The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy

by Richard Parry

  The screaming stopped. The other soldier continued to fire. Spencer was shouting something that sounded like, “Red,” over and over. The other soldier shouted at him, “I’m out!” and continued to fire.

  Val slapped the brown paper bag on top of Carlisle’s legs in the gurney. Then he placed a hand on Danny's. “Please. I’ll be right behind you. I—”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide. “You what?”

  Pack mate.

  “I—”

  John came up behind them. “Look, I hate to break up the moment, but fucking run!” He shoved Danny ahead of him, and they started to steer the Carlisle’s gurney around the rubble on the floor. “This is like a scene from fucking M*A*S*H.”

  Val looked back at the soldiers in the room. The creature was still holding the armless torso of the first man. It held the body up — like a shield, thought Val — as the other soldier continued to fire. As the man’s weapon ran dry, the creature bared its teeth. Is that thing — Christ, it’s smiling.

  Val turned and watched Danny and John. They’d made it to the doorway, they’d made it clear. He looked down at his hands, holding them out in front of him as he turned them over this way and that. They were big hands, strong, and different to yesterday and the day before. He looked back at the creature, which was tearing a leg off the torso. It swapped its grip again, and tore off the other leg. As each leg came free, it tossed them into the pile of limbs in the middle of the room. Four limbs; two arms and two legs.

  That is not the hunt. That is not the Night.

  The moment hung, a drop of dew caught in a spiderweb.

  No man deserved to die like that. Not even these guys. He looked around him, grabbing a hunk of concrete the size of a child’s head from the ground. He hefted it in one hand, then threw it with all his strength at the creature.

  It swung the limbless torso in one hand — like a bat — and swatted the rock aside. The rock crashed through a wall, a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the dust in its wake. Then it tossed the torso on top of the limbs, making a neat pile, and ran at Val.

  Christ it’s fast, thought Val, a moment before it snatched him off his feet. It grabbed one of Val’s arms in a powerful claw, and began to pull.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  John stared around the hospital parking lot. A tow truck sat abandoned, hitched to a white van. He pushed the gurney towards the van. A quick check inside showed the keys were still in the ignition.

  “There’s blood all over the passenger seat,” said Danny.

  “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “I’m not. I’m driving.” She looked around. “Where’s Val? John! Where’s Val!”

  John turned around. Val wasn’t with them. The sound of gunfire came from inside the emergency room entrance.

  “John…” Her eyes were wide.

  “I know. Fuck!” He looked at the wheels of the van, snared up in the tow truck’s wheel-lift. “Look, get this thing unhooked. I’ll get him.”

  He ran back to the entrance of the emergency room. The sight in the doorway stopped him in his tracks. The creature had Val in one massive claw, and had his arm gripped in the other claw. Muscles were straining in its arms as it tried to pull him apart.

  Val was pulling back.

  He gripped the thing’s claw with his hand, his knuckles white. The muscles in his biceps — when the hell did Val get biceps? Those are bigger than mine! — bulged. The creature heaved, roaring into Val’s face. Slowly — almost imperceptibly — it was winning. It was starting to draw Val’s arm’s straight.

  Val yelled back at it, jerking his arms, buying himself a little more time.

  John looked around and saw a rifle on the floor. He grabbed it. It’d been a long time since he’d last been to a rifle range, but it was like riding a bike. Just point and shoot.

  Empty. He fumbled through the wreckage for something, anything — a magazine, hell, just a bullet…

  The creature roared again, then with a heave tossed Val across the room. John saw his friend go flying into a wall, bouncing off then landing heavily on the ground. The creature flexed its arms wide, roaring in challenge. The soldier who’d been doing all the shooting looked at his rifle, then tossed it aside. The creature came striding through the room towards him, smashing rubble out of its path. The man scrabbled at his belt, pulling out something small and round. The creature lifted him up in one hand, easy as if he was a rag doll, grabbing the soldier’s arm with a clawed hand.

  The soldier’s other hand was clear. His fist opened, showing a small ring with a pin attached—

  The wall was blown apart by the grenade’s explosion, rubble scattering around. The creature roared in pain — that thing’s still alive? — as it flailed with its one remaining arm. Blood leaked down its side.

  John’s eyes went wide as it watched the bleeding slow, then stop. The thing shuffled around, growling, as the rent in its side began to close over.

  His hand felt the cool touch of metal. John risked a glance down, catching a glimpse of red through the dust. He picked up the red magazine, holding it up to the light. There were still rounds left in it. He held it under the rifle, fiddling until it slid home with a click. John’s hand found the safety, shaking as he flicked it off.

  The creature was using its good arm to sift through the wreckage, until it found something, lifting it — God, it’s got Val — into the light. Val coughed, opened his eyes, and looked at the creature. They stared at each other, the creature chuffing. Val looked down at his waist, held firm, then at the creature’s torn side, and finally back up into the thing’s eyes.

  “Hey, asshole.” Val and the creature both turned to look at John. He squeezed the trigger, the gun bucking and kicking like it was trying to escape. John held the weapon down, resisting the rise of the recoil, and watched the creature twist under the fire. It dropped Val, roaring in pain, and — holding its good arm up to cover its head — ran out through the damaged wall.

  John let the rifle fall to the ground, then picked his way over to Val. He held his hand out to his friend. “Hell of day.”

  Val grabbed the offered hand, getting to his feet. “Yeah. Hell of a day. Are—”

  “They’re fine. They’re both fine.” John looked around the destroyed reception area, wiping the sweat from his face. “Beer?”

  “Best idea you’ve had all day.” The two friends walked out of the waiting room, into the sunlight beyond.

  Neither of them noticed Captain Tim Spencer pull himself from the dust.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Elsie looked out the window, her back to the room. She ignored the men behind her with — she liked to think she’d cultivated it — a studied indifference. Someone behind her cleared his throat. It was probably Smythe; the man couldn’t help himself. Barnes wouldn’t have said anything, of course.

  “Ms. Morgan, we’d like to discuss the, ah, significant cash sums you’ve been diverting to your special projects.” Yes, it was Smythe. She understood the necessity of having a Chief Financial Officer. She didn’t understand why he thought he had a hand in the decisions of the company.

  “Special projects, Mr. Smythe?” She didn’t turn around.

  “Yes. Ah. There’s been a significant, as I said, significant cash injection into a private third party.”

  “Ebonlake Associates.”

  “Ah. Yes.” There was a pause. “So you’re fully aware of this?”

  Elsie turned away from the window. “There’s nothing that goes on in this company that I’m not at least partially aware of, Mr. Smythe.”

  The man looked down at the folio in his hands, then back up. “Well, Ms. Morgan, the spend doesn’t appear to be aligned—”

  “Aligned?” She stepped few paces forward. Despite the boardroom table between them, Smythe took an involuntary step backwards. “As the majority shareholder, I have the good fortune to decide what the company is aligned to.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Smythe tried on a deprecating smil
e, looking sideways at Sam Barnes for support. Finding none, he turned back to Elsie. “It would be much better if we adopted a good governance approach. Flew this up the flagpole with the shareholders, got some support. We might find some alternative ways to, ah, invest.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well. Perhaps if you could tell me what, ah, Ebonlake are helping us with..?”

  “I see.” Elsie looked at the man’s folio, then at his suit, and back to his face. “You’ve come in here to discuss my expenditure with a private contractor. To offer counsel?”

  “Yes.”

  Elsie tapped her fingernails against the boardroom table in front of her. “You want to offer this counsel without knowing what they do?”

  Smythe cleared his throat again. “Ah. Well … ah. It’s just that the expenditure is so significant, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a more—”

  “How much is the core upgrade to your finance system projected to cost this year?” Elsie took a seat at the boardroom table. “‘Core upgrade.’ That’s what you called it on the memo.”

  “Ah.” Smythe opened his folio to check the figure. Elsie had no doubt he knew exactly how much it had cost. Men who looked into papers, or their phone, or any other distraction — those men were uncomfortable in their situation. They used their papers as a shield. “Here it is. Ten million dollars capital, with a reduction in operational spending of four hundred thousand per annum.”

  “Ten million? And how many graduates could we get per year for that, amortized over the next five years?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How many graduates, Mr. Smythe? Ten million is a significant sum. I can’t help but wonder if we grabbed another floor in this building, and stacked it high,” and here Elsie raised her hand above her head, “With fresh-faced graduates … surely it would be cheaper?”

  Smythe opened and closed his mouth. “Ah. Ms. Morgan, I’m not sure you fully grasp—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s just that … ah. I’m certain, ah, that we could do the financials with sufficient, ah, manpower. But it wouldn’t be—”

  “The best way of solving the problem?” Elsie looked at the nails on her left hand. “Exactly my point.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “No, Mr. Smythe, you don’t. When I give you a job, I trust that you know how to do it. That you’re the subject matter expert in that area. Are you?”

  “Am I..?”

  “The subject matter expert. In corporate finance.”

  “Of course! My qualifications—”

  “Yes, yes. Your qualifications are very impressive.” Elsie leaned forward. “They tell me you know everything there is to know about net present value. Whether or not a core system for finance is a good one. I trust that you have done your due diligence on this ‘core upgrade.’ That it’s the best way of solving the problem, and that we can afford it.”

  “Of course, Ms. Morgan—”

  “I haven’t finished.” Smythe clapped his mouth shut. Elsie nodded. “That’s your job, you see.”

  Smythe sat in silence a few moments. The poor man was ill-suited to this kind of conversation. The trick with keeping people off balance was to do the unexpected. With Smythe — in his comfortable office, with his spreadsheets and forecast models — anything approaching a normal human conversation was unexpected. He tried again. “My job, Ms. Morgan?”

  Elsie looked away from him. “Smythe, my job is different to yours. I get to set the strategic direction of the company. I’m in charge of taking risks, promoting change, and deciding which new markets to enter into. I’ve been successful at building the company. Twenty years, give or take. We know where Biomne was going before I took over. It was almost bankrupt. We had the executives paying company bills with their personal credit cards. We were one month away from not making payroll.” She allowed herself a small smile, then turned back to Smythe. “My job is different to yours, as I said. I set the direction. Your job … well.”

  “Yes, Ms. Morgan—”

  She slammed her hand on the table. Smythe jumped. “You get to tell me if we can afford it!”

  Smythe’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed into a line. “I … I—”

  “So, Mr. Smythe. Can we afford it?”

  “I—”

  “Pull yourself together, man. Can we afford the expense?”

  Smythe looked back down to his folio, then back up. “Of course, Ms. Morgan. The company’s cash flow is robust. We have significant reserves—”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “As I said, there’s not much that goes on here that I’m unaware of. But there’s much you’re not in the loop on. Developments, and strategies.”

  “If I was—”

  “If you were, you’d pepper me with questions about the direction we were taking. If it was in the company’s best interests. If there wasn’t a better way.” Elsie paused. “I don’t take kindly to questions about my competence.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Of course you were. You booked this meeting to challenge expenditure with a private contracting firm. Without knowing anything about it. You saw the figure on the books, and it jumped out at you. You naturally thought that any significant expense needed to be managed. By you.”

  Smythe rallied, trying the deprecating smile on again. “Exactly, Ms. Morgan. Naturally, as you say.”

  Elsie nodded. He’d walked right into the trap. “Except only the greatest kind of idiot would think that they knew whether an expense was significant simply by the size of it. The Ebonlake account? I want you to forget about it.”

  “I … forget about it?” The smile faltered, then fell away from his face.

  “Mr. Smythe, the money we waste here in stationery alone dwarfs the Ebonlake account. These are the things I don’t have time for. The details, the tiny incidentals. I didn’t hire you to question my strategic decisions.” She softened her voice slightly. “I hired you because you’re brilliant. At the details. At finding out the small ins and outs. There’s an army of people out there who think they can pull something over on me. But not you.”

  “Not me?”

  “No, Mr. Smythe. Because I know how much you care. It’s why you brought this to me.” She watched the play of emotions across his face. Men were so delightfully transparent.

  “I … of course.”

  “Sam?” Barnes stepped forward. “Sam, I’d like you to fast track Mr. Smythe’s proposal for the core upgrade.”

  “I’ll need your signature.” He pushed forward paper in front of her, laying a pen beside it.

  She scrawled a signature at the bottom, then handed both items back to Barnes. “Thank you Sam. Mr. Smythe, the reason why I agreed to this meeting at all is because I need your help.”

  From desperation to salvation, that was the secret. Kick them in the balls, then offer them a way out. No drowning man resisted the thrown rope. Smythe was no different. His smile — God, it was ghastly; the man had children too, what woman could marry that? — brightened. “I’d be delighted. Anything I can do. My office is at your disposal.”

  Elsie nodded to Barnes. “Sam will furnish you with a list of projects. I want these scrutinized. No stone left unturned, do you understand?”

  Sam, efficient as always, was already holding a memo out to Smythe. The man took it, scanning the text on it. “These are … I mean. There’s. Ah.”

  “Yes. They’re projects of significant capital expense. Some instigated by the board.”

  “Ah.”

  “Mr. Smythe, do you understand what I’m offering you?” Smythe blinked. Elsie sighed; the man was intellectually brilliant, but as emotionally aware as a stone. “I need a hero.”

  “A hero, Ms. Morgan?”

  “A hero. Something’s going on in those projects, I can feel it. But I need numbers, Smythe — hard facts. I need to know where the money’s going. I want to know if those projects are delivering. Yo
u have the full support of my office. Sam will make whatever you need available.”

  “I … of course, Ms. Morgan. At once.” Smythe walked towards the door, his chest puffed out with artificial importance.

  After the door had closed behind him, Elsie let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

  Sam nodded at her. “You played a good hand, ma’am.”

  “I played a bad hand well, Sam. You know that.” She tapped the desk again. “Still, it had the desired result. Smythe will leave us alone and he will cause merry havoc amongst the VPs for the next few months. They’ll be so busy hiding things and fighting each other that they’ll ignore us. A word here, a touch there, and we’ll have a clear run at this thing.”

  “I’ve booked in the head of HR for a meeting this afternoon.”

  “Perfect.” Elsie looked up at Sam. “I’ll need a list of staff. It doesn’t matter who. People we can throw under the bus, just like the list of projects. People need to be afraid of the money drying up, and then I need them afraid of losing their jobs.”

  “It’ll impact company performance.”

  Elsie leaned back in her chair. “I know. Sam, don’t I know.”

  The silence sat, comfortable between them. Sam broke it first. “Ma’am? It’s going to be worth it.”

  Elsie looked at him. “You can still say that? You could … well, we’ve talked about it. You could lose your job over this.”

  “I could go to jail for this.”

  She allowed herself a chuckle. “Only after me, Sam. I’ll be first. But I’ll save you a seat on the bus.”

  Sam smiled at her. “How is your daughter?”

  Elsie’s smiled faded. “She’s…”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “No, Sam, it’s all right. You’ve earned the right.” Elsie looked down at the table. “She’s not good.”

  Sam stepped forward a pace, then stopped. “I see. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Sam thought for a moment. “There’s one piece of good news.”