“Carlisle.”
She looked up from beside the downed officer. “Yeah?”
“What’s going on?” Val was staring around the room. His voice cracked. “What happened to these guys?”
Carlisle sighed. She looked like she didn’t even have the energy to swear. “I don’t know Val. Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
The door opposite from where they entered crashed open, the wood splintering as the bolt tore through the jamb. A soldier was framed in the doorway, his face obscured by a helmet. Val took in an all-black uniform under a flak vest before his eyes were drawn to the rifle. Something inside him snarled at the weapon, and his lips pulled back from his teeth.
The soldier dismissed Val, drawn to the gun in Carlisle’s hand. Slowly, impossibly slowly he started to turn his rifle towards Carlisle.
Val barged forward, grabbing a chair with one hand. Without slowing his forward momentum he spun, whipping the chair around and tossing it at the soldier. He didn’t even pause when he released it, vaulting a shattered desk between them. The chair hit the soldier in the top of his chest, knocking him clean off his feet. His rifle sprayed bullets as he fell backwards. The bullets seemed to be firing slowly, each one a distinct flash of sound and light. Val could see the shell cases peeling away from the breech of the weapon, cascading as slowly as falling blossoms.
Then Val was on him, tearing the rifle from his hands. He raised it above his head, ignoring the heat from the barrel. He swung the rifle like a club, smashing it into the soldier’s helmet. The stock bent with a squeal of metal. Val raised the rifle again, smashing it down harder. The rifle twisted apart as the soldier’s helmet crumpled. The man twitched, then went still.
Val dropped the rifle and stood over him, panting. He held his hands up in front of his face, turning them one way then the other. Did I just do that?
“Everard.” Carlisle’s voice was strained. “Everard, a little help.”
Val turned to see Carlisle on the ground. Her gun was nowhere to be seen, but a red stain was spreading through her shirt. “Aw, shit.” He bashed a broken desk aside to come stand by Carlisle. “What do I do, Carlisle?”
Carlisle beckoned Val closed. “Whatever the fuck—” She coughed. “Whatever the fuck you do, do not point a gun at these assholes.”
Val stared at her, then started to chuckle. “Sure. I meant, about, you know.” He gestured at the spreading stain on Carlisle’s shirt. “Does it hurt?”
“Are you fucking retarded? It hurts like seven bastards. Help me up.”
“Look, on my First Aid course they said not to move people who were bleeding.”
Carlisle stared at him.
“Seriously. Apparently—”
“Everard.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s probably a hundred guys in here who want to shoot me in the face.” On cue they heard another blast of gunfire. “The station’s overrun. I have no idea where my partner is. Do you think I give two shits about a little extra blood at this point? Just help me out of here. Get me to a hospital or something.”
“Fair enough.” Val reached under Carlisle’s arm, dragging her to her feet.
Carlisle hissed at the pain, swaying a little. “Everard.”
“Yeah?”
“They … these are my friends here. Good cops. I know — I knew these people.” Her hand gripped the front of his shirt. “I —”
“It’s okay.” Val nodded. “I know.”
“You do?”
Pack.
“Yeah. Just one thing though.”
“What’s that?” Carlisle pushed herself away from Val, steadying herself against a wall.
“Don’t get blood on my shirt.”
Carlisle tried a laugh, then coughed. “Deal.”
• • •
Carlisle looked through the station’s entrance. An officer was splayed backward through one of the broken double doors, glass spread out underneath him. A fallen riot shield lay beside him. Carlisle squinted into the daylight coming in. “Shit.”
Val was crouched beside her. “I see them.”
Two vans were pulled up at the bottom of the steps leading up to the station. The drivers — soldiers by the looks — were next to them, each facing opposite ways down the road. One of them fired at something they couldn’t see, a short hammer of sound stabbing down the street. Someone screamed.
They weren’t paying too much attention to the front door.
“I tell you what — where the fuck are you going?” said Carlisle.
Val was already heading towards the door. He scooped up the riot shield in one hand, then stepped over the fallen officer and into the street outside. His feet crunched on glass. The two soldiers saw him, turning their rifles towards him. Val held the riot shield in front of him and charged down the steps.
The rifles coughed into life, bullets tearing into the riot shield. Stray rounds hit the doorway. Carlisle crouched low, covering her head with her arm as splinters of wood and glass fell around her.
Val collided with the first soldier, slamming him with the riot shield. The man fell backwards, rifle scattering away. Val grabbed the front of his flak jacket with one hand, lifting the man clear off the ground and above his head. Then he dropped into a crouch, slamming the man down onto the pavement. The soldier’s helmet fell free, and his eyes were wide as he clawed at Val’s hand.
Val hefted the riot shield in his other hand as if considering something. Then he stood up, lifting the soldier with him, and slammed him against the ground again. The pavement cracked under the soldier, who struggled to draw breath through a collapsed lung and broken rib cage.
The other soldier had almost worked his way around into a firing line where he could see Val. He stood with his back to Carlisle’s position and ejected the magazine from his weapon, the black metal rectangle falling to the ground. The soldier grabbed a fresh magazine, glancing quickly at it — the new one was painted red — before slapping it into his weapon, stepping around the front of the van to bring his rifle to bear on Val.
“Watch out!” Carlisle put all her strength into the shout. It came out almost as a whisper, the blood loss starting to take its toll.
It was enough. For just a second, the soldier was distracted at the noise behind him. The thrown riot shield caught him under the chin, crushing his throat. He staggered back, rifle firing into the sky. Val was on him in less than a heartbeat, wrenching the rifle from his hands. He swung it like a bat into the side of the soldier’s head, knocking him clear off his feet. The body came to rest a few feet away.
Carlisle moved slowly down the steps. “I feel like an old woman. Say. Where do you train?”
“Train?” Val blinked at her. “I take the bus to work.”
“No. Train. Like kung fu. You just took out two professional soldiers like a boss.”
“I…” Val swallowed. It just seemed—
We are the Night.
—natural. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Fine.” Carlisle frowned at him, then pointed with her chin at one of the vans. “I’ve seen a van like this before. The case I’m working.”
“Really?” Val looked at the van. “How can you be sure?”
“Last time I saw it was outside that bar uptown. Elephant Blues.” Carlisle scratched behind her ear. “Same make and model. It’s probably still in impound.”
“You always remember vans?”
“I found your hand outside that van.”
Val looked at the van again. Then he looked at his hands. “My hand?”
“Yeah. It’s the weirdest thing.” Carlisle reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a bloodied packet of gum. She offered it to Val.
“No thanks.”
“I’m not offering you gum. Can you peel me a piece? I can’t feel my arm.”
“Oh.” Val started unwrapping a stick of gum. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’ve never been shot before.”
Val stared at her. Carlisle looked back. “What?”
“What did you say?” Val offered her the stick.
Carlisle popped the gum in her mouth. “You’ve never been shot?”
“Yeah.” Val rubbed his hand through his hair. “I can’t quite…”
“What?”
“Something.” Val grabbed his head with both hands. “I can’t remember!”
“Everard?”
“What!”
Carlisle gestured to Val’s hand. “Can I have my gum back?”
Val sighed. He looked at the crumpled packet in his hand. “Sure.” He held it out.
“What can’t you remember?”
“I…” Val rubbed his eyes. “I don’t think you’re right.”
“You’ve been shot?”
“Yes. No. Fuck!”
“Why do you think you’ve been shot?”
The pistol was pointed at his face. It spat its puny fire. He slapped it aside, then grabbed—
“I remember … something. Someone pointed a gun at me.”
“That’s not the same as being shot.”
“Oh, they shot me too. I … fuck!”
Carlisle chewed for a moment. “Tell you what.”
“What?”
She gestured to the vans. “The assholes — whoever they are — that came out of these vans are going to be getting back in them. I think we should be out of here by then.” Carlisle swayed. “I really need a hospital, Everard.”
“You got it.” Val helped Carlisle into the nearest van. “I figure we’ll just borrow one of these.”
Carlisle grinned, blood tinting her lips. “Least they can do…” She coughed again. “Least they can do for shooting up the station, is make a donation to the car pool.” Her face turned sombre. “They killed my friends, Everard.”
Val nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get you out of here so they don’t kill you too.” He shut the door for her, then made his way into the driver’s seat. Val shifted the van into gear, driving them down the street and away from the station.
• • •
The man stepped out from behind the phone booth he’d taken shelter in. He walked slowly towards the front of the station, boots crunching on broken glass and stone chips. His head tilted slightly as he sniffed the air.
He took his hands out of his pockets to pick up the fallen riot shield. Holding it up to the light, he stared at the holes pierced through it. He stuck a finger through one, wiggling it through the other side, then he breathed out a sigh.
“Ah, yes. The one that got away. Careless.” His accent was thick. He hefted the riot shield in one hand. “Still. Careless can be fixed.” He let the riot shield fall to the ground.
He stood by the body of the man with the collapsed rib cage. He grabbed the front of the man’s flak vest, lifting the soldier as if he weighed no more than a child. He turned the body this way and that, then leaned forward and sniffed the dead man. “Worthless. Broken.” He let the body fall. “Weak.”
He seemed to notice the other soldier’s rifle for the first time. He lifted it and fiddled with it until the red magazine came clear. He brought this up to his face, sniffing it again, then jerked it away. “Serebrom.” He spat, then let the magazine fall to the ground, wiping his hands against his jacket.
“So.” He squared back his shoulders. “This is how we start fixing careless.” He walked up the steps to the station and stepped through the shattered doors into the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Elsie looked at the Ebonlake captain over her desk. The rich wood was polished, clean of usual office clutter — it gave distance between her and the captain, and his failure. Her secretary Barnes was at her right, standing straight as the creases in his suit. Men made better secretarial staff than women; they were easy to read, and free of the petty jealousies women brought to the workplace. He’d been with her through the ups and downs of the company, fifteen years now — he could be trusted. An old grandfather clock marked time against the wall, the quiet tick-tock sound the only noise in her office. The damn thing — she glanced at the time on her desk phone — was running slow again. She’d need to get Barnes to see to it. It was always hard to keep up with the details.
She tapped the frame of her glasses against her desk. The situation was impossible, of course. She’d been in tight situations before, but the fact that she might fail — that couldn’t be allowed. Too much was at stake. She’d let the company collapse before she’d fail.
The captain broke the silence first. “Ma’am.” He coughed, discomfort showing on his face. He’d tried to hide it, an experienced military man. Or perhaps just a typical man. But she could see the pain around his eyes, the slight creasing at the edges. The eyes never lied. “You asked to see me?”
Elsie looked at him a few heartbeats longer, the old habits of boardroom politics as natural as breathing to her. It was rare that a man didn’t want to fill the silence with his own voice. This one was different though; he sat in his chair waiting for her response. Her respect went up a few notches — perhaps he wasn’t a complete failure. Perhaps he could be used again rather than discarded. “Captain..?”
“Spencer, ma’am. Tim Spencer.”
“Of course. Captain Spencer, I’m curious. I’d like to get your personal view on today’s operation.”
This was the test. Would he blame someone else? It would be easy to do, given the circumstances. It might even be someone else’s fault. In Elsie’s view, that was never important — blame was parceled out, given and traded like any commodity. But the person who could accept blame was a rare individual. Despite their flaws, people who owned failure could be made into trustworthy tools.
“Ma’am.” Spencer shifted in the chair. Either he hadn’t taken the edge off with some medication or his injuries were more severe than was apparent. Something internal? “For the record, I’ve accepted full responsibility for the mission. They were my men, acting under my command.”
So. Flawed, but with future potential. She nodded at the captain. “Noted. But I’m not interested in blame right now. I want to know what happened.” She shifted her chair slightly towards Barnes, leaning back a little, then made a small gesture with her glasses. “Continue.”
Spencer looked at her for a few moments. “Our man Christian—”
“Please. It’s better if I don’t know too many…” Deniability was important, especially now. “Details.”
“As you say. Our, ah, operative, reached the objective. He made the signal. The team went in to extract Volk.” The captain cleared his throat. “It wasn’t him.”
“Your man got it wrong.”
Spencer nodded. “It seemed that way to us too, ma’am. Then we lost the team.”
Elsie glanced at Barnes, then back at Spencer. “The police were prepared for you?”
“No ma’am. Our man made sure of that. Their comms were down. They had no idea we were coming. As per your instructions, no officers who saw our team were left alive.”
“I’m sorry, Captain Spencer. I’m not following you. You said your operative gave the signal, but Volk wasn’t there..? How did you lose the team?”
“We followed the likely profile. Long odds reports on the usual channels, police or ambulance. We got a hit. Single male involved in an altercation in the downtown area. As I said, long odds — four on one.”
“Four men against one? He had no help?”
“Ma’am.” The captain nodded. “Police chatter suggests two women were also involved. We don’t find it credible that they had a hand in what happened.”
Elsie snorted. “Because they were women?”
“Because three of the men were hospitalized with injuries severe enough to suggest they’d been involved in a car accident.”
“I see.” Elsie watched Spencer for a few heartbeats. It never hurt to nurture a silence. “You took precautions this time?”
“Yes ma’am. We inserted Chri— excuse me. We inserted our operative according to the
parameters that suggested highest success. He was posing as a police interrogations specialist. We think he felt that the contact was good. We believe he thought Volk was there.”
“You think? If you lost the team — again — he may have been right.”
“We’re not sure, ma’am. Our operative was killed before he was able to effect the extraction. Looks like he was shot by the police.” Spencer reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, wincing as he pulled out two photographs. He offered these to Barnes, who placed them on the desk in front of Elsie. “Ma’am. The color picture is a still from the interrogation video at the station. The police knew him as Valentine Everard. The second picture — the black and white — is a still from another CCTV in the station. Looks like Volk.”
The first photo had a red smudge where the captain’s thumb had touched it. Elsie looked at the shot, then tossed the photo back down onto the desk. The man in that photo wasn’t who she wanted. But the black and white photo — yes. She’d know that face anywhere, despite the grainy image. It was Volk — no question.
“I want to make sure I’ve got this clear, Captain.” Elsie tapped the first photo. “This was the man whom you thought you were extracting. Your operative went to get him. But Volk,” and here she tapped the second photo, “Is who we’re actually after. And they were both at the police station.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“That seems a little far fetched, Captain. What are the odds?”
Spencer coughed — again, the pain showing around the eyes. He caught his breath, then started again. Good. He can push through when it counts. “We believe we have a new opportunity. Ma’am.”
“How so?”
“Ma’am, if your intelligence is correct—”
“My money should be good even if the intelligence is not. Humor me.”
“Of course, ma’am. We believe that the man in the first photo — Mr. Everard — should now be considered a person of interest in your inquiries.”
Elsie put her glasses on again, and picked up the first photo. She looked back at the captain. “Are you sure?”
“No ma’am. But I do know that my team encountered resistance from within the station, and outside on the street. Hard resistance, ma’am, but no use of firearms. Despite the lack of firearms, I believe that I’m the sole survivor of the mission.”
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 11
