by Hill, Will
“You have disgraced yourself,” he said, staring into his valet’s wide, outraged eyes. “And, by extension, me. I am extremely disappointed.”
Lamberton made a series of awful, strangled noises, as blood poured out of the gaping hole in his chest. Valentin held his gaze for a long moment, then crushed the slowing heart in his fist. The heavy muscle burst under the pressure and a millisecond later the rest of Lamberton did likewise; he exploded with a huge, wet bang, splattering across his cell and the pale face of his master.
For several seconds, the soft patter of falling blood was the only sound in the cell. Then Valentin turned to face Turner, soaked in the blood of his oldest friend.
“I’m afraid that was something I could only have allowed myself to do,” he said. “I hope you can understand. And that you will accept my sincere apologies for the things he did in my name.”
Turner stared at the gore-streaked figure before him and nodded slowly. He pressed the button that wound his stake back into his T-Bone and holstered it, his eyes never leaving Valentin’s.
“This Brennan,” continued Valentin. “The man my servant was in league with. He is still in the grounds of this facility?”
“Yes,” said Turner. He was still attempting to process what had just happened before him. “Probably running for the fence.”
“You are going to collect him?”
“That’s right,” said Turner. He could feel his equilibrium starting to return, feel his mind beginning to regain its sharpness.
“Major Turner,” said Valentin. “I would very much like to accompany you. I feel that I must make amends for the crimes of my servant.”
Turner opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered.
He’s here, he thought. And he’s just destroyed his oldest friend. We’re going to have to start trusting him at some point. There’s nothing we can do to him if he’s lying, so we may as well start using him.
“Nelson,” he said. “Call for a Security Division Section and stay here until they relieve you.”
The young Operator nodded, and he turned his attention back to the remaining occupant of the cell. “Come on then,” he said. “Before he gets away.
Valentin blurred through the ultraviolet wall. Turner stared, marvelling again at the old vampire’s astonishing speed.
“Ready when you are, Major Turner,” said the vampire, and smiled.
Paul Turner looked at Valentin Rusmanov as the lift they were standing in ascended; the vampire appeared supernaturally calm considering what he had just done, and who he had done it to.
This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, he thought. Which is really saying something after today.
The lift slowed to a halt, before the doors opened on the long Level 0 corridor. Turner set off at a flat sprint, pulling his console from his belt as he ran. Valentin flew effortlessly alongside him, peering down at the small rectangular screen.
“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “Is he gone?”
“No,” said Turner. “He’s still out by the runway. It doesn’t look like he’s moving.”
They reached the wide double doors that led into the hangar. The Security Officer dipped his shoulder and burst through them without slowing; Valentin swooped gracefully through behind him.
The huge doors stood open to the night sky; the rippling underside of the vast hologram that shielded the base from enemy satellites and reconnaissance planes loomed overhead, blocking out all but the brightest stars. Turner banked like a sprinter entering the final bend and accelerated towards the wide grounds of the Loop, his console in one hand.
“How far?” asked Valentin.
“Six hundred metres,” replied Turner. “Straight ahead.”
“Forgive me, Major Turner,” said Valentin, then he disappeared from Turner’s view. The Security Officer skidded to a halt, shock barrelling through him.
No no no. You treacherous bastard.
He was reaching for his T-Bone when impossibly strong hands gripped him beneath his arms and lifted him effortlessly into the air.
Valentin Rusmanov rocketed forward like a bullet from a gun, sweeping Paul Turner along mere centimetres above grass and tarmac that were little more than a blur; the speed of the vampire was absolutely dizzying, impossible and unnatural. Less than two seconds later Valentin pirouetted upwards and spun back down to the ground, landing as gracefully as a butterfly. He released his grip on Turner, who staggered like a drunk.
“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “I can’t see him. Or smell him.”
With some difficulty, Turner focused his attention on his console. According to the map on the screen, they were less than fifteen metres away from Operator Brennan. In front of him, a wide black shape sat in the flickering darkness beneath the hologram.
“What’s that?” asked Valentin. “It smells remarkable.”
“It’s a garden,” replied Turner, pulling his MP5 from its holster. “A rose garden. It’s a memorial to two Operators who died out here.”
“Is he in there? This man we’re looking for?”
“So my map says,” replied Turner. He stowed his console and drew his torch from his belt.
“Come on then,” said Valentin, and floated across the grass towards the garden. Turner strode alongside him, until they reached the opening in the stone walls that served as the entrance to the garden. He stepped up on to the wooden boards that ran between the huge rose beds, turned on his torch, and shone it round the dark garden, already certain of what he was going see.
Nothing.
There was no sign of Richard Brennan.
His torch beam picked out a splash of colour at the rear of the garden and he walked towards it. Valentin floated silently alongside him, having clearly also realised that their pursuit had been in vain. In front of them stood the wooden bench that had been dedicated to the memories of John and George Harker; their names were engraved on a bronze plaque bolted to the centre of the backrest. Turner shone his torch slowly across it and saw what his map had led him to.
A pool of blood lay on the wooden seat of the bench. It was almost dry, but it had run when it was fresh, spilling between the boards and dripping on to the ground. In the middle of the dark liquid, a small square of metal gleamed in the white beam of Turner’s torch.
“He cut his chip out,” said Turner, softly. “Cut it out of his own arm. He could be anywhere.”
Valentin stood beside him, looking down at the gory present Brennan had left for whoever came looking for him. “There’s something written on the bench,” he said. “I can smell the paint.”
Turner widened the beam of his torch, knowing what he was going to see.
Two words had been scrawled across the back rest, desecrating the bronze plaque with bright green spray paint.
HE RISES
For a long moment, neither man nor vampire said a word.
Paul Turner suddenly felt more tired than he could remember feeling at any point in his long, full life. There was a limit to how much any man could handle, could absorb and still continue to put one foot in front of the other, and he felt, for the first time, as though he was on the verge of reaching his. Everything seemed dark, a tunnel in which the light at the end was slipping further and further away. Brennan was gone and with him, presumably, every discussion they had ever had about Dracula: their theories, assumptions, and the beginnings of their strategy to attempt to deal with him.
This did not put them back to square one; it put them much further back than that.
“I can find them, you know,” said Valentin. His voice was full of quiet fire. “Dracula. My brother. If you let me, I can find them. I can return and tell you where they are.”
Turner shrugged. “If you decide to leave,” he said, “I think we both know that I can’t stop you.”
“I suspect you would give it quite the try,” said Valentin, a smile rising on his face. “But I’d rather I didn’t have to find out. I’d rather go with your blessing.�
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Turner studied the ancient vampire’s face for a long moment. “Go,” he said, and smiled. “Go and find them. Then come back. Don’t make me look stupid for trusting you.”
“Count on it,” said Valentin. He looked at Turner for a brief moment, then rose into the sky and was gone.
55
HOLD THE FRONT PAGE
Kate Randall sat on the bench in the back of the helicopter, her hands resting on her knees, and tried to still her racing heart. Matt Browning was beside her, his pale, gentle face set with determination, his gaze locked on the floor. On the bench opposite sat Colonel Victor Frankenstein, his huge grey-green head almost brushing the ceiling. He was watching them silently, his uneven eyes unreadable.
They had lifted off from the Loop twenty minutes earlier, their helicopter hauling itself into the darkening sky and heading south. The pilots had announced an ETA once they were airborne, and since then there had been silence in the passenger hold. That was fine with Kate; she had no desire to talk about where they were going or what they were going to do. This was not a normal operation, where intelligence could provide a reasonable understanding of the terrain, numbers and motives of the enemy they were about to face.
This was different.
They had no idea how many vampires were waiting for them; it could be Albert Harker on his own, or he could have an army with him. They had no idea what Harker was doing, although the location they were heading to, the printing press of one of the biggest tabloids in the country, certainly suggested that his plan involved the public exposure of something, whether it was vampires, or Blacklight, or both. And, crucially, neither of them had any idea how their fathers had become involved with whatever was happening.
Kate glanced over at Matt. She was trying not to worry about him, but failing; he had no Operational experience whatsoever, and had undergone only basic weapons and tactics training at the Loop. This was understandable, as Matt had been recruited to work for the Lazarus Project, not as an Operator; the only normal scenario in which he would be expected to take up arms was in defence of the Loop. Part of her was convinced that she should not have brought him, that if anything happened to him, it was going to be her fault. But she knew she could not have gone without him and lived with herself: there were certain things that you simply did not keep from people.
“Five minutes,” called the pilot.
“OK,” rumbled Frankenstein, then gave Kate a thin smile. “Are you ready?”
The monster gave her no cause for concern, despite his absence from active operations; he had volunteered, he had more experience than the rest of the Department combined, and she was absolutely delighted that he was there.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Albert Harker smiled as he rounded the security desk, which was now soaked with Kevin McKenna’s blood, and floated towards Pete Randall.
His terrible eyes glowed a red so dark it was almost black, and Pete found himself absolutely certain that his life was about to end. But rather than the agonising death he was expecting, Albert Harker merely clapped him hard on the back.
“No going back, Pete,” he said. “We go all the way to the end.”
Harker led him back into the main room of the press and turned his attention to the four men that Greg Browning had tied up earlier. The noise in the room was deafening; the machines had started to run again, pumping out copies of the vandalised version of the next day’s edition of The Globe that carried Kevin McKenna’s final story. The captive men looked up at the blood-soaked vampire with outright terror, as Pete tried desperately to clear his head; the unthinkable horror of McKenna’s death and the heavy blow to the head had combined to render him barely functional.
The vampire approached the two nearest men, the ones who had tried to crawl away when Pete had been briefly unconscious, and pulled their throats out with two casual flicks of his wrist. Blood gushed out across the concrete floor, a pool of crimson that spread with nauseating speed. The two remaining men screamed and grunted behind their gags, their eyes bulging in their heads. They tried to squirm away as Harker approached them, his smile wide, his eyes blazing.
“Don’t…” managed Pete. “Please…”
The vampire rounded on him. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Do what needs to be done? Your courage may be failing you, but mine remains resolute.”
“You said… no one… would get hurt.”
Harker sighed. “That is how I would have had it, Pete. Believe me. Unfortunately, Kevin has changed that, for all of us. Now they will be coming, and we must be ready.”
Pete stared, tears rising in the corners of his eyes. This was not what he had signed up for, what he had gathered his courage and travelled into the unknown to be a part of. This was the murder and terrorism of the innocent.
This was madness.
Harker lifted the two crying, thrashing workers into the air and turned to face Pete. “Go to the loading bay with the others,” he said. “This will be where they come. Quickly, now.”
Pete looked down the long room. At the far end, beside the rolling metal doors, he could see Greg Browning overseeing four men in blue overalls. Three of them were stacking a pallet with bundles of newspapers as they came off the press; the fourth was sitting in the cab of a forklift truck, waiting to load it into a waiting lorry. The driver was presumably safely in his cab, waiting for the word to go, with no idea of what was taking place less than fifteen metres behind him.
Pete wondered briefly whether he could run, whether he could hide in the tangle of machinery, but realised immediately that such a move would be futile; Harker could fly above the machines to look for him, could move many times faster than him, and could in all likelihood hear him breathing.
He was going to have to bide his time, and hope for a chance to atone for the horror he had helped unleash.
Jack Williams stood beside the open doorway of the helicopter, his static line fixed safely to the security rail. Behind him, Todd McLean, the Australian rookie who had replaced Shaun Turner, and Angela Darcy, whom he had temporarily recalled to his squad after her own had been decimated, were watching him carefully, waiting to see if he could control the anger that was raging inside him.
He was furious with Kate and Matt for going after Albert Harker, and incredibly disappointed they had not come to him and told him what was happening. He would have let them come with him, of course he would, and it hurt him to think that Kate hadn’t known that. And part of him, the ambitious part that wanted to be the Blacklight Director one day, was terrified by the thought that they might succeed, might destroy Albert Harker before he could get there.
Mine, he thought, as the helicopter swept low across the landscape. He’s supposed to be mine.
Pete Randall walked between the thundering machines of the printing press like a man going to the gallows.
Albert Harker flew easily above him, holding the bound men casually in each hand. As they reached the wide expanse of the loading bay, and Greg Browning and the four workers in blue overalls stopped to watch their approach, the vampire’s eyes bloomed a bright, joyous red. He swooped down to the ground, dropped one of the two men to the floor, then turned and threw the other over the towering machines. The stricken man spun through the air, impossibly high, and disappeared from view. A second later there was an awful thud, like a bag of cement hitting the ground.
“Continue with your work,” growled Harker, turning to face the staring, shell-shocked workers. “And you may yet live to see the morning. If you get any stupid ideas, of trying to run, or trying to oppose either myself or my companions, I suggest you think about what I just did and reconsider. There have been changes to our circumstances, but your roles remain the same. Untie your colleague, load the trailers, and send them on their way. Let nothing else concern you.”
The four men stared at him, their faces slack with terror.
“Get back to work!” bellowed Harker.
The men scattered, three of them
running back to their posts with their heads down. The other lowered his head, scampered forward, and untied the man that Harker had carried down the long room.
The huge press had continued to run as Harker spoke and a number of copies of The Globe had piled up on the floor at the end of the final conveyor belt. As the workers began to scoop them up, Pete looked at the front page full of the simple, awful headline that McKenna had written, and felt nothing. This was what he had dreamt of, a daring plan to alert the public to what they weren’t being told, but the reality was awful; the papers turned his stomach to look at them.
He looked up and saw Greg Browning staring at him. The expression on his face was one of total dismay, and Pete knew that his new friend was feeling exactly the same things as him.
Betrayal. Disappointment.
Fear.
Albert Harker rose up into the air and hovered above the rolling doors, watching the men working below him. His red eyes kept glancing along the long length of the building and Pete knew why: the vampire believed they were about to have company.
Greg curled the fingers of his hand in a tiny, subtle ‘come here’ gesture. Pete walked slowly across to the conveyor belt, as casually as he was able, and pretended to examine the newspapers that were streaming past. Greg made his way to the opposite side and lowered his head, as if concentrating on the job in hand.
“Where’s McKenna?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Dead,” said Pete, his voice low and trembling. “Harker killed him.”
“Why?” asked Greg. “What the hell for?”
“He rang the police,” said Pete. “Knocked me out, then rang the police from reception. So Harker tore his throat out.”
“Jesus,” whispered Greg. “Why did Kevin do that? This is his thing.”
Pete shook his head, so slightly it was barely visible. “I don’t think it is,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t think it ever was. I just don’t think McKenna realised until it was too late. This is Harker’s thing. You, me, McKenna, we’re just pawns. And I’ll tell you something else, Greg. I don’t think you and I were ever meant to get out of here.”