Battle Lines Page 3

  Jamie was cautiously hopeful about the two potential operators who had been thrust into his care, a situation that never ceased to amuse him. Both were older than him and far more experienced in the outside world. Inside the Loop, however, their experience counted for nothing, and Jamie was an almost legendary figure; they both looked at him with barely concealed awe.

  John Morton was twenty-one years old and had been recruited personally by Major Paul Turner. He had been about to be transferred to the First Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, and had already been marked out as a soldier likely to one day undergo the grueling selection process that would send him to the SAS, the British Army’s elite special forces unit. Turner had become aware of him through his old colleagues at Hereford and had stepped in quickly to derail the young man’s career path. Less than a day later, Morton had arrived at the Loop with a look of wonder similar to the one that had been a fixture on Jamie’s own face barely six months earlier.

  Lizzy Ellison was twenty-three, two years older than her training mate and more than five years older than Jamie. She had been an agent in SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service that had previously been known as MI6, and what she had done there was classified at a level accessible only by the director general of the SIS and the chief of the general staff. Jamie had not asked her, although the time would come when he would do so; he had learned from personal experience that secrets within a squad could be dangerous. But for the time being, he was content to let her past remain a secret for a single reason: Angela Darcy—the beautiful, fearsome operator who had accompanied Jamie on his desperate rescue mission to Paris only a month or so earlier, who had also once been SIS and who was, he thought, the most deadly and calmly predatory human being he had ever known—knew who Ellison was. He didn’t know how, but it was enough; if she had appeared on the radar of Angela Darcy, who had spent her pre-Blacklight career wading through blood that was often elbow-deep, then he would not push her to reveal her secrets.

  Not yet, at least.

  The elevator doors slid open, and Jamie stepped inside, pressing the button marked 0. As the elevator began to ascend, he wondered what Cal Holmwood might want this time.

  It often felt as though he spent more time in the Ops Room than in the small quarters where he occasionally found the opportunity to sleep. Ops was an oval room in the center of the only above-ground level of the Loop, and it was where the priority-level missions were briefed and dispatched. In the month that had followed the attack on the Loop and the abduction of Henry Seward, the Department’s veteran director, it had become the hub of the entire base, as every mission had become priority level. It was exceedingly rare to find good news waiting there.

  Jamie leaned against the cool metal wall of the elevator and let his mind drift; as was so often the case, his thoughts were quickly full of his friends. The catastrophic attack on the Loop by Valeri and his vampire army had affected them all profoundly; Kate was still struggling to come to terms with the death of Shaun, the young operator who had been her boyfriend, and had made a decision in recent days that Jamie had pleaded with her to reconsider. Matt was buried deep in the bowels of the Loop, spending every waking second staring at a computer screen. And Larissa, the vampire girl who had become the most important thing in the world to Jamie, was gone.

  The elevator door slid open again, and he walked slowly down the Level 0 corridor. He paused outside the door to the Ops Room, took a deep breath, then stepped inside.

  * * *

  Gathered around the table in the center of the room was a group of dark figures.

  Cal Holmwood stood at the head, with Jack Williams at his side. Arrayed along the sides, their attention focused on the interim director, stood Patrick Williams, Dominique Saint-Jacques, Jacob Scott, Andrew Jarvis, Richard Brennan, and a Communications Division operator called Amy Andrews. She had been recently added to the task force, along with Dominique and Angela Darcy, who appeared to be absent; in the aftermath of Valeri’s attack, the task force had been expanded to include at least one representative from every division in the Department.

  As Jamie sat down, he noted that Paul Turner was also missing, although this no longer qualified as surprising.

  “Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Cal Holmwood. “How are your recruits coming along?”

  “Pretty well, sir,” replied Jamie. “Terry’s making sure they realize what they’ve signed up for.”

  Cal Holmwood smiled grimly. “I’m glad to hear it. They’re going to see for themselves in a few hours.”

  Jamie frowned. The Blacklight training program had once taken thirteen months to complete, on top of the elite-level training that the majority of recruits had already undertaken before they were even made aware of the Department’s existence. But circumstances had made this impossible, and what was being carried out in the Playground now was the very definition of a crash course. It was far from ideal, from anyone’s perspective, but it was unavoidable: The Department had been hurt, and hurt badly.

  There were rooms on the residential levels that had been occupied by operators who were never going to return to them; unused desks in the Surveillance, Security, and Intelligence Divisions; operational squads that had lost one, two, or, in some awful cases, all three of their members. These empty spaces, these holes in the fabric of the Department, would not be filled easily, even by the new men and women who were being recruited specifically to do so. Friends, colleagues, even family members had been lost, and rookies would not take their places, even though they were vital: Restoring the Department to something approaching full strength was of paramount importance.

  The countdown to Zero Hour would not wait for them to be ready.

  Nonetheless, Jamie did not believe the members of his new squad were; he had not been intending to take them out for another week at least.

  “Why, sir?” he asked, looking at the interim director. “What’s happened?”

  Holmwood glanced over at Jack Williams. “Jack?”

  Jamie’s friend nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “In the security officer’s absence, I’ve been asked to brief you all on the events of last night.” He tapped a series of commands into the console in front of him, and the operators turned their attention to the screen set high on the wall. A window opened, and grainy CCTV images filled the screen: running figures in white coats, leaping, grasping shapes moving among them, tearing and rending. Blood sprayed onto walls and ceilings, and the panicked, pleading eyes of the victims were wide, even in the low-resolution footage.

  “This,” said Jack, “is D ward of Broadmoor Hospital, one of three secure hospitals that house the most dangerously ill men and women in the country. At one forty-seven this morning, a group of vampires broke into the facility, killing every member of the staff and releasing every patient from their room. We’ve confronted twenty-nine of them so far and managed to bring two into custody. Every single one has been turned.”

  There was a sharp communal intake of breath.

  “All of them?” asked Patrick Williams, his voice low.

  “That’s correct,” replied his brother.

  “This was an attack on us, not on the patients,” said Dominique Saint-Jacques. “They turned them all and let them out, didn’t they?”

  “That appears to be the case,” replied Jack. “However, this was not the only incident of its type to take place last night. Vampires also attacked the Florence Supermax facility in Colorado, the Black Dolphin prison in Sol-Iletsk, the C Max in Pretoria, al-Ha’ir Prison in Riyadh, Kamunting Detention Center in Malaysia, Goulburn Correctional Center in New South Wales, and the Penitenciária Federal de Catanduvas in southern Brazil. There are now more than four thousand maximum-security prisoners unaccounted for, and in every country, those who have been recovered have all been turned. This appears to have been nothing less than a deliberate, coordinated attack on the supernatural Departments of the world.” />
  There was silence as the operators attempted to absorb the scale of what they were hearing. Jamie looked around the table. Patrick Williams and Dominique Saint-Jacques were staring steadily at Jack, their expressions calm and neutral, and he felt admiration rise through his chest.

  Nothing fazes them, he thought. Absolutely nothing.

  He was about to return his attention to Jack when he caught sight of Jacob Scott; the Australian colonel was staring down at the desk, his eyes wide, his face deathly pale. The outspoken veteran operator looked, to Jamie’s untrained eye, as though he was about to have a heart attack; his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned bright white.

  “This is now this Department’s number-one priority,” said Cal Holmwood. Jamie dragged his gaze away from Colonel Scott, a frown furrowing his brow, and turned back to the interim director. “I’m sure you can see that the potential for public exposure and loss of life is extremely significant. I’m calling back the field teams—”

  “All of them?” interrupted Jamie. “Even the ones that are looking for Admiral Seward? And Dracula?”

  “Major Landis’s team will continue to search for Admiral Seward,” replied Holmwood, fixing him with a glacial stare. “The rest are coming home until this situation is resolved.”

  “Dracula is gathering strength,” said Jamie. “Right now, while we’re sitting here. Surely he’s the priority.”

  “This is about Dracula,” said Holmwood. “Jack, bring up the gatehouse.”

  The CCTV footage changed to a view of the arched entry to Broadmoor. Jamie winced. Daubed across the arch, in dripping blood, were two words.

  HE

  RISES

  “Even so,” he persisted. “If Dracula and Valeri released the prisoners, then we’re playing right into their hands.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Carpenter,” said Holmwood drily. “We hadn’t been able to figure that out for ourselves.”

  “So why are you doing it then?”

  Holmwood looked over at Jack. “Lieutenant Williams? Play the Crowthorne footage, please.”

  Jack nodded and pressed a series of keys. A new window opened on the wall screen, filled with a stationary image of a picturesque village street. He pressed PLAY, and the image began to move, the black-and-white footage scrolling smoothly. A row of terraced houses was visible, the gardens neat, the pavement beyond the low walls clean and tidy. A small car was parked in the middle of the frame; its windshield reflected the light of the streetlamp that stood above it.

  After a few seconds, there was movement. A middle-aged man ran down the center of the street, his arms flailing, his feet pounding the tarmac. He reached the car and slid into a crouch beside its radiator, facing the way he had come. Moments later a second man strolled into the shot. He wore a long white hospital gown, his feet were bare, and his eyes glowed ferociously. As he approached the parked car, he appeared to be smiling.

  The vampire stopped, and for a long moment nothing happened. The two men seemed to be in conversation, regarding each other from opposite ends of the vehicle. Then the vampire reached down and casually flipped the car across the road. It skidded over the tarmac, sending up showers of sparks, before crashing into a garden wall and coming to a halt.

  Gasps filled the air of the Ops Room. Jamie glanced around the table and saw expressions of shock on the faces of his colleagues. On the screen, the helpless man stood up, entirely exposed, and raised his hands in a futile plea for mercy. The vampire took half a step forward, then blurred across the screen, lifting the man into the air and carrying him out of the frame.

  Jack pressed a button and the footage paused, freezing the upturned car where it now lay. The interim director turned back to face the Zero Hour Task Force.

  “The vampire in that footage had been turned for a maximum of forty-five minutes,” he said. “Does anyone want to tell me what’s wrong with that picture?”

  “Jesus,” said Patrick Williams. “He was strong.”

  “And fast,” said Dominique. “Too fast.”

  “Correct,” said Holmwood. “The vampires who have been destroyed so far all exhibited strength and speed far beyond what would normally be expected of the newly turned.”

  “How come?” asked Amy Andrews.

  “We don’t know. Science Division is examining the two inmates we’ve recovered, but they’ve found nothing so far. But there is obviously something different about these vamps, and there are about three hundred of them out there right now. That’s why this is our number-one priority, Lieutenant Carpenter, because this Department’s mission is to protect the public from the supernatural. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir,” said Jamie. “How come the Science Division is examining the captives? Shouldn’t that be a Lazarus Project thing?”

  Holmwood shook his head. “I don’t want Lazarus diverted from its primary task. Dr. Cooper is liaising with Professor Karlsson, and if he genuinely needs their help, I’ve authorized him to ask for it.”

  “Okay,” said Jamie.

  “Good,” said Holmwood. “Anything else?”

  “Where’s Angela, sir?” asked Jack Williams. “She should be here for this.”

  “Lieutenant Darcy and her squad are in the field,” replied Holmwood. “They were active when the first calls started to come in. They’re due back within the hour.”

  Jack nodded, unable to keep his obvious concern from his face.

  “All right,” said Holmwood. “Anything else? No? In which case—”

  “What about Zero Hour?” said Jamie. “How are we going to protect the public if Dracula is allowed to rise?”

  Holmwood fixed Jamie with a cold stare. “The men who escaped from Broadmoor had been removed from society, Lieutenant Carpenter. Many of them suffer from the most severe personality disorders, a large number have long histories of violent and unpredictable behavior, and the majority are dependent on pharmaceutical assistance. They have been turned in such a way as to make them unusually powerful, something that is worrying and new in itself, and in the next few hours every one of them is going to become insatiably hungry for running blood. If we don’t take them down, there might not be a public to protect.”

  Jamie dropped his gaze.

  “So what’s the plan, sir?” asked Patrick Williams, his voice steady, his jaw set firm.

  Cal Holmwood looked at him. “Search and destroy,” he replied, softly. “As quickly as possible. It’s as simple as that.”

  Jamie looked at the overturned car on the screen.

  Right, he thought. Simple.

  2

  LAZARUS REVAMPED

  Matt Browning pushed open the heavy door in the center of the Level F corridor, as excited as a child on Christmas morning, and saw that, despite the early hour, he was not the first member of the Lazarus Project to arrive for work. Professor Karlsson looked up as he entered, gave him a smile and a brief nod, then returned his attention to a page of text resting on his desk.

  He is the boss, thought Matt, smiling to himself. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

  The reconstruction of the Lazarus Project had been undertaken with great urgency in the aftermath of the loss of Admiral Henry Seward. Cal Holmwood had given Matt, its only surviving member, carte blanche to make recommendations. He had done so, putting his natural shyness aside once he came to realize that he was not going to get into trouble for saying what he thought. His very first suggestion was that Blacklight make every possible effort to persuade Professor Robert Karlsson, the director of the Swedish Institute for Genetic Research, to become the new head of the project. He had been aware of Karlsson’s work for some time and considered him one of the cleverest people on the planet, a towering intellect whose area of specialization was the manipulation of replicator enzymes within DNA, making him the perfect candidate to advance the search for a c
ure for vampirism.

  Holmwood had nodded with polite incomprehension. Four days later Karlsson had arrived at the Loop with a small suitcase and a leather satchel full of portable hard drives. He had been introduced to Matt, listened politely as the teenager gushed at him like an adolescent girl meeting her favorite pop star, then suggested they get to work.

  Today was to be the first day of the fully staffed, fully equipped, fully functional second incarnation of the Lazarus Project. Karlsson and Matt had spent the last month recruiting the finest minds from around the globe, rebuilding and expanding the laboratories, and overseeing the installation of the most powerful local computer network in Europe.

  Every minute of time that was not consumed by the practicalities of rebuilding was devoted to analyzing the data on the hard drive that had been salvaged from Professor Richard Talbot, the former head of the Lazarus Project and a servant of Valeri Rusmanov, whose real name they now believed had been Christopher Reynolds. The hard drive had been recovered when Jamie Carpenter shot the treacherous professor in the head as Matt lay unconscious on the floor between them. Reynolds had murdered the project’s entire staff, and had been about to kill Matt and make good his escape when Jamie intervened. It was thanks to Reynolds that it had taken a month to restaff the project; the background checks carried out on every potential recruit had been thorough to the point of being overtly invasive, as a repeat of the professor’s treachery simply could not be permitted.

  Reynolds had been working on vampire genetics for more than a decade and had acquired the bulk of his data via methods that were as immoral as they were criminal: vivisection, live experimentation, torture. His work, in particular his mapping of the vampire genome and his analysis of the physical effects of vampirism on a turned human being, was proving invaluable to everything the new Lazarus Project was doing. Without it, the scale of the task might well have seemed insurmountable.

  With it, there was hope: If nothing else, there was a place to begin.