Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  “Get out. Move. Move!” Yolanda moved past the girl, reached back with her left hand and shoved her hard in the back, not wasting time with nice reassurances or any of that touchy-feely shit. The girl didn’t need telling twice. She staggered under the surprising power from Yolanda’s shove, regained her balance and then clattered her way along the platform towards the exit, where she saw another huge man running down the stairs with a menacing look and equally menacing Glock. Her tears started to dissolve the cheap mascara she wore, and it ran down her face in two gritty black streaks. This was not a normal workday commute.

  The back end of the train disappeared into the far tunnel behind them, and Yolanda stopped at the point where the platform ended and black oblivion began. She lowered the Glock and unleashed a shit-ton of real passion into an uncharacteristic outburst of cursing. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  Colby jumped down onto the tracks and started to move towards the darkness.

  Gary dumped the kit bag on the floor, looked over Yolanda’s shoulder and watched his best friend heading purposefully towards the tunnel entrance. “Colby, you daft bastard, stop! There’s an entire army of Taints in there, and the next train is about a minute away from turning you into a smear! Colby! Colby!” He glowered at his friend’s back and muttered. “God damn it, you stubborn…” Gary, still questioning Colby’s parentage under his breath, turned and took up position behind Yolanda. He kept his back to his team, eyes fixed firmly on the other end of the tunnel, just in case the Taints tried a pincer move on them.

  Yolanda raised the gun, targeting the nose of the Glock straight at Colby’s back. She scowled down the barrel and her sharp voice echoed through the station like broken glass. “Mister Flynn! You will stand down immediately or so help me, I will shoot you in the back!”

  Flynn stopped, and slowly lowered his gun. He glared into the blackness, trying to ignore the itchy sensation between his shoulder blades. He could practically feel the green dot from Yolanda’s sighting laser. She probably wouldn’t shoot him, he knew that. Well, probably. Possibly. Actually? Thinking about it, she might squeeze the bloody trigger just to prove a point, the crazy bint. But that was just Yol’s way. And that’s why he loved her. It was nothing personal, just Yol trying to save his stupid, hot-headed idiot self from dying a wasteful, pointless death.

  She was right, of course.

  The Jaeger family had been hunting and killing vampires across Europe for generations. Even the name meant ‘Hunter’ in German. There was also the small technicality that when they were on duty Yolanda Jaeger was Flynn’s CO too.

  So he complied. Not doing so would mean the mother of all arse-kickings in the training gym later. The bloody woman fought dirty. But she’d also stayed alive by knowing which battles to pick, and which to walk away from. It was a lesson he was finally starting to understand. And this was definitely one of those ‘walk away’ times, no matter how much that pinpoint of fury currently burning its way through his chest told him to chase his quarry down and end this once and for all.

  Colby stood motionless, staring into the black of beyond. The clustered eyeshine of at least a dozen Taints winked and twinkled back at him, taunting him, daring him to run away from the safety of the bright platform and into their dark, death-ridden world. A pulse of warm air throbbed down the tunnel, indicating that he had about fifteen seconds to get back to the platform before thirty tons of London Underground rolling stock really fucked up his day.

  * * *

  "Vlad?” Colonel North’s voice was sharp.

  “Yes, sir.” Yolanda nodded. She paced the platform with the phone pressed to her ear. Colby sat on the bench, glowering at the darkness. Micky Cox had got a reluctant official to close the station due to a ‘suspect package’, so the team were currently alone in a deserted tube station. All Northern Line trains were at a standstill. Gary Parks stood sentry at one end of the platform, a fully loaded shotgun pointed at the north tunnel, while Micky patrolled the south end.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the middle of the bloody day?”

  “Well, technically, it was the morning rush hour, but yes, sir.”

  “You’re absolutely certain it was him?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d know that bastard anywhere. It was him. And I’m pretty sure he knew who we were too. His lieutenant hopped back onto the train before it left. We couldn’t contain both of them. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You did what you could, Captain. This was supposed to be a rekko, not a damn meet and greet. The fault is not yours, Yollie. It’s Vlad’s. Always remember that.” Colonel North sighed. “Okay. So what’s your appraisal of the situation?”

  Yolanda answered quickly and succinctly. “The tunnel between Highgate and Archway is infested, sir. Looks like it’s ground zero for this particular nest. London Underground is uber-pissed about us limiting access to the Northern Line between the two stations, but we’ve pulled our usual ‘national security’ number on them, so they’ve been forced to comply. We’ve got a lot of angry, inconvenienced commuters, but that’s nothing new.”

  “Good. I’d rather they were annoyed and alive than happy and dead.”

  “Nobody who travels the Northern Line is happy, sir.”

  “True. Right then. Solutions?”

  “We’re already on the ground. The station’s closed and we’re ready to go in and evict the little buggers with extreme prejudice. If you could have Terry Warner and Bravo Unit suited up for a bug hunt and to us with supplies asap, we can try and do a seek and destroy right now. I’d like to keep Vlad off balance by hitting hard and fast. We may not be able to take Vlad out now, but we can certainly show him we’re not just going to roll over…”

  Yolanda’s report was interrupted by a loud bang. She instinctively flinched then spun to face the southern end of the tunnel, where Micky Cox was pointing the smoking barrel of a 12-bore pump-action shotgun into the darkness. Yolanda rolled her eyes. “Jesus! What the hell, Micky?”

  Micky turned, grinned, and re-primed his shotgun, ignoring the screaming, thrashing, heel-drumming Taint behind him. “Sorry, boss. Little bugger got a bit lunge-y at me.” There was a ‘wuuumph!’ sound and a cloud of ash floated gently down onto Micky’s shoulders. He casually brushed it off and shrugged.

  Yolanda shook her head. “Eyes on, Mick.” She returned her attention to the Colonel. “Sorry about that sir.”

  “Everything all right, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir. Just Micky getting trigger happy with a Taint. But that just goes to show how bold they’re getting.”

  “Hmm. They are getting a bit cheeky, aren’t they? Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like permission to go after that damn lieutenant of his if possible, too. I don’t like the look of that bastard.” Yolanda paused. “Sir, we need to move quickly on this if we’re going to keep it under the radar. If the press get hold of it we’re going to face an epic shitstorm, and right now I’d rather keep this on a need to know basis.”

  Colonel North responded with a grunt. “Agreed. I’ll have Corporal Warner and Bravo Unit en route to you in fifteen. Good hunting, Yollie.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep you updated.” Yolanda ended the call and put the phone in her pocket. She glanced up. “Upstairs, chaps. We’re meeting Terry and Bravo team in the ticket area.” A nasty smile crept over her face. “We’ve got ourselves a bug hunt, lads.”

  Micky and Gary grinned back. Colby merely stared into the blackness of the tunnel and glowered at the blinking, winking eyeshine.

  He wanted that lieutenant. He wanted him bad.

  There was something about that nasty little bastard that made Colby’s skin prickle…

  * * *

  Outside the tube station’s locked metal gates a throng of commuters milled about. A single London Underground employee, resplendent in a hi-viz jacket and wit
h absolutely no clue as to what was really happening, tried to shepherd the muttering masses towards the nearest bus stop. A scribbled note stuck to a sandwich board apologised for the inconvenience, while the hi-viz employee reassured passengers that yes, the station would probably reopen shortly. Even he didn’t believe that bullshit line.

  Terry Warner walked up to the guy and flashed an ID. “Clean up crew. Open up.”

  The man – currently engaged in telling an officious, besuited commuter that no, he didn’t have any further information and no, he didn’t know or in fact care who the man was, he’d have to wait like everyone else – flickered his attention towards the ID. He puffed up his chest and looked as ‘official’ as he could. “Suspicious package. Security alert. Nobody gets in.”

  Terry carefully pulled his boilersuit open so hi-viz guy could just see the butt of a Glock 17 tucked under his armpit. He made damn sure the stroppy commuter couldn’t see anything. His blue eyes hardened and he stared intently at hi-viz guy. “Listen, fella. I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you in any detail. I said, clean… up… crew. Translation, open the damn gate. Now.”

  Hi-viz guy, now completely ignoring the still-stroppy commuter, focused on the ‘clean up team’ and, in particular, the tall, fierce-looking man carrying the Glock 17. They were the most evil-looking bunch of ‘cleaners’ he’d ever seen. They were all powerfully built, probably heavily armed too, and scanning the crowd like a bunch of SAS soldiers on an operat… oh. Shit…

  Realisation kicked in and hi-viz guy gulped. He quickly decided pursuing any kind of argument he might have about who was allowed where and when was probably trumped by the sheer amount of ordnance this ‘clean up crew’ were packing. He fumbled with a key and unlocked the gate, opening it just wide enough for the team to squeeze through.

  As Danny Smith walked past the man he stopped for a moment. He kept his voice low, so as not to alarm the civvies. “Listen, fella. Things are going to get a little bit urgent in a while. So when you hear screaming and a shit-load of people stampeding up the stairs, you open this damn gate and you let them out. Got it?” He gave hi-viz guy what he thought was a reassuring smile.

  “I… I… I…”

  “I said, got it?” Danny’s smile melted away.

  “Y-yes. Yeah. I got it. Sure. Why the hell not?” Hi-viz guy nodded. He really regretted not calling in sick this morning.

  “Adda boy.” Danny patted the man on the shoulder just a tiny bit harder than he needed to, and followed his team into the bowels of the station and out of sight of the crowds outside.

  Inside, a lone London Underground official stood shaking in a corner. Watching the team pull balaclavas over their faces, wrapping throat comms around their necks, and opening up bags filled with automatic weapons did nothing to rebalance his peace of mind. He let out a little yelp.

  A pair of hard, steely eyes immediately connected with his own. He could tell the face was scowling underneath the black fabric. Terry barked out two words. “Which platform?”

  The official pointed a shaking finger towards the escalator. “P-p-platform two…”

  Terry gave a curt nod. “Thank you. Now fuck off.”

  The man fucked off at a rapid scuttle, and Terry motioned to Bravo Unit. “Move out.” Time to tie up with the boss…

  * * *

  “You’re late.”

  “You’re welcome!”

  Terry gave Micky the finger and threw a kit bag at him. Micky Cox caught it with all the grace and dexterity of a one-armed blind man in a dark room. Terry chuckled. “Careful, fella. That’s the bag with the UV flash bangs.”

  Micky plonked the bag down and crouched next to it. He unzipped the bag and pulled it open. “Okay. Wadda we got, then? Big, honking great bullet chuckers?”

  “Check.”

  “Spare organo FMJs?”

  “Check.”

  “Sneaking-around black ninja outfits with anti-Taint kevlar weave?”

  Gary Parks glanced over and primed his Remington 870 shotgun as an underline, before attaching it to a lanyard and picking up a C8. “Micky, we are not doing sneaking-around ninja shit. We’re going in dressed as a team of London Underground Northern Line fluffers who’ve had all the love, hope and faith in humanity sucked out of them through years of working in one of the city’s shittiest hellholes. So it’s regulation boilersuits, boots and beanies. No ninja shit.”

  Micky looked puzzled and glanced over at Yolanda, who was busy checking the recoil on her Glock. “Um, boss? Question?”

  Without even looking at him, Yolanda immediately responded. “Fluffers are teams who clean the underground tracks.”

  “Oh, so they’re not…”

  “No, Micky. No. They’re really not. You bloody pervert.”

  Gary laughed. “Mate, you watch far too much porn, you know that?”

  “Yeah. Porn with your mama in it.”

  Gary gave Micky a blank look. “Seriously? Did you actually just throw down with a ‘yo mama’ joke at me?”

  Terry Warner turned to Colby. “Are they always like this?”

  Colby grinned. “These two? Fella, this is a good day. They’re usually going at each other like an old married couple.” Colby dropped the magazine out of the C8, tapped it, checked and re-inserted it with a snap. He primed and checked the primary holographic sighting, making absolutely sure that he hadn’t accidentally knocked the switch from ‘Safe’ to ‘Rapid’ – or ‘NoKill’ to ‘Parp’, as Micky liked to call it. The team were using the more compact 10-inch barrel version. The 16-inch barrel might be more accurate, but when you were going in up-close-and-personal with a grabby Taint full of bad intentions, then the longer barrel tended to snag and get in the way. There was no point attaching the standard bayonet either. That would just tangle you up even more, and if you were using a bayonet against a Taint then you were probably way too up-close-and-personal already.

  A clatter of heavy boots announced the arrival of a worried-looking Danny Smith. He was carrying a tablet in one hand and a C8 in the other. “Boss, you better see this.” He spoke rapidly. “Came in via our covert channels about three minutes ago. It was addressed to the team.” He glanced at Colby. “Personally.”

  The team gathered around the tablet and studied the flickering, jerky picture. Yolanda squinted at the screen. “That picture is piss-poor, fella. What are we looking at?”

  “Hang on…” Danny pointed at the screen. “There.”

  Gary groaned. “Oh, now, this isn’t good.” On the screen was a figure that, while the face may have been blurry and grainy, there was no question as to whom it was.

  Vlad’s lieutenant sat among a train full of oblivious commuters and stared up at the CCTV, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Next to him, the old lady had her head down on her chest, looking for all the world like she was simply having a quick nana-nap in-between stops. The team, however, knew immediately that she wasn’t asleep. They could all see a dark mark on the side of her neck; a small wound with the tiniest trickle of blood running from it. That was one ‘nana-nap’ the old girl wouldn’t be waking up from, bless her heart…

  Gary glared at the screen. “Motherfucker!”

  Yolanda stared at the screen. “Is he sending us this via live feed?”

  Danny nodded. “Yes, boss. The train’s been held in the tunnel next to Tufnell Park on an emergency ‘suspect package’ order. The entire Northern Line this side of the water is at a standstill. The commuters are getting majorly angsty, and I’m guessing Vlad’s lieutenant is just a finger-snap away from unleashing that pack of Taints you saw and turning that train into an all-you-can-eat buffet.” Danny paused. “Boss, there’re a lot of people on that train. A lot. And we’ve basically put them slap-bang in the middle of a potential feeding frenzy.”

  Yolanda nodded. She pushed the Glock back into her leg holster
. “Get the train moved back here and hold it. Doors shut. We move. Now.” The steel in her voice told the team it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

  They grabbed their kit. The time for a bit of pre-op, barrack-room banter was well and truly over.

  * * *

  The team had picked a quiet spot well away from prying eyes and in the station’s CCTV dead spot. Nobody needed to know what was going on down here, least of all some jobsworth security ‘spotter’ in a grey room somewhere. They were here to clear the nest, get the civilians to safety with minimum collateral, and take out the lieutenant at the very least. Not provide some bored security guard with an impromptu reality show.

  Yolanda sniffed sharply, and looked straight at Colby. “Right then. What’s his end game here, Col?”

  “Fuck knows.”

  Colby was concentrating on balling that churning knot of fury he had twisting his insides up into a focused and precise pinpoint. Random, uncontrolled rage was useless. It would probably get you killed. Focus and you released the true killer inside. It was a side of his personality Colby didn’t particularly like, but it had kept him alive up to now, so he had learned to embrace it and use it when necessary.

  Combat wasn’t just about training. It was about unleashing the monster within that everyone has but nobody wants to acknowledge. And doing it in such a way that allowed you to achieve your objective without thinking about the blood and carnage you were inflicting. You needed to disassociate yourself from that side of combat. Otherwise you’d freeze. And if you froze, you died. Really quickly.

  Combat was a means to an end. It was about protecting your team. Protecting yourself. And protecting those who couldn’t defend themselves.