Purge City (Prof Croft Book 3)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Thank you,” I said to Cole, lifting the long pointer I’d set against the lectern. “Sunlight won’t kill a ghoul, but it does weaken them. We can’t introduce actual sunlight into the tunnels, no. But full-spectrum, industrial-strength spotlights will do the job. Equipped with these spotlights, armed teams will drop into the lines here, here, and here.” I tapped the map at three of the line’s branches. “The teams will converge toward the Canal Street station, driving the ghouls out ahead of them. Lights will also be shone down through the vents to keep the ghouls from escaping up to street level. Once at the convergence point, we’ll seal the station, trapping the creatures inside. We’ll then ignite a powerful incendiary, transforming the station into a crematory. They’ll be reduced to ashes within minutes.”

  My research had shown that ghouls could be killed one of two ways: decapitation or extensive brain trauma. Because the first was too labor intensive, not to mention dangerous, I had recommended to the mayor the second. The plan would mean considerable damage to the station, but Budge had reiterated his support. “Better property than people,” he’d said.

  “Are there any questions for the professor?” Captain Cole asked now.

  A burly woman raised her hand. “Are we sure the spotlights will be effective? What’s to stop the ghouls from turning around and attacking them?”

  “In a word,” I said, “cowardice.” I had the tech return to the image of the creature. “Appearances to the contrary, ghouls are pretty gutless. It’s why they prefer scavenging to pursuing live prey. If the ghouls were to turn on any of the teams, sustained gunfire would steer them straight again.”

  A young man raised his hand. “With the ghouls possessing the kind of strength you’re talking about, how can you be sure you’ll be able to contain them at the Canal Street station?”

  I had descended into the station the day before with an armed backup force and several full-spectrum lights. Despite my chest-squeezing phobia of being underground—and that the space reeked of ghoul—I took my time etching defensive sigils over the station’s tunnels and exits. I planned to infuse the sigils with a high dose of energy, manifesting a field to contain the ghouls. But the Hundred didn’t need to know the magical details.

  “I’m sure,” I replied.

  “Well, what are you using for an incendiary?” the young man pressed. “Napalm? Thermite?”

  Dragon sand, actually. Something else you don’t need to know. “A substance that will be harder to detect,” I replied. “Ghouls have a keen sense of smell.” When I looked around for any other raised hands, I noticed that the seat Vega had occupied was now empty.

  Yeah, she hates me, I thought.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Captain Cole said, approaching the lectern. I gathered up my notes and stepped from the stage as he addressed the auditorium. “The operation is scheduled to commence this Sunday at oh-seven-hundred. We’ll be conducting full-gear simulations at the Tactics Range in the Bronx every day until then, starting this afternoon.”

  As the captain talked, I made my way to the back row and took the seat Vega had vacated. Hoffman shifted his bulk around to face me.

  “Gotta hand it to you, Merlin,” he whispered. “You’ve kept this con going longer than I would’ve thought possible.”

  “Con?” My temper flared, in spite of myself. “What do you call that thing we battled in the storm lines this past spring?” I asked, referring to the werewolf-vampire hybrid.

  “You talking about that albino woman?”

  “Oh, is that what she was? Okay, forget the creature. How about how I yanked you out of harm’s way from thirty feet away?”

  “Cheap trick. Any stage magician could’ve pulled that off.”

  “And enclosed the creature in a light shield?”

  Hoffman scrunched up his face like whatever more I had to say wasn’t worth hearing. I had to remind myself that convincing him of my authenticity wasn’t why I was talking to him. I drew a deep breath and let it out through my nose along with the pent-up tension.

  “Still working the Lady Bastet case?” I asked.

  He eyed me with suspicion. “So what if I am?”

  “Any leads?”

  “Like I’m gonna tell you.”

  I reached into the front pocket of my shirt and pulled out several Polaroids. My golem, Ed, had struck gold on his second day. I spread the shots over the chair’s table arm. “You sure?”

  He frowned at the images. The top ones showed him chatting with one of Mr. Moretti’s men as he accepted an envelope. Subsequent photos showed him repeating the ceremony, this time with a representative of Mr. Brusilov, head of New York’s Russian crime family.

  “Looks like we caught you on payday,” I said.

  “Who in the hell took these? You?”

  “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” I gathered the pictures up, tapped them into a neat stack, and slid them into my shirt pocket. “And there’s more where those came from.”

  Hoffman leaned toward me until I could see every oily pore on his scrunched-up nose. “I’m gonna tell you two things,” he whispered, “and you better listen to both really fucking good. First, I’m in the middle of a sting operation. That’s what you’re photographing, you idiot. Second, what you’re doing here is attempted blackmail. I’m gonna let that go, ’cause frankly you’re not worth the paperwork. But I see you or your camera anywhere near me when I’m working, and I’m taking you in. You understand me? That’s five years on obstruction and another five on the blackmail. Let’s see how smart you think you are then.”

  “A sting operation?” I said in mock surprise. “Oh, gee, the last thing I want is to interfere. A hundred apologies. Let me just turn these over to Captain Cole so he can discard of them properly. I’d hate for these to end up in the hands of an ambitious reporter.”

  As I went to stand, Hoffman clamped my forearm, his fingers digging into the fleshy underside. I winced and tried to pry his fingers away. Captain Cole stopped talking and frowned up at us.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” he asked.

  I looked at Hoffman, eyebrows raised. After a moment, he released me and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “No problem.”

  I lowered myself back to the chair as Captain Cole resumed talking.

  “What the hell do you want?” Hoffman asked in a fierce whisper, facing forward.

  “What can you tell me about the Lady Bastet investigation?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  I started to stand again.

  “What I mean is we don’t have anything yet,” he said quickly. “We recovered some trace evidence from the scene. Hair, fibers, that sort of thing. But it’s a business, people coming and going all the time. We have to crosscheck the evidence against her known clients. Even against you.”

  “No eyewitnesses?” I asked.

  “If so, no one’s talking.”

  “What about the cats?”

  “What about ’em?” he sneered. “You think one of them saw something?”

  “No, smartass. Any bite marks? Anything to suggest how they were decapitated?”

  “Well, it wasn’t from a blade. Those heads were torn off.” He glanced over at me, his jaw working as though deciding whether or not to tell me something.

  I tapped my shirt pocket with the photos.

  “We found something odd in the fur,” he said at last.

  “What?”

  “Some sort of residue. Lab says it’s mostly sulfur.”

  I kicked that around. Sulfur could mean a demonic presence. Had someone aided the wolves?

  “So, we good?” Hoffman asked, his temples shiny with sweat.

  “Not quite. I need a couple of things.”

  Hoffman’s lips pressed together. “What?”

  “First a sample of the residue.”

  “What else?”

  “You should have a piece of hair in evidence. Light brown. About this long.” I held my two index fingers a foot apart. “I want that
, too.”

  “You’re asking me to tamper with evidence?”

  “Like you’ve never done that before,” I said dryly. “This time, you’ll actually be doing the investigation a favor. The hair belongs to me. Well, not me me, but someone I know. I brought it in for Lady Bastet to do a reading on. It would’ve ended up right around the murder scene. I want it back. Look at it this way. It’ll be one less lead to track down.”

  “Anything else, Columbo?” he asked irritably.

  “Yeah. Keep me up to date on the investigation.”

  “And you’ll hand over the photos?”

  “Every last one,” I promised.

  11

  “They’re slowing,” a team leader’s voice crackled over the feed.

  In the tent serving as our command center, black-and-white monitors showed subway lines from the perspectives of the three below-ground teams. The message had come from the southbound team. Like the other two feeds, theirs depicted a graffiti-tagged tunnel narrowing into darkness. Save for the occasional bone pile and mound of excrement, the tunnel had been empty, the ghouls keeping well ahead of the rolling spotlights. Now, hulking shapes took form.

  “How many?” Captain Cole asked into his headset.

  “Their numbers have been building,” the team leader answered, his slow steps rocking the feed from his helmet-mounted camera. “Right now we’re probably looking at a hundred or so. And they’re getting louder.”

  Grunts and whooping cries echoed through the feed.

  Cole turned and looked at me. Beside him, the GPS map showed the three teams converging on the station below our feet. We were roughly fifteen minutes from a completed mission and with zero casualties. How do we preserve this? the captain’s eyes were asking me.

  I estimated the ghouls to be a hundred feet ahead of the southbound team. Not enough of a buffer.

  “Have them turn up the lights and continue advancing,” I advised. “But slowly.”

  “Did you catch that?” the captain asked through his headset.

  “Roger that,” the team leader replied. “Lights up!” he called.

  The feed flared white before the camera adjusted and restored the grainy image. For a moment, the ghouls were exposed, hands and forearms guarding their eyes. They scrambled over one another to escape the full-spectrum light. My released breath relaxed my shoulders. If the ghouls had charged, the southbound team would have been in big trouble.

  “Go ahead and have the other teams do the same,” I said, “to be safe.”

  Cole gave the order. My heart lurched as the other two feeds lit up to show even larger crowds of ghouls. Damn, more down there than I thought. I was praying my defensive sigils would be up to the job, when the leader of the southbound team’s voice returned, his tone urgent.

  “One of them’s stopping.”

  On the feed, an especially large ghoul had lingered behind the others. He stood in a half crouch, an enormous knuckled hand shielding his face. Members of the team began to shout and squeeze air horns as they’d been instructed. But though the ghoul flinched, he didn’t retreat. Beyond him, other ghouls began to slow, their misshapen heads turning to watch.

  Their numbers are starting to embolden them, I thought.

  “What’s the call?” the captain asked me.

  “Stop advancing, but continue with the noise,” I said.

  With the lights blinding their infrared vision, the ghouls didn’t know who or what was bearing down on them. I needed them to think it was a larger, more terrifying force—despite that the ghouls held a ten to one advantage. The rest of the Hundred were acting as an aboveground backup force, ready to drop in if needed. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but this idiot wasn’t helping. The ghoul squinted above his hand before taking a sidestep toward the stalled team.

  “Prof?” the captain prompted.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking,” I said.

  Each team was armed with automatic rifles and pistols, as well as concussion grenades—any one of which might do the job. But they could also throw the ghouls into a panic, sending the creatures stampeding toward the team. A warning seemed the safest move, something to inflict pain while being clear where the source of that pain had originated.

  “The flamethrower,” I said. “Just a burst, though. Enough to get it moving.”

  “Hit it with the flame,” the captain said. “To injure, not kill.”

  “Roger that.”

  On the feed, a team member moved to the fore, a small flame dancing at the end of a flamethrower’s barrel. I held my breath, more sweat spreading over the back of my work shirt. Either the flamethrower idea would work, or things were about to get really, really nasty.

  “Be ready to drop in,” Cole radioed to the backup team.

  With a harsh whoosh, the feed turned bright white. A primal scream sounded as flames washed over the ghoul. A battle cry? But when the flames relented, the ghoul was loping away, the jacket of fire over its head and back guttering out. The ghouls that had stopped to watch fell into his bellowing wake until they were beyond the reach of the spotlights once more.

  Thank God, I thought.

  “Resume the advance,” Cole ordered.

  “The teams are ten minutes from the target area,” a tech said from in front of the bank of monitors. “We’re already seeing some arrivals.”

  I raised my eyes to the images of the abandoned station. The eerie infrared feeds showed the first ghouls shambling into view and then wheeling around in the face of ghouls arriving from the other directions. Several climbed onto the platform. Sensing they were being corralled, they scrambled over turnstiles and hammered their fists against the steel barriers beyond.

  “I’m going to step out and ready the shields,” I told Cole. “Have them use the flames on any more stragglers. Let me know when the lines are clear.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  I stepped from the tent, squinting in the sudden light. In the center of the road, halfway between the station’s two entrances, I planted my feet. Eyes closed to the flashing police cordon several blocks ahead, I aligned myself with the defensive sigils I’d etched the day before. I reinforced the two shields over the subway exits to street level and then I shifted my focus to the sigils at the mouths of the three lines feeding the station.

  “Southbound line is clear,” a tech called from behind me.

  “Cerrare,” I said. Energy flowed down my legs, through the street, and into the sigils. I felt a robust shield swell into place between the retreating southbound team and the station.

  “Ditto the westbound line,” the tech called a minute later.

  I repeated the Word, walling in the station from the east.

  One to go.

  At that moment, the droning of a fast-approaching vehicle broke through my concentration. What the…? I wheeled around to find a white news van squealing to a stop behind me. A camera crew poured from the van’s side door. They weren’t the only ones. More news vans appeared, parking at odd angles over the closed-off road, ejecting crews who proceeded to unspool cables, off-load equipment, and aim cameras at the subway entrances.

  A blond woman, whom I recognized as an anchor for one of the local news networks, appeared in a bright red dress and matching pumps. She primped her feathered hair and, mike in hand, nodded at her cameraman.

  “We’re reporting from the Canal Street Station, where Mayor—”

  “Hey!” I shouted. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re in the middle of an operation.” I turned toward the tent. “Captain Cole!’

  The anchor frowned and made a cutting motion across her neck to the cameraman.

  “Do you mind?” she said to me.

  “Do I mind?” I pictured the hundreds of ghouls pouring into the station right below us. I needed to concentrate, dammit. I thought I’d made that clear. Why wasn’t anyone ushering these clowns out of here?

  She planted a fist against her waist. “We’re about to go live.”
/>
  “Live? Here?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Who gave you authorization?”

  The woman was opening her mouth when a black Escalade rolled into the mix. The anchor and cameras turned toward it. When the Escalade stopped, a bevy of security personnel emerged, one of them opening the passenger door. Budge’s smiling face appeared.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” I muttered.

  Budge climbed from the Escalade and tottered toward the blond anchor. “Courtney, honey, how are you? Not still knocking around with that bum from Channel 4, I hope.”

  Courtney’s lips pursed into a flirty smile. “Ancient history.”

  “Good,” Budge said. “’Cause you’re way out of his league. Better anchor, too.”

  I charged toward him. “Sorry to interrupt your little chat, but you let them through?”

  Budge stumbled around until his watery eyes fixed on mine. “Well, sure,” he said. “Someone has to document the moment of triumph.” When he laughed, I caught a waft of alcohol.

  “That wasn’t the plan,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “And who’s this?” Courtney asked Budge.

  The mayor pushed his way past his security detail and grabbed me around the shoulder. The cameras followed him. “This,” he said, hugging me to his side, “is my secret weapon.”

  “Let’s keep it down, huh?” I whispered.

  “Everson Croft!” he proclaimed. “New York City’s greatest wizard!”

  I felt the color drain from my face as I looked wildly from camera to camera.

  Courtney squeezed in beside me and motioned her cameraman into position. He pointed at her to go. “I’m standing here with Mayor Lowder,” Courtney said, “and who he’s calling his ‘secret weapon’ in his campaign to rid the city of evil creatures, wizard extraordinaire, Everson Craft.”

  “Croft,” the mayor corrected her.

  “He’s only joking, you know,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. Everson Croft,” she amended. “Can you tell us in what capacity you’re helping the mayor, Mr. Croft? Are you employing standard magic, or have you cooked up something special for the campaign?” She tipped the microphone toward me, eyes glittering in fascination.