Blood Moon (6 page)

Daniel shook his head. “In
theory
, Marie. Gregorz said he’d done it to himself after that Moonstruck in Prague took a bite out of his leg, but he also said that he almost bled out in the process. Simpson’s injuries are much more extensive than that. The damage we’d have to inflict would be dreadful. It may be too much for him to cope with.”

“It’s up to you, John. I can’t force you to do this, and it’s really not going to be pleasant. But if it works, then we can move the plan forward and get Michael out of that hell-hole.”

Simpson took a deep breath. “Okay, I trust you, Marie. Let’s do this. What do you need me to do?”

Daniel shook his head. “All you’ll have to do is keep your wolf under control while we perform the operation. Unfortunately we don’t have any tranquilisers left. If we’re going to do this, then we should get on with it. Marie, can you get the plastic sheeting and rope out of the garage? I’ll make sure the kitchen knives are sharp enough.”

Daniel took a small amount of satisfaction in the expression on Simpson’s face. He looked like he was about to throw up. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his skin had turned pale and waxy. The stench of fear billowed from him. Daniel tried to give him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll do this as quickly as we can. You might want to get changed into something else, though. Something you don’t mind bleeding on.”

23rd December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sublevel Two. 18:20

Phil balanced the tray of food on his left arm and brought his hand up to knock on the door, hesitating for a moment, unsure of what he’d say. He shook the feeling away and rapped twice on the plywood panel, then, without waiting for an answer, opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, but enough light seeped in from the hallway for him to make out the outline of Paul Patterson sitting on the metal framed bed. “Paul, I’ve brought you some food from the mess. Nothing fancy, just bangers and mash.”

Paul didn’t turn around. “Just leave it on the table, thanks, Phil. I’m not that hungry, but I’ll have some later on.”

Phil put the tray down and turned on the lights. The fluorescent bulb flickered into life, illuminating the bare walls with a harsh, unforgiving light. Paul squinted at him through red-rimmed eyes. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and Phil could smell him from where he stood. “I said I’m not hungry, Phil. Can you turn that fucking light off?”

Phil moved to the bed and turned on the small lamp on the bedside cabinet, then extinguished the main light. “Better? Listen, mate, I know that it’s been shite, and I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but you need to talk to someone. Just saying that I’m here if you need me.”

“And what do you think I need to talk about, Phil? The fact that I stitched up my mates and got them killed, or that my wife and daughter got torn apart on the fucking Internet?”

Phil sat down beside him. “Either. Both. Jesus, Paul, no one blames you for what happened. I probably would have done the same thing if that bitch was holding Sharon hostage. And you couldn’t have known what she’d do.”

“Yeah, well I should have known. I should have told you all what was going on, and then maybe Rick and Mark might still be alive. We could have set something up, ambushed the bitch and…”

Paul began sobbing. Phil had no idea what he could say that would even begin to help. Instead he put an awkward hand on the other man’s shoulder and waited for the tears to subside.

“Christ, Paul, I don’t know what to say, but you can’t let this destroy you. Emma and Sam wouldn’t have wanted that. You need to try and get past this. Grieving is one thing, but you’re going to pieces here.”

Paul looked up at him, his eyes glinting from the deep shadows cast by the lamp. “The Colonel wants me on their response unit, and I’ve said yes.”

Phil’s eyes widened. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, fucking hell, Paul, after everything you’ve just been through, going back into the field’s the last thing you should be doing.”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I need, and anyway, apart from Wilkinson and you, I’m the only person that’s had combat experience against these things. They need me, and if it means I get to kill some more of those monsters, then I’m all for it. Should save Durham Constabulary a shitload of therapist’s fees at the very least.”

Phil could hardly disguise his shock at this. Paul Patterson was a wreck. No one in their right mind would give him a letter opener, let alone a firearm. He and Colonel Richards were going to have a fairly pointed conversation about this in the immediate future. He didn’t allow Paul to see his alarm, however, and instead tried to force a reassuring smile onto his face. “Don’t rush into it. That’s all I’m saying. The Colonel asked me and I told him to go fuck himself. I’m an old-fashioned copper. I hunt bad guys, not monsters. If I never see another of those things again it’ll be too soon. Just take some time to think it over. Please.”

Paul’s lips curled into a humourless smile. “Too late for that, Phil. They’ve got an op coming up, and I’m going to be going in there with the rest of them. Those hairy fucking bastards aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Chapter 4

24th December 2008. Crickhowell, Powys, Wales. 19:45

Rose Fisher swore under her breath as she pulled up outside of her rented flat and discovered that some inconsiderate bastard had parked their car in her space. Crickhowell was not a large town, and parking was difficult at the best of times. She’d hoped that at this time on Christmas Eve she might have had a chance to actually park outside her home, get inside and spend the night with a Chinese takeaway, a bottle of wine and the
Gavin and Stacey Christmas Special
. Apparently it was not to be. She’d have to park in the public car park behind the tourist information office, and then make the rest of the journey on foot. Feeling her mood rapidly deteriorate, she accelerated round the one way system, back onto the A40 and towards the town centre once more. She parked in an empty space close to the alleyway that led back to the High Street, not bothering to pay for a ticket. Not even the over-zealous local traffic wardens would be out at this time on Christmas Eve, and she had to go back to the base first thing in the morning anyway. All leave had been cancelled because of the werewolf situation. Better to work than sit around the flat on her own, getting fat on Christmas food and watching crap TV.

A fine drizzle filled the air, forming orange coronas around the street lights. The moisture soaked through her uniform within seconds of leaving the car. It had been sunny and unseasonably warm when she’d headed out this morning, and she’d forgotten to pick her coat up from the kitchen work surface, an oversight she already regretted. Despite the rain, the pubs were already busy, overflowing with drunken merrymakers in Santa Claus hats who spilled out onto the streets, singing bawdy versions of Christmas carols. After the day she’d had fending off the lecherous advances of Steven Wilkinson, dealing with Doctor Channing’s emotional outbursts, and trying to come up with a mix of anti-depressants and anti-psychotics for Paul Patterson that wouldn’t render him a drooling mess, the last thing she wanted to do was fight off the wandering hands of amorous Welshmen on her way home. The first one to push things too far would learn a lesson he’d not soon forget.

She hurried through the dark alleyway and, despite there being no cars on the road, walked further along the street to use the crossing in order to avoid two of the high street’s busier public houses without making it look too obvious. A few wolf-whistles and lewd comments were hurled in her direction, but she quickened her pace and reached into her bag for her keys, looking forward to her food and wine away from the Neanderthal locals.

She unlocked the door and made her way upstairs, not bothering to turn the light on. The kitchen was to the right, and she planned on dumping her things, getting out of her army uniform into something a bit more comfortable, and settling down for the night. Once at the top of the stairs, she reached out for the light switch.

A hand grabbed hers from the darkness, and a shape moved from the shadows behind her and clasped a hand firmly over her mouth. Her takeaway and wine fell from her grasp. The bottle shattered on the tiled floor, while the foil takeaway cartons scattered her beef in black bean sauce across the kitchen, mingling with the shards of glass and red wine to form a dark, steaming puddle.

Her attackers held her firm. One had an iron grip on her wrist, while the other one restrained her from behind, preventing her from screaming for help. They probably thought that they had her right where they wanted her.

Their mistake.

Rose brought her heel down hard on the foot of the man behind her, feeling satisfaction at the hiss of pain that escaped from his lips. The bear-hug loosened, and she bent her knees, sliding forward while lowering her centre of gravity. The movement put her assailant off balance and he flew over her shoulder onto the shards of broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor. If these bastards had broken in here expecting to find some poor, defenceless girl, then they were about to get the shock of their lives. Plus, by now, all of the shops would be closed. She’d not be able to replace the wine or food, meaning that she’d have to spend Christmas bloody eve sober, hungry, and no doubt cleaning this mess up. Not to mention the tedious task of having to deal with the police. They were going to pay for that.

“Bastards!” she hissed.

The shape on the kitchen floor struggled to get to his feet, while the one grabbing her arm tried to shift his grip to get a better hold. Rose delivered a sharp kick to the prone figure’s chin and he slumped face down into the puddle of glass and wine.

One down, one to go.

She twisted her hand, then stepped backwards and brought her other hand up to her captor’s, locking the other man’s wrist in a very uncomfortable position. In theory, she could hold him like this until the police arrived, but her anger and outrage at being assaulted inside her own home boiled up from within, and instead, she struck out at the joint, delivering an open-handed blow that shattered the man’s wrist like porcelain. The grunt of pain was immensely satisfying, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Twisting the broken joint further around, she locked out the man’s elbow, and was about to deliver a vicious strike that would break the intruder’s arm when the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked came from behind her, and a woman’s voice said, “I’d rather you didn’t do that, Rose. Why don’t you be a good girl and let my friend go.”

Cold metal pressed against the back of her head. There was no way she’d be able to disarm the woman before she blew her brains all over the kitchen. Not while she still had hold of the man with a broken wrist, anyway. Her stance was all wrong. “Look, there’s not a lot here. I don’t have any cash, and the TV’s a piece of shit. Just take what you want and go, alright?”

“Oh, Rose. You honestly didn’t think we came here to steal your telly, did you?”

Before she could reply, the handgrip of the pistol came down on the back of her head, and bright bomb-bursts of pain lit up the inside of her skull. Then the darkness claimed her.

***

Rose had no idea how much time had passed. As consciousness returned, she kept her breathing steady and remained motionless as she tried to assess where she was. The back of her skull throbbed, and she’d probably have a mild concussion, but couldn’t feel any more injuries, which was good. She also still had all of her clothes on, which was even better, even if the wet fabric felt uncomfortable against her skin. What was not quite so encouraging was the fact that her wrists and ankles were tightly bound with what felt like electrical cable. Her best chance to get out of this was to play dead for a while longer and see if any opportunities for escape presented themselves.

“She’s awake,” said a male voice with a thick German accent.

Bollocks. So much for that plan.

Rose opened her eyes and looked into the faces of her captors. The man was tall, grey-haired with a muscular build, while the woman was much smaller, her hair cut short and sporting a bad black dye-job. Both wore army uniforms, and the woman looked familiar. Rose cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, instantly regretting the sudden movement as the throbbing at the back of her skull erupted into a white-hot blaze of pain and a wave of nausea surged up from her stomach.

Yep. Definitely a concussion.

The woman smiled at her, crouching down on her haunches until they were face to face. “The reason we’re here tonight is that we’d like to talk to you about the base you work at. And we’d especially like to talk about some of the people there. Michael Williams for one.

“I don’t know any Michael Williams. I just work at the training camp up the road, for God’s sake. Patching up TA grunts who hurt themselves on the assault course.”

The German spoke again. “She’s lying. You were right. She’s got Michael’s scent all over her. Wilkinson’s too. And, Marie… I can smell blood on her. Michael’s blood.”