Darkest Night

by Will Hill

“Excellent,” said Allen. “Thank you. What about the rest of you?”

  “I will match Colonel Tán’s contribution,” said Maroun. “Seventy-five per cent of my Department. I will not leave my homeland entirely undefended, as I’m sure you can all understand.”

  “Of course,” said Allen. “Who else?”

  The other Directors quickly gave their figures: seventy-five per cent from Canada, India and Brazil, eighty-five from Japan and South Africa. Turner listened, greatly heartened by the response; he had been bracing himself for at least one of his counterparts to either refuse to endorse Ovechkin’s plan or claim geographical isolation, that what was happening in southern France was not their problem. The look of profound relief on Bob Allen’s face suggested he had been expecting the same thing.

  Ovechkin looked over at him. “Major Turner?”

  He held the Russian’s gaze. “Everyone,” he said. “My entire active roster.”

  Allen gave him a fierce smile, then turned to the FTB Director. “Colonel Schmidt?”

  “The same,” said Schmidt. “Unless we win, there will be nothing left to defend.”

  “I agree,” said Ovechkin. “I will bring the entire SPC. General Allen?”

  “Everyone,” said Allen, instantly.

  Turner smiled as the eleven Directors looked at each other.

  Eighty-five per cent of all the Operators in the world, he thought. Maybe even ninety. More than I dared to hope for. Please, please let it be enough.

  Paul Turner stepped down on to the tarmac outside the Loop’s hangar and stretched his aching arms above his head.

  He was absolutely exhausted.

  After the Directors’ meeting had concluded – and after Ovechkin, Schmidt and Allen had ordered their respective Departments to immediately investigate all vigilante activity in their territories – Turner had boarded the helicopter that would take him home, but had found himself unable to take advantage of the brief opportunity for rest the flight provided; his mind had been whirring endlessly with possibilities and outcomes.

  He had no idea what was going to happen; the numbers they were going to be able to bring to bear were hugely encouraging, but for all their experience and training and equipment, the overwhelming majority of the Multinational Force would still be human. Dracula’s army, on the other hand, was composed entirely of vampires and, if recent reports were accurate, growing with each hour that passed.

  Turner was sure they would still have the numerical advantage when the fighting began, but he suspected it might be smaller in forty-eight hours’ time than it was now, or had been yesterday. And in a battle between humans and vampires that was remotely close to even, there would only be one outcome in the end. Everything was going to depend on the strike team they sent into the old city to hunt for Dracula himself, and who it should consist of had been one of the subjects occupying his thoughts as the helicopter flew north-west.

  He walked through the hangar doors, took the lift down to Level A, and headed along the corridor towards his quarters. Turner nodded to the Security Operator on duty, unlocked the door, and settled into the chair behind his desk with a long, deep sigh. For a moment he merely stared at the piles of files and folders that required his attention, then took a deep breath, lifted the first one down, and opened it.

  When the intercom buzzed, the Director opened his eyes and saw that fifteen minutes had passed. He had not intended to sleep, but his body had clearly hijacked the decision-making process.

  He pressed TALK. “Yes?”

  “Kate Randall is here to see you, sir,” said Operator Gregg. “She came three times while you were in France. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Send her in,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. The door swung open and Kate stepped through it, her face pale.

  “Hello, Kate,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She stopped in front of his desk and nodded. “I’m fine, sir. How was France?”

  “Tiring. You got my message then?”

  “I did, sir. Thanks for moving him.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “How was he when you saw him?”

  “Pleased to see me,” she said, and smiled. “Which was nice. And safe, which is the main thing. He told me the two of you talked.”

  “Did he tell you who shot him?” he asked.

  Kate nodded. “This is going to absolutely destroy Matt.”

  Turner nodded. “That’s why we need to find Greg Browning and bring him in,” he said. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “I just can’t believe he would do that to my dad,” said Kate. “They were friends.”

  “I know,” he said. “Maybe the Albert Harker business affected him more than we thought. Maybe it was a mistake to let him go home.”

  “You couldn’t have known this would happen,” said Kate. “Nobody could.”

  “Maybe,” said Turner. “But this goes a lot deeper than we thought.”

  Kate frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “After I talked to your father, I ordered the Intelligence Division to investigate SSL. They traced the charity’s finance to a company in the Cayman Islands. It’s called Rusmanov Holdings.”

  Kate stared at him. “Valeri,” she said, her voice low.

  “Either him, or Dracula, or someone working for him,” he said. “It’s starting to look like SSL was just a front, a way to gather intelligence for the Night Stalkers.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?” asked Kate.

  Turner shrugged. “To cause trouble?” he said. “To frighten people? To distract us? Take your pick.”

  “Jesus,” said Kate. “Dracula hasn’t just been recovering from Château Dauncy, has he? He’s been planning all this for months.”

  “It looks that way,” he said. “What we don’t know is—”

  The radio on his desk buzzed into life. Turner stared at it, suddenly full of a desire to smash the plastic handset to pieces, then pressed SEND and raised it to his ear.

  “Yes.”

  Angela Darcy spoke for several seconds. Turner listened, his heart accelerating in his chest.

  Oh God, he thought.

  “Understood,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  He pressed END and clipped the radio to his belt.

  “Everything OK, sir?” asked Kate.

  “No,” he said. “There’s a situation at the authorisation gate. A car was crashed into it, and the driver is threatening protesters with a gun. Apparently he’s demanding to see his son.”

  Kate followed the Director through the access door at the end of the authorisation tunnel, her Glock drawn, and emerged into a nightmare.

  To her left, wedged against the towering gate, was a white car, steam billowing from beneath a bonnet that was crumpled in on itself. In the distance, huddled among the trees and the tents of the protest camp that was now a permanent fixture outside the gates, were dozens of men and women, their faces full of fear. The signs they usually waved at Blacklight vehicles as they came and went were absent, as was the steady drone of music that usually filled the camp. The protesters were keeping their distance, for reasons that were obvious.

  Arranged in a wide semicircle, from directly in front of the gate to the edges of the forest on either side of the road, were more than a dozen Security Operators, their weapons raised to their shoulders and pointing at the middle of the road.

  At Greg Browning.

  Kate recognised him as soon as she stepped out of the tunnel, and felt a wave of horror race through her as she took in the reality of what she was seeing.

  Oh God, she thought. Oh dear God, what a mess this is.

  Matt’s dad was pacing back and forth in the road, dripping with clear liquid. Beside him, kneeling on the tarmac, were a woman in her thirties and a man who looked barely out of his teens; both were also soaking wet and looked terrified out of their minds. In one of Greg’s hands was a black MP5, and in the other he held a silver cigarette lighter. The smell o
f petrol was overpowering, and the look on Matt’s father’s face filled her with dread; it was the wild, disconnected expression of someone who has lost their mind.

  “Jesus,” said Kate, her voice low.

  Turner glanced round at her and grimaced.

  “I want to see my son!” bellowed Greg. “I’ll burn us all, I swear to God I’ll do it! I want to see my boy!”

  Kate stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea how to handle this situation; it was so far out of her sphere of experience that she felt an enormous wave of relief roll through her when Paul Turner stepped forward.

  “Put them down, Mr Browning,” said the Director. “Then we can talk. You don’t want to do this.”

  “I’ll burn them!” screamed Greg. He waved the cigarette lighter, as the kneeling protesters sobbed with terror. “I’ll burn them so you’d better take me seriously, Goddamnit! Do you hear me? I want to see my son!”

  “Put the lighter down,” said Turner. “Please. You don’t want to hurt them.”

  Greg stared at the Director, his face running with tears and twisted with bright, burning hatred. “Why did you have to take him?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Everything would have been fine if you hadn’t taken him. What did I ever do to you? Why did you ruin my life?”

  Kate stepped forward. “Matt wanted to be part of Blacklight, Mr Browning,” she said. “He volunteered.”

  Greg shook his head furiously. “That’s a lie,” he said. “That’s a filthy lie.”

  “I promise you it isn’t,” she said, forcing as much calm and warmth into her voice as she possibly could. “He wanted to help people. He wanted to do something good, like you did with SSL, like I’m sure you thought you were doing with the Night Stalkers. He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

  Greg stopped pacing and stared directly at her.

  “I shot your dad,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  “Take it easy,” whispered Turner.

  “Yeah,” said Kate, meeting the man’s gaze. “I know you did.”

  “I was trying to kill him,” said Greg. “I wanted to kill him. Everything would’ve been OK if he’d just died like he was supposed to. Now it’s all ruined.”

  Kate felt anger boil in the pit of her stomach. She tightened her grip on her Glock, and forced herself to lower her aim from the centre of Greg’s chest; she was suddenly less confident of her ability not to pull the trigger.

  “Put the lighter down, Mr Browning,” said Turner. “It doesn’t have to end like this. You still have the power to change it.”

  “I can’t do anything!” screamed Greg. “Everything I’ve tried to do, you’ve spoilt! You ruin everything! You’re monsters!”

  “We didn’t do anything,” said Turner, his voice low and calm. “Your choices are your own. It’s nobody else’s fault that you keep making them so badly.”

  “I tried!” shouted Greg, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I tried to do good! Nobody would let me!”

  “That’s right,” said Kate, forcing her anger down. “I know you tried, Mr Browning. I don’t think you’re a bad person, and we know the Night Stalkers weren’t your idea.”

  Greg began to cry, huge sobs that wracked his body as tears streamed down his face and thick ribbons of snot hung from his nose. The protesters stared up at him, struck dumb by fear.

  “I didn’t know,” said Greg, his voice wavering. “I swear I didn’t know, until I saw the news this morning. A man came to me, and he talked to me, and he told me what I could do, and he was right. There’s no room for us and the vamps. This is a war. It’s a war.”

  “Who was it?” pressed Kate. “Who told you to start the Night Stalkers?”

  Greg looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw him again. But it was his idea. SSL, all of it. Get the vamps to confess and punish them, like an inquisition. He told me we were the same. I didn’t know who he was working for.”

  He broke down sobbing again. The realisation that his crusade against vampires had been started and funded by the very worst of them appeared to have unravelled him completely.

  “I want to see my son,” he whispered.

  “We can talk about that,” said Turner. “But only if you put the lighter and the gun down.”

  “Please,” said Kate. “You don’t want to do this, Mr Browning. I know you don’t.”

  Greg threw back his head and howled. To Kate’s ears, it sounded barely human: it was the broken, wounded cry of an animal. He lowered his head and fixed her with eyes that were full of pain.

  “Get my son,” he said. “Please. Just get him. GET MY SON RIGHT NOW!”

  “I can’t,” said Turner. “I’m sorry. Not until you put everything down.”

  Greg stared at them for a long moment, then placed the muzzle of the MP5 against his temple.

  “Don’t,” said Turner, his voice suddenly full of urgency. “Please. It doesn’t have to end like this, Greg.”

  Matt’s dad grunted with laughter, his tears shining in the early evening gloom. Kate stared at him and made a decision; she could not watch her friend’s father kill himself, at least not unless she had tried absolutely everything to stop it. She took a step towards him, put her Glock on the ground, and raised her empty hands.

  Greg pointed the MP5 at her. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” said Kate, with far more conviction than she felt. “We both know that. Put the gun down.”

  “Kate,” said Turner, his voice low and full of warning. “Step back. Now.”

  “Why do you want to see Matt?” she asked, ignoring the Director. “What will you say to him if we let you see him? Tell me.”

  The hand holding the MP5 began to shake, and Kate tried not to look at the finger curled round the submachine gun’s trigger. She took another step forward.

  “Come on, Mr Browning,” she said. “Tell me what you want to say to your son.”

  Greg grimaced, and for the briefest of moments he looked down at the ground. Kate’s muscles tightened, but before she could leap forward and take the gun away from him, his eyes were back on her, huge and wide and wet with tears.

  “I need him to know that I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything. Will you tell him for me? Please?”

  “Tell him yourself,” said Kate. “That’s the least he deserves. Put the gun and the lighter down and we can go to him right now.”

  Greg shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “You have to tell him for me. You have to.”

  Kate took another step.

  “Put the gun down,” she said. “Please, Mr Browning.”

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  Kate raised her hands higher. “Just put it down.”

  “DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!” screamed Greg, the gun trembling wildly in his hand.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” said Kate. She drew in a deep breath, and stepped—

  Bang.

  Matt Browning stepped out of the elevator on Level H, turned away from the airlock door, and walked along the corridor towards the non-supernatural cellblock, his brain aching with exhaustion.

  Tiredness was a constant inside the Loop, particularly within the Lazarus Project, and was not normally worth commenting on, or complaining about; this morning, however, was different. After the awful news about Danny Lawrence and his awkward, halting encounter with Larissa, Matt had gone back to his desk and thrown himself into his work with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic, trying to replace everything in his head with figures and formulas and reports. He had collapsed into bed just after 4.30am, his mind finally cleansed by exhaustion, and had instantly fallen into an unconsciousness so deep and impenetrable he was not sure it could accurately be called sleep.

  What had woken him two and a half hours later was the piercing, hateful beep of a message arriving on his console.

  He had fumbled on his bedside table for the plastic rectangle, his eyelids feeling like they weig
hed several tons each, and held it up in front of his face. It had taken several jabs of his finger until the screen finally awoke, revealing four lines of glowing text.

  FROM: Turner, Major Paul (NS303, 36-A)

  TO: Browning, Lieutenant Matthew (NS303, 83-C)

  Meet me in non-supernatural containment in fifteen minutes. Don’t speak to anyone or access any overnight reports.

  Matt rounded the corner and saw the Director standing at the entrance to the cellblock, his face as pale and expressionless as ever. He walked towards him, trying not to let the nervousness that was beginning to spread through him show.

  “Lieutenant Browning,” said Turner. “Have you been to sleep?”

  “I got a couple of hours, sir,” said Matt, stopping in front of the Director. “Is everything all right?”

  Turner shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Kate Randall is in a critical condition in the Lazarus Project, and your father is in Cell D.”

  Matt narrowed his eyes and studied the Director’s face, looking for some suggestion that this was a phenomenally out-of-character joke, but seeing only deadly seriousness.

  “What are you talking about, sir?” he asked.

  Turner looked steadily into his eyes. “This is going to be hard for you to hear,” he said, “but you’re a grown man, and I see nothing to be gained by shielding you from the truth. So here it is. Your father has been murdering vampires as part of the vigilante organisation known as the Night Stalkers. SSL itself appears to have been little more than a front, a way for the Night Stalkers to acquire their targets, set up on Dracula’s behalf and funded by a company that belonged to Valeri Rusmanov. Two nights ago your father and another man attempted to kill Pete Randall, but failed. Randall was brought here after life-saving treatment, and identified your father as his attacker. A warrant was issued for his arrest, but last night he arrived outside the authorisation tunnel, demanding to see you and threatening to kill both himself and two protesters from the camp. Kate tried to talk him down and he shot her in the neck. I shot him twice in the leg, and we were able to subdue him and bring him in. I’m very sorry.”