“No point,” Vancha said. “Vampaneze wouldn’t attack in the open by day.”
“No,” Mr Crepsley agreed, “but vampets would.” He reached the window and drew back the heavy blind which was blocking the harmful rays of the sun. His breath caught in his throat. “Charna’s guts!” he gasped.
Vancha, Harkat and I rushed over to see what had upset him (Vancha grabbed hold of Steve on the way). What we saw caused us all to curse, except Steve, who laughed deliriously.
The street outside was teeming with police cars, army vans, policemen and soldiers. They were lined up in front of the building, and stretched around the sides. Many carried rifles. In the building opposite, we glimpsed figures in the windows, also armed. As we watched, a helicopter buzzed down from overhead and hung in the air a couple of floors above us. There was a soldier in the helicopter with a rifle so big it could have been used to shoot elephants.
But the marksman wasn’t interested in elephants. He was aiming at the same target as those in the building and on the ground — us!
CHAPTER THREE
AS A strong spotlight was trained on the window to dazzle us, we all turned to one side and let the blind fall back into place. Retreating, Vancha cursed at his loudest and vilest, while the rest of us glanced uneasily at one another, waiting for someone to propose a plan.
“How did they sneak up without … us hearing?” Harkat asked.
“We weren’t paying attention to what was happening outside,” I said.
“Even so,” Harkat insisted, “we should have … picked up on the sirens.”
“They didn’t use sirens,” Steve laughed. “They were warned to tread quietly. And, before you waste time checking, they’ve got the rear of the building and roof covered as well as the front.” As we stared at him questioningly, he said, “I wasn’t distracted. I heard them coming.”
Vancha bellowed madly at Steve, then made a dive for him. Mr Crepsley stepped into his path to reason with him, but Vancha shoved him aside without regard and charged towards Steve, murder in his eyes.
A voice from outside, amplified by a megaphone, stopped him.
“You in there!” it bellowed. “Killers!”
Vancha hesitated, fingers balled into fists, then pointed at Steve and snarled, “Later!” Spinning, he hurried to the window and nudged the blind aside a fraction. Light from the sun and spotlight flooded the room.
Letting the blind fall back into place, Vancha roared, “Turn off the light!”
“No chance!” the person with the megaphone laughed in reply.
Vancha stood there a moment, thinking, then nodded at Mr Crepsley and Harkat. “Check the corridors above and below. Find out if they’re inside the building. Don’t clash with them — if that lot outside start firing, they’ll cut us to ribbons.”
Mr Crepsley and Harkat obeyed without question.
“Bring that sorry excuse for a dog over here,” Vancha said to me, and I dragged Steve to the window. Vancha wrapped a hand around Steve’s throat and growled in his ear, “Why are they here?”
“They think you’re the killers,” Steve chuckled. “The ones who killed all those humans.”
“You son of a mongrel!” Vancha snarled.
“Please,” Steve replied smugly. “Let’s not get personal.”
Mr Crepsley and Harkat returned.
“They’re packed tight two floors … above,” Harkat reported.
“The same two floors below,” Mr Crepsley said grimly.
Vancha cursed again, then thought quickly. “We’ll break through the floorboards,” he decided. “The humans will be in the halls. They won’t expect us to go straight down through the apartments.”
“Yes they will,” Steve disagreed. “They’ve been warned to fill every room below, above and adjoining.”
Vancha stared at Steve, looking for the slightest hint of a bluff. When he found none, his features softened and the ghostly traces of defeat welled in his eyes. Then he shook his head and put self-pity behind him.
“We have to talk to them,” he said. “Find out where we stand and maybe buy some time to think this through. Anyone want to volunteer?” When nobody replied, he grunted. “Guess that means I’m the negotiator. Just don’t blame me if it all goes wrong.” Leaving the blind over the window, he smashed a pane of glass, then leant close and shouted at the humans below. “Who’s down there and what the hell do you want?”
There was a pause, then the same voice as before spoke to us via a megaphone. “Who am I talking to?” the person asked. Now that I concentrated on the voice, I realized it was a woman’s.
“None of your business!” Vancha roared.
Another pause. Then, “We know your names. Larten Crepsley, Vancha March, Darren Shan and Harkat Mulds. I just want to know which one of you I’m in contact with.”
Vancha’s jaw dropped.
Steve doubled over with laughter.
“Tell them who you are,” Harkat whispered. “They know too much. Best to act like we’re … co-operating.”
Vancha nodded, then shouted through the covered hole in the window, “Vancha March.”
As he did that, I peeked through a gap at the side of the blind, looking for weak points in the defences below. I didn’t find any, but I did get a fix on the woman who was speaking to us — tall and broad, with short white hair.
“Listen, March,” the woman called as I stepped away from the window. “I’m Chief Inspector Alice Burgess. I’m running this freak show.” An ironic choice of words, though none of us commented on it. “If you want to negotiate a deal, you’ll be negotiating with me. One warning — I’m not here to play games. I’ve more than two hundred men and women out here and inside your building, just dying to put a round of bullets through your black excuse for a heart. At the first sign that you’re messing with us, I’ll give the order and they’ll open fire. Understand?”
Vancha bared his teeth and snarled, “I understand.” Then he repeated it, louder, so she could hear. “I understand!”
“Good,” Chief Inspector Burgess responded. “First of all — are your hostages alive and unharmed?”
“‘Hostages’?” Vancha replied.
“Steve Leonard and Mark Ryter. We know you have them, so don’t act the innocent.”
“Mark Ryter must have been the vampet,” I remarked.
“You’re soooooo observant,” Steve laughed, then pushed Vancha aside and put his face up close to the window. “This is Steve Leonard!” he yelled, mimicking terror. “They haven’t killed me yet, but they killed Mark. They tortured him first. It was horrible. They–”
He stopped, as though we’d cut him off mid-sentence, and stepped back, taking a self-indulgent bow.
“Sons of…” the officer cursed over the megaphone, then collected her wits and addressed us calmly and dryly. “OK — this is how it works. Release your remaining hostage. When he’s safely in our custody, come down after him, one at a time. Any sign of a weapon, or any unexpected moves, and you’re history.”
“Let’s talk about this,” Vancha shouted.