Department 19: Battle Lines (26 page)

“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 residing 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.

Tim braced himself. He had no idea what Larissa was doing, but he knew he couldn’t just crouch behind the wall indefinitely, waiting for her to make her intentions known. The muscles in his legs tensed as he readied himself to move out from behind the wall; he took a deep breath, and then a high whistling noise filled his ears. He raised his head just in time to see a black shape drop out of the sky on the other side of the garden.

An explosion of dirt and shimmering blood erupted from behind the wall, which cracked and fell heavily forward on to one of the flower beds. As he stared, incredulous, two large shapes flew through the air and crashed on to a strip of lawn. The vampires twisted and writhed on the grass, digging brown furrows with their elbows and heels, both of them bleeding from so many places it looked as though a grenade had gone off beside them.

The sight of the blood cleared Tim’s head and he threw himself over the wall; grunts of exertion and screams of violence rang out across the garden, but he ignored them, focusing only on the two injured vampires. He drew his stake as he ran and plunged it into the chest of the nearest man; he burst with a deafening bang, spraying Tim’s uniform with blood and meat, but the Special Operator barely noticed. He was already moving, raising his stake and bringing it down on the second man; he exploded with a thick, wet pop as Tim raced across the lawn towards where Rejon’s men had been taking cover.

Dust swirled in the air beyond the collapsed wall. Tim raised his T-Bone to his shoulder and flipped down the visor of his helmet, twisting the dial on his belt as he did so. The thermographic filter activated, and the scene before him shifted to a swirl of pale yellow as hot dust floated through the air. In the middle, standing quite still, was a single figure, coloured dark red and bright pulsing white. Tim pushed his visor back up and inched forward, his finger resting on the T-Bone’s trigger.

“Larissa?” he shouted. “That you in there?”

“It’s me,” shouted the vampire girl. “Catch!”

Something flew out of the dust towards him. Tim removed his left hand from the barrel of his weapon and grabbed for it; he felt something coarse and slippery, and looked down to see what Larissa had thrown him. It was the severed head of a man in his late teens, his glowing eyes wide and staring, his mouth still opening and closing, trying to speak. Tim stared at it, revolted.

Does she know?
he thought.
Does she know that she gets like this?

The sound of metal crunching through bone shook him from his thoughts, and he dropped the head a millisecond before it burst like an overfilled balloon, splattering his uniform from ankle to knee.

“Nice catch,” said Larissa, strolling calmly out of the dust. Her eyes blazed red and her fangs gleamed as she smiled at him.

“Thanks,” he managed. Behind him he could hear the rest of his squad approaching. “You could have let me put it down before you staked the rest of him.”

Larissa leant towards him, so close that he could feel her breath hot in his ear. “Don’t be such a baby,” she whispered. Then she pulled away, and went to meet the others as they skidded to a halt in the middle of the ornamental garden. Tim remained where he was for a long moment, his mind wiped temporarily clear by the vampire girl; he was utterly intoxicated by her, had known as much for several weeks now. Since the day she arrived, if he was honest with himself. But now he felt something new; he felt fear.

He was scared of her. And, to his surprise, he realised it didn’t change the way he felt. If anything, it only made it stronger.

Snap out of it, for Christ’s sake
, he thought, and shook his head briskly, trying to clear it.
You’re in the middle of a Priority Level operation. Get your shit together, right now.

Tim took a deep breath and turned to address his squad. The words died in his throat as a hand, tanned and lined and incredibly strong, closed round his neck.

Jamie Carpenter’s head spun as he walked the familiar corridor of Level B.

A descendant of the founders. Jesus.

He pressed his card against the panel outside his quarters, pushed open the door, and walked inside. The assault on Broadmoor, and the similar attacks on prisons and hospitals around the world, had clearly been designed to keep the supernatural Departments of the world busy, distracting them from the most pressing matter at hand: finding Dracula before it was too late. But now it seemed as though the plan had delivered a bonus that neither Valeri nor his master could have anticipated: the reopening of an old wound that went to the very heart of Blacklight.

I wonder what he wants,
wondered Jamie, as he removed his uniform and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
What would I want if I’d been locked in a hospital for almost a decade for no reason?

Jamie considered the question as he brushed his teeth in the small sink in the corner of his quarters, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he did so. His eyes were bloodshot and the bags beneath them were heavy and grey. The scar on his neck had faded in the months since his skin had been burned by acid in the chemist’s Bliss laboratory, but it was still clearly visible: a pink patch of rough skin and shiny scar tissue that he had come to accept as a permanent part of himself. He drank two glasses of water and, as he lay down on his bed, realised he knew the answer to his own question. It was a single word.

Revenge. If I was Albert Harker, I’d want revenge.

The thought chilled him and when his console beeped into life in the darkness he jumped, ever so slightly. He lifted it from his bedside table, glad that Larissa hadn’t been there to see him so easily scared, and saw an overdue message waiting for him. He thumbed it open, read the contents, and groaned.