Gonfallon laughed again, but this time there was a hint of anger.
“I have chosen to become more than human, you silly man!” he declared. “I will continue to do what I please, as I please, to whom I please. And if you and your ragbag band of cohorts try to stop me, you will regret it. Now get out of my bloody way!”
A few cold drops of rain stung Mortlake’s face as he stepped aside. Gonfallon snorted and strode into the restaurant. His companions didn’t meet Mortlake’s gaze. Belmont limped by awkwardly.
“You don’t have to follow him, Charles,” Mortlake said. “You’re not pack animals; you’re men.”
Belmont hesitated, and Gonfallon shouted back to him from the doorway.
“Hurry up, Charlie, you’re keeping us waiting.”
Mortlake watched the three very wealthy and privileged men being shown to a table by an obsequious head waiter. Then, as the rain grew heavy, he turned up his collar and flagged down a passing cab.
“Where to, mate?” asked the driver, cheerful despite the cold drizzle.
“The moral high ground, mate,” Mortlake muttered, before asking to be taken to the nearest Underground station.
Chapter 12
The raid went ahead the following day. They drove down to Wyebridge in Sammy’s SUV, which was laden with what the former soldier described as “useful stuff”. Mortlake drove, with Tara alongside and Sammy in back, trying to be inconspicuous. He was surrounded by boxes of useful stuff, which he’d covered with their coats.
“It would be just our luck to get pulled over by the old highway patrol,” he pointed out. “And nobody could talk their way out of this.”
They discussed tactics, not for the first time, to refine what they were going to do and when. They agreed to try to avoid confronting anyone and attempt to deter interference. Mortlake, again, emphasized that a good cause didn’t justify violence unless it was unavoidable.
“We’re just random individuals about to commit a crime,” said Sammy. “Let’s not go all philosophical.”
“We’re about to commit several crimes,” Mortlake corrected him. “Trespassing, breaking and entering, probably assault. I take it, among your ‘useful stuff’, you have an impressive array of non-lethal weapons?”
Sammy grinned, much happier discussing familiar matters.
“Yeah, tasers, plus smoke bombs and old-school thunderflashes. You can still do someone a serious injury with all of them, though. So best if you keep to your fancy sprays and that.”
Tara mentioned that she was wearing a lot of Anita’s silver jewelry and asked if it would give her much protection. Mortlake felt that it would and that the more concentrated silver iodide spray he had now would also be useful, though not lethal. Sammy, listening to this, shook this head and produced a short dagger.
“High percentage of silver,” he explained, turning it over in the winter sunlight. “Not very strong metal, but you said a blow with a knife on the forehead might be a cure.”
Tara and Mortlake began to protest, but Sammy insisted that he would not harm the girl unless it was a matter of life and death. He pointed out that, if any of Gonfallon’s gang were there, they might have to resort to lethal force.
“I’ve no reservations about sticking this into one of those rich bastards,” he said, sheathing the knife under his armpit. “They’ve all got it coming.”
***
They met Lonely Jones in a supermarket parking lot. The book dealer clambered in beside Sammy, and Tara tried not to laugh at the huge contrast between the two. The veteran seemed even more confident and massive next to the diminutive, nervous book dealer. Jones greeted Tara and then outlined his latest gleanings from local gossip. He had a melancholy voice, and Tara felt he radiated pessimism. And yet, she reminded herself, he had chosen to help the good guys, and Mortlake trusted him.
“Nice to meet you at last, Tara,” he said, in a tone that suggested his hamster had just died. “Are you really going to risk your life by going in with these two?”
“I’ll be fine!” she replied, trying to sound confident. “I’m young, fit, and I’ve got a working brain and a pair of eyes. Plus, like I keep telling people, I’ve survived two werewolf attacks.”
Jones looked dubious, but before he could express more skepticism, Sammy demanded an update on the setup at the house.
“There was this really nasty one-eyed bloke, but he’s away, got a medical appointment,” Jones said. “So, that leaves Steve; he’s the other heavy, does most of Gonfallon’s dirty work. He lords it over the estate when Gonfallon’s away. Fancies himself, eye for the ladies. Not a nice man but he’s no fool. Apart from him, there’s gardeners and cleaners. They do mornings. If we’re lucky, Steve might go down the pub. While the cat’s away…”
“So, this PM it’s just the one heavy, maximum,” Sammy said with satisfaction. “Good. We can deal with that. Straight in, get the girl, back of the van, and off back to the Smoke. Nobody gets hurt. Or at least, not any of us, and not too badly.”
“Let’s hope for the best,” said Mortlake. “Anything else, Lonely?”
Jones, who had actually visited Gonfallon’s mansion during an auction sale, had sketched out a map. It was scrawled on the back of a flyer for a suicide helpline, which seemed oddly apt to Tara. Sammy tried to cajole the little man into joining the rescue party, but Lonely insisted he was not a man of action. He did, however, promise to keep watch at the gates of the estate in case somebody came back unexpectedly.
“Okay,” said Sammy and handed him a walkie talkie. “Use this, not your phone. We leave all our phones in the van outside the target area, so nobody can put us inside by checking our call records.”
Lonely left. Sammy had told him to check his walkie reception, so he went and lurked behind some dumpsters.
“Can you hear me?” he said. “Bloody hell, there are some huge rats ’round here!”
“Don’t let them drag you back to their lair,” Sammy said, smiling at Tara. “Yeah, we got you full strength, mate. Take care, make sure you get to the main gates within the hour. We’re going in.”
Mortlake started the SUV and eased them out into the weekday morning traffic. Wyebridge looked very different to Tara as they passed through. It had seemed quaint, a little boring. Now she thought of Josh, his terrible, senseless death, and the way she had struggled to cope with her own narrow escape. She thought of the girl imprisoned by Gonfallon, the unwitting cause of so much misery.
And she was glad she had decided to see this through.
***
They parked the SUV off the road, out of sight of passing traffic, not far from where Mortlake had confronted Gonfallon. Then they made their way back along the fence to find the spot where it had been broken down during the pursuit of the luckless, nameless vagrant.
“Lonely was right,” Sammy said, examining the repaired section of fence. “They did do it on the cheap.”
He got out some wire cutters and quickly opened a big gap. Mortlake followed Sammy through, with Tara bringing up the rear. The small hunting lodge close by was apparently unoccupied, though they saw evidence that it had been in use recently. There were dirty dishes in the sink, discarded fast food boxes on the table, but no sign of either of the heavies. They moved on.
The house itself was surrounded by open ground to the front. To the rear, there was plenty of cover from hedges and a greenhouse. They quickly got to the rear door and flattened themselves against the wall. Tara’s heart was pounding hard under her ribs as Sammy put a finger to his lips. Then the veteran briefly looked into the kitchen.
“Nobody there, in we go.”
The kitchen door was locked. Sammy was about to shoulder-charge it when Mortlake waved him back and produced a small leather folder. It proved to be a lockpicking kit. Tara wanted to ask if that was a basic skill required from Cambridge dons but forced herself to stay silent. It took Mortlake nearly a minute of fiddling with the door lock, but when it clicked open, Tara felt a tremendous sense o
f relief. She had vividly pictured Sammy smashing his way inside and triggering general pandemonium, with the Wyebridge police turning up in a matter of minutes.
Lonely Jones’ map turned out to be reliable. The cellar door was right by the kitchen, and it, too, was locked. Again, Mortlake managed to open it after some fumbling, and then stepped aside to let Sammy go first. The ex-soldier, Tara noted, seemed to reach for his silver dagger, then change his mind. He pulled a taser from his belt, checked it, then gently pushed the door open.
There was silence. The space beyond the doorway was dark, and, as they paused, a slight odor drifted from it. It was an unpleasant smell. Tara thought of human waste and spoiled food, along with sweat. And there was something else—an animal musk that she remembered vividly. She had smelled it twice before.
Sammy stepped over the threshold and paused on a concrete landing above a flight of steps. Mortlake followed and found a light switch. A dim bulb came on to reveal a chamber about thirty feet by fifteen. A third of it was closed off by aluminum bars set in concrete at floor and ceiling. There was a small gate. In the cage, something moved. It was not large, and clearly human in form, but its limbs were mottled with sores and filth. Tara could not make out its face, which was hidden by a great mass of reddish-brown hair.
“Operation Rescue Wolf-Girl,” Sammy whispered. “You’re up, Tara.”
Tara went down first, stifling the desire to move quickly for fear of alarming the captive, but painfully aware that time was not on their side. As she got closer to the cage, the prisoner cowered in a corner. The girl was making herself small, and Tara felt a rush of anger and deep, visceral hatred for the men who had done this. Then she was hunkered down by the bars and talking to the captive.
“We’re here to help you,” she said quietly. “Please don’t be scared. These men with me are going to let you out. We want to help you go home…”
She kept talking as Mortlake worked at the lock. Then Sammy found the key hanging from a hook on the wall. The door was quickly opened, and the men stood back. Tara moved to the doorway. Blood was pounding in her ears. The stink of filth and the undertone of bestial odor was disorienting, and she struggled to keep talking something like sense.
“Please, please come with us,” she said, gesturing.
Mortlake had unfolded a blanket and was holding it up in what he clearly hoped was a non-threatening manner. Sammy, half-hidden behind Mortlake, still clutched his taser. Tara knew both men had hypodermics containing powerful doses of animal tranquilizer.
“Please, you can trust us,” Tara pleaded, deciding to kneel, to make herself as small and non-threatening as possible. “We’ll help you get home. I promise. Home.”
The girl spoke. It was almost a series of animal grunts but not quite. There was just enough articulacy in the syllables, though Tara did not understand the words. Tara nodded and smiled, beckoning and repeating “I promise. Home!” as the girl started to half-crawl toward her.
“Well, isn’t this nice?”
The harsh, Cockney voice made the girl leap back into her corner, snarling. Tara swiveled around awkwardly to see a man standing at the top of the stairs. No, she realized a second later, there were two men. Both big, dressed in dark clothes. One wore an eyepatch. She recognized the other one as the guy from the drone video. This, then, must be Steve, she thought.
And he was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Tara.
“You can shut that cage, right now, little lady,” Steve said. “We don’t want wild animals running about the place.”
Eyepatch started to walk down the stairs, moving carefully. He was carrying a baseball bat. Sammy moved slightly to one side so that he was directly between the two heavies and Mortlake.
“No,” said Tara. “She’s coming with us.”
Steve shook his head.
“You may not know how the law works in this country,” he said. “But you can shoot an intruder in your home, shoot them dead, and not be convicted of any crime.”
Tara stood, feeling her knees growing weak but determined to appear strong. She was gambling on uncertainty and on her companions having something better than pure defiance to resort to.
“Okay,” she said, “shoot me.”
Steve smiled, shook his head.
“Nah, I think we’ll just make a citizens’ arrest, me and my friend here. Of course, there’ll be a bit of a struggle.”
Eyepatch had reached the foot of the stairs and was tapping the baseball bat against his open palm. Sammy had locked eyes with his opponent and was smiling thinly, showing no teeth. Mortlake, right behind Sammy, had lifted the back of the veteran’s jacket and was pulling something from his belt.
“You don’t want to do that, mate,” Sammy said to Eyepatch. “People who try it on with me tend to regret it.”
“You don’t get it,” Eyepatch said. “We’ve got the shotgun. You’re going to get down on your knees, all of you, and put your hands on your heads. Then me and Steve are going to—”
“Just shut the bloody door!” Steve shouted. “Get the door shut, man!”
Tara glanced over her shoulder and saw that the wolf-girl had not returned to her corner. She had crept closer and was now just a couple of feet away. Freedom beckoned, Tara realized, and the presence of men who had tormented her was not going to drive her back.
“You, Yank, shut the bloody door now!” shouted Eyepatch.
He started striding toward her, but before he could cover the ten feet or so Mortlake made a move. He passed the object he’d taken from Sammy forward and, in a fluid movement, Sammy pulled out a pin and threw the small canister. It arced through the air toward Steve, who had been watching Tara and the wolf-girl. Eyepatch gawped.
Tara, knowing what was coming, closed her eyes tight and turned away. She was still shocked by the intensity of the flash. But it was the boom in the combined space that was truly shocking. It was followed almost instantly by another deafening explosion. Tara opened her eyes to see Steve reeling back. He’d fired the shotgun with the butt resting against his thigh and knocked himself into the cellar wall.
Sammy was already moving, bounding across the concrete floor toward Eyepatch. Sammy made a quick, chopping motion with one hand. It was so fast Tara did not see where the blow landed, but Eyepatch staggered, making a gasping sound, and fell to his knee. Steve had recovered enough to start shouting and waving the gun around but seemed unable to decide who to shoot, if anyone. Steve moved close under the concrete staircase while Mortlake dashed over to Tara and stood between her and the gun.
“Give it up, just go!” shouted the professor.
Steve raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim.
“Final warning!” he yelled. “Shut that bloody door!”
Tara felt he sounded agitated enough to kill. But Sammy was already lobbing another grenade up onto the landing, his aim precise. The object flying into his eyeline confused the thug enough, and the gun barrels jerked up and to one side. The grenade went off, this time producing a subdued bang but emitting a cloud of thick white smoke.
“Watch out!” Mortlake shouted.
Tara wasn’t sure who or what he meant. A terrifying snarl came from behind her and something heavy struck her in the back and knocked her down. Transformed, the creature was smaller and skinnier than the well-fed beasts Tara had faced, but she made up for it with feral fury. Eyepatch, struggling to get up, was hit full on by the raging creature and borne to the floor. There was a scream—a man’s scream—which was cut off by a gurgling sound.
Tara had heard that sound before and covered her ears. Sammy, for the first time, seemed unable to react, staring as the beast tore at its captor. A great fountain of blood erupted from Eyepatch’s throat. Mortlake moved first, racing forward, holding out what Tara saw was a spray can. The pale vapor covered the horrific sight, and the werewolf jumped back, shaking its head, flinging aside fragments of bloody flesh.
At the same moment, Steve fired his shotgun. The body of Eyepat
ch jerked as a load of pellets struck it, ruining what remained of his face. Mortlake advanced, spraying more silver iodide, shouting something to Steve. Tara got up, grabbed the blanket that Mortlake had dropped, hoping the creature would collapse. Sammy unfroze and raced forward, picking up the taser from where he’d dropped it earlier.
Too late, Tara realized their blunder. Hemmed in on three sides, the lycanthrope gathered itself to spring. Mortlake, too, grasped the situation and flung up his free arm across his face, still directing spray at the creature. It hurled itself at him, moving with astonishing speed, and knocked him onto his back. The beast skidded as one paw landed on Eyepatch’s baseball bat. It almost fell but was able to turn and regain its balance. It was far more agile than the werewolves Tara had faced before. Sammy lunged with the taser, but it dodged, lashing out to rip the sleeve of his jacket.
Time seemed to slow down. Tara took in the whole scene like a spectator, detached from the blood, pain, and death. Mortlake was winded, trying to get up, just a few feet from the creature. Sammy was squatting between the professor and the beast, which had just recovered its balance. He had switched his taser to his left hand and was reaching for the knife sheathed near his armpit, but Tara felt sure he would be too slow. The beast was already crouching, bloody jaws wide, eyes glaring, ears back. It was going to kill Sammy.
No, Tara thought. No!
Power surged through her, all of her fear suddenly channeled into a vast release of energy that made her gasp. Something seemed to snap in her brain, a sharp jab of pain right behind her eyes. Memories surged up, her parents trying to suppress the noise of their arguments, Tommy whining, the terrible silences that meant the row would soon resume, would never end. She saw a cheap snow globe rising from a table and hurtling across the room to shatter against the living room wall, showering the Christmas tree with gleaming shards.
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