by Will Hill
“I don’t know his name, my lord. He was here when we arrived. He stood with these men, the first time they came to talk to you.”
Oh Christ, thought Turner, his heart stopping in his chest. The Zero Hour Task Force. We came down here together, the morning after they arrived. The morning I started the interrogation.
“What did he look like?” asked Cal Holmwood. The ashen look on his face told Turner that the interim director had come to the same realization as him.
“Tall,” said Lamberton, between sobs. “Black hair. Stood at the back, near Mr. Carpenter. That’s all I know, I swear it.”
“That’s Brennan,” said Turner, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’s been in Zero Hour since the beginning, Cal. He knows everything.”
Holmwood stared. “Has he been through ISAT?”
“No.”
“Find him. Run his chip.”
The security officer pulled his console from his belt and searched for Richard Brennan. The system returned a result almost immediately.
“He’s here,” said Turner, relief flooding through him. “On the grounds. Out by the runway.”
An alarm rang out from Holmwood’s console. He swore and grabbed it from his belt. “I have to brief Jack,” he said. “Finish this, then find Brennan. Don’t let anyone else do it. You find him, Paul, and you bring him to me.”
He turned and strode away down the cellblock without waiting for his security officer to answer. Turner watched him go, then pointed his T-Bone at Valentin’s butler’s chest.
“Lamberton,” he said. “You are hereby sentenced to immediate destruction, for the attempted murders of members of this Department.”
The vampire’s sobbing intensified, and he threw a pleading look at his master. “My lord, I beg you. I did it for you, to protect you. I could not let anything happen to you, my lord, after all our time together. I beg you, my lord, don’t let them kill me.”
“You thought that I could not protect myself?” asked Valentin, his voice low. “You thought so little of me? You did not even think to tell me after you were approached?”
“I dealt with it, my lord,” babbled Lamberton. “I did not want to trouble you, my lord, to bother you with something so trivial. I looked after you, my lord, like I always have, like I always will. What are two dead humans, my lord, what difference would they make? They are nothing, my lord, but you, you are my whole life, my lord, my everything. I could not take the risk, my lord. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.”
“You were played,” said Valentin. “Your loyalty to me was taken advantage of and so, so easily. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am, my lord,” sobbed Lamberton. “I truly am.”
“Stand clear, Valentin,” said Turner, sighting along the barrel of his T-Bone. “I have a sentence to carry out.”
An expression of naked despair rose onto Lamberton’s face. He cast a final desperate glance at his master, who looked back impassively. Turner breathed out and squeezed the trigger of his weapon. The bang of exploding gas was deafening in the confined space of the cell, an echoing thunderclap that rang through his ears. The stake exploded from the T-Bone’s barrel and rocketed toward the vampire butler. A millisecond later, the wire that trailed behind it went slack as Valentin plucked the projectile out of the air.
Oh shit, thought Turner.
Valentin turned the stake over in his hand. “I cannot allow you to destroy my servant, Major Turner,” he said, without so much as glancing in the security officer’s direction.
Lamberton breathed out a great bubbling mess of relief. “Thank you, my lord,” he sobbed. “Oh, thank—”
Valentin moved.
The ancient vampire threw the metal stake aside, stepped forward, and thrust his hand into Lamberton’s chest. The servant’s eyes flew open as it disappeared up to the wrist; from inside him came the sickening crunch of breaking bone. Lamberton threw back his head to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, an enormous jet of dark red blood erupted from his gaping mouth, spraying against the ceiling before falling to the floor. With a grunt of effort, Valentin pulled his hand out of his servant’s chest and held Lamberton’s beating heart up before his staring, stricken face.
“You have disgraced yourself,” he said, staring into his valet’s wide, outraged eyes. “And, by extension, me. I am extremely disappointed.”
Lamberton made a series of awful, strangled noises as blood poured out of the gaping hole in his chest. Valentin held his gaze for a long moment, then crushed the slowing heart in his fist. The heavy muscle burst under the pressure, and a millisecond later the rest of Lamberton did likewise. He exploded with a huge, wet bang, splattering across his cell and the pale face of his master.
For several seconds, the soft patter of falling blood was the only sound in the cell. Then Valentin turned to face Turner, soaked in the blood of his oldest friend.
“I’m afraid that was something I could only have allowed myself to do,” he said. “I hope you can understand. And that you will accept my sincere apologies for the things he did in my name.”
Turner stared at the gore-streaked figure before him and nodded slowly. He pressed the button that wound his stake back into his T-Bone and holstered it, his eyes never leaving Valentin’s.
“This Brennan,” continued Valentin. “The man my servant was in league with. He is still on the grounds of this facility?”
“Yes,” said Turner. He was still attempting to process what had just happened in front of him. “Probably running for the fence.”
“You are going to collect him?”
“That’s right,” said Turner. He could feel his equilibrium starting to return, feel his mind beginning to regain its sharpness.
“Major Turner,” said Valentin. “I would very much like to accompany you. I feel that I must make amends for the crimes of my servant.”
Turner opened his mouth to say no, then reconsidered.
He’s here, he thought. And he’s just destroyed his oldest friend. We’re going to have to start trusting him at some point. There’s nothing we can do to him if he’s lying, so we may as well start using him.
“Nelson,” he said. “Call for a Security Division section, and stay here until they relieve you.”
The young operator nodded, and he turned his attention back to the remaining occupant of the cell. “Come on then,” he said. “Before he gets away.”
Valentin blurred through the ultraviolet wall. Turner stared, marveling again at the old vampire’s astonishing speed.
“Ready when you are, Major Turner,” the vampire said, and smiled.
* * *
Paul Turner looked at Valentin Rusmanov as the elevator they were standing in ascended. The vampire appeared supernaturally calm considering what he had just done, and who he had done it to.
This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, he thought. Which is really saying something after today.
The elevator slowed to a halt, before the doors opened on the long Level 0 corridor. Turner set off at a flat sprint, pulling his console from his belt as he ran. Valentin flew effortlessly alongside him, peering down at the small rectangular screen.
“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “Is he gone?”
“No,” said Turner. “He’s still out by the runway. It doesn’t look like he’s moving.”
They reached the wide double doors that led into the hangar. The security officer dipped his shoulder and burst through them without slowing. Valentin swooped gracefully through behind him.
The huge doors stood open to the night sky. The rippling underside of the vast hologram that shielded the base from enemy satellites and reconnaissance planes loomed overhead, blocking out all but the brightest stars. Turner banked like a sprinter entering the final bend and accelerated toward the wide grounds of the Loop, his console in one hand.<
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“How far?” asked Valentin.
“Five hundred yards,” replied Turner. “Straight ahead.”
“Forgive me, Major Turner,” said Valentin, then disappeared from Turner’s view. The security officer skidded to a halt, shock barreling through him.
No, no, no. You treacherous bastard.
He was reaching for his T-Bone when impossibly strong hands gripped him beneath his arms and lifted him effortlessly into the air.
Valentin Rusmanov rocketed forward like a bullet from a gun, sweeping Paul Turner along mere inches above grass and tarmac that were little more than a blur; the speed of the vampire was absolutely dizzying, impossible, and unnatural. Less than two seconds later Valentin pirouetted upward and spun back down to the ground, landing as gracefully as a butterfly. He released his grip on Turner, who staggered like a drunk.
“Where is he?” asked the vampire. “I can’t see him. Or smell him.”
With some difficulty, Turner focused his attention on his console. According to the map on the screen, they were less than fifteen yards away from Operator Brennan. In front of him, a wide black shape sat in the flickering darkness beneath the hologram.
“What’s that?” asked Valentin. “It smells remarkable.”
“It’s a garden,” replied Turner, pulling his MP5 from its holster. “A rose garden. It’s a memorial to two operators who died out here.”
“Is he in there? This man we’re looking for?”
“So my map says,” replied Turner. He stowed his console and drew his flashlight from his belt.
“Come on then,” said Valentin, and floated across the grass toward the garden. Turner strode alongside him, until they reached the opening in the stone walls that served as the entrance to the garden. He stepped up onto the wooden boards that ran between the huge rose beds, turned on his flashlight, and shone it around the dark garden, already certain of what he was going see.
Nothing.
There was no sign of Richard Brennan.
His beam picked out a splash of color at the rear of the garden, and he walked toward it. Valentin floated silently alongside him, having clearly also realized that their pursuit had been in vain. In front of them stood the wooden bench that had been dedicated to the memories of John and George Harker; their names were engraved on a bronze plaque bolted to the center of the backrest. Turner shone his flashlight slowly across it and saw what his map had led him to.
A pool of blood lay on the wooden seat of the bench. It was almost dry, but it had run when it was fresh, spilling between the boards and dripping onto the ground. In the middle of the dark liquid, a small square of metal gleamed in the white beam of Turner’s flashlight.
“He cut his chip out,” said Turner, softly. “Cut it out of his own arm. He could be anywhere.”
Valentin stood beside him, looking down at the gory present Brennan had left for whoever came looking for him. “There’s something written on the bench,” he said. “I can smell the paint.”
Turner widened the beam of his flashlight, knowing what he was going to see.
Two words had been scrawled across the backrest, desecrating the bronze plaque with bright green spray paint.
HE
RISES
For a long moment, neither man nor vampire said a word.
Paul Turner suddenly felt more tired than he could remember feeling at any point in his long, full life. There was a limit to how much any man could handle, could absorb and still continue to put one foot in front of the other, and he felt, for the first time, as though he was on the verge of reaching his. Everything seemed dark, a tunnel in which the light at the end was slipping further and further away. Brennan was gone and with him, presumably, every discussion they had ever had about Dracula: their theories, assumptions, and the beginnings of their strategy to attempt to deal with him.
This did not set them back to square one—it set them much further back than that.
“I can find them, you know,” said Valentin. His voice was full of quiet fire. “Dracula. My brother. If you let me, I can find them. I can return and tell you where they are.”
Turner shrugged. “If you decide to leave,” he said, “I think we both know that I can’t stop you.”
“I suspect you would give it quite the try,” said Valentin, a smile rising on his face. “But I’d rather I didn’t have to find out. I’d rather go with your blessing.”
Turner studied the ancient vampire’s face for a long moment. “Go,” he said, and smiled. “Go and find them. Then come back. Don’t make me look stupid for trusting you.”
“Count on it,” said Valentin. He looked at Turner for a brief moment, then rose into the sky and was gone.
55
HOLD THE FRONT PAGE
Kate Randall sat on the bench in the back of the helicopter, her hands resting on her knees, and tried to still her racing heart. Matt Browning was beside her, his pale, gentle face set with determination, his gaze locked on the floor. On the bench opposite sat Colonel Victor Frankenstein, his huge gray-green head almost brushing the ceiling. He was watching them silently, his uneven eyes unreadable.
They had lifted off from the Loop twenty minutes earlier, their helicopter hauling itself into the darkening sky and heading south. The pilots had announced an ETA once they were airborne, and since then there had been silence in the passenger hold. That was fine with Kate; she had no desire to talk about where they were going or what they were going to do. This was not a normal operation, for which intelligence could provide a reasonable understanding of the terrain, numbers, and motives of the enemy they were about to face.
This was different.
They had no idea how many vampires were waiting for them; it could be Albert Harker on his own, or he could have an army with him. They had no idea what Harker was doing, although the location they were heading to, the printing press of one of the biggest tabloids in the country, certainly suggested that his plan involved the public exposure of something, whether it was vampires, or Blacklight, or both. And, crucially, neither of them had any idea how their fathers had become involved with whatever was happening.
Kate glanced over at Matt. She was trying not to worry about him, but failing. He had no operational experience whatsoever, and had undergone only basic weapons and tactics training at the Loop. This was understandable, as Matt had been recruited to work for the Lazarus Project, not as an operator. The only normal scenario in which he would be expected to take up arms was in defense of the Loop. Part of her was convinced that she should not have brought him, that if anything happened to him, it was going to be her fault. But she knew she could not have gone without him and lived with herself: There were certain things that you simply did not keep from people.
“Five minutes,” called the pilot.
“Okay,” Frankenstein rumbled, then gave Kate a thin smile. “Are you ready?”
The monster gave her no cause for concern, despite his absence from active operations; he had volunteered, he had more experience than the rest of the Department combined, and she was absolutely delighted that he was there.
“I’m ready,” she said.
* * *
Albert Harker smiled as he rounded the security desk, which was now soaked with Kevin McKenna’s blood, and floated toward Pete Randall.
His terrible eyes glowed a red so dark it was almost black, and Pete found himself absolutely certain that his life was about to end. But rather than the agonizing death he was expecting, Albert Harker merely clapped him hard on the back.
“No going back, Pete,” he said. “We go all the way to the end.”
Harker led him back into the main room of the press and turned his attention to the four men that Greg Browning had tied up earlier. The noise in the room was deafening; the machines had started to run again, pumping out copies of the vandalized version of
the next day’s edition of the Globe that carried Kevin McKenna’s final story. The captive men looked up at the blood-soaked vampire with outright terror, as Pete tried desperately to clear his head. The unthinkable horror of McKenna’s death and the heavy blow to the head had combined to render him barely functional.
The vampire approached the two nearest men, the ones who had tried to crawl away when Pete had been briefly unconscious, and pulled their throats out with two casual flicks of his wrist. Blood gushed out across the concrete floor, a pool of crimson that spread with nauseating speed. The two remaining men screamed and grunted behind their gags, their eyes bulging in their heads. They tried to squirm away as Harker approached them, his smile wide, his eyes blazing.
“Don’t . . . ,” managed Pete. “Please . . .”
The vampire rounded on him. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Do what needs to be done? Your courage may be failing you, but mine remains resolute.”
“You said . . . no one . . . would get hurt.”
Harker sighed. “That is how I would have had it, Pete. Believe me. Unfortunately, Kevin has changed that, for all of us. Now they will be coming, and we must be ready.”
Pete stared, tears rising in the corners of his eyes. This was not what he had signed up for, what he had gathered his courage and traveled into the unknown to be a part of. This was the murder and terrorism of the innocent.
This was madness.
Harker lifted the two crying, thrashing workers into the air and turned to face Pete. “Go to the loading bay with the others,” he said. “This will be where they come. Quickly, now.”
Pete looked down the long room. At the far end, beside the rolling metal doors, he could see Greg Browning overseeing four men in blue overalls. Three of them were stacking a pallet with bundles of newspapers as they came off the press; the fourth was sitting in the cab of a forklift, waiting to load it into a waiting truck. The driver was presumably safely in his cab, waiting for the word to go, with no idea of what was taking place less than fifty feet behind him.
