The Lycan Society (The Flux Age Book 1) (4 page)

Still, for all Naomi’s bubble, she was a calm, efficient RO and respected throughout the New York Chapter. If Naomi gave an order, there had to be a hell of a reason not to follow it.

“Heading there now, Naomi,” Florence confirmed, sliding through the crowd at a rapid pace. The skill actually took years to master. Lycans needed to be adept at both human and bestial movement.

It only took a few minutes to reach Times Square. Huge neon billboards flickered at Florence as she moved gracefully through groups of garishly dressed tourists. Reaching the middle of the open space, Florence waited patiently. Naomi would only provide further instruction when it was time.

A hand brushed the small of her back. She knew immediately it wasn’t a stranger. Smiling behind her was a six-foot man in a pinstripe suit. Smooth dark hair, debonair features. As enhanced lycans went, Martin Halliday wasn’t as bad the other boys. For starters, he was over forty, and far more distinguished than some of his pack brothers. Secondly, he didn’t seem to be threatened by Florence’s status as a field operative.
That
got him a gold star.

“Interesting times, Flo,” he purred casually. “Why do they need two of us?”

Florence shrugged, nervous all of a sudden. Before she could reply Naomi’s voice was again in her ear.

she reported.

“Got her,” Martin said, craning his neck over the crowd. Florence followed his gaze - an ashen-faced girl with curly blond hair picked her way straight toward them.

Florence got a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Students from the Lycan Nursery were protected with at least five layers of security. The fact this one had been compromised was a real worry.

Imogen walked by stiffly without so much as looking at her fellow lycans.

“Two of them,” she said with a perfectly blank face. “Berlin Club, I think.”

The tingle in Florence’s stomach became a hard ball of dread. She was expecting to deal with thugs looking to blackmail the Chapter. It happened sometimes, and was always swiftly (and violently) dealt with. The Berlin Club was something else entirely.

“Wait until they pass,” Martin muttered.

Florence wasn’t about to argue with the senior operative. It was standard protocol in these public places to take the enemy to a quiet, enclosed space. She didn’t doubt Imogen would do exactly that. The lycan operatives would follow behind to prevent escape. She admired the girl’s superb emotional control. She hadn’t missed a beat, which was no mean feat when one was being followed. The Nursery would already have given her years of training in the ways of the Society, and it showed.

Florence kept an eye out for the Berlin Club agents. Martin saw them first, nodding his head slightly. Two men dressed blandly in suit trousers and cheap leather jackets. One was a skinhead, the other had lank brown hair and a pockmarked face. They were completely forgettable. The perfect field operatives.

Florence and Martin waited patiently as the Berlin Club boys sauntered past, tracking little Imogen with chilling efficiency. She and Martin followed in turn, allowing their targets the professional respect of around 200 yards.

Tailing anyone at 200 yards, let alone two thugs from the Berlin Club, was a highly skilled task. The lycan agents fanned out to cover sudden lateral movements.

Imogen performed her role extremely well, drawing her pursuers into the quieter streets out the back of Korea Town. Florence’s pulse quickened when she saw the thugs enter a quiet cul de sac.

Eyes on her partner, Florence slowed her pace. Martin hung back at the corner, calmly lighting a cigarette. His eyes flicked at her - time to move. Florence crept round the corner, her eyes alive to a thousand details. She could feel her body tensing for action, the germ inside her triggering endorphins and neurotransmitters that would ultimately transform her flesh.

She could see Imogen sitting on a step at the far end of the street, gazing blankly into her phone. That child was
good
. The Berlin Club boys had quickened their pace and were now closing in fast, abandoning all caution.

Florence broke into a run, feeling that familiar rush of blood that signaled a descent into bestiality. Her muscles rippled, she felt a primal heat in her core. She picked up speed, bounding down the street with a guttural snarl.

But the Berlin Boys were no longer there. One had gone left, the other right. They’d simply opened doors and disappeared behind them.

Confused, Florence skidded to a halt at the base of the steps where Imogen sat. The girl looked up at the enhanced lycan with eyes filled with pity.

“Sorry, sister,” she said quietly.

“Florence!” came Martin’s urgent voice. He was halfway down the street, waving her to get the hell out of the cul-de-sac. Florence got a glimpse of two men approaching calmly behind him.

came Naomi’s voice.

For the first time Florence could remember, Naomi’s voice was edged with fear. There was no time to ponder how this straightforward situation had gone so horribly wrong.

Florence gripped the step rail and swung herself onto a low balustrade. She left Imogen where she was - there had been no order to rescue her.

Crouching low, she bolted across the balustrade and executed a running leap across eight yards of space to a first floor balcony facing the cul-de-sac.

That’s when the bullets started flying. She wasn’t sure where they were coming from, but someone had a semi-automatic weapon and was firing in sharp bursts from a higher position.

All Florence could do was keep moving. Bullets shattered glass all around her as she leaped high from the balcony rail to reach the one above. From there she launched herself with a powerful thrust that saw her clinging to the roof balustrade. Her back was strafed with bullets - she gasped at their impact, almost losing her vice-like grip on the bluestone. In desperation she hauled herself over the roof balustrade to lie on her back.

The pain at her back was sharp and fierce, but Florence knew her injuries weren’t likely to be fatal. Werewolves had an incredibly thick hide under their fur, all but impenetrable to bullets. Some of the heavier bullets, like the 7.62mm variety, had been known to cause death but that was rare. The enhanced lycan effectively wore plate armor whenever it took to the field.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Florence was immune to the searing pain of four bullets lodged in her flesh. She resisted the urge to howl, instead pulling herself along the low balustrade. After twenty yards or so she risked a glance over the stone and saw her attacker.

A marksman nestled against a chimney two buildings down. The man had finished strafing her balustrade and was watching something down below. Florence was suddenly overwhelmed with an awful feeling. Pointedly ignoring it, she leaped over to the next roof and made a front-on charge at the marksman.

Werewolves were incredibly quiet, especially in full flight, but they weren’t invisible. The marksman spotted Florence’s frenzied approach over the sloping roof tiles and raised his weapon.

Florence was buffeted by an impact at her shoulder.
Damn, that one hurt
. Right on the collarbone. Then she was upon him. Florence used her powerful body as a battering ram, crushing the marksman against the chimney. His body crumpled like an autumn leaf, the rifle clattering over the tiles to fall into the street. Florence took a moment to look into the man’s eyes. They were cold and bleak, like twin alpine lakes. And just as lifeless.

Not wasting a moment, Florence hauled herself down the building facade and loped to the only body left in the street - Martin’s. Her pack brother - a man she’d known since she joined the Nursery - was lying at an odd angle.

Florence turned him over and immediately wished she hadn’t. The lycan’s furry throat had been cut from ear to ear. Horrified, Florence sat on her haunches and tried to stem the flow of blood with her paw.

The computational part of her brain noted that lycans simply couldn’t be ripped open with regular blades. The only weapon that could’ve done this hadn’t been seen for a thousand years. It was said that Catalonian sickles, forged from pure silver, were once used to decimate a lycan pack in southern Spain. Somehow the Berlin Club had gotten their hands on one or more of these horrible hand weapons.

Without realizing it, Florence made a soft whimpering sound as she cradled the dying lycan in her lap.

Otherwise the street was eerily silent.

Poltava, Ukraine

TOMAS VERDANO STEPPED into the brisk air of Poltava, his fingers shaking with excitement. What he’d just witnessed in the lab was utterly amazing. Spectacular. Game-changing. But like any good scientist, he needed more evidence before he could confirm the trend.
That
would require a lot more work. And patience. At all levels of the organization. He doubted his masters had any of that virtue left.

Wincing at the thought of his next meeting with Herr X, Tomas strolled through the stunted apple trees someone had planted to the rear of the towering, cylindrical facility known as the Silo. The building wasn’t much to look at, but by Ukrainian standards it was decidedly futuristic.

Herr X had agreed to pour billions into the local economy by building the lab here, in the back blocks of eastern Ukraine.

Born from a Ukrainian mother and absent Italian father, Tomas spent his childhood days wandering the crumbling towns of this region. The Soviets had long gone, their legacy amounting to huge, burnt-out blocks of concrete that loomed somewhat haphazardly over the bleak landscape.

Herr X had clearly seen a multitude of economic reasons to build the lab in Poltava. Tomas was just glad he didn’t need to move his family abroad. Vanya didn’t know much English, his two children even less. Unfortunately his long work hours took him away from their education. They were far better off here in their natural environment, comfortable in a well appointed, secure apartment block.

For all intents and purposes, Tomas should be happy.

But no one could ever be ‘happy’ working for Herr X. The German industrialist liked to keep his staff on their toes, lest they lose them.

Tomas returned to the Silo, laying a hand on the DNA-coded security door.

The atmosphere inside the facility had grown tense since he’d stretched his legs. Word had gotten round that Herr X was about to pay a visit. Considering the German billionaire owned his own plane, that visit could be very soon indeed.

Anxious all of a sudden, Tomas passed through a series of security doors to gain access to his lab. The cavernous room was a chaotic shambles of electrical equipment, cages, alchemical apparatus and foul-smelling vats of plasma. Tomas picked his way through the debris with the familiarity of a man who had spent almost every waking moment of the last few years here in this oppressive chamber.

In the middle of the room stood a circular cell fed by a multitude of cables and tubes. The glass was opaque - Tomas didn’t like to startle his new creation.

“Petyr,” the scientist muttered, looking about him. “Where have you gotten to?”

A small, bespectacled man emerged from behind a cabinet stacked with computer servers. Next to the tall, broad-shouldered Tomas he looked positively rodent-like. But then, Petyr Marinov wasn’t at the Silo for his looks. He happened to be the second best genetic scientist in Eurasia. Tomas had taught him everything he knew. Well,
almost
everything.

Petyr thrust a datapad under Tomas’s nose.

“We’re circulating the blood at four hundred volts,” he said in his nasal whine. “We might even have full movements within days.”

Tomas nodded warily, studying the data on Petyr’s tablet. His assistant was scrupulous and thorough, no doubt about it. The crushing pressure to succeed was affecting everyone.

“This is good data, Petyr,” he said with a smile. “Take the rest of the day off. Go see the whores.”

A creepy smile spread across Petyr’s face. He was known to pay for his women. Tomas thought the man’s personal life was a mess, but wanted the lab to himself for a few hours.

Petyr shook his head. “We’re so close,” he sniveled.

Tomas became aware of the drone of an approaching chopper.

“I’ve got a gift for you,” Petyr beamed.

Tomas had a sinking feeling about this ‘gift’. Petyr was like a feral cat who liked to deposit dead rats on his doorstep. Tomas supposed he would find out soon enough.

The men discussed the details of their day’s work as the chopper approached. The sound was almost deafening as it landed on the roof of the Silo. Within minutes three men were requesting priority access to the lab. Tomas checked their security level - the highest. He had no choice but to let them in. They sauntered in quietly, eyes drinking in the high tech equipment and the intriguing cell.

Berlin Boys. Tomas felt a tight ball in his chest. These guys made his stomach churn. Why was Petyr dealing with them? It was true that Herr X was deeply involved in the organization, but Tomas liked to think their research was separate. He made a mental note to give his assistant a good talking to once this little meeting was over.