K-9 (15 page)

Wilbur strained at the lead, not wishing to go any further. Darkus patted him on the head and urged him along. They passed three more residents, aged from thirty to sixty, all of whom appeared equally surprised and apprehensive to see them. All of whom avoided eye contact and returned to making coffee. Darkus led Wilbur on, arriving at the red door, then knelt down to examine it. The door was slightly ajar, and no lock appeared to be engaged. Darkus slowly pushed the door open and prepared to enter, until . . .

Wilbur bit down on Darkus’s hand, drawing blood.

‘Ouch – !’

Darkus clutched his wounded hand and looked up at Wilbur in shock. Wilbur sat down on the spot, un­apologetic. Darkus followed the dog’s gaze to a tiny, gleaming metal filament crossing the doorway at waist height.

It was a tripwire.

Darkus hovered over the wire, realising how close he’d come to some kind of surprise attack – and how Wilbur was the only one who could have prevented it. He nodded gratefully to the mutt who remained sitting, implacable.

Darkus took off his hat, lowered himself to the floor and carefully slid through the doorway on his front in a commando crawl, keeping the tripwire a few centi­metres above his head. Wilbur followed suit, shuffling his paws along the ground to duck underneath it.

‘Wait –’ Darkus whispered, calling a halt himself this time.

He angled his head to see the metal filament that crossed the doorway was hooked up to an improvised pulley system, which was connected to a long, thick, tension cable, which was connected to a spring-loaded mechanism, which was part of a lethal-looking contraption on the linoleum floor just inside the doorway. The device was over a metre in length and consisted of two long rows of rusted, metal teeth, like a dog’s jaws yawning open in wait. It resembled a relic from a medieval torture chamber.

Darkus realised, with a sick feeling in his stomach, that it was a
mantrap
.

Darkus slid past the jagged machine, being scrupulous not to let any part of his body or clothing come in contact with the finely tuned spring. Wilbur continued to crawl behind him, exercising the same caution, as they cleared the perilous doorway and entered the flat.

Darkus rolled on to his back on the linoleum and checked his immediate surroundings. There was a bathroom on their left, a kitchen to their right, and a living room ahead of them. The curtains were drawn at the windows, with only a few chinks of neon peering though.

There was one further door, which was closed tight, but contained a ring of artificial light around the frame. Darkus looked to Wilbur for any signals. Wilbur raised himself up and pointed his nose at the closed door. Darkus silently got to his feet, keeping his eyes peeled for any further threats. Then he very slowly reached for the door handle, turning it in infinitesimal degrees, until the latch disengaged and the door opened.

What met his eyes next was even more unexpected.

Chapter 12

All Hail The King

The door opened into what at first appeared to be a vast, white space. Darkus thought a spotlight must be shining straight into his eyes, until he realised that the gaping whiteness was not a starry illusion created by his visual cortex. It was
real
.

The door opened not into a room but into a brightly lit cavern. Wilbur sat close by his side, refusing to budge. Not quite believing his eyes, Darkus looked down and discovered a set of metal steps descending below the level of the flat he’d just exited and leading into what looked like a dungeon of some kind. The structure of the building was still intact but the dividing walls and floors had been stripped down to bare iron girders and pipes, hollowing out a large chamber in the middle of the high-rise block. Pulleys and cables ran along the beams, carrying platforms and lights. A concrete screed extended across the floor. The impression was one of a theatre set that could be rearranged at will. In keeping with that impression was the cast of characters who awaited Darkus on the chamber floor.

It was a modern-day Fagin’s lair. Some twenty youths of indeterminate age and ethnicity were assembled in the centre of the space, all with hoodies pulled up and drawstrings fastened to conceal their identities. Some were masked as well. The two Rottweilers, along with another four identical dogs, were standing perfectly poised, flanking a truly astonishing figure who domin­ated the front row. He was well over six feet tall, somewhere in his late forties, wearing a quilted nylon waistcoat and a white button-down shirt, ripped jeans and trainers – all of which barely seemed able to accommodate his massive frame. His shoulders hunched aggressively around a cluster of muscles that made up his neck. His chest expanded with each quick breath and his biceps visibly flexed under the shirt, resolving into thick forearms and huge hands. He appeared to be an animal only partially contained in human form.

His face was not obscured. He clearly felt no need to disguise himself. His cranium resembled a piece of chiselled granite, his shaved head and massive brow overpowered a pair of darkly shining eyes with unusually small irises, a straight nose, an angular jaw and a thin, cruel mouth.

Darkus’s catastrophiser whirled and he turned back up the stairs, but the door of the flat slammed shut, trapping them in this hellhole. The six Rottweilers silently bared their teeth at Wilbur, saliva dripping from their gurning mouths. Wilbur stuck close to his master as they descended from a sort of gallery, ringed with floodlights, which illuminated their reception committee.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the figure said in a deep monotone. ‘I’m Barabas King.’

Darkus recognised the name from the Knowledge.
Barabas King
. He began flicking through the contents of his mind to locate the relevant information. He felt adrenalin flood his system, raising his heart rate, leaving him jittery but numb. He tried to remain calm and plucked up enough courage to open his mouth. ‘Are you telling me because you intend to kill me?’

‘I’m telling you because you probably already know,’ King replied dismissively. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Master Knightley.’

Darkus nodded, finding the relevant file in his head, then reciting from it: ‘Notorious London crime boss. Your father was unknown. Your mother tragically died during childbirth. You spent time in and out of prison your whole life – not to mention several psychiatric institutions. As I recall you were sectioned under the Mental Health Act for the best part of a decade. It would seem their work was not successful.’

King shrugged his huge shoulders, listening to his biography. ‘Please. Go on.’

‘Despite repeated allegations of extortion, blackmail and murder, you haven’t had a single conviction in the last nine years,’ Darkus went on. ‘Nothing would stick. “Teflon” is the modern parlance. You’re even rumoured to have filed down your own teeth to strike terror into your opponents –’

King smiled, his lips curling open to reveal a set of razor-sharp teeth, like dagger points. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he snarled.

Darkus swallowed hard. ‘The question is . . . what are you doing with a pack of highly trained dogs? And who’s
your
master?’

‘I don’t answer to anyone,’ he replied, his voice tinged with violence.

King looked at one of the hoodies, then nodded in the direction of a window high on the opposite wall. The hoodie pulled a cable, which raised a shade to reveal a view of a modern glass-fronted skyscraper located only a few streets away. The building was brightly lit, its offices all populated, even after hours.

‘You see how close that is?’ King asked. ‘That’s the Empress State Building. Home to close to a thousand Metropolitan Police officers. But d’you think any of them ever stray on to my turf?’ He laughed twice, like the sharp double tap of an automatic weapon. ‘Never. They’re too afraid of what might happen to them. It’s the law of the jungle over here. People get
eaten
.’

Darkus made a mental note of that last sentence. ‘And I suppose it’s no coincidence,’ he remarked, pointing at the Rottweilers, ‘that dogs matching their description have been tracking and murdering senior police officers during the full moon.’

‘Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war . . .’ King said theatrically.

‘
Julius Caesar
, Act Three, Scene One,’ Darkus replied. ‘But this isn’t Shakespeare.’

‘But it
is
war,’ King continued. ‘This city has declared war on a whole breed of us. They’re trying to wipe us out, but they won’t use guns or knives. That’s far too messy. They use money and influence. Councils, bureaucrats and property magnates.’ He spread his rippling, muscled arms like a pair of wings. ‘Do you know why I’ve torn the heart out of this building . . . ?’

Darkus studied the galleries and ropes disguised among the innards of the building, then shook his head.

‘Because it’s already tagged for demolition,’ King purred. ‘Every building in a one-mile radius . . . history. It’s going to be a playground for the rich, bought and paid for by foreign money. No one’s going to live here,’ he spat. ‘This city’s looking to stamp us out.’

‘What’s that got to do with killing police officers?’

‘You take something of mine, I take something of yours. It’s survival of the fittest. Not the smartest.’

The last comment appeared to be aimed at Darkus personally, but Darkus wasn’t buying it. ‘They’re
not ordinary
police officers,’ he went on. ‘They’re members of the Department of the Unexplained. An elite branch of Scotland Yard.’

‘Your point being?’ said King.

‘Are more officers going to be targeted at the next full moon?’ Darkus demanded, before going further. ‘Are you working for an organisation known as . . . the Combination?’

‘I sell my services to the highest bidder. What do the authorities expect?’ King sneered at the Empress State Building through the window. ‘They want a city with no residents? A city with all the lights off?’ He smiled, exposing his pointed teeth. ‘I’ll make the most of the dark.’

Darkus examined his enemy closely. ‘My dad believes there’s a werewolf loose in London. On Hampstead Heath, to be precise.’

‘Your father has a wild and unbridled imagination,’ King replied.

‘Yes, he does. But sometimes he’s right.’

‘Then he’ll have to wait until the full moon to find out.’

‘I’m not prepared to wait that long,’ said Darkus. ‘My dad was attacked in the early hours of this morning by a man that – at a distance – fits
your
description.’

‘Unfortunately I don’t see you lasting till the next full moon.’ King reached behind his back and drew out a long samurai blade that hummed with sharply honed precision. He pointed it at Darkus’s face, then lowered it to Wilbur’s eyes.

‘I understand.’ Darkus felt his adrenalin surging. ‘This is your territory. We appear to have made a wrong turn. We won’t bother you again . . .’

Darkus scanned the chamber for exits, then surveyed the group of hoodies who stood impassively before him. Then Darkus’s eyes stopped on one face that was a little less well disguised than the rest. A shock of green hair protruded from the hood. Darkus’s mouth began to form her name, until . . .

Tilly
subtly shook her head, indicating that Darkus should under
no
circumstances blow her cover. Darkus widened his eyes to indicate that some sort of rescue attempt would be appreciated. Tilly flicked her eyes to the left. Beside her stood Brendan Doyle, the school bully, who was also, Darkus now deduced, the hoodie who had picked her up on the scooter outside Wolseley Close. Darkus cursed his sloppy reasoning skills and lack of foresight.

King walked closer, tracing the tip of the blade over Darkus and Wilbur as if deciding what part to cut first.

Behind them, Tilly quietly slipped her hand into Doyle’s hoodie pocket, unnoticed, and removed his phone. She checked it was on silent, then dialled a number she’d committed to memory and let it ring, before concealing the phone in her own pocket. Doyle was none the wiser.

‘Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement . . .’ Darkus postured.

King looked down at Wilbur, then turned back to the six hungry Rottweilers, who began to stomp their paws in anticipation. King returned his gaze to Wilbur.

‘Perhaps we can,’ King went on. ‘Do you like sport? Oh, don’t worry, my dogs are very friendly.’ The Rottweilers were almost hopping up and down, the drool puddling beneath their chests, their stubby tails wagging at impossible speed.

Wilbur stood firm, but his jowls quivered with fear.

Tilly glanced down at the phone in her pocket and saw that the call had been answered. She clutched the handset to mute any sound. SO 42 would be tracing the call at this very moment, if they had any sense.

‘No offence, but they don’t really look that friendly,’ Darkus responded.

King smiled, then turned to his dogs. ‘Dinner!’

The Rottweilers lunged forward, their paws clawing at the concrete, gaining traction as they raced across the floor towards Darkus and Wilbur, until . . .

King snapped his fingers loudly and all six dogs skidded to a halt obediently, waiting for instruction.