Department 19: Battle Lines (32 page)

“Got it,” said McKenna. “Sorry, boss.”

“It’s all right,” said his editor, and sighed. “The writing’s bloody good, Kev, I’m not saying it’s not. But our readers don’t give a toss about good writing, and they’re going to be bored shitless by the end of the first paragraph. Spice it up a bit, all right? Arty blonde birds with their kit off, a bit of Russian gang violence, something like that. You know?”

“I know,” said McKenna, his stomach churning with self-disgust. “I’ll get on it. Cheers, Col.”

In truth, he had known the pieces weren’t really
Globe
material as he was writing them; they were too like his old work, the kind of stuff he had long since given up trying to get past
The
Globe
’s editorial board. In his first year on the job the editor at the time, a kindly old alcoholic called Bob Hetherington, had taken him aside and told him not to bother.

“I don’t need anyone trying to reinvent the wheel,” Hetherington had said. “Just keep ours turning. That’s your job.”

In the subsequent years, he had thrown in the occasional feature on fashion or music, but had never really fought for them, or protested when they got spiked. He knew he was really writing them for himself, in the hope that whatever remained of his talent might not fade away completely.

It was quiet in the garage when McKenna exited the lift; the heels of his shoes clicked loudly on the concrete ground, as the cars and pillars and posts that separated the bays cast long shadows beneath the bright yellow lights. He was halfway to the black BMW he had treated himself to after he had been promoted to associate editor two years earlier, when an odd sensation filled him: an unmistakable certainty that he was not alone in the garage.

He stopped walking and stood absolutely still, listening intently.

Nothing.

There were no more than a dozen cars in the garage, which had been built to accommodate ten times that number; the wide space was almost empty. But there were plenty of places where a mugger or a crackhead could hide themselves from view if they wanted to, in the shadows behind the pillars, or crouched beside the cars.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

McKenna felt a chill creep slowly up his spine. He was suddenly scared; the feeling that he was not alone twisted in the centre of his gut, cold and determined.

An awful sensation of vulnerability overcame him and he ran for his car, his footsteps echoing loudly through the concrete space. Part of his brain, the rational part, shouted at him as he ran, branding him a coward, but he ignored it; he was focused only on getting into his car and locking the doors, shutting out whoever was in the garage with him, crouched low behind one of the cars or standing statue-still behind one of the concrete pillars, listening and watching and waiting.

McKenna pulled his keys from his pocket as he ran and pressed the button on the plastic fob. The BMW’s locks disengaged with a beep that sounded loud and inviting, an announcement of his location and his intention. He grabbed for the car’s door, felt the reassuring smoothness of its plastic handle, and was about to pull it open and throw himself inside when cold fingers closed on the back of his neck and lifted him into the air.

He screamed long and loud, his legs kicking beneath him, and felt his bladder let go in a warm rush of shame and terror. Then he was airborne, his body seeming to float momentarily as whatever had grabbed him threw him across the garage. He watched the floor rising up to meet him, his mind paralysed by crashing waves of terror. He saw white ovals of discarded chewing gum, a small patch of oil, and a discarded paper coffee cup. Then he hit the concrete, his shoulder exploding with agony, and skidded across the ground, the heels of his shoes squeaking.

McKenna slid to a halt in a crumpled heap beside the emergency door that led to the stairs, his shoulder on fire, the air driven from his lungs. His first thought, the only cogent thought in his reeling, panicking mind, was to drag himself through it and up the stairs towards the office. But he made the mistake of looking behind him; what he saw froze him where he lay.

Gliding towards him, his feet a clear ten centimetres above the ground, was a man in an elegant navy-blue suit. His face was pale, his hair thinning, but his eyes glowed the colour of burning coals and his mouth was open in a wide smile of pleasure.

Not real
, he screamed, silently.
Can’t be real. Not real.

The man cocked his head slightly to one side, then shot forward at a speed that McKenna could not comprehend; one second there was five metres between them, the next his hands were gripping the lapels of his suit jacket and lifting him easily into the air. He tried to turn his head away from the terrible red gaze that was now only millimetres in front of him, then cried out as he was driven into the concrete wall of the garage. The back of his head cracked against it and his vision greyed. When it cleared, the man was peering at him with an expression that seemed almost curious, the way a spider might regard a fly that has become stuck in its web. The dreadful red eyes roiled and burned, and McKenna felt consciousness start to slip away as his mind shut down, unable to process the horror that confronted it.

One of the man’s hands appeared from nowhere and slapped him hard across the face; the impact sounded like a rifle shot in the empty garage, reverberating around the thick concrete walls. McKenna’s eyes flew open and his mouth formed a perfect O of shock.

“Are you Kevin McKenna?” asked the man.

He stared, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, incapable of speech. The man slapped him again, harder, and McKenna tasted his own blood as it spilled from the corner of his mouth, galvanising his paralysed brain.

“Yes,” he gasped. “I’m Kevin McKenna.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said the man. “Did you receive an envelope from a lawyer acting on behalf of the late John Bathurst?”

Dear God. Oh my dear God.

“Johnny?” asked McKenna, smiling drunkenly. “Johnny’s… dead.”

The man with the red eyes growled, a guttural noise that rose from somewhere deep inside him, and bared his teeth. Two long, razor-sharp fangs emerged from the man’s gums, sliding down over his canines.

“I’ll ask you once more, Mr McKenna,” said the man. “Then I’m going to tear your face from your skull. Did you receive a letter?”

Kevin McKenna fought to clear his reeling mind as terror more profound than anything he had felt in his entire life gripped him.
True
, whispered a distant voice.
What Johnny sent you. All true.

“Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “I got… a letter. From Johnny.”

The man broke into a huge, cheerful grin. “Splendid,” he said, his voice suddenly as light and jovial as a daytime newsreader’s. The grip on McKenna’s chest was released; he slid to the ground in a heap and began to cry, as the man stepped back and looked down at him.

“No more lies, Mr McKenna,” he said. “There should be no lies between friends, which I am sure you and I are to become. May I help you to your feet?”

McKenna tried to compose himself, to halt the crying that felt on the verge of becoming hysterical; he failed, but managed to force himself to nod. The man strode forward, still smiling broadly, and extended a thin, pale hand. After a long moment, McKenna reached out and took it, his mind screaming warning after warning. But the man merely pulled him gently to his feet; he stood on unsteady legs, his chest heaving up and down from the sobs that had wracked his body, and stared into eyes that glowed far less fiercely than they had only minutes earlier.

“Good,” said the man. “No harm done, eh? My name is Albert Harker and we have already established that you are Kevin McKenna. We are well met, are we not?”

McKenna nodded again. The tears were slowing and the pain in his shoulder had faded to a dull ache. His shell-shocked mind was still piecing itself back together, but managed to come up with a best course of action.

Do whatever it says. Don’t make it angry. Do whatever it tells you.

“I have clearly startled you somewhat,” said Albert Harker. “For that, I can only apologise. Perhaps a stiff drink is in order?”

“OK,” said McKenna, his voice trembling.

“Excellent,” beamed Harker. “Your place it is.”

Matt Browning was sitting at his desk in the Lazarus Project when a muffled thud ripped through the Loop, shaking the floors and ceilings. There was an uncomprehending moment of silence before the general alarm screamed into life, its ear-splitting whine echoing through concrete and steel.

Matt clamped his hands over his ears and leapt to his feet. The rest of the Lazarus Project staff did likewise, their faces contorted with pain; they stared desperately around, looking for someone to tell them what to do. Matt empathised; his colleagues were scientists and doctors, with no real understanding of how dangerous the situation beyond the laboratory really was. He had no such illusions; he had almost been killed by a vampire girl he now called his friend, the first director of the Lazarus Project had been about to murder him until Jamie intervened, and he knew from the stories his friends told just how bad it was outside the Loop. As his colleagues began to shout over the din of the alarm, speculating that a generator had blown or a fuel store had been breached, Matt kept what he was sure would turn out to be the truth to himself.

That was an explosion. A big one.

He looked around the room at the frightened men and women, wondering how best to help, and froze.

Natalia Lenski wasn’t there.

Fear trickled through him, chilling his spine like a bucket of ice water. There was no reason to panic; there were any number of reasons why Natalia might not be in the lab at that precise moment. But something, some primal instinct buried deep in his gut, began to insist that something was wrong.

Matt ran across the lab, ignoring the nervous stares of his colleagues, and twisted the handle on the main door.

Nothing happened. The keypad beside it glowed a steady, mocking red.

He shouted with fury and grabbed the handle again, twisting it, hauling on it, beating the surface of the door with his other fist. Hands grabbed at his shoulders, spinning him round, and he found himself facing the worried gaze of Professor Karlsson.

“Calm down!” yelled the Lazarus Project Director, straining to make himself heard over the din of the alarm. “They’re sealed automatically! It’s all right, Matt!”

Matt pushed the Professor’s hands away. “Where’s Natalia?” he yelled.

Professor Karlsson turned then and scanned the room. When he returned his attention to Matt, his forehead was furrowed by a deep frown.

“I don’t know!” he shouted. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” yelled Matt, pulling his radio from his belt. His mind was pounding with concern for Natalia, who would be absolutely unprepared if there was an attack taking place above their heads. A single coherent thought made its way to the surface.

Call Jamie. He’ll know what to do.

Matt raised the radio and looked at the screen.

It was blank.

He twisted the power switch backwards and forwards, but nothing brought the handset to life. Matt bellowed again and hurled it against the wall. Karlsson recoiled, shielding his face as shattered plastic and severed metal wire flew through the air, then grabbed hold of Matt.

“You have to calm down!” he shouted. “We’re safe in here, Matt!”

“That’s great!” yelled Matt. “What about Natalia? What about my friends? They’re out there somewhere and we have no idea what the hell is going on!”

Four floors above the Lazarus Project, Jamie Carpenter was in his quarters when the explosion thundered through Level B, shaking the walls of his small room so violently that his desk toppled over, spilling its mountains of files and folders across the floor.

He was lying on his bed, still seething at the humiliating ordeal that had been his ISAT interview. His hatred for Paul Turner, a complex emotion that never lay far below the surface, blazed more potently than ever before. And although he knew the second part of the interview, the unfair, vicious line of questioning that seemed to have been designed specifically to antagonise him, had been the work of the Security Officer, he was struggling to spare Kate the anger and disappointment that was boiling through him.

He knew it wasn’t her fault, but she was part of it; she was the other half of ISAT, and even if she had not been complicit in the ordeal he had been subjected to, her attempt to stop it had been half-hearted at best. When she had told him she was going to volunteer for ISAT, he had told her to think long and hard about it, as it was a decision that was bound to make her unpopular. Now, having been through the invasive, demeaning process himself, he was beginning to think he had been too kind.

They’re going to do more than dislike her
, he thought, with a bitter mixture of concern and spite.
It’s going to be much worse than that.

Everyone’s going to hate her.

This thought was filling his mind when the deafening roar tore through Level B. Jamie leapt up from his bed as the room shook and rattled, his hand going instinctively to the grip of his Glock 17. A second later he yelled in pain as the alarm screeched into life, but the paralysis that had gripped Matt and his colleagues did not lay a hand on him; he was up and across his quarters and twisting the handle of his door before the first peal had even died away.

Nothing happened.

Jamie turned back into the room and slid to his knees, digging through the spilled contents of his desk, looking for the Director override code that Henry Seward had given to him and Paul Turner, the night that Shaun Turner had died and Seward himself had been taken by Valeri Rusmanov. He found the laminated card, ran back to the door, flipped down the panel that concealed his quarters’ emergency controls and keyed the code into the touchpad. For a long moment the bar at the bottom of the panel glowed yellow, and Jamie allowed himself to believe that it was going to work. Then the panel turned solid red and he hammered on the immovable door in frustration.