First job done. Now for the hard part.
Steven swung his legs off the edge of the bed with exaggerated care, so as to minimise the howls of protest from his injuries, and detached the saline drip from its holder.
So far so good.
He steeled himself for the inevitable surge of agony and staggered across to the toilet in the corner of the room. He honestly couldn’t remember feeling worse than he did right now. Even the chemotherapy he’d undergone in a vain attempt to fight his cancer hadn’t been as bad as this. The bullet wound on his shoulder throbbed, but was almost insignificant compared to the damage that Connie Hamilton had inflicted on him. She’d shattered his collarbone and done a damned good job of chewing through his rib-cage before she died. He knew he was lucky to be alive, even if he didn’t feel that way. Even the smallest movement felt like someone grinding shards of broken glass into his torso.
He reached the toilet and, steadying himself against the featureless concrete wall, released a stinking stream of dark yellow urine at the porcelain. At least his gracious hosts had allowed him that dignity. The pain he had to endure to make that small journey was terrible, but it was immeasurably better than being strapped to a table, pissing into a bag through a plastic tube forced up his dick. In fact, since his conversation with that slimy tosser of a politician, his captors had been quite accommodating. Downright pleasant even, if you ignored the fact that he spent his days locked in a soundproof room in the arse-end of some military base.
As if on cue, the lock on his door clicked, then swung open on reinforced hinges. A young woman with dark hair and vivid red lipstick appeared, flanked by two muscular men with machine guns. The woman, Rose, frowned at him.
“Mr Wilkinson, you know you’re not supposed to get out of bed on your own. Pull the cord if you need to go to the toilet and I’ll come and help you.”
Steven shook his head. He liked Rose. She was friendly, attractive and always smiled at him, even when she was telling him off. The last thing he wanted her to be doing was standing there watching while he took a piss. Even in a place like this, where his movements were monitored twenty four hours a day by CCTV, he preferred to at least retain the illusion of some privacy. He thought about saying that to her, but instead just returned her smile. “That’s okay, Rose. I’ll manage.”
Rose sighed. “Well, don’t come crying to me if you rip all your stitches out. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
“I know, but a bloke has to keep a little self respect. Besides, if I show all the goods off now, you might lose interest.”
Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Mr Wilkinson, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“I could make a couple of suggestions, and please, call me Steven.” He winked at her, taking small satisfaction at the flush of colour in her cheeks. “Now, as much as I enjoy your company, I somehow doubt you came in here for the pleasure of mine. What is it today? More blood samples?”
Rose stood to one side and let one of the machine gun toting meatheads push an antique wheelchair into the room. “Not today. If you’re feeling up to it, there are some people who’d like to meet you.”
Steven sighed, then nodded his assent. “Lead the way, Rose. It’ll make a nice change to get out for a while.”
He allowed Rose to help him into the chair while one of the guards held it steady. The other guard watched him like a hawk, and Steven couldn’t help but notice that the safety catch of the man’s MP5 was disengaged. It felt strange to be in a sitting position after spending days lying flat on his back, and the sensation was far from pleasant. His abdominal muscles pushed against his ruined ribcage, and he ground his teeth together to prevent the cry of pain from escaping his lips. Rose must have noticed his discomfort and, after she’d attached his saline drip to a holder on the back of the wheelchair, administered a liberal dose of morphine into the line. The warm glow of the opiate filled him, diminishing the pain until it was barely noticeable. A glimmering ember that would, in a few hours time, flare back up into a raging bonfire.
They pushed him through a series of plain white concrete corridors, illuminated by harsh fluorescent bulbs whose light glared from the sterile walls. Doors lined both sides of the corridor, all of which were reinforced and had magnetic card and keypad access. Some of the rooms had been set up as cells, while others were being used as offices. As he passed the windows, he could see military personnel sitting behind shabby, cramped desks, working on antique computer equipment. It looked like the place had been outfitted with whatever old junk they had in storage, and Steven realised that probably wasn’t far from the truth. No doubt in a month or so, once orders were approved, the rooms would be filled with new desks and modern computer systems with flat screen monitors. For now, they were making do with whatever they could get their hands on.
They eventually arrived at a pair of double doors, which Rose opened. The guards wheeled Steven in and positioned him next to a conference table, then stepped back to the corners, weapons at the ready.
Steven recognised some of the people at the table. Phil Fletcher and Paul Patterson sat next to each other at the far end of the room. Steven was glad to see them both. He’d heard nothing about their fate since they’d been taken by the military. Both men’s heads had been shaved, and their scalps were red and blotchy from the acid burns they’d received while rescuing him. Phil nodded a greeting, while Paul barely registered his presence. The firearms officer’s jaw was clenched and he stared into the middle distance. Steven had to remind himself he’d only lost his family a short while before. He struggled to reconcile the fact that it was only a little over a week since he’d woken from his coma in a hospital bed. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Steven didn’t know any of the room’s other occupants, but he didn’t need to. They were clearly military. One of them, an older man with a moustache who stank of expensive aftershave, was obviously the commanding officer. The other five men and women held themselves with a casual alertness that only came from combat experience. Even in the safe environment of the conference room, their eyes were continually flitting around, checking for potential threats.
The officer got to his feet, a smile on his lips. He extended his hand to Steven, shaking it in a vice-like grip. “Mr Wilkinson, it’s good to finally meet face-to-face. I’m Colonel Brian Richards, the CO of this base. Mr Fletcher and Mr Patterson you already know. The rest are Lieutenant Derek Foster, Sergeant Jayne Peyton, Corporal Aaron Raines, Private Roland Lewis and Private Fay Cross. We’re just waiting for one more person to join us before we begin.” He turned to Rose. “Doctor Fisher, would you see if Doctor Channing is going to grace us with his presence?”
Rose nodded and got to her feet. She’d almost made it to the doors when they burst open and a tall, thin man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, a white, bloodstained surgical smock and gore-encrusted rubber gloves strode into the room. The man glared at the Colonel. “What is it now, Richards? I’m in the middle of something important.”
The Colonel gave Doctor Channing a thin smile. “We’ll try not to keep you long, Doctor. In fact, we might as well start with you. What have you found so far?”
Doctor Channing huffed and rolled his eyes. “The creature’s blood is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The cells are more animal than human, although I’m still waiting on the DNA analysis from those imbeciles in Wroughton. The two I’ve examined so far appear to have similar regenerative abilities, however, Mr Wilkinson’s capacity for healing is seriously inhibited by silver. The other creature appears to be unaffected by it.”
Steven raised an eyebrow. “You have one in custody? If it’s healing from a silver wound then it’s a member of a pack field team. I’d watch your back. They don’t tend to leave their people behind.”
The room went silent for a moment. Steven noticed Paul clench his fists into tight balls, while Phil looked physically sick. Given their recent experiences with pack werewolves, Steven couldn’t say h
e blamed them.
The Colonel gave Steven a thin smile. “I can assure you, Mr Wilkinson, we have taken every precaution. Please, Doctor, continue.”
Doctor Channing exhaled in irritation at the interruption. “Anyway, I’ve yet to determine exactly how the transformation occurs, however there appears to be some evidence of a viral vector that I’m attempting to isolate, which may explain how an individual becomes infected. Beyond that, it’s almost impossible to learn more with a living subject. The damn thing heals before I can do any real exploratory surgery. If you’d only allow me to dissect him properly, then we might get somewhere.”
The Colonel shook his head. “We’ve discussed this before, Doctor. With the exception of Mr Wilkinson here, who is our guest and is not to be harmed, I can’t sanction the termination of our only living werewolf. As far as we know, he’s the only one in captivity anywhere in the world.”
“Then, Colonel Richards, I suggest you get me something else to work with. There are too many disparities between the two subjects we currently have, and the Hamilton woman was too badly damaged to give much insight. I need more subjects to continue my work.”
Colonel Richards smiled at this. “And that, Doctor, is precisely why I’ve brought us all together today.”
21st December 2008. Trecorras Cottage, Llangarron, Herefordshire. 15:30
“Marie, he’ll be here in a minute. Can you please do the drying up? Like I asked you to do an hour ago.”
Marie groaned and tried to push herself up from the sofa. The makeshift stitches across her side tugged at her tender skin, and she felt a couple pop loose. A warm trickle of blood ran down the inside of her t-shirt, staining the white fabric a deep crimson.
“Marie?”
She bristled at the sound of his voice, but bit down her irritation, almost managing to keep it out of her voice. “Alright, I’m doing it now.”
“And can you pick your clothes up off the bedroom floor? And did you remember to clean the toilet?”
“Why would Daniel go into our bedroom? Just close the fucking door and he won’t see the clothes.”
“Marie, just do it, please.” John’s voice had acquired an edge that Marie didn’t like, however, she decided not to push the point.
She shuffled through to the kitchen and began half-heartedly drying up the cutlery and plates, keeping one eye on the long gravel track that was the only route to or from the isolated house.
John bustled into the kitchen and began spraying down the worktops with disinfectant and scrubbing them vigorously with paper towels, even though, as far as Marie was concerned, they looked perfectly clean. The chemicals burned her nostrils, causing her to sneeze. He stopped, threw the towels in the waste bin and turned to her. “Did you pick your clothes up yet?”
“For fuck’s sake, you only asked me ten seconds ago. I’ve been doing this, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Ten seconds? I asked you last night. And this morning. And half an hour ago.”
“Can you give me a break? I’m supposed to be recuperating here. And I doubt Daniel is going to care about the odd dirty sock or wet cup.”
John glared at her and lifted his shirt to show the blood-stained bandage beneath. “You aren’t the only one with injuries. And it doesn’t matter if Daniel cares or not. I care. I don’t want him coming in here thinking that we live like pigs. Can you stop moaning for five bloody minutes and help me get this place looking presentable?”
“Okay, okay. Just stop firing lists of fucking instructions at me. I’ll sort it out before he gets here.”
John looked past her, down the snow-flecked track, to the plume of dust rising above the bare hedgerows. “Too late. That must be him now.”
“Alright.”
“And Marie…”
“Yes?”
“Can you change your t-shirt before he gets here? That one’s got blood all over it.”
Marie sighed in exasperation and trudged out of the kitchen, into the long hallway, towards the staircase.
“And put your fucking dirty t-shirt in the wash basket,” John yelled from the kitchen.
Marie bit back the comment that was on the tip of her tongue and made her way up the stairs. She was not looking forward to this. Not one little bit.
***
Marie sipped her tea, feeling the hot liquid burn the inside of her mouth. If she was honest with herself, the momentary pain was a welcome distraction from the tense atmosphere in the living room. Daniel clearly wasn’t comfortable with coming out here to live under the same roof as two of the most wanted people in the country. It was a necessary compromise, however, as neither John nor she could exactly pop down to the local shop when they ran out of milk, or deal with any unexpected visitors. The local vicar had made the half-mile trek to the cottage a couple of days ago, forcing John and Marie to hide upstairs until he’d gone.
Then there was John. He’d been behaving like a complete arse ever since he’d found out Daniel was coming out here. Actually, she corrected herself, he’d been behaving like an arsehole ever since their escape from Scotland. Clearly, he had no idea how to share a living space with other people. She bit back her irritation and tried to break the leaden silence.
“So… Daniel… this is John.”
Daniel held out his hand, but John didn’t reciprocate. Instead, he glared at the big German and said flatly, “We’ve met.”
“What do you mean? When did you ever meet Daniel?”
John’s lip curled up. “Well, he wasn’t wearing an Armani suit last time.” He leaned forward in his seat, fixing Daniel with his gaze. “Fur coat, wasn’t it, mate?”
The penny dropped. “Oh, fucking hell. You mean…”
John’s eyes blazed. “Yes, I fucking mean. In the woods outside of High Moor. That was you trying to kill me, wasn’t it, Daniel.”
Daniel put his hands up. “It was, but that was before. Things are different now. Circumstances have changed.”
“You talk about it like it’s ancient history. It was a week and a fucking half ago!”
Daniel’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, and I can’t help but wonder if we would be in the same situation if Gregorz and I had succeeded in our mission. I…” Daniel stopped himself from finishing the sentence and exhaled, as if to rein in his anger. “No. The situation would have remained the same. Connie would still have slaughtered that police woman. Michael would still have ordered her home, and she would have gone after Wilkinson anyway. The unfortunate position we find ourselves in is not your fault,” he gave Marie a sideways glance that made her cheeks flush scarlet, “not entirely. Please, accept my apologies.”
Marie glared at John. “You have nothing to apologise for, Daniel. We should be apologising to you.” John looked as if he were about to speak, but Marie silenced him with a look. “Like you say, everything’s different. We have to deal with what’s happening right now and not get caught up on the past. Right, John?”
John murmured his assent and seemed to, if not relax, at least shift his body into a less threatening posture.
Satisfied that the situation had been defused for the time being, Marie turned to face Daniel. “Have you heard anything else from Russia?”
“The situation is not good. Krysztof and Lukas are taking control and they have the support of the Moonborn pack members. They’ve issued a death warrant for you, alongside the one for Simpson, but have stopped short at declaring Michael a traitor. There are still a lot of members loyal to him, and they don’t want to risk dividing the pack. Not yet, anyway.”
“Then the sooner we break Michael out the better.”
Daniel laughed. “Marie, there’s not a great deal we can do just yet.” He motioned to John. “Simpson’s injuries won’t heal until the next full moon, and then there’s you…”
Marie bristled. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, as I understand it, you’re human now.”
“So what? I’m still a trained pac
k operative, and if anything, that’ll work to our advantage on an infiltration mission. Their IR sensors won’t pick up anything out of the ordinary, and their bloody sonic countermeasures won’t do a damn thing to me either.”
“And if they shoot you, you’ll die.”
“I’m not leaving my brother locked up in that base for a second longer than he needs to be.”
Daniel shook his head. “I know, but you need to be realistic. We have to do a proper reconnaissance and come up with a workable plan. We can’t just go charging in there unprepared. Are you even sure that your information is correct?”
Marie’s shoulders sagged. “Alright. We’ll do it your way. For now. And yes, I’m certain Michael is there. We have a couple of field operatives within the UK military, and one of them tipped me off. I’ve already been checking the place out, and a few of the staff have Michael’s scent all over them. I’ve got a couple of ideas of how we can get in and out without raising the alarm. With any luck, they won’t even notice Michael’s gone until we’re far away.”
Chapter 2
22nd December 2008. Parklands Close, South Molton, Devon. 14:17
Sophie Riley flopped down on the bed and glared at the back of her cousin’s head. “Adam, it’s my turn now. I want to play!”
Adam Kosovan ignored her and continued to blow zombies into bloody fragments. Sophie felt her annoyance grow, and she tugged on the older boy’s arm just as a particularly fat zombie stumbled from an open doorway, vomiting green bile across the screen.
Adam’s shoulders tensed as the screen blurred and hordes of undead attacked him from all directions. Seconds later, the screen turned red, and he swore under his breath.
“Adam! You’re dead now. It’s my turn.”
“Yeah, but it’s your fault that I died. I’m having another go because of that.”
Blood Moon Page 2
