Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  The flight itself had been uneventful.

  Landon had made a couple of attempts at starting conversation as the Cessna climbed towards the Channel, but Julian’s perfunctory answers had quickly seen the pilot give up and merely fly the plane.

  The landing at Fumel-Montayral had been equally straightforward. Landon had guided the Cessna expertly down on to a tarmac strip surrounded by woods and farmland, and brought the plane to a halt beside a row of buildings that looked fractionally sturdier than those at the airfield they had left behind in England. Parked beside the buildings was an ancient-looking red van with a man leaning on its bonnet; he raised a hand and waved as the plane rolled past. Landon acknowledged it, and turned the Cessna in a wide loop that brought it to a halt in front of the van.

  “This is where we say goodbye,” he said.

  Julian nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” said Landon. “Look after yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” said Julian, and gave the pilot a brief smile.

  He opened the plane door, pulled his bags across the seats, and stepped down on to the grass as Landon immediately taxied the Cessna back towards the runway. He watched the plane climb back into the air, then turned to face the man who was clearly there to meet him. He was in his late thirties, with the kind of deep tan that only comes from spending most of your life outdoors, and a tiny hand-rolled cigarette burning between his fingers. He smiled at Julian and stuck out a hand.

  “Bonjour,” said Julian, taking the hand and giving it a brisk shake. “Henry Frank.”

  “Bonjour,” said the man, and nodded. “Laurent Lefèvre. Ça va?”

  “Oui, ça va bien, merci,” said Julian, exhausting the last of his conversational French.

  Lefèvre smiled. “You need a car?”

  “Oui,” said Julian. “Thank you.”

  “De rien,” said Lefèvre, and gestured towards the van. “Please.”

  Julian climbed into the passenger seat, the green duffel bag at his feet, the black holdall on his lap. Lefèvre settled behind the wheel and guided the rattling, spluttering van out on to the roads of rural France. The two men sat in silence until Lefèvre pulled to a halt outside a Renault garage on the outskirts of Villeneuve-sur-Lot, almost half an hour later.

  “We are here,” said Lefèvre.

  Julian peered through the window. The garage was a square concrete building with two cars raised on platforms and men working beneath them. Tyres and mudguards and body panels were piled round puddles of water gleaming with spilled oil. Next to the garage, enclosed by a sagging chain-link fence, sat a small cluster of battered Renaults, with prices scrawled on their windscreens.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Merci.”

  He took a fifty-euro note from his wallet, held it out, then pulled it away as Lefèvre reached for it. “You have not seen me,” he said. “Yes?”

  Lefèvre smiled. “Seen who?”

  He nodded, and let the man take the money. Julian climbed out of the van as Lefèvre pocketed the note and drove away without a wave or a backward glance.

  Twenty minutes later, he was driving south in a Peugeot 205 that was older than his son and registered in the name of a man who didn’t exist.

  The French soldier tapped on the car window. Julian rolled it down and gave the man a thin smile.

  “Bonjour,” said the soldier. “Habitez-vous Carcassonne?”

  “My name is Henry Frank,” said Julian. “I lived in Carcassonne.”

  “What was your address?” asked the soldier, slipping into perfect English.

  “1376 Rue Baudelaire,” said Julian. “I was renting it from the owner.”

  The soldier nodded. “Where have you been?”

  “Avignon,” said Julian. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Is there someone here who can help me?”

  “You need to talk to the Red Cross,” said the soldier. “You can park in Field 12.”

  He stepped back and waved his hand. Julian breathed a long sigh of relief as he drove slowly past the guard post and into the main camp. Printed signs had been nailed to wooden posts, giving directions to the various fields, and he brought the car to a halt as he reached the first of them.

  Someone’s been busy, he thought, as he looked at the sprawling camp. Very busy indeed.

  A sign marked Fields 8–16 pointed to the north, where Julian could see the roofs of hundreds of cars and the silver tops of seemingly endless rows of tents. A second sign, announcing Fields 1–4 (RESTRICTED), pointed south, towards what he was looking for: a large complex of metal buildings and grey tents.

  Command centre, he told himself. All right then. Here we go.

  He got back in the car and followed the signs to the entrance of Field 12, where a pair of Red Cross volunteers got up from behind a folding table and told him to come and see them once he was settled. He told them he would, and drove on, searching for a remote space where what he was about to do would hopefully go unnoticed. At the northern corner of the field, at the junction of two thick hedges and beneath an overhanging tree, he parked, got out, and took a long, careful look around.

  In the centre of the field, Julian could see men and women standing around the silver tents as children ran back and forth, laughing and chasing. Near the Red Cross table, two cars had blocked each other, and he could hear the distant sound of raised voices.

  Nobody was anywhere near him.

  Nobody was paying any attention to him at all.

  Julian opened the Renault’s boot, lifted out the black holdall, and set it on the bonnet. The pungent scent of gun oil filled his nostrils as he opened it, but he pushed the Glock and the MP5 aside; what he needed now was folded neatly beneath them. He took a last glance around, positioned himself between the car and the hedge, and shook out the Blacklight uniform.

  Working quickly, he stripped off his jeans and shirt and pulled the black material into place. He zipped it up and fastened it at his neck, as a feeling of nostalgia so strong he thought it might make him cry flooded through him; it was as though the last three years had been a bad dream, and he was now finally awake, and back where he belonged.

  He tied the laces of his boots, then strapped on his belt and quickly began to fill it. The MP5 and Glock went into slots on the left, alongside the console that was his biggest concern; there was a good chance the regulation device had been upgraded in the years since he had stashed a spare underneath his shed, and he suspected it would be obvious to any eagle-eyed Operator that he was carrying obsolete equipment.

  A pair of ultraviolet grenades slotted into pouches on the right, beside the thick loop that held his T-Bone, and a UV beam gun completed his arsenal of weapons and equipment. Julian stood up, enjoying the feel of the uniform against his skin, pulled a pair of gloves out of the holdall, and put them on. Finally, he lifted out the shiny black helmet and carefully placed it over his head. He connected its wires into a socket at the back of his neck, and felt a shiver of excitement as the systems booted up with a low rumble. He put the empty holdall back into the boot, locked the car, then swung the green duffel bag over his shoulder and set off towards the distant entrance to Field 12.

  By the time he passed the Red Cross table, all the nervousness that had filled him as he entered the camp had disappeared; he was an Operator again, his mind clear and calm. The volunteers didn’t so much as glance at him as he walked past them, his gaze fixed on the command centre looming in the distance; he strode purposefully towards it, a man who, for the first time in years, was once again at peace with himself.

  Jamie’s heart sank as he walked into Paul Turner’s quarters and saw Frankenstein staring squarely at him.

  He had been standing in the officers’ mess when the Director’s message arrived. Around him, Operators had already started to receive orders and briefing schedules, but what had appeared on his console had been an immediate summons to Paul Turner’s quarters, with no detail whatsoever. Excitement had instantly burst through him, as he
had allowed himself to consider the possibility that he had tried his hardest not to take for granted: that he would be part of the strike team sent to take down Dracula.

  After all, it would make sense; he and Larissa were the most powerful Operators in the Department, and had direct experience of confronting the first vampire. He assumed that Angela Darcy would lead the team, given that she was the Security Officer and had been the first person turned by PROMETHEUS.

  What he had not considered was that Frankenstein might be chosen too.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Paul Turner from behind his desk. “Come in.”

  Jamie narrowed his eyes and walked slowly into the room, towards where Angela, Larissa and Frankenstein were standing. He nodded, trying to somehow silently convey a greeting to the two women, but not to the monster, and stopped beside the Security Officer.

  “We’re waiting for one more of you,” said Turner. “Then we’ll get started.”

  Despite his disappointment at the presence of Frankenstein, Jamie felt his excitement return. There could surely be no doubt now: this was going to be the strike team, and he was part of it. His thoughts turned immediately to who the final member might be – the newly turned Jack Williams, perhaps, or Dominique Saint-Jacques, or even Lizzy Ellison from his own squad. All would be good. He would happily fight alongside any one of them.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the room, and he frowned as he turned towards the door; there were two sets of feet thudding rhythmically across the ground.

  Paul said we were only waiting for one, he thought. What’s going on?

  A familiar scent entered his nostrils. Jamie’s eyes glowed with crimson fire and a growl rolled from his throat as Valentin Rusmanov stepped into the room, a Security Operator at his side.

  “Well,” said the ancient vampire, looking round the room with a smile on his face. “Here we all are. How terribly exciting.”

  “Come in and shut up, Valentin,” said Turner. “I haven’t got time for jokes this afternoon.”

  “Of course, my dear Major Turner,” said Valentin. The ancient vampire walked across the room, stopped next to Jamie, and gave him a broad grin.

  He stared at the youngest Rusmanov’s pale, handsome face.

  Him? he shouted silently. A mass murderer who helped Larissa leave and took great pleasure in biting our Operators? We’re really going to trust him with something so important?

  “This is ridiculous,” rumbled Frankenstein, as though he could read Jamie’s mind. “Are you briefing a mission or a farce?”

  “You can shut up too, Victor,” said Turner, fixing the monster with a cold stare. “In fact, that goes for all of you. Until further notice, I am the only person in this room who has permission to speak. Is that clear?”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Jamie tore his gaze away from Valentin and focused his attention on the Director.

  “All right,” said Turner. “I’m going to credit you all with enough intelligence to know why you’re here, but in case I’m being too kind, let me spell it out. The five of you have been selected for the strike team that we will be sending into Carcassonne tomorrow, while the majority of the Multinational Force engages Dracula’s army. You will have a single objective: to destroy the first vampire himself. If any of you don’t understand the importance of this mission, leave now.”

  Nobody moved. Jamie stared at the Director, excitement crawling up his spine; it was out in the open now, in black and white.

  They were being sent to kill Dracula.

  He was being sent to kill Dracula.

  Heat pulsed behind his eyes as his fangs itched for release inside his gums.

  Calm, he told himself. Stay calm.

  “The five of you were selected by me, in consultation with the other Directors,” said Turner. “I am fully aware that there is negative history between several of you, and I know it’s unlikely that any of you would have selected this specific group of people. But the simple truth is that you are the five most powerful men and women the Department has at its disposal, and three of you are among the most powerful vampires in the world. We are sending you after the most powerful, so nothing else matters. You don’t like each other? Fine. Would prefer not to work with each other? I couldn’t care less. This is bigger than any of you, and all I’m interested in is whether or not you can follow the orders I’m about to give you. If you don’t think you can put your personal shit aside for the sake of the most important mission in the history of this Department, speak up now.”

  Jamie glanced at his colleagues. Their faces were set with determination, and nobody said a word.

  “Last chance,” said Turner, eyeing each of them in turn. “No? Good. Direct your attention to the screen behind you.”

  The newly appointed strike team turned as one. There was a rattle of keys and the wall screen lit up, displaying an overhead photograph of Carcassonne’s medieval city.

  “Intelligence regarding the locations and numbers of Dracula’s vampires is extremely limited,” said Turner. “The buildings of Carcassonne are old, with thick walls, and vampires are arriving each night. We may not have a clear picture until tomorrow, when Dracula’s army moves out to meet us.”

  “What if he’s with them?” asked Angela Darcy. “This whole operation relies on him staying inside the city. What if that doesn’t happen?”

  “In such a scenario, your objective would remain the same,” said Turner. “The difference will be that you’d go after him on the battlefield rather than in the city. The advantages and disadvantages of such a scenario will be covered before we ship out, but we’re going to move forward on the assumption that he’ll stay put. He was a General, and our belief is that he’ll remain removed from the actual fighting unless it becomes absolutely necessary for him to intervene.”

  “That is exactly what he will do,” said Valentin. “He will restrain himself unless the battle turns. He will want to fight, but he will not consider it appropriate.”

  You should know, thought Jamie. You fought for him often enough.

  “Thank you, Valentin,” said Turner. “Our expectation is that he’ll watch from above the city.”

  “Out in the open,” said Frankenstein. “What will stop him fleeing if things go our way?”

  “Pride,” said Valentin, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Arrogance. Call it whatever you want. He will not run.”

  “What about the hostages?” asked Angela.

  “They are not a mission priority,” said Turner. “Their best chance lies in you completing your objective.”

  “Not a mission priority,” repeated Angela. “One hundred and eleven innocent people.”

  “I am aware of the numbers, Captain,” said Turner. “I suggest you reread the Intelligence Division’s projection of how many lives will be lost if Dracula asserts his authority over the entire world. It may help soothe your conscience.”

  Angela gave the Director a long, cold look. He met her gaze for several tense seconds, until the Security Officer slowly turned to look back at the screen.

  “So we don’t know how many vampires the main force are going to face,” said Jamie. “We don’t know whether Dracula will fight with them, and if he doesn’t, we don’t know exactly where he’ll be located. We’re taking a lot on faith here, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Turner, simply. “We are. General Allen and I will be in constant contact with the five of you, and I promise that you will know everything we know. We’ll just have to hope it’s enough.”

  “So what exactly is this plan of yours?” asked Valentin. “We fly into the city, tap Dracula on the shoulder, stake him, and be back home in time for dinner?”

  “That would be ideal,” said Turner. “But you should probably expect to face a little bit more resistance than that. We’re assuming he’ll keep a cadre of vampires close to him for protection. Does that tally with your experience?”

  “Yes,” said Valentin. “When I foug
ht with him, he kept his Wallachian Guards at his side. Every one would have happily died for him.”

  “So we kill them and then we kill him,” said Frankenstein.

  “That’s the plan,” said Turner.

  Ninety minutes later, the Director watched the door swing shut behind the five people on whose shoulders he had just placed the future of humanity, and let out a deep sigh.

  He knew what his reputation had always been among the men and women of Blacklight: cold, robotic, precise, a man you would definitely want beside you in a fight but would not necessarily want to be friends with. It had never been the whole truth, but it had suited Turner to let people believe it – it had made them keen to impress him and scared to let him down – and he had needed it for the meeting that had just ended.

  On a personal level, he was very fond of the five men and women who had been selected for the strike team, even Valentin, in a very particular and somewhat strange way, and he knew the feeling was largely mutual. But he was asking them to do something astonishing, to go against enormous odds and save the world, and he knew there was every chance that any or all of them might not survive. They had not needed him to be their friend, to pat them on the back and tell them everything was going to be fine; what they had needed was for him to be their Director.

  The intercom on his desk beeped and Turner pressed the TALK button.

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant Browning is here, sir,” said the disembodied voice of Tom Gregg. “As requested.”

  “Send him in,” he said, and smiled. This situation required precisely the opposite approach to the one he had just been considering.

  The door opened – it occurred to Turner that he might as well just have it taken off its hinges, such was the frequency of his visitors in recent days – and Matt Browning stepped through it.

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” he said. “Everything all right?”

  Matt winced, but nodded. “I’m OK, sir.”

  “Your father?”