by Will Hill
* * *
Larissa opened the door to Briefing Room 3 eight minutes later and saw, to her complete lack of surprise, that Tim was already sitting in one of the chairs arranged before a wooden lectern. He turned his head as she entered and nodded, his mouth set in a straight line.
All business, thought Larissa. No smiles and flirty comments now. Just business. Good.
General Allen didn’t keep them waiting long.
After no more than a minute, he entered through a side door, nodded curtly at them both, and strode up to the lectern. The director pressed a button on the console he was holding in his hand, turning on the screen fixed to the wall behind him. It lit up, displaying a thermographic satellite image of a large house surrounded by gardens and walls. A number of figures could be seen moving through the grounds and the many rooms, the majority of them a bright, burning yellow.
“Operators,” said General Allen. “What you are looking at is the Nuevo Laredo residence of Garcia Rejon, a former general in the Mexican Army and the current head of the Desert Cartel. He was discharged from the army six years ago, after his unit was discovered to have been providing security for cartel shipments and bodyguards for its high-ranking members. Five years ago the former head of the cartel, his wife, his mistresses, his children, his domestic staff, and his bodyguards were all murdered by Garcia Rejon’s men in a single night. One of the men who carried out the murders was a former army captain by the name of Roberto Alaves, whose wife was an enthusiastic consumer of the Desert Cartel’s primary product. Three years ago we caught her with eight grams in her purse during a weekend trip to San Diego, flipped Alaves, and got him to roll over on Rejon. The DEA made it stick, even though half the witnesses ended up dead, and Rejon got four consecutive life sentences in federal prison. The Mexican authorities waved him goodbye, and he was shipped up to Colorado. End of story.”
“Until last night,” said Larissa. “Right, sir?”
“Right,” confirmed General Allen. “Rejon wasn’t caught in the initial roundup after the Supermax break, nor were any of his former lieutenants. We’ve been watching the border, in case they tried to get home, but we can’t watch every inch of it, especially when you’re looking for men who can fly. This morning, the good citizens of Nuevo Laredo woke up to this charming image on the local news.”
Allen pressed a key and the screen changed. Larissa gasped, and heard Tim Albertsson let out a deep breath beside her. The photo showed what Larissa assumed was Nuevo Laredo’s business district. The road was four lanes wide, the bridge running over it looked new, and tall buildings of glass and metal rose up in the background.
Hanging from the bridge were twelve dead men, their bodies naked and mutilated.
Wire had been wrapped around their necks and tied to the concrete rail of the bridge. Beneath them, on the gray tarmac, lay a wide puddle of blood. The high-definition photo gave terrible clarity to the men’s wounds.
Beyond the hanging men, three large vans stood stationary beneath the bridge, their rear doors open wide. Inside, piled high and tangled together, were more bodies than Larissa could count. Blood soaked the interiors of the vehicles, coating arms and legs and hands and faces. Several of the bodies had spilled out onto the road and lay twisted on the tarmac.
“Sixty-eight dead men and women,” said General Allen. “All of them Desert Cartel, including the entire leadership.”
“Jesus,” said Tim. “Cause of death?”
“Blood loss,” said Allen. “They were tortured and left to die. No gunshots, no clearly fatal wounds.”
“No mercy,” said Larissa. “This wasn’t just about getting these people out of the way. This was a statement.”
“What sort of statement?” asked Tim, glancing over at her.
“I’m back,” replied Larissa. “And everyone better accept it. That sort of statement.”
“Intelligence coming across the border suggests that what you’re saying is correct,” said General Allen. “The situation is somewhat chaotic, as you might expect, but what we do know is that the sixty-eight cartel members who are now dead were all taken from their homes at approximately four o’clock this morning and dumped just before dawn. One of the DEA’s agents within the cartel, who—luckily for us, and him—operates at a level below those who were killed, reported this morning that he was called, along with everyone else, to Garcia Rejon’s home to be informed of the change of leadership. He saw Rejon in person, with his own eyes. Then he and the rest of the soldiers and street dealers were sent home, with orders to carry on with business as normal.”
The director paused and looked down at his two operators, who were hanging on his every word.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that a group of vampires at the head of one of the largest and most violent drug cartels in Mexico represents a serious threat to the national security of the United States, especially when those vampires can be assumed to be in possession of the same exceptional power that we saw on the Denver footage. Which is where the two of you come in. Tim, you’re going to take your squad across the border this afternoon, with Lieutenant Kinley as a temporary attaché. Insertion into Rejon’s compound is scheduled for 8:48 P.M., ten minutes after sundown. No special SOP, no op-specific restrictions. Destroy every vampire you find and come home. Clear?”
“Clear, sir,” replied Tim. “Although I have to ask, sir, whether it might be wiser to insert in daylight?” He shot Larissa an apologetic glance as he spoke, and she did her best not to let her eyes burst red with anger.
“Surveillance confirms that the windows of Rejon’s compound have all been painted out,” replied General Allen. “And intelligence suggests that a number of his bodyguards have been left unturned. The advantage of being able to use Lieutenant Kinley outweighs the disadvantages of working in darkness.”
“Understood, sir,” said Tim. He glanced at her again, a pained expression on his face. Larissa knew exactly what it was meant to convey.
Nothing personal. I had to ask.
“Excellent,” said General Allen, and tapped his console again. The screen changed to a wide pyramid of photographs, each with a name printed beneath it. At the top was General Garcia Rejon, a handsome, thin-faced man with a covering of dark stubble and piercing dark brown eyes. Under him were three men listed as colonels, and below them were widening rows of lieutenants and soldiers. “This is what we believe to be the new Desert Cartel leadership,” said Allen. “Intelligence suggests that the majority of these men, all of whom we suspect have now been turned, are currently residing in Garcia Rejon’s compound. The general and his colonels are priority level 1, the rest priority level 2. The preferred outcome of this operation is that none of these men survive.”
“Collateral?” asked Tim Albertsson. “You said there were unturned guards?”
“Not a consideration,” replied Allen, and Larissa felt a chill run up her spine. “Your objectives are the priority level targets. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tim, firmly.
“Lieutenant Kinley?” asked the director, turning to her. “This is a priority level operation with presidential approval. Can you handle it?”
I don’t know, thought Larissa. I’m not a murderer. But there’s no way I’m telling you that.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I can handle it.”
“Good,” replied General Allen, and smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re going along on this one, Larissa. I wish I could be there to see it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. I want wheels up at 1900. The operational briefing has been sent to both of your consoles. Study it, prep your team, then go and get this done. I want a full report as soon as you’re back. Dismissed.”
* * *
Tim tensed the muscles in his legs. He was about to jump over the low wall that they had taken cover behind, when Larissa disappeared into th
e evening sky in a silent streak of black.
He gasped at her sheer speed; before a second had passed she was gone, lost in the gloom overhead. A nervous babble of Spanish floated through the air, confirming that Rejon’s men had seen something, although they appeared unsure as to exactly what. Tim crouched behind the wall, adrenaline coursing through his body, uncertain what to do. He raised his head and peeked over the top of the wall. The garden beyond was perhaps fifty feet square, with two rings of flower beds and a round pond in its center. Beyond it, atop the gentle rise, was Garcia Rejon’s home, a sprawling mansion with blacked-out windows and blast-proof concrete walls, its outline silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky. On the far side of the garden, a low wall divided it from the gravel drive that wound up to the front of the house. Behind it, crouched in the darkness with AR-15s in their hands, were four of Rejon’s newly turned vampires.
Tim braced himself. He had no idea what Larissa was doing, but he knew he couldn’t just crouch behind the wall indefinitely, waiting for her to make her intentions known. He took a deep breath, and then a high whistling noise filled his ears. He raised his head just in time to see a black shape drop out of the sky on the other side of the garden.
An explosion of dirt and shimmering blood erupted from behind the wall, which cracked and fell heavily forward onto one of the flower beds. As he stared, incredulous, two large shapes flew through the air and crashed onto a strip of lawn. The vampires twisted and writhed on the grass, digging brown furrows with their elbows and heels, both of them bleeding from so many places it looked as though a grenade had gone off beside them.
The sight of the blood cleared Tim’s head, and he threw himself over the wall. Grunts of exertion and screams of violence rang out across the garden, but he ignored them, focusing only on the two injured vampires. He drew his stake as he ran and plunged it into the chest of the nearest man; he burst with a deafening bang, spraying Tim’s uniform with blood and meat, but the special operator barely noticed. He was already moving, raising his stake and bringing it down on the second man, who exploded with a thick, wet pop as Tim raced across the lawn toward where Rejon’s men had been taking cover.
Dust swirled in the air beyond the collapsed wall. Tim raised his T-Bone to his shoulder and flipped down the visor of his helmet, twisting the dial on his belt as he did so. The thermographic filter activated, and the scene before him shifted to a swirl of pale yellow as hot dust floated through the air. In the middle, standing quite still, was a single figure, colored dark red and bright pulsing white. Tim pushed his visor back up and inched forward, his finger resting on the T-Bone’s trigger.
“Larissa?” he shouted. “That you in there?”
“It’s me,” shouted the vampire girl. “Catch!”
Something flew out of the dust toward him. Tim removed his left hand from the barrel of his weapon and grabbed for it. He felt something coarse and slippery and looked down to see what Larissa had thrown him. It was the severed head of a man in his late teens, his glowing eyes wide and staring, his mouth still opening and closing, trying to speak. Tim stared at it, revolted.
Does she know? he wondered. Does she know that she gets like this?
The sound of metal crunching through bone shook him from his thoughts, and he dropped the head a millisecond before it burst like an overfilled balloon, splattering his uniform from ankle to knee.
“Nice catch,” said Larissa, strolling calmly out of the dust. Her eyes blazed red and her fangs gleamed as she smiled at him.
“Thanks,” he managed. Behind him he could hear the rest of his squad approaching. “You could have let me put it down before you staked the rest of him.”
Larissa leaned toward him, so close that he could feel her breath hot in his ear. “Don’t be such a baby,” she whispered. Then she pulled away, and went to meet the others as they skidded to a halt in the middle of the ornamental garden. Tim remained where he was for a long moment, his mind wiped temporarily clear by the vampire girl. He was utterly intoxicated by her, had known as much for several weeks now. Since the day she arrived, if he was honest with himself. But now he felt something new: He felt fear.
He was scared of her. And, to his surprise, he realized it didn’t change the way he felt. If anything, it only made it stronger.
Snap out of it, for Christ’s sake, he thought, and shook his head briskly, trying to clear it. You’re in the middle of a priority level operation. Get your shit together, right now.
Tim took a deep breath and turned to address his squad. The words died in his throat as a hand, tanned and lined and incredibly strong, closed around his neck.
20
THE SLEEP OF THE JUST
Jamie Carpenter’s head spun as he walked the familiar corridor of Level B.
A descendant of the founders. Jesus.
He pressed his card against the panel outside his quarters, pushed open the door, and walked inside. The assault on Broadmoor and the similar attacks on prisons and hospitals around the world had clearly been designed to keep the supernatural departments of the world busy, to distract them from the most pressing matter at hand: finding Dracula before it was too late. But now it seemed as though the plan had delivered a bonus that neither Valeri nor his master could have anticipated: the reopening of an old wound that went to the very heart of Blacklight.
I wonder what he wants, thought Jamie, as he removed his uniform and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. What would I want if I’d been locked in a hospital for almost a decade for no reason?
Jamie considered the question as he brushed his teeth in the small sink in the corner of his quarters, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he did so. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bags beneath them were heavy and gray. The scar on his neck had faded in the months since his skin had been burned by acid in the chemist’s Bliss laboratory, but it was still clearly visible: a pink patch of rough skin and shiny scar tissue that he had come to accept as a permanent part of himself. He drank two glasses of water and, as he lay down on his bed, realized he knew the answer to his own question. It was a single word.
Revenge. If I was Albert Harker, I’d want revenge.
The thought chilled him, and when his console beeped into life in the darkness he jumped, ever so slightly. He lifted it from his bedside table, glad that Larissa hadn’t been there to see him so easily scared, and saw an overdue message waiting from him. He thumbed it open, read the contents, and groaned.
Brilliant timing. Just bloody fantastic. Thanks very much.
* * *
Five hours later Jamie opened his eyes.
The thick fog of tiredness that he had to fight his way out of most mornings was strangely, wonderfully absent; his mind was clear, and his body felt more rested than it had in months. He checked the digital clock that stood on his bedside table and was astonished to see that it was 8:45 A.M. It was incredibly rare for him, or any other operator, to sleep so late. Alarms, console messages, unscheduled briefings—any or all of these interrupted sleep in the Loop on an almost nightly basis.
Jamie swung himself out of bed and flicked on his little plastic kettle. He made a steaming mug of coffee, left it cooling on his desk, and headed for the showers. In the wide block in the middle of the Level B corridor, he stepped under the water, letting the heat burn away the aches and pains that always gradually resurfaced, no matter how well he slept, and thought about John Morton.
Most Department 19 operators were already highly experienced when they arrived at the Loop to begin their training, either through the military, the intelligence services, or the elite regiments of the police. It tended to count for very little, however, when they were first confronted by a live vampire. So it had been with Morton; the reality had clearly shaken him and made him immediately begin to question everything. This was natural, in Jamie’s experience, possibly even healthy, but it presented him with a pro
blem. The situation they found themselves in, with hundreds of particularly dangerous new vampires on the loose, didn’t permit the shallow learning curve that was preferred for rookie operators, which meant that he was going to have to have a conversation with John Morton that he was not looking forward to.
Jamie toweled himself dry and made his way back to his quarters. A message had appeared on his console while he was in the shower; he pressed READ with his thumb.
M-3/AWAIT_FURTHER_INSTRUCTIONS/MAINTAIN_READINESS
He breathed a sigh of relief.
That buys me some time. Enough, hopefully.
Morton and Ellison would by now be awake in the dormitories on Level A, where all rookie operators were housed. For a moment, Jamie considered giving them the morning off, but decided against it. Going easy on them would do nobody any good, least of all them; a couple of hours in the Playground with Terry would sharpen them up. He sent a quick message to that effect, then pulled the most overdue report from the teetering pile on his desk, settled into his chair, and began to read.
An hour later his console beeped into life again, rousing him from the report. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and opened the message, although he was already sure he knew what it was going to say.
NS303, 67-J/ISAT_INTERVIEW/SURDIV/1100
He checked his watch. It read 10:36.
For Christ’s sake. As if there’s nothing important going on right now.
The same message had been waiting for him when he had returned from the interim director’s quarters in the early hours of the morning. Part of him had been hoping that either Kate, or Paul Turner himself, might have moved his appointment back, given the demands of Moving Shadows and the implications of Jacob Scott’s revelation.
Too much to ask, clearly.
Jamie closed his eyes and tried to imagine answering Kate’s ISAT questions. Then he stood up, gave his head a quick shake, and started to pull on his uniform, dragging the black jumpsuit over his body, doing up the zip and folding the flaps into place. He pushed his feet into boots that had once been so hard they made his toes bleed, but which were now as soft as silk, and laced them tight. His Glock 17 went into the holster on his right hip, even though he wasn’t leaving the Loop, and his belt was fastened tightly around his waist. He checked his appearance in the mirror and exited his quarters, walking quickly toward the elevator at the end of the curved corridor. When it arrived, he stepped inside and hit the button marked G, checking his watch yet again as he did so.
