by Will Hill
Carrie Burgess was a tall, sharp-faced woman in her twenties with black hair and delicate features. She looked nothing like the CIA intelligence operative she had been before NS9, but she had a reputation as one of NS9’s sharpest intelligence analysts, for calm, level-headed thinking and strategic excellence. Larissa had only worked with her directly once and had found her somewhat bland, but she worked closely with Tim Albertsson and the rest of the NS9 special operator program, which was enough for her—the SO program only utilized the very best of the best.
Tom Gregg was barely out of his teens, short and powerful with jet-black skin and huge, nervous eyes. He had joined the army straight out of high school and quickly made an impression on his superiors with his determination and tenacity. He had already been marked out as a future member of the special forces, most likely Delta, by the time General Allen had swooped in and recruited him for NS9. He had performed well during the training that Larissa had helped Tim Albertsson oversee, taking his knocks with quiet persistence, always eager to learn and improve.
Laura O’Malley was slightly older than Gregg, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three. She was short and extremely pretty, her dark red hair as much a signifier of her Boston Irish roots as her surname, and had arrived at Dreamland from the NSA, the shadowy branch of the National Security apparatus, where much of what she had done was highly classified. Larissa was already looking forward to seeing her and Angela Darcy together; the two women’s careers had been remarkably similar, and she suspected they were either going to become good friends or bitter rivals.
Larissa looked around the cabin at the men and women she was taking to join the Department she loved and hated in equal measure. She was sure they would do well, and she was excited at the prospect of working with them, but there was something far more interesting than them aboard the Mina II, something to which her attention kept returning, and was the reason her heart was still pounding in her chest after the visceral, physical shock of leaving Nevada had worn off.
At the rear of the hold, two Blacklight operators, visors down and MP5s in their hands, stood in front of a thick plastic barrier that sat flush against the walls, ceiling, and floor, creating a sealed space beyond it. On a bench at the back of this space, a black hood over his head, his hands cuffed behind his back, sat the man Lee Ashworth had told her about.
The prisoner.
He had been escorted through the hangar barely five minutes before the Mina II taxied out onto the Dreamland runway, flanked by the same operators who were now standing guard outside his cell. They were members of Paul Turner’s Security Division and had spoken only to inform her that she and her NS9 recruits were forbidden from attempting to make any type of contact with the prisoner. It was infuriating to Larissa, who outranked them both, but she let it slide; Interim Director Holmwood had presumably made it clear to them that their orders superseded rank.
The prisoner himself had barely moved since the plastic barrier had been sealed, other than to occasionally stretch his legs and shift the pressure on his shoulders. His head was lowered almost to his chest, and Larissa couldn’t tell whether he was awake or asleep. She stared at the man, who had been the focus of so much gossip inside Dreamland, and felt her skin tingle with excitement and frustration—he was now less than fifteen feet away from her, and still she did not know who he was.
Once they were back at the Loop, she had every intention of telling the interim director how much she knew and asking him outright who the prisoner was, a man important enough to have his identity protected not only by the hood on his head but by the two armed operators guarding him. Far from being sated, her curiosity about the prisoner was hungrier than it had ever been.
“Three minutes,” said the pilot, his voice emerging from speakers set into the walls.
Larissa’s heart leaped in her chest as she pulled the safety harness around her shoulders and waist. Three minutes and she would be back at the Loop. And while the prospect of returning to Blacklight did not fill her with unequivocal joy, there were three reasons she was suddenly trembling with excitement.
Kate. Matt.
Jamie.
* * *
The Mina II touched down onto the Loop’s runway with a low, rattling thud and a momentary screech of tires.
Larissa unbuckled her harness as the pilot applied the brakes and steered the sleek supersonic jet toward the hangar. She flew easily through the air and floated beside the door-release handle, waiting for the light on its control panel to turn green. The deafening roar of the engines was diminishing, and behind her she could hear her recruits unfastening themselves, getting to their feet, and pulling their bags out from under their seats. She ignored them; her eyes remained fixed on the small glowing red circle. With a final shuddering lurch, the Mina II came to a halt, its engines letting out a long, low whine as the red light in front of Larissa turned green. She flipped open the plastic case that covered the panel, raised the safety handle, and pressed the flat yellow button.
There was an instant rumble of machinery as the ramp at the front of the aircraft began to slowly lower to the ground, letting a gust of cool evening air into the stuffy hold. Larissa breathed it in, relishing the smells of the Loop: gasoline, grass, grease, sweat. The ramp thudded down onto the tarmac of the landing area, and she swooped out through the open doorway, her supernaturally enhanced eyes searching the familiar landscape for familiar faces.
“Lieutenant Kinley.”
She turned toward the source of the voice and felt a smile rise on her face. Cal Holmwood was standing on the wide landing area, Paul Turner at his side. He smiled back at her as she slid to the ground before him and snapped a sharp salute.
“Hello, sir,” she said. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” said Holmwood. “How was the flight?”
“Short,” she replied. “Longer than if I’d done it myself, though.”
“I’m sure,” said Holmwood. “Are these our new recruits?”
He nodded in the direction of the Mina II. Larissa turned to see the six Americans making their way down the ramp, staring around at the vast grounds of the Loop with wide eyes.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Do you want to meet them?”
“I think I probably ought to.”
Larissa nodded. “NS9 operators,” she shouted, “over here on the double.”
The men and women made their way across to where she was standing, incredulous expressions on their faces.
“Interim Director Cal Holmwood,” she said, “may I introduce Captain James Van Thal, operators Patrick Johnson, Mark Schneider, and Carrie Burgess, and trainees Tom Gregg and Laura O’Malley.”
“Holy shit,” said Burgess, then blushed a deep red. “Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Holmwood, smiling broadly at the new recruits. “It’s good to meet you. I’m grateful to you all for being here.”
“It’s an honor, sir,” said Van Thal.
“It’s nice to have you back, Captain,” said Holmwood. “Things have changed quite a bit since you were last here.”
“I’m looking forward to getting started, sir.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Holmwood. “Major Turner, please will you show these men and women to their quarters and see that they have everything they need?”
“Yes, sir,” said Turner, stepping forward. “Follow me, please.”
The security officer turned and strode toward the open hangar. After a second or two, the NS9 operators followed him. Holmwood watched them go, then turned back to Larissa.
“They’re good people,” she said.
“I’m sure they are,” said Holmwood. “I wouldn’t have sent you if I didn’t trust your judgment. Or if I didn’t think it would be good for you. How was it?”
“It was wonderful, sir,” she said. “But it’s over. I’m home.”
> Holmwood nodded. “Go and get yourself settled back in. I want a full debrief tomorrow morning. And I think there are a few people who are looking forward to seeing you.”
“I hope so,” said Larissa, grinning.
“Go on then,” said Holmwood. “Dismissed.”
She cast a final glance in the direction of the Mina II. The two operators were standing at the bottom of the ramp, flanking the prisoner; he stood stiffly, his hooded head up, his back straight, his feet shoulder-width apart. She considered asking the interim director about him, getting it over with there and then, but decided against it.
It’s not the time, she thought. And I can’t wait any longer to see my friends.
Larissa set off toward the hangar. Without thinking, she floated into the air, then remembered where she was and let her feet sink back to the ground. Flying, which had been so glorious in Nevada, so wonderfully liberating, was a cause for suspicion and distrust among a significant number of her colleagues, and she felt her heart sink, just a little.
Her boots clicked across the concrete floor of the hangar as she headed for the double doors that would take her inside the Loop. She pulled her console from her belt and was about to type a message to Jamie, asking him where he was, when she heard three sets of footsteps come to a halt behind her and glanced back over her shoulder.
The prisoner and his escorts had stopped in front of Cal Holmwood. As she watched, he waved a hand, and the two operators walked into the hangar, leaving the interim director alone with the hooded man. As Larissa turned away, she saw Holmwood take one of the prisoner’s arms and lead him forward. She reached the double doors and was about to push them open when she heard three words that stopped the breath in her chest. Cal Holmwood whispered them at a volume that no normal person would have been able to hear, but to Larissa’s supernatural ears they were as clear as a bell.
“Welcome back, Julian.”
Larissa gasped. She pushed through the doors, not wanting to give any sign she had heard anything, and walked down the corridor beyond them. Her head was spinning. She told herself to calm down, to not jump to conclusions.
There are plenty of people called Julian. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s dead, for God’s sake.
The possibility was so incredible that she couldn’t allow herself to properly consider it—it was too big, too monumentally, earth-shakingly huge. It was a thought that had occurred to her momentarily in Nevada, but she had dismissed it then, as she was trying to do now.
Coincidence. It has to be a coincidence.
She stepped into a waiting elevator and pressed the button marked B. The doors slid closed in front of her, and Larissa leaned against the metal wall of the car, her head pounding.
There was no way she could tell Jamie what she had heard, not without ironclad proof that the idea now churning in her stomach was true. If she let him get his hopes up, and turned out to be wrong, it would destroy him, and them. But if there was even a chance that he had been lied to, that his father was still alive, how could she not? If the prisoner disappeared into some dark corner of Blacklight, and she failed to tell him while there might be a chance to do something about it, how would she be able to live with herself?
She was deep in thought as the elevator doors slid open, revealing the long central corridor of Level B. She turned left and walked along the gray semicircular path that led to her quarters, to the room that she had not seen for more than a month. Her mind was so full of dead men and secrets that she was completely unaware of the dark shape behind her until she unlocked the door and felt a tap on her shoulder.
Her eyes widened, then instantly bloomed dark red. She whirled around, fangs bursting from her gums, and stopped dead. Standing in front of her, a huge smile on his face, was Jamie Carpenter.
Larissa opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to utter a single word. Jamie reached around her waist, lifted her into the air, and strode into the room, kicking the door shut behind them.
TWO DAYS LATER
61
POSTMORTEM
This meeting is called to order,” said Cal Holmwood. “All members of the Zero Hour Task Force present, Lieutenants Kinley, Randall, and Browning, Colonel Frankenstein, and Captain Van Thal present in addition.”
Jamie looked around the Ops Room. The central table was full, men and women in black uniforms occupying every seat around its edge. The interim director sat at one end with Paul Turner on one side of him, Jack Williams on the other. He looked tired, as always, but his face wore a determined expression, and his voice was low and steady.
“The last week has been remarkable, even by the standards of this Department,” said Holmwood. “This meeting has been called to update you on recent events. Minutes will be forwarded to your consoles afterward, along with Security Division regulations regarding what you are authorized to tell your teams. Until you have them, please discuss nothing you hear in this room with anyone not present now. Is that clear to you all?”
There was a chorus of agreement and a ripple of nodded heads.
“Good,” said Holmwood. “Before we begin, I’d like you all to join me in welcoming the new additions to this task force. Lieutenants Kinley, Browning, and Randall you all know, similarly Colonel Frankenstein, who has returned to the active roster. I’d like to introduce Captain James Van Thal of NS9, who has joined us for the foreseeable future. He and I have worked alongside each other several times, and I can tell you we’re lucky to have him.”
Kate and Matt blushed slightly, Frankenstein gave no visible indication that he had heard his name mentioned, and Van Thal nodded and smiled.
“To business then,” said Holmwood. “I’m sure most of you already know, but I can confirm that Albert Harker, who escaped from Broadmoor during the mass breakout, was destroyed two nights ago in the printing presses of the Globe newspaper near Reading. He was destroyed by Lieutenant Browning, who was accompanied to the scene by Lieutenant Randall and Colonel Frankenstein. Interrogation of Harker’s associates has confirmed that his stated intention was to alert the general public to the existence of vampires and this Department, although they have come to believe that gaining revenge against us was his true objective. He was at least partly successful in terms of the public.”
“How successful?” asked Angela Darcy. “What’s the exposure?”
“Approximately one hundred thousand physical copies of the edition of the Globe that Harker and Kevin McKenna altered were dispatched from the facility. We intercepted several trucks before they reached their destinations, and were able to remove a significant portion from retail outlets. But there are at least twenty thousand copies unaccounted for, which we have to presume were bought and read.
“In addition, the Globe’s website ran Kevin McKenna’s story uninterrupted for more than an hour. It has been taken down, along with the blog that McKenna wrote, presumably on Albert Harker’s orders, but pasted versions and caches of both appear on a daily basis. There is simply no way to make them disappear entirely or make any accurate estimates about how many people may have read them in their various incarnations. The official response ran in the Globe yesterday, a retraction and editorial accusing Kevin McKenna of sabotage, of playing a practical joke on the country before killing himself. Early indications are that this story is holding, at least so far, although it has been roundly rejected in conspiracy-theory circles. The Ministry of Defense has received more than three thousand phone calls and fifteen thousand e-mails inquiring about our existence, which have all been answered with firm denials. Beyond continuing to monitor the situation, there is little more we can do at this time.”
“Jesus,” said Jack Williams. “It’s out there now, even if no one believes it yet. Harker got what he wanted.”
“Lieutenant Browning shoved a stake into his heart until he burst,” rumbled Frankenstein. “I doubt he wanted that.”
; I’m not so sure, thought Matt.
“The Security Division has concluded that there is no immediate danger of exposure,” said Paul Turner, giving Frankenstein a sharp glance. “Although it goes without saying that it is now a significantly more likely prospect than it was a week ago. Harker may not have thrown the doors open as he intended, but he has opened them a crack. The likelihood of this Department, and the supernatural, remaining unknown to the public indefinitely is now almost nil.”
Jamie listened to his colleagues, his eyes widening. He knew what had happened in the printing press, had heard the tale in great detail from both Kate and Matt, but until now nobody outside the Security Division had known the extent of the damage Albert Harker had caused.
“This could have all been avoided,” he said, his voice low, “if we had known where Albert Harker was, or if his family had treated him better. None of this needed to happen.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Turner. “When the Science Division invents a time machine, I promise you it will be the first thing we go back and fix.”
Jamie stared at the security officer, who returned his gaze, his expression as flat and empty as always.
“Moving on,” said Holmwood, shooting them both a warning look. “We have an update on Albert Harker’s fellow Broadmoor escapees. The Science Division has now been able to confirm the theory put forward by Lieutenant Browning, due in no small part to the cooperation of the SPC. The theory explains the unusual power of the turned escapees and how such a widespread global action was able to be perpetrated.”
Jamie glanced over at Matt, who had blushed a deep red, and saw Kate and Larissa do the same.
You didn’t tell us this, whatever it is, he thought. What happened to no secrets?
“What has been concluded is that the Broadmoor patients were not turned via the traditional method that we are all familiar with. They were not bitten.”
