“Signs of a struggle?” asked Jamie.
“There is a burn mark on the hall carpet,” said Qiang. “A recent one.”
“And a lot of something that looks like blood,” said Ellison.
“Shit,” said Jamie. “They’ve taken him, whoever he is. Load up.”
The three Operators ran down to the kerb and climbed back into the van. Jamie dropped into his seat and took his helmet off.
“Surveillance?” he said. “Are you there?”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant Carpenter,” replied a voice from the speakers.
“We’re looking for a black van that left this location within the last twenty minutes. Anything on CCTV that fits that description?”
“Hold, please.”
An agonising silence filled the van’s hold.
Come on! thought Jamie. Hurry up, for God’s sake!
“I’ve got a black 2008 Ford Transit leaving your location seventeen minutes ago,” said the Surveillance Operator. “Do you want me to track it?”
“Yes,” said Jamie.
“Tracking,” said the voice. “OK. The last camera hit was in Bramcote, four minutes ago. Seven miles west of your location.”
“Good,” he said. “Keep tracking. Operator?”
“Yes, sir,” said their driver.
“Get us there as fast as you can,” said Jamie. “Don’t stop for red lights.”
The van raced through winding suburban streets, weaving in and out of traffic and raising a cacophony of angry horns in its wake.
Jamie listened silently to the Surveillance Division updates, trying to ignore the frustration building inside him; he could have got out of the van, leapt into the air, and been on top of their target within a minute, two at the most. But he was the leader of Operational Squad J-5, and they worked as a team; otherwise, he might as well carry out Patrol Responds on his own. The van’s external cameras fed the wide screen, and Jamie watched as the landscape they were speeding through changed; the houses and pubs and rows of shops were disappearing, giving way to dilapidated industrial buildings and bridges and yards.
“Thirty seconds,” said their driver. “Dead ahead.”
“Ready One,” said Jamie. “Be prepared for whatever this is.”
Ellison and Qiang nodded. This was the highest priority call they had taken in more than two months, and the air in the van’s hold was thick with anticipation.
“Ten seconds,” said their driver.
Jamie got to his feet, took hold of the door handle, and lowered his visor as calm flooded through him. Then the van screeched to a halt, its brakes squealing, and he flung the door open.
“Go,” he bellowed.
Jamie dived out of the vehicle, swooped up into the air, and surveyed the scene. He found himself looking at a patch of wasteland behind a ragged chain-link fence, squeezed in between two warehouse buildings, both of them boarded up and abandoned. Kneeling on the ground was a badly burnt figure, his head lowered, his hands hanging limply at his sides. Standing over him was a figure dressed in black with a wolf’s head painted on its chest in white; a second, identically dressed figure was standing off to the side. Both were staring at the Blacklight van with wide eyes.
“Freeze!” yelled Jamie. “Weapons down, hands in the air!”
Without a second’s hesitation, the two Night Stalkers moved. One sprinted for the shadows between the buildings as the other darted forward and slammed a stake into the kneeling figure’s chest. The vampire exploded with a wet thud, spraying blood and guts in a wide radius. Jamie screamed with fury, and hurtled towards the man as Ellison and Qiang burst through the torn fence, their weapons drawn.
Jamie closed the distance between himself and the man – it was a man, he was sure of it, both of them were – at dizzying speed, his eyes roaring with red heat, his fangs filling his mouth, a deadly black bullet fired with unerring accuracy. But when he was still five metres away, the air was suddenly filled with flying lead.
The man spun, pulling an MP5 from his belt, and emptied the submachine gun at Jamie; the speed of the movement took him by surprise, and he had no time to react before the bullets hammered into him. The body armour inside his uniform held, but the impacts were still agony; they drove him backwards through the air, his momentum arrested, his balance gone. The firing continued and Jamie screamed as at least two of the bullets slipped past his armour and pierced his body below the armpit. The scream was cut off, replaced by a rasping wheeze. Jamie tried to draw breath, but felt only the thinnest current of air flow down into his chest.
Punctured lung, he thought. Oh Christ, that hurts.
He crumpled to the ground, his back slamming against the hard concrete, and gritted his teeth as he tried to force himself back to his feet. Footsteps rattled around him, seemingly from all sides, until Ellison appeared in front of him and slid to her knees, her visor pushed up to reveal a face contorted with worry.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Jamie? Are you—”
“Don’t worry about me,” he growled, his eyes blazing. “Get after them. That’s an order.”
Ellison stared at him for the briefest of moments, then leapt to her feet and raced away into the darkness, Qiang at her side. Jamie lay where he was, concentrating on taking only the shallowest of breaths. It was hard work, and it hurt, but oxygen was reaching his lungs; not as much as he needed, he was sure, but enough to keep him alive. He stared up at the night sky, furious with himself.
Underestimated them, he thought. You had no idea what you were dealing with and you just charged in like a rookie. That guy was so fast, and so calm. He knew what he was doing, and he wasn’t remotely scared of me. Military, I’d bet my life on it. Military, or …
A terrible thought leapt into Jamie’s mind, one so huge and awful that the fire in his eyes died instantly as what was left of his breath froze in his chest.
No, he told himself. No way. It couldn’t be.
He gritted his teeth again, forced the thought from his mind, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Something moved inside him, sending fresh agony thundering through his body, and glowing light returned to his eyes as sweat broke out on his forehead. It felt like the Night Stalker’s bullets had broken at least two or three of his ribs as well as tearing a hole in his lung. He reached down with a trembling hand and twisted the comms dial on his belt.
“Ellison?” he said. “Qiang? Report.”
“Lost them,” said Ellison, instantly. “It’s a bloody rabbit warren back here. Qiang followed one over a fire escape and I chased the other into one of the buildings, but they’re gone, sir. No sign of them, and nothing on thermal.”
Jamie swore heavily, then broke into a fit of coughing that ripped through his chest like he had swallowed a pack of razor blades. His mouth was suddenly full of liquid, and he spat it on to the ground beside him. The blood was shiny-black in the moonlight, and he felt his stomach lurch at the sight of it.
“What should we do, sir?” asked Qiang.
“Regroup,” said Jamie, his voice low and hoarse. “I need blood.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ellison.
Jamie waited for his squad mates to return, trying to ignore the pain and resist a sudden, overwhelming desire to lie back down. His arms shook with the effort of holding himself up, but he was bleeding from somewhere internal, and he had no desire to choke on his own blood.
His