“What?” he said sharply. “What did you think would happen? Did you really think there would be a public outcry over international kidnapping and the rich getting around the law? That the world would suddenly see vampires as evil creatures? Jack, shit like this goes on all the time. Back room deals and agreements sealed with a handshake. Nobody gets egg on their faces, no ripples caused, no boats rocked. The vampires are just the newest bunch. The rich bastards have been above the law since the first law was ever written down.”
I actually had hoped there might be repercussions over the whole thing. That maybe something might come of it. It hadn't influenced my decision to go at all but I had hoped.
“You're not that naive, Jack surely?”
“I used to think I was cynical but the world keeps doing things that make me look like an optimist,” I said finally.
“Go home, Jack,” he replied. “You'll be called to appear at various hearings and committees and bullshit. You should think yourself lucky you're not headed to the Glasshouse. If you were still in the regiment I'd have you RTU'd in a heartbeat and bounced so far you'd never land. But between you and the government my hands are effectively tied. As it is you'll probably get a reprimand that'll get buried because it's too secret to deal with.”
He rubbed his face with his hands.
“There may not even be a Ministry to come back to,” he said wearily. “This was the straw that broke the camel's back. They're saying that the Ministry was set up as a knee-jerk reaction and now it's time to rein it in. We'll probably end up under the Ministry of Defence or absorbed into the police service under the Home Office.”
“That's crazy,” I said, startled.
“That's life,” he replied. “Get out of here. Go home. Get your story straight. We're done here.”
EPILOGUE
Michael Tunbridge sat back into a deep leather armchair, cradling a wineglass. He took a sip and considered the day's events. Sure, he'd gotten pretty torn up by those werewolves, and the skin on his face was still pink and raw, and Pagan had escaped, but he was considering it a win. Those in the know within the vampire community were making sure that the rumors were flying. Pagan had killed DeClerc, attacked the Fairborn Estate, killed several innocent vampires, and made his escape with the aid of persons unknown.
He took another sip, savoring the warm blood. He could feel the liquid fueling the healing process. That damn Huntsman and his team had left him with several wounds which would need time—and blood—to heal.
Having Pagan's body would have galvanized many into Tunbridge's camp, but no matter. He had other plans, other irons in the fire. The war between the vampires and the humans was inevitable, and the faster it got here the better.
He settled back further and permitted himself a small smile.
“Pleased with yourself?”
The wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered on the hardwood as Tunbridge tried to spring to his feet. A pair of arms, immensely strong, pushed him back into the chair. In the dim light he could see a face, thin to the point of emaciation, with long, lank hair and deep, sunken eyes.
“Morder!”
“Answer the question,” hissed the newcomer. “Are you pleased with yourself? You have interfered with the Mistress's plans. You have taken steps you were not authorized to take. You were warned.”
Tunbridge trembled in the other vampire's iron grip.
“Answer!”
“No!”
“Good. You should think yourself lucky that the Huntsman got away. Had you killed him this would be a very different conversation and, you would have found out that, vicious as he is, the Huntsman is but a babe compared to me when it comes to inflicting pain.”
Tunbridge trembled. He knew it was true. Every vampire knew about Morder and the sensible ones feared him. But why was he working for Lucia?
Morder leaned closer, his voice a low hiss.
“It's irrelevant now. He got away. Now all I have to do is make sure the message gets through this time.”
“No problem,” said Tunbridge. “The Huntsman's off-limits. Understood.”
Morder straightened and looked down at Tunbridge.
“No, you fool.”
With a single swipe of his hand, Morder tore Tunbridge's throat out, spraying blood over the furniture and up the walls. He bent down and stared into the other's eyes as the life ran out of him.
“There are those who say that when you end a vampire's life, you take on their power,” he whispered. “Makes you wonder if that's why the Huntsman is the way he is, no?”
He drew back his fist and punched downward, smashing through skin and bone, his gore-soaked hand sinking into Tunbridge's chest. He ripped the heart free and shoved it into the dead vampire's mouth.
He stood for a moment, admiring his handiwork, before leaving as silently as he had arrived.
When the household servants came to see if the Master needed anything, they found the corpse, the blood, the heart. And they found a message, scrawled in the vampire's blood, on the desk:
THE PAGAN IS MINE.
MORDER.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
There is no Tennessee State Police Department. The enforcement of state laws in the state of Tennessee is handled by the Tennessee Highway Patrol and the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. I had no desire to paint either of these organizations as corrupt, hence the invention.
There is also no Prescott county in Tennessee and, therefore, no Prescott County Sheriff's Department.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Chapman is an English immigrant who lives in Kentucky with his wife and a startlingly insane cat.
Renegade is his third novel, sequel to Crusader and Pagan. Since the publication of Crusader, Chapman has started driving a pick-up truck. This may be an attempt to fit in. He has yet to fit it with a gun rack.
twitter.com/AndyOnTheWold
facebook.com/chapman.andrew
imalegalalien.blogspot.com
cafepress.com/mprd
AVAILABLE NOW:
Pagan
MINISTRY OF PARANORMAL RESEARCH AND DEFENCE
BOOK 1
They stand between us and the darkness.
They patrol the streets of our cities every night.
They hold back the tide of hate and violence
that threatens to engulf us.
They fight and bleed and die to protect us.
We pour scorn on their efforts.
We mock their sacrifices.
We seek to sap their strength.
We make pacts with the enemy.
They are the vampire hunters.
And they are our only hope.
They will save us.
Whether we deserve it or not.
Introducing Jack Henderson, England's top vampire hunter. He and his fellow hunters are fighting a war against an ancient and implacable foe and a population increasingly unwilling to support their efforts. He's tired, jaded and disheartened, but now he has a chance to take the fight to the vampires and challenge them in the very seat of their power.
AVAILABLE NOW:
Crusader
MINISTRY OF PARANORMAL RESEARCH AND DEFENCE
BOOK 2
HOW DOES AN ATHEIST MAKE A LEAP OF FAITH?
When a series of vampire attacks target the very center of the Catholic faith, the Vatican contacts the British Government. Their request: the best vampire hunter in the country.
Unfortunately he’s an Atheist.
Jack Henderson returns as Pagan, the Ministry’s top hunter He’s on a mission he’s not sure about. He’s in a country he doesn’t know. He’s working for a government he doesn’t trust. And he’s looking for an artifact he doesn’t believe exists.
Should be a piece of cake.
COMING SOON:
Scrapper
MINISTRY OF PARANORMAL RESEARCH AND DEFENCE
BOOK 4
With Jack suspended from duty and the rest of the team reassigned, Marie Hennessy fi
nds herself transferred to another Hunter's team. Trying to adjust to the Hunter's style is difficult enough, but when an old friend arrives bearing news, things go from bad to worse.
Someone in the Ministry is passing information to the vampires, and all of the evidence seems to point to John and Anna.
Read on for a sneak preview of
Scrapper
The next Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence novel.
CHAPTER
1
If there is a god of vampire hunters then he—or she—has a very crappy sense of humour. Here I am, stuck in a muddy field, gun in hand, waiting for the order to attack a former RAF base, now under the control of the vampires. It's raining. I'm cold and wet and miserable. If you think wet fur smells bad, try wearing it. Jack, meanwhile, is back home, warm and safe and dry. But for tuppence he'd swap places with me. And he'd probably have fun being here.
He even would have enjoyed the Royal Navy ship that bought us here, and the little inflatable boats that dumped us on the shoreline. If the amount of people who asked after him is any indication, he probably has friends aboard.
But someone decreed that he should be home and I should be here. Like I said, crappy sense of humour.
With me were a mixture of Hunters and Royal Marines. We'd been training the Marines in preparation for this attack for months. Now were were the advance force for a massive, coordinated offensive. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Our small force was going to attack a vampire military stronghold and hope to hold it long enough for the second wave to arrive.
And did I mention the rain was running down my muzzle and soaking my fur? I was constantly fighting the urge to shake the water off of my coat. Worse, the damp atmosphere was killing my ability to scent.
Yeah, definitely not the place I would've chosen to be.
There was a subtle stir of movement as squad leaders up and down the line gave the hand signal to move out. The vampire hunters rose and began creeping forward, taking point. We topped a slight rise and moved silently through the trees towards the base's chain-link perimeter fence. We kept watch while a small group made short work of the fence with bolt croppers and then we were through into the base. We hit the deck, belly-crawled up another slight rise, and our target came into view.
On a lit section of runway sat some brand new attack helicopters. Various figures were working on and around them and, as we watched, another flew in and landed. Intelligence reports had claimed the vampires were taking delivery of some Eurocopters. They were being flown in across the North Sea, literally under the radar. On the ships which had bought us here there'd been a lot of speculation about why the choppers weren't just shot down as they approached the coast. If anyone knew for sure, nobody was saying. Somebody had decided it was a good idea to catch the choppers on the ground, so here we were.
Like everyone else around me, I quickly counted the helicopters. There was eleven on the ground so far. We were waiting for one more.
I took a look through the sights of my rifle and figured out some firing lines. The first targets were the four off to the left. They were fully armed and fueled. We had to get those before they could take off. During the briefing, these were called Red targets, from right to left I mentally named them Red 1 to Red 4, knowing everyone else would be doing the same. Five were in the process of being prepped. Orange 1 to Orange 5. They would be the next target, then the two that had just landed and the one which was now coming into sight. Green 1 and Green 2, with Green 3 being the one coming in.
Green 3 circled the airfield and began descending. I glanced around, got some nods and a couple of thumbs ups. Each of us picked our targets. Those with shoulder-launched anti-tank missiles would hit the primary targets, the rest would lay down suppressive fire to keep the crew from mounting up and taking off in the rest of the helicopters.
I tracked Green 3 down and, as it turned, I caught a glimpse of the pilot, sitting in the front seat. The back seat was empty. The wheels touched down and helicopter settled onto its suspension. The pilot cut the engine and the rotor blades wound down. I put my sights on one of the crew members working around Orange 2—we'd gone through an unbelievably large number of potential scenarios during our briefing and each hunter had been assigned a helicopter depending on the state of the group—and fought to control my breathing. I wouldn't open fire until the hunters with the missile launchers did. Then all hell would break loose.
Green 3's pilot climbed out and began chatting to one of the ground crew. As he turned to point up at the rotor blades, missiles were launched from our lines. Red 1, 3 and 4 were reduced to burning wrecks. Red 2 was flipped onto its side, the rotor blades twisted. While the hunters hurried to reload their launchers the rest of us opened fire on the crew as they scurried for cover. I fought to control my excitement, trying for short, controlled bursts rather than emptying my magazine in one go. The whole scene was a chaotic massacre. Most of the ground crew were unarmed and didn't stand a chance. The pilots were the same but, even so, a few of them had made it to the cockpits and the sound of engines rose.
More missiles were launched and more helicopters exploded, but two made it into the air. One was partially armed, Orange 1, the other was the last arrival, Green 3. Both helicopters moved off into the night.
Alarms were going off in the base and headlights were streaming towards us. We scrambled for defensive positions.
“Armour incoming!” yelled a Marine who appeared next to me. “Get the bangers set up!”
The main bulk of our force had arrived. Now we just had to hold for the Army to get here.
Off to my left a pair of Marines were setting up an anti-tank missile launcher. Another pair worked to their left, and three more groups were setting up to my right. Coming towards us was a pair of armored troop carriers. Behind them, what looked like a couple of light tanks and three American Humvees.
The second group to my left were ready first and a missile sped towards the first APC. There was a brief, bright flash and the vehicle spun sideways, smoke pouring from a huge rent in the side. Another missile from my right hit the closest of the tanks, flipping it on its side. Then the ground around the first team erupted in a cloud of mud and grass. A horrific noise, like someone tearing a gigantic piece of cloth came from above. One of the helicopters—Green 3 by the empty racks under the wings—had circled around and was spraying the marines from the gun mounted under the cockpit. In this, it seemed, the intelligence had been wrong. The choppers weren't coming in totally unarmed.
“Scrapper!” came a voice from behind me. “Cover your ears and stay still!”
It was Callie. She rested her sniper rifle on my shoulder. I hurried to duck my head and clap my paws over my ears. Even so, the bang of her rifle was painfully loud and left my ears ringing. I saw a crazed circle appear in the cockpit glass by the pilot's head. The chopper spun out of control and crashed into the runway. One of the incoming Humvees swerved to avoid the wreckage and plowed into another, sending both skidding across the tarmac.
Orange 1 was still out there somewhere, and it was carrying a lot more than just a gun.
The Marines took out the second APC and another tank before a series of explosions came out of nowhere and chewed the edge of the runway—and two Marine missile teams—to pieces.
“Fuck! Where is he?” yelled Callie.
Orange 1 was standing off and firing at us from a distance. Bad news.
We were all scrambling for whatever cover we could find when a new noise started. It was low to begin with, quickly rising in volume to the point where it drowned out the sounds of battle, a noise like an angel of vengeance screaming in rage. A shape flashed overhead, followed by another. They were Harriers, flying low enough that they were visible in the lights from the airfield. The first of our reinforcements. The lead Harrier launched a missile from under one wing and, in the distance, an explosion lit the night sky.
I scrambled over to the fallen Marines and checked their m
issile launcher. It was a broken, twisted mess. I probably wouldn't have a had a clue how to use it anyway. I looked around desperately. There, strapped across the back of one of the dead marines was a smaller missile launchers, one of those throw-away one-shot deals. That, I knew how to use. A quick look towards the runway showed that the last tank was firing on our position. I yanked the rocket free, snapping the strap, and clawed at the end, trying to pull it out into the ready position.
“Open!” I yelled. “Open up you vicious bastard!”
At least, that's what I tried to yell. What came out was an incoherent snarling scream. Claws are great for disemboweling vampires but useless for anything that needs digital dexterity. Finally, the tube slid out and clicked into position. I fumbled with the sight and managed to flip it up. Right, put the sights on the target, squeeze the rubber trigger.
Nothing. The rocket didn't fire. I squeezed again, same thing. I was literally staring down the barrel of a tank's main gun, holding a rocket launcher which was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
“Oh… fuck!”
Renegade (Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence) Page 21