My emotions boiled and rolled inside me, threatening to spill over and consume me. I surged to my feet and started pacing around the room.
I am become Death.
I stood, shoulders shaking, teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut.
I am become Death.
I breathed deeply, channeling my emotions into one, needle pointed, white hot flame, born not of panic, not of despair, but of rage.
I am become Death.
I began to regain control of myself. I knew what I had to do.
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
The phone rang. With glacial calm I picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Jack? What in the name of holy blue fucking blazes were you thinking?”
It was Dillon Tilehurst, Minister for Paranormal Research and Defence. My boss. For now.
“They took her, boss. They fucking took her.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“They fucking took her,” I repeated.
“Jack. You just tortured a vampire to death and posted the fucking video on the Internet. I doubt there's a human on the planet who doesn't know about it by now.”
“What the fuck would you expect me to do? Give the cunt an ASBO?”
“This is not the time for your sense of humor Jack.”
“I was laughing?”
“The pro-vampire groups are probably wanking themselves into a stupor over this. Already some windbag from the US Embassy has been on the phone making threats of legal action.”
“Fuck'em.”
“I also just got off the phone with the Home Secretary. He was roused from his nice bed and shown a British soldier torturing one of the enemy! He's demanding answers.”
“Fuck him as well.”
“Jack,” he began angrily. “Just... just... fucking hell, Jack.”
“I'm done,” I said, still calm and still.
“What?”
“I'm done. I'm done with the Ministry. I'm done with the military. I'm done with it all. This is personal and I'm going after her.”
Tilehurst was silent for a few minutes.
“And if they've killed her?”
“If they have you needn't worry about liberating the North. I'll kill every bloodsucker up there.”
“Bring her back,” he said, suddenly sounding calmer. “That's my last official order to you. Bring her back. If you do that I might be able to solve this mess. But if you don't—if you can't—you might not want to come back.”
“Come back with your shield or on it, boss?”
“Something like that. One more thing—”
There was a startled gasp followed by a commotion on the other end of the line. When Tilehurst came back on he sounded shaken.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Everything okay, boss?” I asked.
“No it's fucking not. I had that damn video playing on my computer here. You just burned that fucking vamp's knob off with a blowtorch!”
“Was that before or after I nailed one of his gonads to the chair?”
There was nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the line for a long, long moment.
“Jack, do me a favor. If you ever get that pissed at me, promise me you'll just shoot me. You are... holy shit, Jack. What are you? What the fuck are you?”
“I'm a vampire hunter. And now I'm going to hunt some more vampires.”
“Just one more thing. There is a white-haired man who is your friend. He wants me to tell you that if you want to pay him a visit on your way to wherever you happen to be going, he's still your friend.”
“Understood, boss.”
“Okay. Good hunting.”
I hung up and turned to the bed. Laying on the covers were the tools of my trade. I picked up my black PLCE and buckled it into place. Into their respective holsters went my SIG Sauer P226 9mm and my Heckler & Koch MP7 Personal Defence Weapon. Then the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife with the silver-alloy blade. Lastly I slid my second knife, the huge hunting knife with the heavy wolf's head pommel. I had to clamp down on a surge of emotion. The blade had been a gift from Marie.
I had just finished distributing my weapons when my old cellphone rang. I picked it up and frowned at the unfamiliar number.
CHAPTER
19
My eyelids fluttered before I remembered myself enough to pretend I was still unconscious. I kept my eyes closed and slowed my breathing. Around me I could smell vampires. Vampires and blood. We were in the back of a vehicle, moving along a smooth road.
The vampires were talking. One was sobbing.
That felt good. The blackness claimed me again.
CHAPTER
20
The thick metal door was in almost complete darkness. If you didn't know what it was you'd have thought it was simply the back entrance into a disused hardware store. I raised my fist and pounded on the door.
There was a brief silence before a squeak told me that a peephole had been uncovered.
“What's the password?” came a familiar voice.
I held up a bottle of whiskey.
“Glenfiddich.”
Normally I would simply lift a bottle from whatever safe house I was staying at. Tonight I'd had to stop on the way up here and buy one. It wouldn't be wise to stop by a safe house. There'd be too many questions to answer.
It always puzzled me what Albert did with the whiskey that hunters brought him. He didn't drink a lot, I knew that, but he accepted every bottle with a happy smile. He was probably selling them.
The door squealed in protest as it was yanked open to reveal a small man with white hair and big, bushy mustache. Ex-military to the tips of his fingers, Albert was neat, combed and pressed. His shirt was crisp and white, his waistcoat buttoned, his shoes shiny. A neat row of ribbons sat above his breast pocket and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles were hooked over his ears.
“Hello, Pagan,” he said quietly.
“Albert,” I said.
“Come on in.”
Inside the door was a large room, choked with debris. And there was a werewolf.
“Jason?” I asked, pretty sure I recognized the hulking figure.
“Jack,” he rumbled in a deep voice.
Jason was one of Liam's wolves, a big, intimidating man with shoulders like a bull. When he changed he just got bigger. And he was an ex-Para. He'd joined just after Black Friday, when the British Government had quickly cottoned onto the advantages of having werewolves in the field. The fear he engendered usually lasted right up to the point where people got to know him. He was actually one of the most laid-back wolves I'd ever met, utterly devoted to his wife and daughter. He played MMORPGs religiously on the Internet and held the patent on a special kind of silver-plated needle that could be used to tattoo werewolves and vampires. Rumour had it that he was making a lot of money over the pond with his invention. Modern American vampires were loving the ability to get inked and even the older ones were getting in on it. But better than that, the special ink he'd designed gave the tattoos a brilliant, almost three-dimensional look, popular not only with vampires and, inevitably, the devoted and dumb corpsebait set that wanted to imitate them, but also with traditional tattoo artists.
Jason had seriously eased the money worries of the pack with his genius.
“You earning some extra cash?” I asked.
“Standing in for Cole,” he replied with a shrug. “Joanie's birthday party.”
That explained it. Joanie was Cole's mate and they'd been together less than three months. Her first birthday with him.
“Why does this place need a werewolf guard anyway?” I asked.
“Some dumb fool tried to force his way in here a few weeks ago,” said Albert, leading me towards the freight elevator in the back of the shop. “Idiot had a knife. To rob a gunsmith. Can you believe it?”
“Some people just can't be helped,” I said.
We descended into what Aladdin's cave would have l
ooked like if the Genie had been a hard-core survivalist. Racks of weapons lined the walls and boxes of ammunition were everywhere. Albert was officially unofficial as far as the Ministry was concerned. Strictly speaking he was freelance but the Ministry ensured he had a regular supply of the good stuff in exchange for passing those supplies on to the hunters. Freelance hunters and civilians could buy from him—if they could find him—but only hunters got it for free.
“Saw your video,” said Jason suddenly. “Damn good job.”
Albert nodded.
“That vampire had it coming,” said Albert. “Very impressed with your imagination, Pagan.”
“You're gonna get her back, right?” said Jason.
“Yes,” I said firmly.
“Need any help from the pack?”
“If I do, I'll call.”
Jason nodded and retired to a little alcove that held no less than eight computer screens. Five showed exterior views of the building via night vision and IR cameras, one showed the interior of the room upstairs, one had an email account up and, big surprise, one was displaying his latest MMORPG realm. The keyboard was outsized and made of metal, suitable for use when wearing claws, another invention from the pack.
“Okay, so what can I get you?” Albert asked briskly.
“Seven six-two, silver-tipped tracer, one hundred rounds. Nine mil, silver-tipped, fifty rounds. Five point seven hardened penetrators for the MP7, seventy rounds. Twenty gauge shotgun shells, silver loads, thirty rounds.”
“Anything else?” asked Albert, gathering my order together.
I glanced around the room, getting ready to say no, when my gaze came to rest on a particular shelf.
“One of those,” I said, pointing.
“Just one?”
“Two.”
CHAPTER
21
The sound of voices raised in argument dragged me from the drug-induced sleep. I wanted to shake my head, as if that would clear the fog away, but I didn't want to move. My mouth felt dry and my head was pounding. The van I was in wasn't moving. My wrists were tied behind my back and my ankles were tied together. I didn't want to move until the fog had receded but I was fairly sure I could snap the bonds if I really tried.
“We continue with our mission,” said one voice. Older, more cultured.
“Have you seen this?” screeched a younger voice, close to hysteria.
“He used a cheesegrater on Bollen's face!” whimpered another voice, the one that had been sobbing earlier. “A cheesegrater!”
“Bollen was a fool,” declared the older voice. “He just had to be there to confront him face-to-face.”
“He is the devil!” gasped the one with the broken leg.
“He is not the devil!” yelled the older voice. “He is just a man and we are superior.”
“Really?” said a new voice, female, trembling. “Have you seen it? He used a welding torch to burn Bollen's tongue out!”
“I would have, too,” snarled the older voice. “Foolishness! Bollen started babbling everything he knew as soon as that human started to hurt him!”
“He is the devil,” repeated the male voice in a tight whisper.
“He's a man!”
“Really?” said the female. “Did you see the way she fought? She killed four of us with no effort. What kind of man would take a female like that into his bed?”
My Jack, I thought, suppressing a smile. Only my man could frighten vampires like this.
“I need some air,” said the female abruptly.
I heard the van doors open and the cool night air washed over me, bringing a wave of nausea and dizziness. I swallowed, trying to avoid puking as the vamps climbed out, rocking the van.
With extreme caution I opened one eye just a crack. I was facing the back of the van and I could just make out the wounded vamp, sitting on the edge of the floor, his leg held stiffly in front of him, splinted and tightly wrapped.
“I need blood,” he moaned.
“Take some of hers,” said the older voice from out of my field of view.
“Are you kidding?”
“No, werewolf blood is delicious,” he replied. “And very invigorating.”
“I don't care!” said the injured one. “The last thing I want when he catches us is to have taken her blood.”
“Donald, have some decorum,” said the owner of the first voice I had heard as he stepped out of the shadows. “And calm yourself. The Pagan will not catch us. We are superior.”
The speaker, unlike everyone else, was dressed in elegant suit, complete with diamond tie pin and a neat little cane.
“You ... modern types were hired because you like this technology, these stupid little weapons. You, Donald, missed the target twice. What use are you?”
Donald lowered his head in submission.
“This is irrelevant,” said the older vamp, calm again. “We continue with our mission.”
The light in the van grew suddenly brighter and I heard a car pulling up, nose to nose. A car door slammed and footsteps crunched across gravel around the side of the van.
“Did everything go according to plan?” said a new voice with an accent I couldn't place.
I fought to focus on the newcomer, trying to get my drug-addled brain to cooperate. Whatever had been in that dart had been potent and specifically tailored to werewolves. I was relieved that I was still in my wolf form because it felt like the drug was also preventing me from changing.
“Not quite,” said the older man with distaste. “She killed four operatives, disabled one more, and he took Bollen prisoner.”
“He tortured Bollen to death,” mumbled Donald.
“How do you know this?” asked the newcomer.
Finally I could see him. He looked for all the world like a gentleman of means out for an afternoon stroll. He was wearing tweed trousers and stout shoes. Under a tweed jacket with—I could barely believe my eyes—leather patches on the elbows he wore a dark red knitted cardigan, cream shirt and paisley tie. He, too, was carrying a walking stick.
Donald passed him his cellphone wordlessly. The newcomer peered at the small screen for a moment, his face lit by the glow. He slowly smiled, his lips drawing back to reveal sharply pointed fangs. From the phone I could hear the tinny sounds of someone screaming in pain.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Moving pictures in a device you can fit in your pocket. Whatever will they think of next?”
“Donald thinks we should let the wolf go,” said the older man.
“No, I don't think so.”
“What's the point?” said Donald. “With Bollen dead the Pagan won't be getting the instructions. Not that it would do any good anyway.”
“Au contraire, Monsieur Donald.” said the newcomer. “We shall continue with our plan and you can use that mobile telephone device to contact the Pagan. Warn him that if he does not learn to behave his mate shall pay the price.”
Donald turned even whiter at the suggestion.
“In the meantime,” he continued. “It has been many a century since I last sampled the blood of a wolf. I think I shall take a nip from our lovely guest.”
He climbed into the back of the van, licking his lips. A burst of fear ran through me and I strained as hard as I could. Whatever was wrapped around my wrists held for half a second before snapping. My paw shot out, slamming into the vamp's throat as the bonds around my ankles snapped. The newcomer toppled out of the van making wet choking noises.
I rose to my feet, the world spinning around me, and heard a soft 'phut' noise.
“Oh, good shot Donald. Seems like you are some use after all.”
I looked down at the dart in my thigh, then slowly fell into blackness again.
CHAPTER
22
My bike has several aftermarket additions to bring it to what I consider to be military spec. The biggest addition is the kill switch. All British military vehicles have them. Flicking the kill switch douses every single light on the vehicle, fr
om headlamps to brake lights, even down to the dashboard lights.
I was rocketing northwards along the A1 in almost total blackness at close to a hundred miles an hour. My NVGs were giving me a nice view of the road ahead, so I saw the police car long before I barreled past it. By the time the two thugs inside gathered their wits enough to flick on the blue flashers and start chasing me they were a tiny dot in my mirrors.
Still, they did have radio, and someone coming from the south could only be trouble they'd want to stop. Just ahead was an exit. I slowed slightly, tore up the exit ramp, and slid off of the seat to take the corner onto the overpass. I fought the temptation to get my knee down: my combats didn't have sliders so it would have been more than a little painful. I straightened up, crossed the overpass, and hung off the other side to take the exit ramp back onto the wrong side of the southbound lanes, opening the throttle wide and pushing the bike hard.
Within twenty minutes I blew past a roadblock consisting of a few police Range Rovers and some patrol cars, the thugs in uniform struggling to move their vehicles out of each other's way as they saw me. I was a little surprised at how fast they had put a roadblock together. Someone had beefed up security.
My little trick would only work once, however. Even now they would be scrambling to block both sides of the road.
It was maybe ten minutes before I was proven right. Ahead was a blaze of flashing blue lights and I knew they were between me and the next exit. Oh well.
The bike's engine wound down as I guided it onto the hard shoulder and came to a halt. I flipped up my NVGs. It was probably still too dark for them to see me but, lit up as they were by I could see them clearly. A Range Rover blocked each of the lanes on each side of the central divider, officers with assault rifles crouching between them. Blocking the hard shoulder, in an unusual display of competence, was a police van on this side, a patrol car on the other.
Even if I wasn't operating on the thin edge of rage I wouldn't have much problem taking out these uniformed bully boys.
Strapped to the top of my backpack was a pair of green tubes: M72 High Explosive Anti-Tank rockets in their beautifully designed, one-shot, disposable launchers. Albert's cave had been well stocked.
Renegade (Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence) Page 7
