by Hill, Will
“Have you talked to her?” asked Kate, trying not to openly grin. Matt was so utterly adorable, so enthusiastic and shy and unsure of himself.
“I talk to her every day,” said Matt. “We work five desks apart.”
“No,” said Kate, patiently. “Have you talked to her?”
“Oh,” said Matt, and looked down at the table. “No.”
“Maybe you should?” suggested Kate.
For a long moment, Matt’s gaze remained fixed on the surface of the table. Then he looked up with a delicate, beautiful smile on his blushing face. “Let’s change the subject,” he said. “How do you think Larissa is getting on at NS9? I haven’t even spoken to her since she left. Do you think she’s keeping out of trouble?”
19
THE WAR ON DRUGS, PART ONE
NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO
YESTERDAY
Larissa ducked her head beneath a stream of bullets, threw herself back against the low ornamental wall, and grinned at Tim Albertsson. The Special Operator stared back at her, his mouth open, his eyes bright.
“How many?” he asked.
Larissa raised her head above the wall and lowered it again in a blur of movement that Tim could barely see; not a single shot was fired, such was her supernatural speed.
“Four,” she said, calmly.
Tim looked down the wide expanse of grass that had, until very recently, been an immaculate lawn. At the bottom of the gentle slope, taking cover behind the low walls and outbuildings that stood inside the estate’s open gates, he could see the black shapes of the other four members of their squad. They were perhaps fifty metres away, too far to be of any real help if the vampires above them charged, but Larissa didn’t seem remotely concerned. The vampire girl was positively beaming, her eyes crimson, her fangs fully extended, her usually pale skin flushed pink.
Bloodlust, thought Tim. I’ve never seen it up close before, but that’s what it is. Her vampire side has taken her over.
“Ready to do this?” she asked, fixing him with her glowing eyes.
Tim nodded. “I’ll call the others up,” he said. He reached for his radio, but Larissa gripped his wrist and held it. Her touch was gentle, but he was very aware that he could not move his hand a millimetre unless she let him.
“They’ll follow,” she said. “I’m talking about you and me, right now. Are you ready?”
Tim stared at her, utterly bewitched. Then he nodded. “Let’s roll,” he said.
They had been in the gym, putting the new intake of recruits through their paces yet again, when the session had been interrupted by General Allen.
There had been a heavy atmosphere of unease throughout Dreamland since the compulsory briefing several hours before, during which the NS9 Director had informed the entire Department that the Florence Supermax, the Colorado prison that was generally acknowledged to be impregnable, had not only been broken into, but that the prisoners it had held had all been turned and released. The determination that Larissa had seen on the faces of her new colleagues as the briefing began had rapidly evolved into something very different as General Allen played a piece of police surveillance footage taken above the outskirts of Denver.
The camera was looking down on the aftermath of a crash that had taken place on a wide, four-lane highway.
Several cars, perhaps as many as eight or nine, were strewn across the tarmac, crunched together into sculptures of twisted metal, at least one of them flipped on to its roof. The traffic that had managed to stop before becoming part of the carnage was backed up for what looked like miles in either direction, and the source of the incident was clearly visible; he was standing in the middle of the road wearing a prison jumpsuit pushed down to his waist.
The man was striding back and forth across the road, punching out the windows of crashed cars and screaming soundlessly at what appeared to be nothing. His head was bald, and his heavily tattooed body rippled with muscle; it gleamed under the glaring spotlight shining down from the police helicopter, a blinding beam of light that he suddenly seemed to become aware of. The prisoner stopped in the middle of the road and stared directly up at the camera. Then, with casual, almost nonchalant power, he leapt into the air, rising towards the screen like a shark emerging from the depths.
There was a crash of noise as the man disappeared from the frame, and then the footage began to shake wildly. The pilot and the occupants of the helicopter could be heard screaming and yelling, and the watching audience of Operators gasped as a flailing shape fell away from the camera, crashing on to the surface of the road, where it lay still. The movement of the frame became more and more violent, before the video and audio finally cut out. The last thing that could be heard before it did was a desperate voice screaming, ‘Mayday!’
Larissa looked round the briefing room as the video ended and the wall screen went back to displaying the NS9 crest. Her new colleagues were pale, their eyes wide and staring. Unsurprisingly, Tim Albertsson was the first to break the silence. “He shouldn’t be that strong,” he said. “Not if he’s new.”
“No,” said General Allen, from his podium at the front of the room. “He shouldn’t be.”
“So what’s going on?” asked an Operator that Larissa didn’t know.
“We have no idea,” replied Allen. “But similar reports are coming in from Departments around the world. We will find out what has happened in Colorado, but, in the meantime, I want you all to be aware of what is out there. These vampires appear to be more powerful than most of you have ever faced, and you will prepare yourselves accordingly. Do I make myself entirely clear?”
There was a murmured chorus of agreement. General Allen stared at the massed ranks of his Department for a long moment, then nodded and continued with his briefing.
Larissa had left the assembly hall with her stomach churning, but desperate to be given a mission; she wanted to help, to make a genuine contribution to the Department she was a temporary part of.
As a result, she had been expecting to be reattached to one of the Operational Squads she had gone out with in recent weeks; she was extremely disappointed when the message that arrived on her console was the same one she had received almost every day during her time in Nevada: an order to report to the training facility and continue working with the new intake of recruits. Tim Albertsson had said nothing, but it was clear to her that he was equally annoyed by the situation. So when General Allen walked into the gym and told them he needed to speak to them, she saw the same excitement on his face that she could feel burning in her chest.
“I’m hearing good things about this intake,” said the General, casting a glance in the direction of the recruits. “Ahead of schedule, they tell me. That true?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tim. “They’re responding well, sir.”
“Responding well to what?” asked Allen, a smile emerging on his face. “Having their asses kicked by a teenage girl?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, fighting back a smile of his own. “That certainly made an impression, sir.”
“I bet it did,” said Allen, turning to face Larissa. “Did you take it easy on them, Lieutenant Kinley? Be honest with me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Larissa, not sure whether she was saying the right thing. “I didn’t want to hurt them, sir. Well, not too badly, anyway.”
General Allen burst out laughing and a second later Tim joined in. Larissa didn’t, as laughing at her own jokes was not in her nature, but she allowed herself a small smile.
“All right,” said General Allen, composing himself. “I need you both in Briefing Room 3 in fifteen minutes. We’ve got new intel that needs immediate action. Find someone to cover the rest of your schedule and meet me there. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Larissa.
“Yes, sir,” said Tim, less than a second later. “Although you could have just messaged that, sir.”
“I like to come down here now and again,” said Allen, looking round the circular room. “This room bri
ngs back a lot of memories. Fifteen minutes, Operators.”
The Director turned and strode out of the gym. They watched him go; as soon as the door closed behind him, Tim clapped his hands together.
“All right,” he said, his voice full of excitement. “Time for me to see what you can really do.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “We don’t know what the mission is yet.”
“Almost the whole Department went out this morning chasing down the Supermax escapees,” said Tim. “They’re the worst of the worst, the most violent, dangerous, anti-social prisoners we’ve got, and you and I have been down here, training kids. So if we’re finally going out, this must be something big.”
Larissa nodded; she knew what he was saying made sense. Tim’s squad were all Special Operators, the somewhat nebulous term that she had heard many times since arriving in Nevada; truth be told, she was rather looking forward to seeing exactly what made them so special.
“I guess so,” she said. “Meet you there in ten minutes?”
“See you there,” said Tim, smiling broadly.
Larissa opened the door to Briefing Room 3 eight minutes later and saw, to her complete lack of surprise, that Tim was already sitting in one of the chairs arranged before a wooden lectern. He turned his head as she entered and nodded, his mouth set in a straight line.
All business, thought Larissa. No smiles and flirty comments now. Just business. Good.
General Allen didn’t keep them waiting long.
After no more than a minute, he entered through a side door, nodded curtly at them both, and strode up to the lectern. The Director pressed a button on the console he was holding in his hand, turning on the screen fixed to the wall behind him. It lit up, displaying a thermographic satellite image of a large house, surrounded by gardens and walls. A number of figures could be seen moving through the grounds and the many rooms, the majority of them a bright, burning yellow.
“Operators,” said General Allen. “What you are looking at is the Nuevo Laredo residence of Garcia Rejon, formerly a General in the Mexican Army and the current head of the Desert Cartel. He was discharged from the Army six years ago, after his unit was discovered to have been providing security for Cartel shipments and bodyguards for its high-ranking members. Five years ago the former head of the Cartel, his wife, his mistresses, his children, his domestic staff and his bodyguards, were all murdered by Garcia Rejon’s men in a single night. One of the men who carried out the murders was a former Army Captain by the name of Roberto Alaves, whose wife was an enthusiastic consumer of the Desert Cartel’s primary product. Three years ago we caught her with eight grams in her purse during a weekend trip to San Diego, flipped Alaves, and got him to roll over on Rejon. The DEA made it stick, even though half the witnesses ended up dead, and Rejon got four consecutive life sentences in Federal prison. The Mexican authorities waved him goodbye and he was shipped up to Colorado. End of story.”
“Until last night,” said Larissa. “Right, sir?”
“Right,” confirmed General Allen. “Rejon wasn’t caught in the initial round-up after the Supermax break, nor were any of his former lieutenants. We’ve been watching the border, in case they tried to get home, but we can’t watch every inch of it, especially when you’re looking for men who can fly. This morning, the good citizens of Nuevo Laredo woke up to this charming image on the local news.”
Allen pressed a key and the screen changed. Larissa gasped, and heard Tim Albertsson let out a deep breath beside her. The photo showed what Larissa assumed was Nuevo Laredo’s business district; the road was four lanes wide, the bridge running over it looked new, and tall buildings of glass and metal rose up in the background.
Hanging from the bridge were twelve dead men, their bodies naked and mutilated.
Wire had been wrapped round their necks and tied to the concrete rail of the bridge; beneath them, on the grey tarmac, lay a wide puddle of blood, dotted with lumps of pink and purple. The high-definition photo gave terrible clarity to the men’s wounds, and Larissa saw something that turned her stomach: the pool of blood was heavily tracked with the paw prints of dogs, and smeared where their tongues had lapped at the gore.
Beyond the hanging men, three large vans stood stationary beneath the bridge, their rear doors open wide. Inside, piled high and tangled together, were more bodies than Larissa could count. Blood soaked the interiors of the vehicles, coating arms and legs and hands and faces. Several of the bodies had spilled out on to the road – were dragged out by the dogs, more likely, she thought – and lay twisted on the tarmac, their faces contorted in the agonies of their deaths.
“Sixty-eight dead men and women,” said General Allen. “All of them Desert Cartel, including the entire leadership. Eyes put out, fingers and toes cut off, tongues missing, genitals in their mouths. All done pre-mortem.”
“Jesus,” said Tim. “Cause of death?”
“Blood loss,” said Allen. “They were tortured and left to die. No gunshots, no clearly fatal wounds.”
“No mercy,” said Larissa. “This wasn’t just about getting these people out of the way. This was a statement.”
“What sort of statement?” asked Tim, glancing over at her.
“I’m back,” replied Larissa. “And everyone better accept it. That sort of statement.”
“Intelligence coming across the border suggests that what you’re saying is correct,” said General Allen. “The situation is somewhat chaotic, as you might expect, but what we do know is that the sixty-eight Cartel members who are now dead were all taken from their homes at approximately four o’clock this morning and dumped just before dawn. One of the DEA’s agents within the Cartel, who luckily for us, and him, operates at a level below those who were killed, reported this morning that he was called, along with everyone else, to Garcia Rejon’s home to be informed of the change of leadership. He saw Rejon in person, with his own eyes. Then he and the rest of the soldiers and street dealers were sent home, with orders to carry on with business as normal.”
The Director paused, and looked down at his two Operators, who were hanging on his every word.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that a group of vampires at the head of one of the largest and most violent drug cartels in Mexico represents a serious threat to the national security of the United States, especially when those vampires can be assumed to be in possession of the same exceptional power that we saw on the Denver footage. Which is where the two of you come in. Tim, you’re going to take your squad across the border this afternoon, with Lieutenant Kinley as a temporary attaché. Insertion into Rejon’s compound is scheduled for 8:48pm, ten minutes after sundown. No special SOP, no op-specific restrictions. Destroy every vampire you find and come home. Clear?”
“Clear, sir,” replied Tim. “Although I have to ask, sir, whether it might be wiser to insert in daylight?” He shot Larissa an apologetic glance as he spoke, and she did her best not to let her eyes burst red with anger.
“Surveillance confirms that the windows of Rejon’s compound have all been painted out,” replied General Allen. “And intelligence suggests that a number of his bodyguards have been left unturned. The advantage of being able to use Lieutenant Kinley outweighs the disadvantages of working in darkness.”
“Understood, sir,” said Tim. He glanced at her again, a pained expression on his face. Larissa knew exactly what it was meant to convey.
Nothing personal. I had to ask.
“Excellent,” said General Allen, and tapped his console again. The screen changed to a wide pyramid of photographs, each with a name printed beneath it. At the top was General Garcia Rejon, a handsome, thin-faced man with a covering of dark stubble and piercing dark brown eyes. Under him were three men listed as Colonels, and below them were widening rows of Lieutenants and soldiers. “This is what we believe to be the new Desert Cartel leadership,” said Allen. “Intelligence suggests that the majority of these men, all of whom we suspect have now been turned, are currently resi
ding in Garcia Rejon’s compound. The General and his Colonels are Priority Level 1, the rest Priority Level 2. The preferred outcome of this Operation is that none of these men survive.”
“Collateral?” asked Tim Albertsson. “You said there were unturned guards?”
“Not a consideration,” replied Allen, and Larissa felt a chill run up her spine. “Your objectives are the Priority Level targets. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tim, firmly.
“Lieutenant Kinley?” asked the Director, turning to her. “This is a Priority Level operation with Presidential approval. Can you handle it?”
I don’t know, thought Larissa. I’m not a murderer. But there’s no way I’m telling you that.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I can handle it.”
“Good,” replied General Allen, and smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re going along on this one, Larissa. I wish I could be there to see it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. I want wheels up at 1900. The Operational briefing has been sent to both your consoles; study it, prep your team, then go and get this done. I want a full report as soon as you’re back. Dismissed.”
Tim tensed the muscles in his legs; he was about to jump over the low wall that they had taken cover behind, when Larissa disappeared into the evening sky in a silent streak of black.
He gasped at her sheer speed; before a second had passed she was gone, lost in the gloom overhead. A nervous babble of Spanish floated through the air, confirming that Rejon’s men had seen something, although they appeared unsure as to exactly what. Tim crouched behind the wall, adrenaline coursing through his body, uncertain what to do. He raised his head and peeked over the top of the wall; the garden beyond was perhaps fifteen metres square, with two rings of flower beds and a round pond in its centre. Beyond it, atop the gentle rise, was Garcia Rejon’s home, a sprawling mansion with blacked-out windows and blast-proof concrete walls, its outline silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky. On the far side of the garden, a low wall divided it from the gravel drive that wound up to the front of the house. Behind it, crouched in the darkness with AR-15s in their hands, were four of Rejon’s newly-turned vampires.
