Department 19: Zero Hour (58 page)

Jamie took a deep breath. At the back of his mind, a possibility was forming, cold and dreadful. But on some level he realised he had always been aware of it, even as the orders for the operation appeared on his console screen.

He had always known that it might come to this.

Then the first victim moved, at a speed that was impossible to follow with human eyes, and an arm, impossibly strong, as immovable as a tree trunk, looped round his neck, pushing his chin up and back.

Jamie’s eyes widened.

Time slowed, thickening to something viscous as the figures in the clearing waded through it.

He saw Larissa’s mouth fall open in a silent scream.

Saw Petrov turn and raise his T-Bone.

Saw Van Orel take an unsteady, stumbling step backwards, his eyes wide, and, at the same moment, the reality of exactly what was about to happen crashed into Jamie.

He felt a body that seemed to be carved out of stone press itself against his back, and a single hot breath in his ear.

I don’t want this,
he suddenly thought.
I thought I did, but oh God, I don’t want this. Somebody help me, please. Please.

Then he felt a pain so sharp it was almost sweet as the first victim’s fangs slid through his skin and into his neck.

Larissa was already moving as a scream burst from her open mouth, her eyes billowing with red-black fire, her fangs erupting from her gums.

From some vast distance, she heard her squad mates cry out in shock and fear, but the sounds barely registered; her gaze was locked on her boyfriend, his feet helplessly kicking the air as the first victim lifted him off the ground, blood squirting down his neck from the holes the ancient vampire’s fangs had made.

God no. Oh please, please no. Not him. Not this. Oh please.

She thundered towards him, her scream mutating into a terrible howl of fury, her hands curled into claws, her mind pounding with hate, her vampire side in complete control. She reached out, ready to sink her nails into the first victim’s eyes, to rip him to pieces with her bare hands, to rend and tear and kill.

At the last possible millisecond, Gregor moved with a speed that seemed to defy reality, even when seen through Larissa’s supernatural eyes. His face wore an expression of apparently genuine surprise as he held Jamie out of her reach with one hand and swung the other in a tight, compact arc. It hit her in the chest with the force of an exploding bomb.

The impact was beyond anything she had ever known, the power behind it far greater than that of even Valeri Rusmanov. It sent her rocketing up and back, towards the distant wall of trees, and, as she flew helplessly through the air, her eyes rolling, her limbs shocked limp, a single thought filled her reeling mind.

He pulled that punch. That wasn’t even close to what he’s capable of.

Jamie felt his body start to shake uncontrollably as he hung in the first victim’s grip.

The pain in his neck had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, but had been replaced by something worse: an unscratchable itch that was spreading through his body, hot and sharp and hungry. It felt like a million tiny ants had hatched in his bloodstream and were now marching through his veins, slashing and tearing at his insides, breathing fire and spitting poison.

His eyes rolled in their sockets, his hands clenched and unclenched, and his tongue felt too big for his mouth, huge and thick and alien. His legs spasmed in the cool forest air, drumming ineffectually against the vampire’s chest and stomach.

He tried to form a coherent thought, to force his mind into motion; he thought that he had heard Larissa scream, thought he had heard her cry and then fall silent, and he tried to focus on her, tried to use the image of his girlfriend to drag himself free of the quicksand that was pulling him down.

Then, through the nausea that was tightening its grip on him, he heard someone – he thought it might have been Arkady Petrov – shout ‘Go!’

Kristian Van Orel was, quite simply, more scared than he had ever been in his life.

He had been frightened by the dead animals that had welcomed them the previous morning, by the forest itself, huge and dark and unnaturally empty, by the brutal murder of Tim Albertsson that had taken place mere metres from where he had been sleeping with a head full of nightmares, and now by the ancient vampire who had bitten his squad mate. But despite the terror coursing through him, years of training took over when he heard the shouted command of his squad leader, and he threw himself into action.

Van Orel had watched as Larissa was sent flying, so instead of rushing the first victim, closing the space and playing into the hands of the vampire’s enormous strength, he took three quick steps backwards, drawing his MP7 as he did so. He raised it to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sending a volley of bullets in Gregor’s direction. The ancient vampire was still holding Jamie Carpenter in one hand, but his wide back was between Van Orel and his squad mate, so he had aimed directly at it.

The bullets thudded home, sending plumes of scarlet blood into the air from holes punched in the first victim’s flesh. Gregor whirled round, his face contorting with fury, then threw back his head and bellowed in pain. The noise was unearthly, and Van Orel took another step backwards, this one involuntary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petrov and Engel circling away from him, trying to surround the ancient vampire. Van Orel sighted down the barrel of his gun, intending to force the first victim back towards his colleagues, but before he could tighten his finger on the trigger a second time, the vampire leapt towards him in a blur of impossible speed.

Something hammered into his wrist, numbing it instantly. The MP7 flew from his grip, sailing away into the distance. Van Orel had a millisecond to register that his gloved hand was pointing ninety degrees in the wrong direction before pain rushed into him like water from a breaking dam, and he screamed.

Gregor appeared before him, as though materialising from thin air, grabbed him by his collar, pushed him backwards until he was suspended above the ground at almost forty-five degrees, then stamped a foot down on his right leg. There was a horrible sound, like the branch of a tree snapping, before agony so huge it was incomprehensible swept through Van Orel’s body, and he vomited as he floated to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mind overwhelmed.

Arkady Petrov saw bone tear through the black fabric covering Van Orel’s lower leg, saw his squad mate scream and collapse to the ground, and allowed for a possibility that had only previously occurred to him in the abstract.

I might be about to die. Right now, right here in this place.

Over the course of his career, Petrov had seen many friends and colleagues die, including the uncle he had loved like a father, the man who had first introduced him to the twilight world of the SPC. He had found himself in situations where the odds of survival had seemed slim, been caught in ambushes and traps, the victim of bad intelligence or changing circumstances. But he had never found himself in a situation that, deep down, he didn’t believe he could handle, that his intelligence and skills and experience couldn’t get him out of.

Now, with his squad in tatters around him, Petrov’s unshakeable faith in himself cracked for the first time. Gregor was remarkably, almost unbelievably, powerful, and he was not at all sure that the vampire could be defeated, at least not by him. But as he drew his T-Bone he made a promise to himself.

Die like Yuri did. No surrender. To the last.

The first victim was standing over Van Orel, Jamie Carpenter dangling from his fist like a toy, and looking down at the South African with a curious look on his bearded face; the palpable fury that had momentarily appeared as bullets crunched into his back had given way to what looked like sadness, or possibly even disappointment. Beyond the vampire, Engel was staring wide-eyed at the stricken Van Orel, the sudden, violent collapse of the situation written across her face. Petrov forced himself to ignore her; he took a deep breath, aimed his T-Bone at the vampire’s armpit, and fired.

There was a rush of exploding gas as the metal stake rocketed towards its target; he waited for the crunch of shattering bone, for the sight of blood in the cool morning air. Instead, there was a ripple of movement, followed by the awful sight of Gregor gazing coldly at him, the metal stake held easily in his hand. Petrov stared, frozen to the spot, unable to comprehend what the vampire had done. Then the first victim flicked his wrist, as casually as if he was swatting a fly. The stake tore through the air with a loud hum, and crashed into Petrov’s helmet.

The hardened structure held, saving the Russian’s life.

The armoured plating cracked in a wide, jagged fissure, but the metal stake didn’t reach the fragile skull beneath; it rebounded up into the air, spinning wildly. Petrov’s knees gave way beneath him and he slumped to the ground; it had felt like being hit in the head with a sledgehammer.

He fought for breath, trying to hold on to consciousness, if for no other reason than to face death head-on, as his uncle had done. Through a field of vision that was mostly grey, he saw the first victim carry Jamie forward and pluck the metal projectile out of the air a second time. Gregor turned, raising the hand that held the stake like a man about to throw a javelin, and faced Greta Engel.

Engel stared at the gleaming stake in the vampire’s hand and felt the last of her courage leave her.

“Don’t,” she said, and dropped her MP7 to the grass. “Please don’t.”

The first victim growled, and took two long strides towards her.

“Why are you fighting me?” he asked, his voice like thunder. “You asked for my help.”

Engel didn’t respond; she simply stared at the bearded, handsome face of the ancient vampire, and hoped that he would make her death quick. They were utterly, completely outmatched by his power, but there appeared to be little viciousness in him, and she clung to the faint hope that he might yet show mercy.

“Answer me!” he shouted. “Have I not been generous?”

To Engel’s right, there came the sound of crunching grass. She risked a glance in that direction, and felt fresh terror burst through her at what she saw.

Larissa Kinley was walking towards them, her eyes glowing the colour of molten steel. One of her hands was pressed tightly against her chest, where the first victim had struck her, and she was moving slowly, the effort of each step etched clearly on her face. But she
was
moving, her gaze locked on the old vampire.

Gregor growled again, swinging the limp form of Engel’s squad mate towards Larissa. Jamie was unconscious, but the blood running down his neck had slowed to a trickle, and she could see his chest rising and falling steadily.

“Don’t come any closer,” said the first victim, and placed his free hand round Jamie’s neck. “I’ll kill him if you do.”

Larissa stopped. Her face was twisted with hatred, the hand hanging at her side clenching and unclenching, but she did as she was told. Engel stared at her for a long moment, wracked by an overwhelming sense of helplessness, a desperate desire to be somewhere, anywhere other than this hidden corner of the world.

“I have done what was asked,” said Gregor, nodding towards Jamie’s unconscious form. “Why do you fight me?”

Larissa spat a thick wad of blood on to the grass. Engel grimaced; the liquid was almost black, and she suspected it had risen up from somewhere deep inside the vampire’s body.

Somewhere vital.

“Give him to me,” said Larissa, her voice trembling. “While there’s still time. Give him to me and we’ll leave.”

Gregor frowned. “Time for what?” he asked. “To stop the turn?”

Larissa didn’t answer.

“This is what he wanted,” said Gregor, speaking slowly, as though addressing a child. “Surely you see that? This is what he was asking for. What
you
were asking for.”

“I asked for your
help
,” said Larissa. “I didn’t want him turned.”

The first victim’s face softened. “You love him.”

“Yes,” growled Larissa. “I do.”

“I loved a woman,” said Gregor. “Centuries ago. I loved her with all my heart, and then I watched her get old, and sick, and at the end I watched her die. I would not wish that on anyone, no matter how you may feel now. You are so young, and you cannot truly know what it means to watch someone wither and shrink, to see the light leave their eyes. It will be harder than you can possibly imagine.”

“I don’t care,” shouted Larissa, her voice high and unsteady. “I don’t want this miserable half-life for him. I
want
to watch him change and grow and get old. I want him to
live
.”

Gregor smiled, gently. “But this is what
he
wanted,” he said. “No matter the cost, I said, and he agreed. Do you not trust him to know his own mind? Or perhaps he truly cares more about other people than he does his own happiness. I wonder if you could say the same?”

Despite the agony that was radiating through her body, Larissa felt new pain stab at her heart as the ancient vampire spoke.