. She turned and Acheson reached into her backpack, which was pressed against her beneath the bulk of the FAE. Acheson found the four blocks of C-4 and he placed the gray-colored bricks on the face of the building, molding them into place. After plugging a blasting cap into each chunk of explosive, he connected them together with detonation cord. This he terminated into the remote receiver that he placed on the ground.

&nbs
p; Using hand signals, he backed the others off. When they were twenty meters away from the blast site, Acheson flipped a shielded switch on the black detonator in his right hand. The detonator was now armed.

  “I’ll go in first,” he said over the radio. “Jules, you come in after me and orient to my right. Cecil, you’ll take the center, and Nacho, you’re last with the dogs. You’ll have to handle them yourself. If they can’t get inside on their own power, you’ll have to figure it out. We won’t be able to help.”

  “Gotcha,” Nacho said.

  “Any last words?” Acheson asked.

  “Let’s light ‘em up, man,” Cecil said.

  “Blasting in three… two… one!” Acheson thumbed the red switch on the detonator, and the four bricks of explosive went off instantly. The force of the explosion traveled at almost 18,000 miles an hour as it ripped through the warehouse’s wood-accented brick façade and the sturdier cinderblock and steel beams inside. Interior sheetrock, cheap gypsum, and compressed cardboard were added to the mix of shrapnel that stormed through the warehouse’s interior.

  Before the thunderclap of noise had faded, Acheson pushed through the jagged five-foot-wide hole in the warehouse wall. He landed on his feet and moved to his left. Julia McGuiness hauled herself in behind him. Acheson covered her entrance with the AA-12. She crossed to the right of the hole and knelt to the floor as she shouldered her MP-5 as Cecil clambered through the hole.

  The warehouse smelled like a crypt. Loaded on pallets that sat on tall metal shelves so they were accessible by forklift, hundreds if not thousands of coffins filled the warehouse. Some of them were open, their lids exposing vacant cushioned interiors.

  But more than half were closed.

  “Holy shit,” Cecil muttered after he pulled himself into the building. He looked around, and his index finger left the SAW’s trigger guard and rested on the trigger itself.

  “There’s an army in here,” Julia said.

  Acheson glanced at his watch. Sweat mixed with the rainwater on his face. The acrid smoke from the explosives made his eyes water and his throat burn.

  “Let’s get it over with.” He advanced down the aisle, keeping to the left. The AA-12’s stock was held tight against his shoulder, the barrel lowered. Julia paced him on the right, MP-5 at the ready. Cecil trailed them as Nacho helped his dogs into the warehouse. One of them whined.

  They came to an intersection with a wider passageway big enough for two forklifts to pass each other. Acheson glanced back and saw that Delgado and his dogs were in the warehouse now. The dogs were frightened. They bared their teeth, hackles raised.

  “Stick together,” Acheson told the team. “We can’t split up and keep each other covered, so we’ll plant the FAEs in each corner, next to a load-bearing structure. We’ll hook right once we step out into the bigger aisle. I’ll cross over and secure the left. Jules, you keep to the right, and Cecil, you guard the rear. Nacho, come up in the center.”

  The team members gave their affirmatives, and Acheson stepped out into the intersection. When he turned his head to the left and scanned for any threats lurking among the rows of shelves, something snapped like a firecracker as it zipped past his ear. It was followed simultaneously by a loud report—gunfire.

  Acheson hadn’t been involved in a gunfight since leaving the U.S. Army, but his training had not been forgotten. He darted across the wide aisle and fired his AA-12 in the general direction of the incoming rounds, laying down suppressive fire. A second round slashed past his face from another direction. Acheson spun and dropped the AA-12 to the concrete floor as he ripped his SIG P220 from its holster. Atop a row of coffins two aisles away, a big man with a full beard crouched, holding an AR-15. He had a clear view of the broad aisle Acheson had just crossed, and he grinned as he adjusted his aim. His teeth were bright against his dark beard.

  Acheson fired twice before the other man could pull the trigger. Two .45 caliber rounds shattered the man’s teeth as they penetrated his mouth, sinus cavities, and the base of his skull in an evenly spaced grouping that would have made a Delta Force commando proud. The bearded man disappeared as his corpse toppled over and crashed to the floor.

  Acheson threw himself headlong down the aisle behind him as two more bullets left craters in the concrete floor at his feet. Across the passageway, Julia backed against the coffin at the end of the row, placed her right heel against the bottom of the shelving unit and twisted at the waist. Exposing only the top portion of her body, she fired on down the passageway, raking the shelves and coffins with full automatic fire. Her attack worked as planned, provoking a shadowy figure into movement. She zeroed in on it, thumbed her weapon’s fire selector to SEMI, and put three rounds through its center. The woman screamed as she fell forward into the passageway. She landed on the concrete floor headfirst and collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs.

  “Shooter down!” Julia reported.

  “Another shooter down by me,” Acheson said. He holstered his P220 and tore a flash-bang grenade from his belt. He pulled the pin and hurled it down the passageway where Julia’s shooter sprawled. It bounced down the concrete floor a few times, then went off in a thunderous explosion and a brief flash of light.

  Acheson grabbed his shotgun and advanced down the passageway at a run. Julia mirrored him, pacing him on the opposite side as Cecil lit up the area with his SAW, hosing the tops of the rows of caskets to the team’s rear. There was no movement in that area, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Acheson and Julia passed the two dead shooters. The one Acheson had hit with his pistol laid in a spreading pool of scarlet in one of the aisles, while Julia’s target was out in the open. As Acheson stepped past the body, he caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned just as the Doberman slammed into him, driving him to the concrete floor. Acheson cursed as the dog’s powerful jaws clamped onto his left sleeve. Snarling, the dog shook its head violently from side to side. Acheson released his AA-12 and punched it in the throat with all his might. The blow didn’t faze it. Acheson seized one of its forelegs and twisted it viciously. Tendons and ligaments popped. The dog yelped and released its hold. Acheson slammed the dog against the shelving unit with his left hand and pinned it in place. As it struggled, snarling, he blasted it to pieces with a single shot from his shotgun.

  More rounds zipped past him, but this time they came from Julia’s suppressed weapon. The second Doberman crashed to the floor beside him, jaws open, tongue lolling in death. A few feet away, the third dog, a gray-haired terrier, yelped. Julia popped a single round through its furry face. The smaller dog fell silent.

  “Nacho, let your dogs loose!” Acheson shouted.

  “They’re off,” Nacho reported. As Acheson clambered to his feet, Nacho’s three dogs zipped past him and surged into the semi-dark warehouse, their growls barely audible above the ruckus caused by the storm outside. They veered to the left and disappeared down another aisle. A gunshot rang out, and a man shouted. The shout turned into a scream as the dogs barked and snarled in earnest. There came the sounds of a struggle, and Acheson and Julia hurried toward it.

  “Cecil, watch the back door!” Acheson ordered.

  “On it.”

  Acheson and Julia eased around the corner. One of the dogs lay dead in a pool of its own blood while the other two savagely tore into a small man with flame red hair and alabaster skin. The dogs whipped him back and forth across the concrete floor, shredding his shirt. A small revolver lay on the floor ten feet from him.

  “Do we want him alive?” Nacho asked. He stood off Acheson’s right shoulder, MP-5 focused on the would-be gunman.

  “Yes,” Acheson told him.

  “Cut, cut, cut, cut!” Nacho shouted, hurrying toward the dogs. “Rex, cut! Baron, cut!”

  The chocolate Labrador and husky Rottweiler retreated three feet but continued to snarl at the small man as he curled up into a ball. He was bleeding badly from lacerations in both of his arms as he beheld the dogs with fea
rful eyes.

  “Get ‘em off me!” he shrieked. “Get ‘em off me, you muthafuckers!”

  Acheson and the others advanced. “How many more are left?” Acheson snapped.

  “I’m the last one,” the small man sobbed. His voice was high and nasal, and the accent spoke of New Jersey.

  “Which master do you serve?” Acheson demanded.

  The man shook his head. Acheson nodded to Nacho.

  “Action!” Nacho shouted.

  The dogs piled back into the man, tearing at him with their teeth. He shrieked as the two animals worked him over in an orgy of single-minded violence.

  “Tell us, or they’ll eat you alive!” Acheson said.

  The man screamed. Fabric ripped as one of the dogs tore away a leg of his jeans, leaving deep gashes in his thigh and calf. He kicked at the dogs, screaming like a woman.

  “They’ll go for your balls next, man,” Nacho said.

  “Get ‘em off me! Please!”

  Acheson nodded, and Nacho called off the dogs. They backed away obediently, but stayed within three feet of him. Snarling. Teeth exposed.

  “Who do you serve?” Acheson repeated.

  The man struggled to his knees with slow, jerky movements, his eyes on the two dogs. His breath wheezed in and out of his mouth, and a large rip in his right cheek leaked blood. Acheson could see the man’s teeth through the gash.

  “Who do you serve? Tell us, or the dogs finish you!”

  “Fuck you!” the man shouted, and he lunged between the dogs, reaching for the revolver. The dogs fell on him instantly, and he shrieked.

  “Want me to call ‘em off?” Nacho asked.

  Acheson watched the man wrestle with the two dogs for a moment. It was easy to do—surrounded by all the horrors sleeping in their caskets, looking on as a man was torn to ribbons by two dogs was nothing.